Wednesday 12 December 2012

Letters to Santa






At this time of year millions of children across the world are busily writing letters to Santa. The four children in my home wrote theirs last week. The requests were for a pair of Spy Glasses (what?), some Monster High Rollerblades (where?), 'A Surprise' (HELP!) and finally, the latest Ipod Touch, 64GB with four inch retina display, I-Skin cover and BEATS headgear by an American rapper named Dr Dre (Dr who?). Our teenager requested the latter and I suspect that her letter is evidence that she may be doubting the existence of a Santa.  She's not stupid after all. She handed me her envelope pointing out that the elves must be very talented if they really can make the latest Ipod Touch 64GB as Apple is based in California which is miles away from the North Pole and that if the elves really do make them, that is it illegal and that they are essentially manufacturing fake goods. I may write my own letter to Santa and request a year's therapy, even better, ask for psychologist David Coleman himself in my stocking. 

This is a dangerous game that my teenager is playing. She has me in a corner. I am not ready for the Big Fat Santa Discussion but she is almost fifteen, she can legally leave home next year and at some point we do have to address the issue. Perhaps it is something that her school could deal with. They cover sex education, hygiene and drugs after all, surely they could add Santa to the list of life lessons? It would certainly save me the trauma. Just as I was about to pick up the phone and call the North Pole for advice, another less complicated daughter gave me a letter. "Can you post this please?"  She had written another letter to the President of the United States. 

"Dear Brack O'Bama, I have some questions for you. Are you proud to be the first black pestilent? You are so lucky to be the pestilent but if you could make something stop, what would it be? Also, what is your favourite colour? Please write back to me".  I slipped it into an envelope and promised to send it.  He has more time on his hands now that he has won a second term and there is a slim chance that he might reply if he can see past the spelling mistakes. Hopefully he'll understand that she meant to write PRESIDENT and did not really consider him to be the least bit poisonous. My youngest daughter is nine and was inspired by a friend of hers named Tom Murphy. 

At Tom's school a few months back, the children were encouraged by their teacher to write to a famous person. It could be a singer, a writer, an actor, a musician, a scientist, a sportsman or woman, religious leaders - they really could wrote to anyone in the world and ask them whatever they liked. The lads in One Direction proved a popular choice with the girls as did the football players in Manchester United with the boys but Tom decided to write to the Queen of England. He spent a good few days composing the letter and being an imaginative kind of boy, he soon had three questions for her Majesty. "Dear Queen. Do you have snow where you live? Do you have slaves? Do you have gold toilet seats? Love Tom Murphy, aged seven". The teacher collected the thirty or so letters and sent them off with a stamped addressed envelope . The class waited for months before the replies came. 

"Two letters arrived today children" the teacher announced some twelve weeks later. Out of thirty letters sent out as part of the class project, only two were sent replies back. One was addressed to Tom and the other to a little girl, Abbey. Tom opened his envelope first, it was stamped 'Buckingham Palace'. Upon the thick cream coloured paper, a type written letter. Tom stood up in front of the class and read it out. "Dear Tom. Her Majesty was delighted to receive your letter. As you can imagine she gets hundreds each day and cannot possibly reply to each one in person. Thank you for your interest, Lady Forsyth Brown. Lady In Waiting". The children clapped and gasped at the response even though is wasn't written by the Queen of England herself. Tom was too young to know or care that it was probably the same standard letter that every child receives from Lady Forsyth Brown on behalf of a very busy Queen Elizabeth. That was until little Abbey opened up her letter. 

Abbey had written to someone who may not have been a member of the royal family but is considered by many little girls to be a real life Princess of the pop world.  "Tell class who you wrote to Abbey" their teacher encouraged her. "I wrote to Cheryl Cole". Opening the letter carefully, she held it up for all to see. There were not many words written on it compared to the Queen's Lady in Waiting. But Abbey only asked one very simple question. She didn't care about the weather in Newcastle or Cheryl Cole's toilet. The words on the reply were large, bold and hand written. Cheryl Cole from Girl's Aloud had taken the time to answer personally, in her own hand. "Tell everyone what you asked Cheryl Cole", Abbey told her classmates, "I asked her, DEAR CHERYL. ARE YOU VERY RICH?" The children all listened in wonder. "And what does it say on the letter?" Asked teacher. "It says, Dear Abbey, YES I AM. Love Cheryl Cole"



I'll not stop my children writing letters to Santa, Barrack Obama or Dr Dre. In the age of the email and text, letter writing is a dying art form. As for the Big Fat Santa Question, they can go on believing until they are forty. Am I mad? YES I AM.




Sunday 2 December 2012

Weightwatchers and Me




"Move More, Eat Less"
(Weighwatchers and Me). 







Hooray! Two stone lighter thanks to Weightwatchers and back into the size ten clothes that I have not worn since 1997. Not only did I discover a new wardrobe, an the old 'me' but without that tyre around my middle, I felt a little lump in my abdomen.
if you click on the link below, you'll find a piece that I wrote recently for the Leinster Leader. Forget those size ten clothes, the best thing about losing weight was catching a potentially dangerous lump early.




Weightwatchers and Me




Friday 9 November 2012

Muppet Cup Cakes!





Oh, and why I am on a roll about cakes that I will make one day, here are some Muppet Cup Cakes. These FABULOUS cakes will be made very very soon......

Thursday 8 November 2012

Lego Birthday Cake


Here's the best cake that I never made. Next year? 

Felix Baumgartner? I bet he wears a coat this winter








When Felix Baumgartner fell from space this week it was nothing more than a miracle. I watched the whole thing with my eight year old son. "He is SO lucky" he groaned adding, "his Mum LETS him do THAT!". "Felix Baumgartner is 43 and probably didn't ask his mother for permission", I explained. My lad nearly collapsed, he thought the daredevil was fifteen, not the same age as his dad. When Felix landed safely back on planet earth, I jumped into the air and screamed with joy. But it wasn't him that I was happy for; I was relieved for his mother. When for a while, he went spinning out of control, she held her head in her hands. As he hurtled head first through the sound barrier she looked terrified. When he landed, she burst into tears.



One can only imagine what kind of child Felix Baumgartner must have been. He was probably the child who spent his day at school jumping off the tables. He probably spent break time hanging out of trees. He was probably the one who stood on the saddle of his bike when going down a muddy bank. We all know little boys just like him. An eccentric relative of mine, Uncle Richard, wanted to know what it felt like to break his arm so as a child, pushed his bike up to the top of a hill and freewheeled down aiming for the barn at the bottom. He survived, not a bone broken. The bike didn't. His little experiment failed and,to this day he still has all of his bones intact. But that curiosity that he possessed as a child never left him and Uncle Richard went on to become a scientist. Inspired by Mrs Baumgartner, I decided that from today I would encourage my own offspring to go out into the world and explore, be more independent and creative. 


"Can we walk to school today?" came the request this morning, "Can we bring the dog?" I looked out of the window. It was raining. The walk to school is one mile. That's thirty minutes of walking in the rain with the family pet. The dog is a new addition to the house, a Chihuahua. Half an hour in that rain and she really could be mistaken for a drowned rat. I channelled Mrs Baumgartner's positive attitude. Rain would not harm them. The dog was scratching at the door, so eager was she to get the adventure started. They headed off. "You drive up to school in half an hour and collect the dog". Of course, the two girls are almost teenagers. The last thing they wanted today was the embarrassment of their mother walking in to school beside them wearing welly boots, a raincoat and carrying something stupidly sensible like an umbrella. OMG how uncool would that be? Dressing appropriately for the weather is for dull people apparently. They set off. The only one wearing a coat was the dog. I bit my tongue. I didn't call after them with a "Put on your coat" or "Mind the puddles". 


"Can I cycle to school?" my eight year old boy piped up. Now the pressure was really on. Cycling a mile in the rain? Alone? What if his brakes failed? What if he skidded off the footpath and landed in a hedge with a broken leg or two? I took a deep breath in, looked out at the grey skies and raindrops the size of apples and said the magic words "Yes, you can cycle in". Usually I would have followed this with a list of 'Be Carefuls'. This morning the list would have included, be careful of the sheep on the path, the dog poo on the path, people on the path. Then perhaps a 'don't run over the new dog'. Today I said nothing, just watched as he pedalled off up the road with his enormous school bag on his back like a turtle on wheels. 

Last to leave the house, my fourteen year old. Once upon a time I had four children under the age of seven. Now I have four children under the age of fifteen. It's complicated. It's a head wreck and with respect to the Alternative Therapy industry, it will take more than a few drops of Rescue Remedy on my tongue each morning to get me through the next ten years. It took my teenager some time to open her eyes. Nothing to do with tiredness but everything to do with the ten thick layers of Super Lash Mascara that she had applied. Getting ready for school each morning used to be easy. Sandwiches, school bag and we were out the door. Now it takes thirty minutes and that whole time is spent in hair and make up(she is currently 'channelling' Tulisa). We usually have a five minute fight about make up and school uniform policy. Today however, inspired by Mrs Baumgartner, I decided to say nothing. Instead, I followed her into the car, choking on a cloud of perfume that drifted behind her like the Guinness cloud and dropped her off at the school gate. She didn't speak for the entire journey and left the car with a grunt and a slam of the door. Perhaps by encouraging this silence and lashings of mascara she'll grow up to be a base jumper too. Base jumpers are not interested in conversation and she won't need a parachute. Her eyelashes will break her fall. 






Now that I have opened the door to a little more adventure, I am wondering what the next few months has in store for me. Will they be walking to school in the sleet and hail? Will my little boy be cycling to school through a snow drift? Will my teenager be moving on to fake eyelashes? Is this more liberal parenting path one that I really want to take? Do I really want them jump to earth from a space balloon? No, I'll save that for myself. It'll be my way of celebrating when one of them puts a coat on.

Thursday 25 October 2012

Halloween Flowers with Dave Clancy



Here is my boss, the wonderful Dave Clancy. Surely the only florist in Ireland, probably the WORLD with a parrot on his shoulder?

Wednesday 3 October 2012

I AM IMMACULATE

Just before I left the house at 8am this morning, I read the magnet that a kind visitor had left for me. It has been stuck to the fridge door for a year and reads 'I'm happy, healthy and radiant'. I said it out loud through gritted teeth not once, but twice for good measure and bundled five teenagers into the car. 

I dropped the kids off at school and for the first time, noticed an ancient gate. I am sure that fifty years ago it lead into the main building of the school but not anymore. This morning, somewhat tragically, the gate was open leading only to a grey brick wall.  

I pointed out the 'Gate to Nowhere' out to the car full of teenagers but they did not bat an eyelid. I blame Twilight (and mascara applied so heavily that blinking is virtually impossible). Strange sights like these must be normal to them. What is an iron gate when you have mysterious vampires like Edward Cullen and Jacob Black in your lives?

To make things even more surreal,  upon closer inspection, the gate had something written on it. I jumped out of the car and walked up close to see what it said:





"Get back in the car. This is SO embarrassing" yelled my teenager as I took a photo. "But look girls, it is a rusty gate and LOOK! Read it! It says I AM IMMACULATE". Not one of them could see the irony in the gate. "Look girls! I AM IMMACULATE!" I continued. It was the least immaculate thing that I have seen for ten years. The girls walked into school with their bags over their heads and I got back into the car. But the message from the gate had stuck in my head like one of those life affirming mantras that people keep posting on Facebook. Or, like the fridge magnet at home. I kept repeating it over and over again. I couldn't help myself. 

Next stop, the supermarket. Inside, I bumped into a friend, literally. I had managed to find the only trolley with two wonky wheels in Newbridge that morning. I smiled apologetically. "How are you?" she asked more out of sympathy than genuine interest. I thought about it for a while, looking down at my life in a trolley. The dozen toilet rolls, family pack of sausages, sack of potatoes, a leek,  a jar of Nutella, some dog snacks and baked beans. My usual response would be something along the lines of "Fine" but this morning was different. I was inspired by my brief encounter earlier. "Actually, today I'm...... IMMACULATE". My fellow early morning shopper laughed,"Oh really? You are immaculate eh? Well isn't that great?" "Yes it is great actually. IMMACULATE IS GREAT," I called after her as she sped past me up the bread and cake aisle. 

Forget 'happy, healthy and radiant' from now, like the gate, this month I shall be IMMACULATE. I may be a bit rusty here and there, in need of a little oil, good lick of paint and in serious danger of becoming unhinged. But like the gate, I shall shout positivity to anyone who comes near me. This is the new me, the 'Immaculate' me. I'm liking it already. I feel a bounce in my step and a vitality that I've not felt for years. Excuse me now while the new immaculate me goes and does three hours of ironing. Immaculately of course.








Thursday 27 September 2012

The Best Cinnamon Vanilla Marble Cake





The cake sale happens at school three times a year and is a great excuse not only to try out new recipes myself but to taste what everyone else is making. This year, I discovered this tasty little beauty. It was so simple to look at but one slice revealed the prettiest marbling. What makes this cake divine is that it is so moist. There is a secret ingredient of course (all good recipes must have one) and that is why I have to share this with the world. Say goodbye to dry, boring cakes and hello to this lovely marbled cinnamon creation. The recipe originates in Norway and is now a firm favourite in my kitchen here in Kildare. To the woman who shared this Norwegian recipe with me, I say "Tusen takk".

7oz (190gm) butter
7oz (190gm) self raising flour (sifted)
7oz (190gm) caster sugar
3 eggs (beaten)
Pinch of salt
(HERE SOMES THE SECRET INGREDIENT) 1 fluid oz (25mls) soured cream
1teaspoon Vanilla Extract
1 tablespoon gound cinnamon

The quantities here fit perfectly into a small bundt tin or, if you prefer, a greased and lined 4x7 inch loaf tin. I have made small buns from the recipe which travel well to school in lunch boxes.

Oven temp: 170 oc.

METHOD:

1. Cream together the butter and sugar til light and fluffy. Gradually add the beaten eggs slowly. 

2. Add the flour and salt slowly. Too fast and you'll have a floury layer all over yourself and the kitchen. Be warned, don't over mix the cake at this stage. Over mixing makes cakes dry and hard. 

3. Add the soured cream and vanilla extract.

4. Spoon half of the mixture into a bowl and add the cinnamon. Mix well. 

5. Gently pour the plain mixture into your baking tin. Put the cinnamon mixture on top. With a skewer or small spoon, carefully swirl the two around. This is how you create the wonderful marble effect.

6. Bake until a skewer comes out clean - this should take between 45 - 55 minutes (if you make individual buns, they will only take 15 - 20 minutes). 


NOTE: 
This Cinnamon and Vanilla Marble Cake will keep for a week, serves eight hungry people and gets better with age (a bit like myself). 







Monday 16 July 2012

The Best Nutella Cake in the world

What do you do when you get a phone call at 9.30pm from a friend asking you to make a birthday cake for her husband the next day? This was the case last weekend. I was more than happy to help until she added, "It must be chocolatey". The couple in question are Irelands biggest chocoholics.  Panic set in when I realized that not only did I not have one bar of the brown stuff in the house, I had no cocoa, drinking chocolate, ice cream or one single chocolate biscuit. Shameful. Shopping was out of the question as (once again) the car is in Kildare Crash Repairs with a broken exhaust. Then, at the back of the larder I found it. The secret ingredient that would save the day. A 400g jar of Nutella. 



Nutella cake is not a new idea. The wonderful chocolate hazelnut spread has been around for eighty years and I expect that people have been using in cakes for as long. The difference here is that rather than use it as a topping or filling, it is the main flavour of the sponge. Virtually a whole jar goes in to the cake mixture. 

This Nutella Cake recipe is one that I found years ago in a magazine, I have tweaked it slightly.  It is light, easy to make and delicious. The quantities here serve fifteen easily. I served it with a dollop of homemade raspberry jam and a cup of freshly brewed coffee and suggest you do the same.  

Enjoy! 


Nutella Cake

2 3/4 cups Self Raising Flour
1 cup butter (not straight from fridge, leave to soften for an hour)
2 cups caster sugar
4 eggs (medium sized)
1 cup Nutella
1 cup of milk

Method:
1. Beat the sugar and butter until light and fluffy. 
2.  Add eggs (one at a time) followed by the Nutella. 
3. Gradually add the dry ingredients and lastly the milk. 
4. Spread the mixture into a greased and lined tin (I used a 20cm x 30cm brownie pan) and put into oven on middle shelf.
5. Bake at 160 for 45 - 50 minutes. This is the best bit. Your kitchen will be filled with the aroma of Nutella. The cake is cooked when a skewer comes out clean. 











Monday 28 May 2012

Saved by the Queen

The Ryanair flight back from Manchester from Dublin should have been straight forward. After a three day break in the Lake District with my old friend Lucy, we boarded the flight. Lucy had not flown for ten years because she has a fear of flying. More specifically, of the actual take off.



We shuffled onto the blue and yellow plane and found the only seats available for us. They were on the wing of the aircraft. Lucy began to panic, "Isn't this the most dangerous place to sit?" she asked the slick young Italian air steward. "I do not know about that" "But you must know!" "I do not know about that" "But you are the air steward!" "I don't know about that. Sit down please".  We sat down. I did up her buckle and slipped a sedative into her mouth. She was dribbling with fear before the pilot had even started the engine. 

That was until a few moments later, a young man sat down in the seat the other side of me. He was agitated. Sweaty. Wringing his hands together and playing with the gold Claddagh ring on his middle finger. I looked at Lucy to my left, eyes wide open. Fixed on the emergency escape plan clutched in her hands. She was slipping slowly into what could be mistaken for a catatonic state.  The drugs that her doctor had given her were working. I could relax. The flight attendants started to go through the emergency escape procedure.



Suddenly, I became aware of the guy to my left slowly rocking to and fro, head in hands. "Are you OK?" I asked him. "I hate this shit. Flying. I go feckin' bezerk when we land. Can't help it. Last time I did this, I swear feckin' cold air came in. Like there was a feckin' leak. The sides of the plane started splitting open as we came into land. That's what it looked like to me anyway. No-one else saw it. But I did. I hate the feckin' landing bit. I go a bit feckin' crazy, see?" I could see alright. It was a feckin' disaster. The poor man, a bar man from Dublin, was petrified.  



What should have been a simple 40 minute flight was turning into an episode of One Flew Over The Cuckoos nest. I had two of the most terrified people on the planet at that moment beside me. Lucy to my right frozen rigid at the thought of taking off and the young psychotic man to my left trembling with fear at the idea of  landing.

Lucy put the inflight magazine over her face as the plane prepared for take off. She did not inhale for a full five minutes. I did not attempt to move the magazine, there was a chance she'd lash out. As we crossed the Irish sea, it dawned on me that there would be a ten minute period when neither neighbour would be terrified. Somewhere between taking off and landing. Ceasing the opportunity, in a Dr Phil kind of way, half way into the short flight, I nudged them both and introduced them to each other. They chatted furiously about their fear of flying. "It's so real" "no-one else understands".  The conversation was interrupted by a Ryanair angel pushing a drinks trolley. 

The order went in. Two whiskies for the man to my left, a diet coke for me and a gin and tonic for Lucy. I opened the bottles for him and watched as he threw them both down his neck. Soon, the pilot announced that we were ten minutes away from landing. "Do you want one of her tablets?" I asked him, pointing at Lucy who standing up in her chair,  pointing at a man a few rows behind us and shouting out "Oh he's LOVELY. LOOK Annie. LOOK! Looks like Colin Farrell! Would you? Could you?" "Shhh. SIT DOWN" I hissed, grabbing her by her jumper, forcing her back into the chair and clicking her in. She had survived take off, now she was in a trance like euphoric state. Unlike the man to my left who was quivering and looking worryingly angry.



I had to distract him, all I knew about him was that he was a barman. "What's your favorite drink?" "Wha? Wha? Er, whiskey". "Have you ever served anyone famous?" "Wha?" "LOOK AT ME. CONCENTRATE. HAVE YOU SERVED ANYONE FAMOUS?" we could feel the plane getting lower. Every time there was a strange noise, he jumped up, terrified.  I repeated my question, "HAVE YOU SERVED ANYONE FAMOUS?" "What? Oh, I, uh" he was looking around with terror. "Bill Clinton. Bill Clinton! I served BILL CLINTON". Now he was getting really tense, other passengers turned to see what the fuss was about.



Even I was beginning to panic now. This stranger had warned me that he went 'bezerk' when the plane landed. I was the passenger sitting next to the crazy guy on the plane. I had to act fast, this man looked like he was about to kill someone. How could I calm him down? It had to be something that would shock him out of his fear. Fresh from the UK, where every single thing from teapots to slippers were covered in a Union Jack for the Queen's Jubilee, I was inspired by HRH. "LOOK INTO MY EYES! Have you ever served the Queen?" "Wha?" "THE QUEEN! Have you ever served the Queen of England?"


He looked nervously at the door to the cockpit. "Wha?" "THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND. ELIZABETH THE SECOND". Pulling at the gold gain around his neck he muttered, "NO! Can you feel cold air coming into the plane?" getting angry. "Did you see her on the TV?" "wha?"  "WHAT WAS SHE WEARING WHEN  SHE VISITED THE GUINNESS STOREHOUSE IN DUBLIN?" "Wha?" "WHAT COLOUR WAS HER DRESS?" "I can feel cold air. Theres a leak". I tool his face into my hands. "LOOK AT ME!" He tugged at the cross around his neck, trying to see past my face and out of the window. I blocked his view. "I dunno, green?" "NO, try again" "Red?" "No" "Grey?" "NO!""Feckin' PURPLE?" "NO!" "ORANGE?" "NO!" "FECKIN' WHITE?" "NO!" "BROWN?" NO!" "Feckin' black?" "NO!"



The plane was about to land. A loud bang and a bumpy noise and we hit tarmac.  He fell back into the chair, I let out a sigh. Lucy was almost asleep on the other side.  "What color was the feckin' dress anyways?" he asked as he got up to leave. The truth was that I didn't know, I didn't care. I was exhausted.  But as you can see here, if anyone asks you, you'll know it was feckin' blue. 




Wednesday 16 May 2012

Angry Birds.


When my teenage daughter isn’t squeezing spots she does not know what to do with her hands. I mean it. It is something that I became aware of this week when we went to see the doctor about her feet.

Arriving twenty minutes early, I suggested to her that we nip into a nearby department store to buy her a few much needed t-shirts for the summer. Unfortunately she did not hear me. She was walking ten metres behind, plugged into her Ipod. Her face was twisted with anger and her hands, usually squeezing spots, were on her hips.  Her fists clenched like she wanted a fight. “What are you listening too?” I mouthed. She ignored me and marched past. I pulled out an earplug and seizing the moment, stuck it into my ear. It was Katie Perry, ‘Firework’, hardly the kind of music to make you want to punch someone. Not like Ten Inch Nails or Iron Maiden.

“Are you feeling ok?” I asked. “SHUT UP” she replied, plugging herself back into Katie Perry. Hands back on hips, she followed me into the chemist dragging her feet like two enormous sandbags with her. “Do you need anything from here?” I asked, hovering about beside the sanitary products. “NO”. Every day I hope that this behaviour is hormone related. It never is. Purchasing headache tablets and odour eaters we headed to the foot expert.

“Take off your shoes and walk up and down,” the doctor said to my daughter. She did as she was told. Hands on hips, frowning and dragging her feet along like two dead bodies. “Now listen to ME,” said the expert with a stern authority that made me shudder. “If you don’t do what I say, your feet will never get better. Do you understand?” My daughter, hands still on hips grunted.  “Pick up your feet”. She did. I looked at the expert and wondered if the rumours were true. Someone told me this woman was a wild punk rocker in the Eighties.  Would she ever have expected, years later, to be wearing Ecco shoes, Marks and Spencer twin set and a white coat and shouting at flat footed moody teens. Half an hour later, orthotics ordered we left.

Moments later, my daughter was again ten metres behind me. Hands on hips, a face like thunder and feet like lead. I couldn’t help myself. I waited for her to catch up and pulled out her music (To a teenager that is like switching off their life support machine). “If you walk along with your hands on your hips, you look so, so angry. Please, just for today, can you not walk along with your hands like that?” 



Fists clenched and still on firmly hips she yelled, “WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THEM? Her reply caught me on the hop. I had not thought about it. What do other teenagers do? I looked around. A teenager walked by, a male, with hands in his pockets. My teenager has no pockets. Another couple, teenager girls, walked by with their arms folded. “That?” I said, pointing at them. She rolled her eyes and kept her hands firmly in their place.  Another teenager walked by with a cigarette in one hand and a can of lager in the other.  Luckily my teenager didn’t see, she was too busy starring at her face in a shop window.


Once home I asked friends what their teenagers did with their hands. Almost all the mothers of boys gave the same answer, “Always in their pockets” except one. “He hangs them there, at the side. Never moves them, even when he runs. Like two wooden oars. Lifeless. Drives me mad”.  Was my daughter the only one to walk with them, fist clenched, on her hips? I was feeling paranoid. Perhaps she should take up boxing. Ireland is producing top female boxers at the moment.  Is this how boxers like Katie Taylor walk?





My sister came up with the solution. “I’d probably do the same if I didn’t have a handbag to hold onto”. HANDBAGS? Then it dawned on me. That is why women carry handbags. Because if we didn’t, we’d go around with our hands on our hips looking like we wanted a fight because out teenage daughters are driving us insane.  Now all I had to do was convince my daughter that she wanted a handbag and she'd not walk around like an angry bird. A new handbag wouldn’t go down well. She wears hoodies, slippers and leggings all day and would be quite happy carrying her belongings in a shopping trolley or a bin liner. 

Just as I was about to begin my handbag search, a safety conscious friend offered me some words of warning. She said that my daughter could end up with a severe facial injury.  “If she trips over and is holding onto a handbag with both hands, she’ll not break her fall will she? She could end up with a broken nose. Think about what you are doing. Could you live with the guilt?”  

So now I am left considering my options. Do I bite my tongue and say nothing about the 'fisty hips' for the next few years or do I buy her a handbag putting her at risk of a serious head injury if she falls? Someone please sent up a forum for parents on this serious matter. Before I start throwing punches. 



Thursday 12 April 2012

BEST X Factor Auditions

The long and winding road has led me back here to my blog. After a good few months I have finally finished my first novel, 'One Night In Crapham'. Phew! It is quirky tale about a delusional woman who after just one singing class on holiday, really believes that she has a gift, a beautiful singing voice. Once home, she does what feels right and starts a band made up of locals from the town and just one professional musician, drummer Vince, who in the eighties played with Ten Pole Tudor. After just three months, as self appointed band manager, she has to secure their first gig. After a run of disappointing rejections from the local pubs and clubs, she gets a slot in the county maximum security prison, Crapham. Of course, it doesn't all go to plan.....

Writing it was easy, now the hard bit is getting published. So as I sit and wait to hear from a couple of agents, what better way to pass the time than enjoy performances from a few fellow delusional singers. The characters in One Night In Crapham have lived me for a while now and as a thank you to all the people in the world, who like me, haven't the best vocal range, I am posting these fabulous clips from X Factor and American Idol. If you have the inner strength and stamina to watch all eight, you'll love my book.  Wish me luck......Enjoy!


8
Here she is. The original Angry Bird. 




7
She is just a little scarier than me.  Scary Mary. 



6
She is more organised than me. Lyrics in pocket? Great idea. 






5
If only I could get my sister to join me. This could have been us. 





4
She has more ambition than me





3
She has even more ambition than me...







2
Oh my. The holistic singing teacher. 







1
Super- Gran!






Saturday 17 March 2012

A mighty fine Parade


All around the world people have been celebrating St Patricks Day today. In our local town it was no different. This year, for the first time ever, we watched from the side of the road instead of sitting on a float. What a treat we were in for! Here are some of the highlights.




First up in the parade, the army. This year, unlike others, only two army vehicles took part.  I don't think anyone was too upset. There was so much more to look forward too. 





Second up, an old yellow Ford Cortina. Unfortunately, it broke down and the parade came to a standstill whilst the driver called the AA.  When a member of the civil defence noticed that nothing had passed him for ten minutes, my husband and another spectator from the crowd jumped over the barriers and pushed the car for the rest of the parade. 








Next, an idea that might catch on in other St Patrick's Day parades around the globe, what else, but a chicken in a basket.  On wheels. Beats a KFC any day.






Next, he is  'Proud to be a Bog Man'. It said so on the sign pinned on to the front of the pram. Look closely and you can see the peat. And a doll. 






and finally.....Lastly, some Irish dancers. Hooray!







HAPPY ST PATRICK'S DAY


Tuesday 14 February 2012

I'M EVERY WOMAN, it's all in me...

Hooray! It's the international day of love. I write this at 6am. Not because I am sitting by the front door waiting for a dozen red roses to arrive, but because I am about to go upstairs and clean vomit splats from all along the hallway. My seven year old boy was sick all night and I know that when daylight comes, I'll have at least two hours of intense carpet cleaning ahead of me.




It may be Valentine's Day but the kids are off school for the week and life just doesn't grind to a halt on the 14th February. But as a tribute to the soul star who died this week, and to inject a bit of 'luuurve' into the day, I have compiled the top five 'Whitney Houston Songs to Get Household Jobs Done By'. I have put down exactly what I shall be doing for each song but obviously, adapt each song to suit whatever housework you have to face this morning. Pump up the volume and feel free to join me in my tribute to the legend who has been a constant companion in aerobics classes for women around the world for the last 20 years. 



I'M EVERY WOMAN 
This is the tune I shall be listening to very shortly, on my Ipod (mustn't wake whole house), as I tackle the vomity soaked carpet. With mop, bucket, disinfectant, rubber gloves and air freshener, this track has the energy to keep me going as I tackle every mother's worse nightmare. Yuk, Yuk, treble yuk....






IT'S NOT RIGHT BUT IT'S OK
At number 2, It's Not Right But It's OK. This could have been written for the inside of my fridge, which some might call 'A disgrace'. The song is methodical, calm and repetitive, just what's required for dreaded household chore number two this morning.  After the carpet, I have to throw out the stale milk, yogurts, leftovers and clean out the compost heap (otherwise known as the vegetable drawer in my fridge). Surely there is no better day to feel the love for my refrigerator.








SO EMOTIONAL
This will be playing very loudly as I enter my teenagers cave and attempt to get her to sort out her bathroom later this morning. This week she has been experimenting with every Irish teenagers 'must have', fake tan (in orange). This has to stop. She may become a fake tan junkie.  I don't even know who her supplier is. She came out of her room last night glowing a mucky yellowy red colour. This wouldn't bother me one bit if she took up ballroom dancing. Instead she listens to Jedward all day in her tracksuit. We've not even seen the sun in Ireland for 6 months....HELP!







I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU
 Our rabbit died last week and now, I am faced with the horrible, horrible task of phoning up the vet and getting the results of the post-mortem. As I do so, this shall play in the background. It sums up perfectly, the way I feel. Like poor Whitney's family, I only hope that she died suddenly and without pain. Unlike Whitney's family, I was at least there to feed her a last nibble of apple shortly before she passed. RIP 'Pickles' - we will always love you. 







I'M YOUR BABY TONIGHT
Yes, we are going out, we've an Early Bird meal booked in the Brown Bear in a village nearby called Two Mile House. I shall put this song on and first sweep, then mop the entire house before we leave. I may even attempt that thing that cleaning obsessives do and mop my way out of the house, leaving the mop at the door just before I lock it. I can pick it up when we get home and mop my way from the front door to the bedroom. Who says that art of romance is dead?





HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!