Category Archives: Humour

Toddler Car Journey Moments 

That moment on the motorway when you hear “Hello Mum!” and realise that your child has escaped their arm straps on the carseat

That Moment when you realise you have a 3 hour car journey and only have one CD with you – ‘Cbeebies Party’

That moment when you know you should’ve stopped at the last services to change their bum, as the next services aren’t for 30 miles and you can smell a poonami occuring

That moment when they drop their toy on the floor and you try to scrabble around with your left arm behind you to find the said toy

That moment when they repeat the above again….and again….

That moment when the ipad battery runs out

That moment when you try and play I Spy with a 2 year old

That moment when they drop their milky drink all over the car floor and you have cheesy smelling car for weeks to come

That moment when they will not believe there isn’t a microwave in the car to make warm milk 

That moment when you spot a cow in a field and then they never get to see the cow because they looked the other way and now they are well annoyed and demanding another cow

That moment when you hear absolute silence…..

……because they have systematically taken every wet wipe out of the packet and are eating them

That moment when they fall asleep 5 minutes before you get home

That moment when you arrive and can get out of the bloody car


My Spa Day Experience – The Salt Scrub

I had never attended a spa day before so I wasn’t sure what to expect. This weekend I was on a spa day as it was for my sisters’ birthday.  Paper knickers, foil and chanting monks…..see what happened when I went for a Salt Glow treatment….

Now I must say that there is a reason why I haven’t been on a spa day before. I am scared of people, and I am a bit weird. I get anxious worrying about what will happen and what I am supposed to do. I am terribly self-conscious. I just say stupid things and do stupid things. I decided to just go for it, and just push my boundaries and have a Salt Glow Scrub treatment.


Preparation for the spa day took several hours. I had to shave my legs, my underarms and also attack my ‘bikini’ line which looked more like a ‘shorts’ line. I also had to slap on the make-up to make sure I looked good enough in all the spa day photos.


On arrival I was disappointed we were not having prosecco, but then it was pointed out to me it was 10am and some people seem to think this is a little early to start on the bubbles. We were shown around the spa and allocated our robe and towels, obligatory uniform for a spa day.

The Robe

What do you wear under the Robe? Nothing? Underwear? Swimsuit? I chose a swimsuit.

The Salt Scrub

As I entered the room, I could hear Enya in the background. The bed was in front of me, curiously covered in a piece of foil.

“Welcome” gently breathed the therapist.

“Now if you would just change into these paper knickers, and then make yourself comfortable on the bed, then we can begin.” She handed me a small packet and then left the room.

“Oh OK! I’m wearing a swimsuit!” I said, not really sure why.

Paper knickers? I looked down into my hand, and unfolded a paper thong, one size fits all.

I haven’t worn a thong for at least 10 years. And not a paper one at that.

I looked at it for a bit to try to work out what way to put it on. I managed to get it over my hips and it just about covered my muff area. Now I realised why I was told to get rid of that ‘bikini’ area.

The bed appeared to be about 4 feet off the floor, I managed to ungracefully flop onto the bed, and onto the foil sheet, face down.

The lady then entered the room again. There was a small silence, and I wondered what was going to happen next. Then, without further ado, she started to rather vigorously slather my arms and legs in a hot oil, and then scrub the living daylights out of them.

The music changed to monks chanting.

She started to wrap me up in the foil, and then wrapped two towels around me.

“I will just leave you a moment to relax” she whispered, and slinks out the room.

I felt all cocooned, like a baby swaddled or back in the womb. I let myself drift for a moment and felt relaxed. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about a piece of chicken that was ready to roast. I also wasn’t sure when she was coming back and I was worried I was going to fart or something.

Back she comes, and starts to unwrap me. The chicken was ready.

She turns a shower on behind her, and for a moment of horror I think she is going to wash me.

“If you would like to get in the shower, and remove ALL the scrub, and I will be back in a moment”

“Er, do I wear these knickers in the shower?!” I ask, completely not understanding anything.

“Er. Well you can if you want….” She looks at me as if I am insane. I start to get off the bed, and then slip right off the foil sheet. I try and gain my composure.

I get in the shower, wash off the scrub, and manage to dry myself, put my paper knickers back on and then haul myself back on the bed for whatever else is happening.

Back in she glides, and the enya music is cranked up a notch.

She grabs my leg and we are back roughly massaging cream all over my legs. It does smell lovely.

“I shall now do the mini-facial” She announces, which is news to me as I wasn’t expecting her to touch my face.

She takes two cotton pads and gently wipes away all the make up I plastered on myself this morning. Typical.

As she is doing this, I start to become conscious of what my face must look like to her. Am I smirking? Laughing? Do I look calm and relaxed? I almost start to laugh out of nervousness and now I am aware of my face and what my mouth is doing I can’t stop smirk-laughing, Trying to look more calm and relaxed is making me look like a crazy axe murderer. My face has contorted into a strange strangled smile. I close my eyes and try to meditate, be in the moment, but then as I am thinking this I am suddenly aware that she is dabbing my face with her fingers like she’s finger painting. Dib dib dib.

Then everything stops.

There is silence apart from monks chanting. I wonder if the monks ever thought they’d be played in a room with a woman wrapped up like a chicken fillet and wearing paper pants. It’s a funny old world.

And then I hear a tiny pair of cymbals go


“That is the end of your treatment” she coos. “And I will just go and fetch you a drink”.  I wonder if she manages to do a few spray tans in the time it takes her to pop in and out each time.

She hands me a glass of water, and tries to get me to buy all the stuff she smeared all over me today.

“I’ll think about it” I say as I sip my water, not intending to buy anything at all.

I thank her, and she leaves me to put on my clothes. I have a dilemma about the paper pants. Do I keep them on? I decide to take them off, and leave them on the bed. I feel sorry for the woman having to throw away other people’s paper pants.

And then I walk off, full of zen, and feeling relaxed, happy to have surivived a spa treatment and ready for my waiting prosecco.

Plus Size for Beginners

If you’re new to Plus-Size, or just wondered what was within the flowery section at the back of the shop with this name, then this very much tongue-in-cheek guide is for you.

1. The plus-size department is seperated from the ‘normal’ clothes, usually at the top floor right at the back, segregated like it’s some sort of infectious disease.

2. You will be able to spot the Plus Size department as all the clothes are significantly bigger than the rest of the shop, clothes billowing from the racks like sails on a boat.

3. People who wear Plus Size clothes, they love slogans. They love slogans like ‘Love Yourself’ or ‘BE HAPPY” or “Life’s for Living!” emblazoned across the front.

4. Because all fat people are happy, jolly people. Our role model is Father Christmas.

5. People who wear plus size clothes, they love flowers. They wear clothes covered in ditsy prints. It’s like a plus size uniform. Any flower will do, just make sure they cover 85% of the top or trousers you are wearing. It’s like camoflage.

6. People who wear plus size love bright colours. The brighter, the better. Even better if you put multiple bright and clashing colours onto the same piece of clothing.

7. People who wear plus size must wear different clothing to the rest of the shop. You can’t get ‘normal’ clothes in the plus size, oh no. The ‘normal’ size only goes up so far and after that, you have to wear the special clothes.

8. People who wear plus size must wear an item of clothing with elastic in. It’s the law.

9. People who wear plus size have to wear wrap dresses and tunics and leggings, at least once a week.

10. People who wear plus size all have very wide feet, so need shoes that are as wide as 2 normal people’s feet.

11. Oh, and people who wear plus size love shoes, because we can buy any fecking shoe we want. Unless our feet are too wide, but we may buy them anyway just to stroke gently.

12. People who wear plus size have huge boobs. Boobs so big they can’t fit into anything but massive boulder-holding industrial strength old granny looking bras. Every single plus size person can barely stand up due to the weight of their boobage.

13. You are either in the plus size, petite or tall section of a shop. You can not ever be a combination of these things.

14. If a plus size person tries to wear skinny jeans, she will spontaneously combust.


8 truths about nursery

For anyone not aquainted with a nursery, these 8 truths may help you to fit right in when your child starts….

1. You can never just ‘drop off’ your child….it takes at least 10 minutes and even then you have to crowbar your child off your leg

2. On that point, I break my neck to get there as close to opening time as possible, press the buzzer….and I wait and wait. Be prepated to wait for ages, holding a wrigging toddler and having to remember the password. “SOMEONE LET ME IN!” I want to scream in the frenzy of the morning chaos. I should’ve made that the password, thinking about it…

3. They will always, always get covered in mud, paint,water,  and have lasagne in their hair. There is absolutely no point in dressing up all pretty as they will be in spare clothes within about 10 minutes of arriving.

4. What do they eat? Who knows. If they ate half a veggie roast, what does that equate to exactly? She won’t eat salad without screaming blue murder at home, but you tell me she eats SECONDS? When they write ‘beef lasagne’ then cross that out and put ‘veggie lasagne’, what did she really eat, hmmm?

5. You will always get conned into buying their professional photos….yes I too said I wouldn’t ever bother but oh! the pressure. Oh and I always forget that it is photo day and it’s just pot luck if she’s wearing something suitable…

6. Keep all spare change for charity money that you will have to give to nursery as part of red nose day/children in need/hug a tree day etc.

7. Be prepared to empty your recycling bin and hand this over to nursery for various art and crafts projects. I buy Waitrose milk just so I can look good when I hand over the empty cartons.

8. Get ready to wow the nursery with your child’s fancy dress outfits. Book Day fills me with fear. Luckily this year she wasn’t well and so we didn’t have to do a bodge job with a bin bag and some tin foil. 

Questions I often ask myself now that I’m a Mum

Questions that go around and around in my head now that I’m a Mum. Can you add any to the list? Let me know! 
How long can I leave her staring at that stranger sitting behind us before it gets uncomfortable? 

Can they tell that she’s just wet through her nappy and now it’s all over me?

Where’s a baby change? Can I get away with changing her nappy here?

Did she just swear? 

If I cut this sandwich into the shape of a horse will she eat it? 

What am I doing?

Do I have enough nappies? Wipes? Change of clothing? Juice? Toys?

Can I bear to listen to If You’re Happy and You Know it again?

Is she going to hit him/her?

When will she go to sleep? Will she go to sleep? What if she is awake ALL NIGHT?

How does that Mum get her kid to stay in the trolley?

When did I stop caring about the stains on my carpet?

Did I just fall asleep?

Why are people so fricking LOUD?

Is it normal for her to stick pretend money down her nappy?

Is it bad that she doesn’t drink water? Unless it’s bath water?

When did I stop wearing proper (not pyjamas) trousers? 

When did I last shave my legs? This year???

Has she eaten enough?

Is she teething or just miserable?

Is it too early to drink Gin? 

Things I like to do now that I didn’t like to do before I had a baby (and turned 30)

I’m not saying they’re connected but I’ve noticed recently there are a number of things that I like to do now that I’d never have considered before. Now it’s either because a) I’m now 31 and starting to become an old fart b) this has all happened since I had a baby  or c) a combination of the both. 

I now like……


Eating mushrooms 

Having a bath (I do wash but I was always a shower girl you know until I realised I could be getting clean, lying down and almost sleeping at the same time – win)

Reading a book in the bath

Putting on make-up (well it’s pretty much a necessity if I don’t want to scare the general public)

Painting my nails 

Drinking red wine (well anything remotely alcoholic really)

Eating peas 

Hanging washing out on the line (if it’s sunny, ima gonna get that wash on) 

Going anywhere alone (rarely happens but still)

Getting up early (well really I’ve just got used to this)


Radio 4 (I need all the news now)

Moaning about the new music on Radio one

Eating percy pigs 

Original versions of songs not awful cover versions

Question Time (I like a good debate)

Coffee (never touched it before. I guess it’s mildly better than smoking)

Lie-ins (I used to think a lie in was wasting the day! Whatevs!)

Working out how much younger people are than me 

Bars that don’t have music so loud you can’t hear a word anyone says

Getting the train. And the quiet coach. 

Eating Nancy’s leftovers (they always taste the best, don’t they?)

Julia Donaldson books (I will ever tire of reading jack and the flum flum tree)


Ironed clothes

Wholewheat pasta 
Have you noticed any differences in yourself? What do you now like that you used to not like? Am I just a mad thing? Let me know in the comments below! 

Mum in the Club

I’m a Mum in the club. It’s 1am, I am tired, my feet ache and I feel like an old granny. I look around me. I’m wondering how I got here. It seemed like a good idea an hour ago, but then it took 45mins for a taxi and I sobered up somewhat. The disagreement with the taxi driver of charging us over £6 to drop us round the corner also didn’t help. My friends are sipping cocktails and a few of them look worse for wear. One girl, a friend of a friend, is standing up yet slumped at the same time, her eyes are not focused and she keeps crying. I have flashbacks to student days and do a little shiver. 

I look down at my virgin mojito. There’s no way I could’ve had a proper cocktail, the thought of a hangover tomorrow is too much to handle. Yes, I’ve had a few gins, I’m feeling merry but I can’t drink any more. A random stranger elbows me as they try and squeeze past in the throng by the bar. So rude. Did no one teach them any manners? 

I start to realise my feet are stuck to the floor, as I shift my feet I realise we are all standing on broken glass. I try to scrape the glass from my new shoes but it’s like a stick of rock and seems to be glued on. I try and get the attention of the bar staff to sweep up the mess but I’m not getting anywhere. 

The music is loud and I can’t hear a thing anyone is saying. The thump-thump-thump is starting to do my head in. What is this music? I recognise a song but then I realise I’m listening to some hideous remix which makes me want to through my glass on the floor. Suddenly I understand the broken glass. 

I go to the loo to find a group of girls having an argument. I cautiously open every cubicle until I find a toilet that hasn’t got sick or some explosive diahorrea in it. I have to use loo roll from another cubicle and hover over the seat. As I perform this physical feat, I hear the girls take their argument outside. “You’re a slaaaaag!” One of them screeches as they slam the door shut. 

I get back to my friends. I can remember the music from our university days. I start to dance but I’m conscious my feet are killing me, I do a hobbly half hip swaying dance but soon give up. I’ve got to sit down. That reenactment of flash dance earlier has really played havoc with my knees. 

Just as I turn to find anywhere to sit down, bouncers come rushing in and they knock me out of the way. They swoop in on a man by the bar and drag him kicking and screaming from the venue. My heart is in my mouth. I am too old for this shit. 

Most of these people are probably 10 years younger than me. People are snogging each other, or dirty dancing, people who are very drunk stagger around me. I roll my eyes. Then I see an older man, alone, all sweat glistening from his bald head and his rolls of fat jiggling as he rolls his hips in front of me.  

I retreat to a chair, in front of a hen party who are at the “I love you so much and I never want to be without you you’re my best friend forever” phase of the evening. I take off my shoes and rest my feet on a chair. I can feel my hips seizing up. I look at the clock – 2am, it feels like this night has lasted forever. I sit there and think of my bed, of sleep, of the day I will get to lie in until 10am. My friend staggers towards me, and I decide it’s time to go. Someone needs a kebab, and it’s not me. 

I wedge my swollen feet into my shoes and hobble to a taxi. 

When I get home, I make a hot chocolate and eat some popcorn. My Mummy Pig pyjamas have never felt better. 

Excuses for why it’s light at bedtime and why you need to go to sleep even when it’s not dark

  • It’s just the street lamps
  • Your room gets dark first 
  • What light? It’s dark! 
  • Oh look. The moonlight! 
  • Shut your eyes, and then it will be dark
  • It’s only morning when mummy says so
  • What do you mean there’s a black blanket on your window?
  • Your dolly says it’s bedtime
  • The sun forgot to go to bed! 
  • Father Christmas says you need to go to sleep
  • Wear these sunglasses 
  • Your night light is on, it must be bedtime! 
  • Cbeebies says you need to go to sleep, even though it’s light
  • Peppa has gone to sleep, even though it’s not dark, because she is good
  • If you go to sleep now, I will buy you a pony tomorrow 
  • This is special night time juice, if you drink it you need to go to sleep
  • That’s not the sunshine, that’s the headlights from a police car
  • This is what night time is like in Australia 


Sick Leave Mummy Style

When I used to fall unwell, before baby, although I felt rotten there was some slight excitement about being able to lie on the sofa in a lempsip stupor, watching Homes Under the Hammer and This Morning.

Now, when I first feel the signs of a cold, I’m necking echinacea like no tomorrow and ramming oranges down my throat quicker than a martini.

You see, nowadays, I don’t want to be unwell. I dread being unwell. It’s probably the worst thing that could happen to me (yes I know when anyone is unwell it sucks, but still, I feel the dread).

You can’t call in sick to the Mummy job. Oh no. That is not part of the employment contract.

Whether you have been coughing your guts up all night doesn’t matter. You will be up at 6am making playdoh bananas and feeding the baby jelly like there was not a problem in the world.

Peppa Pig will be pounding into your head like a hammer, and your head will be so fuzzy you’ll wonder if you’re hallucinating when the twirlywoos come onto the TV.

The child may demand to Play shop, for you to make juice, (not orange juice, purple juice), to go on the potty, off the potty, dress up, dress off, reading hairy mclairy very loudly and demanding pasta and pesto for lunch and not eating it, all the while you’re breathing like Darth Vader and dragging one foot behind you.

Your only contact with the outside world, your phone, will be demanded to watch YouTube videos of adults opening glitter putty coloured eggs. There is no escape.

Child will want to sit on you, preferably your chest so that you actually can’t breathe much. Even better when they sing a song in your face.

You’ll consider going back to work. I did once, and was sent straight back. I cried all the way home.

Food wise, you manage to survive on dry cereal, hula hoops and squash, muller light yoghurts and quorn chicken nuggets. Time will tick by very very slowly.

Where is the other half to free you from this nightmare?

Then they come home, tell you they don’t feel well*, and go to bed.

You read bedtime stories to the child until your voice cracks and you can’t stop coughing. Then you manage to wheeze ‘twinkle twinkle’ and crawl out of the room with the last ounce of energy you have, to the safety of your bed. You may forget to brush your teeth and wear the same pyjamas that you’ve have been wearing for the last 48 hours.

And then if you’re lucky, you may sleep for a bit.

I’m all for a cure for the common cold, me. Anything to try and prevent another sick day.

*Is it me, or when you say you’re unwell, your partner will say they are unwell too? And they are always worse than you, aren’t they?

Dinner Time Showdown

When I get home from work, I always have that dreaded question in my head, and like clockwork, the question will be asked. It’s one of life’s mysteries, and one we all ponder on a daily basis.

Question: What’s for dinner? 

Answer: I don’t know what’s for dinner. 

Why am I the gatekeeper of the fridge? The only one who can dictate what we are having for dinner tonight?

Why is it my job?

Meal planning is a great idea. In principle. However, I can’t help but feel a contestant on masterchef being given a box of mystery ingredients to cook with (such as pasta, tinned peaches, chopped tomatoes, half a knobbly courgette, 5 day old hummous and a slightly soft onion) most nights.

Or, I plan meals and then find out someone else has eaten one of the essential ingredients.

OR, I spend hours cooking something amazing  and exciting and then NOBODY LIKES IT apart from me.

OR, I run out of all energy and end up chewing on a piece of celery* all evening.

The rage boils up inside and I feel like throwing the lot on the floor snd screaming ‘Well YOU make something then!’

The worst comments for others to make at dinner time, and cause possible rage are:

“I don’t like this”

“I wanted chilli not curry!” (or whatever it is, when you didn’t say that) 

“My mum made this much nicer”

“It’s a bit well done”

“I’m a bit fed up of broccoli”

“It’s too watery”

“What is this?”

“I was going to eat it but I’ve just ordered a Dominos”

or, my favourite: “It’s alright”

(what, pray tell, does “alright” mean? is it good or bad? is it mediocre? is it just something you say when your manic over heated partner has thrown a plate of food at you?!)

Well, I’ve started to fight back. I tell people it’s their turn to cook. I decided it’s time they have to think, use their brain, and chop vegetables (apart from my partner who tells me he can’t chop vegetables?!) and devise a meal suitable for everyone as soon as they walk through the door.

This experiment has resulted in:


– nothing being cooked 

– pasta, pasta, pasta

-some nice meals cooked by my sister 

– every implement, pot and crockery being used and the kitchen looking like it’s been through the apocalypse 

So to try and prevent scurvy from being reintroduced into my family, I have had to admit defeat, and start actually cooking again. I really want to eat more than pasta. Starting Slimming world has helped my momentum, as now I really do need to cook properly in order to lose weight.

I do have a vague meal plan in my head, and I have plenty of ingredients so that I can hopefully make something quick and easy. I dusted off my clow cooker (again, I am the only one that uses it!) and have made some very nice things in it too, with minimal effort.

So basically, if they don’t like healthy low fat meals, they know what they can do*.

*order a takeaway, ahem.