In laws and ornamental bathrooms

They say that money can't buy you taste, but it can buy you a champagne shag pile and gold plated dolphin taps. . . . Sadly I have neither (taste and money that is), but I do have a visit from the mother in law pending. 

My Mother-in-law operates under the misguided belief that you are not a proper woman and you have achieved nothing in life until your house resembles WAGS style show home level status. My Mother-in-law has a five bedroom, three bathroom, luxury property in the Cotswolds and money to lavish on it. I have a two bed property on a social housing estate near Swindon, young children and austerity measures imposed by my husband. I have a greater chance of achieving gold in Rio  2016 and winning Eurovision (see previous blog)  than I have polishing the turd that I have come to know and love as my house. 

It's fighting the tidal wave . . . No, tsunami, of Lego and Peppa pig jigsaws, the wall art and the stained carpet that I struggle with, my style of decor is not so much shabby chic as shabby shite. My toddler, a self styled Banksey, has created many a stunning wall mural. Wall art is easily achieved, all you need is one bored toddler (I acquired one two and half years ago after a drunken night drinking booze cruise Schnapps with my husband), a pack of jumbo sized crayons (I favour purple and black) and leave to simmer for 20 minutes.  I now have faces on my walls and when I asked my oldest why she drew the faces, she replied "I was lonely mummy" I fear this is a sad indictment of my mothering skills.

 As for the carpet, it was difficult but I have managed to achieve a wave effect running through it complete with historical stain pattern charting my daughter's weaning progress. To be honest I am thinking of investing in NHS style flooring in the living room, complete with drain in bottom corner, that way I can just hose down the floor after the kids are in bed with Karcher pressure washer.

So after two days of scrubbing I have achieved ornamental bathroom status. It has been roped off and can be admired from afar by the family, but IT WILL NOT BE USED. I have informed husband and family that they are free to use the downstairs loo and the small fun-sized sink in there for washing and other bathroom activities and that there also perfectly adquate public loo facilities available in our town market place and Budgens car park. I have Cillit Banged the dishes (for an extra added shine) and chipped some of the hardened Ready Brek off the walls. 

Finally I need to spray mount the kids to the sofa and the toys to the shelves and we are nearly I there. I can't hide the torn bit of the sofa or the chipped skirting boards they will have to wait until I win the lottery. I will now brace myself for the In-Law Onslaught! 

Adventures in DIY hairdressing, pretending you're a size 8 and unauthorised Facebook tagging.

Ever said to yourself "how hard can it be?" or, "I'll give that a go, that's a great idea what could possibly go wrong". I like to think that Scott (of the Antartic fame) probably said the same thing, perhaps to his wife over breakfast, when a little disgruntled with her husband's holiday plans she probably said something like "Well why don't we try Corfu darling? I hear the weather's delightful." . . . But no Scott put his size 9's firmly down and insisted on a boy's jolly to the ends of the earth! . . . I now know how he feels.

I can't be sure what came over me but one Friday afternoon, I found myself in the bathroom, with a hair high-lighting kit and a bin bag round my shoulders in front of the mirror and hopeful that in 45 mins time I could turn my mousey grey hair cloud into Claudia Schiffer's ice blonde silky locks. The resulting look bore the uncanny resemblence to the bastard offspring of an angry badger and feral farm cat. The love child of Derek Acorah and Cilla Black. Or as my husband put it "it's reminiscent of badly varnished cheap pine, viewed under tube lighting".

My husband took pity on me and with the clever use of a head scarf origami and sunglasses rushed me to the nearest salon for major hair surgery.

But with age and adventures in home hairdressing comes the realisation that the older you get the harder you have to work to maintain some glamour in your life. Thankfully my social life is limited to Facebook, text message and email and I have become accustomed to pretending that I'm really 5'8" (I had a growth spurt after leaving school), I'm a size 8 (not touched a carb since '92) and I'm a natural blonde (who would have though that pregnancy could change your hair THAT much). Sadly my dark lies were uncovered, at a recent family Christening my photo was taken and I was tagged on Facebook. Had I have known I would have worn spanx, had my roots done, maybe even invested in a hairbrush but sadly my photos and the truth is out there for all to see.

The situation is made all the more worse by the fact that many of my friends are younger, skinnier and just generally more glamorous than me. With two young kids I am constantly fighting a battle against, baby snot, hair encrusted with rusk and sleep deprivation. So you can I imagine my annoyance when I bumped into a friend recently who told me how devastated she was to discover that post pregnancy she was now a size 10. SIZE 10! I hate women who complain about being a size 10. It's rather like telling me that my aspiration for a four star Caribbean cruise and a Range Rover is their equivalent of a pedalo ride at Weston Super Mare and a push bike. I was so happy to have preserved what was left of my figure after my second baby, and was monumentally destroyed when said friend found herself crying in a Primark fitting room unable to squeeze into a size 6.

But there is a happy end to my Facebook tagging woes. An old school friend contacted me through a private message simply stating "loved the photos of you, you look so happy" . . . Heart warmin stuff. 

. . . . when she says "happy" do you think she meant FAT!

The summer holidays are now in full swing. Gangs of youths are cruising the cul de sac, making life unbearable for the residents. Identifiers (gang signs) include, pink scooters, bridesmaid dresses and yesterday, polka dot handbags. At one point I saw a fellow gang member (6 year old Lilly) sent home to fetch a Disney princess tiara. Bizarre initiation perhaps? Sadly I  couldn't bear to watch. Thankfully the rules changed pretty quick and soon Lilly joined a splinter group and was reinstated into gang lifestyle with added kudos simply by suggesting they could all wear Dora the Explora tattoos for the afternoon. 

Although this activity does bring back memories of darker times. A few years ago, in a cul de sac not far from here, another resident of our historic market town (where they do occasional filming for Midsomer Murders) became rather agitated after sending his girlfriend out for pizza. Whether it was because she returned with a seafood special when what he really craved in his drug induced stupor was an Hawaiian, or perhaps it was the sight of John Nettles ( maybe he was a Bergerac fan)  i guess we will never know, but he took it upon himself to take refuge in his attic meth lab, threaten to burn the house down and throw burning petrol bombs out of his velux window at the police who had gathered below. I think the pictures below tell the story quite nicely (obviously I couldn't use real pictures so I have used Happy land figures to illustrate, please apply a liberal use of imagination).

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38530317@N02/7752606360/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38530317@N02/7752606334/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38530317@N02/7752606178/

The siege lasted a good feature length episode of Rosemary and Thyme, and despite my gratuitous use of a gingerbread man pastry cutter no one actually got hurt.

On a serious note, the stress of Cotswold living and the school holidays reached fever pitch for one neighbour last night. At around 9:30 pm shouting could be heard, actually not shouting, screaming. So loud in fact that my hubby and I ran outside only to hear a neighbour call her 8 year old daughter ( I will attempt to put this delicately) a "effing little (insert C word here)" . Apparently this little girl had been entrusted with the electric meter key and lost it on the way home. Not that I wish to judge, but there appears to be so many things wrong with this scenario I don't actually know where to start. Perhaps if said neighbour got off her magnificently proportioned arse and got the electric herself she wouldn't have been plunged into darkness. This poor little girl had to be screamed at, called one of the most terrible things I can think of and then had to witness her mother kick the meter box off the wall. It really was quite disturbing. 

Think I may do the neighbourly thing later, and drop a pack of tea lights, 2 litres of Frosty Jacks and todays episode of Jeremy Kyle on her doorstep (after all she may pick up some parenting tips).

The Olympics 2016! What are you training for?

When it comes to achievements in life, I've not done too badly. I once got an 8 letter word on Countdown (EPIDURAL) and I did rather spectacularly dent David Coulthard's car, illustrating quite beautifully just how bad a woman's driving can be when parking in a Little Chef car park with a Costa Coffee between her knees (not sure the latter should be in this list, anyway). 

Following the success of Olympic gold for Stanning & Glover (one of whom has only been rowing for four years) I feel inspired to aim high and train for Rio. But I need to evaluate my situation carefully, I think it would be wise to go for an event where skill is more important than fitness. Not that my fitness levels are too bad for a 38 year old, I can move pretty quick when I need to, my time trial times are rather competitive when I need to make tea, grab a rusk, baby wipes and the sky remote in a Jeremy Kyle ad break. And my lap times have greatly improved on the health centre to pharmacy run now I have invested in superior kit (a double stroller). My husband suggested gymnastics and went into great detail regarding dismounts and floor shows, it was then that I realised he was getting the BBC Olympic coverage and Babestation confused. Then I thought Judo! But I found myself watching the women's finals and shouting "go on girl bite her" and "fart on 'er head" whenever they were engaged in a tousle. But while I'm deciding which Olympic event to train for, I said "hang on . . . there's more to life than sports" so I'm adding to my list with a life goal each year. So while I wait to win gold in Rio I'm going to . . . 

2013 - Write a concept album. I'm thinking something along the same lines as Pink Floyd (Dark side of the moon). If I find the lyrics a bit of a struggle (after all I'm doing this on my own) I may aim for something  more Tubular Bells(ish). Providing it can be written on my daughters casio (it's only got one octave and F# doesn't work, but I never liked that key anyway).

2014 - Eurovision. Depending on how the concept album works out. It could be that the material and creative juices just dont "flow" as well as expected or perhaps the concept album is getting plenty of air time, either way I only need one track for Eurovision. Obviously I doubt I will actually perform in Sweden as someone needs to be at home to put the kids to bed.

2015 - Get a celebrity to follow me on Twitter. This may sound ridiculous (because after all once you've written a platinum concept album, with a quadrophonic version availble, I should imagine I will be lunching with Gary Barlow and Will.i.am on weekly basis at least) but let's say for arguments sake my music career has a more 'unground feel' to it I would like to get a number of idiotic celebs to read my rubbish and perhaps I can achieve Twitter fame. I will also need a rather quiet year after my previous two busy ones and with the build up to Rio, and intense training schedule etc.

2016 - RIO! Finally my Olympic gold is in my sights. But which event? I need something skill based, (perhaps not archery as I'm fond of a glass of Pinot in the evening and trying to aim perfectly still the next morning is like trying to ask a crapping dog not to shake). And obviously age is against me? Also something that I can fit the training in around the family. Crèche facilities etc.