Day 59: ‘A hug goes a long way’

WHEN you’re 18 months old, a hug goes a long way.

Whether you’ve taken a tumble, someone has dared not to give you a second Jaffa Cake, your teeth are pushing against your little gums, or you’re so tired you’re fighting sleep for the sake of it, a hug is an undeniable comfort.

Sometimes a child’s hug - snuggle, cuddle, squeeze or squidge,- is available for no other reason than ‘just because’. There’s nothing nicer than when your little one comes over mid-babble, or half way through a very busy Duplo operation, just to sit on your knee, give you a hug and nuzzle into you - even if just for a few seconds.

So why when we’re adults does the hugging stop? I think it’s because we don’t ask for them!

When your day is incredibly stressful, you’re really wound up, or you’re nervous and anxious, how much better is it if someone offers you a hug. Your shoulders drop, you take a second or two to breathe out, put things into perspective, and get ready to carry on.

Just to clarify, when I talk about hugs, I’m not talking about these namby pamby clash of the shoulders, gentle tap on the back, accompanied by an air kiss, and if you aim incorrectly, a brush of the cheek, type of affairs. These are not hugs, they’re merely luke warm displays of affection, or even just acknowledgement, invented by socialites, philanthropists and the WI, designed to appear warm and welcoming, but actually being anything but. 

I suppose what I’m saying is, if you’re going to hug, do it properly - hug like you’re a toddler who’s just grazed their knees, or long lost family members who’ve just been reunited.

Start tomorrow as if it’s ‘National Hugging Day’ and I guarantee you’ll feel better for it..perhaps avoid launching yourself at complete strangers of course!

Day 58: ‘The circus is in town…’

…and I couldn’t care less! 

Sounds terrible doesn’t it? For centuries the circus coming to town is supposed to have been something everyone gets excited about and thousands of people flock to see it. Maybe that is the case and I’m missing something, but I really don’t see the draw.

Even the posters (stuck to every lampost in Hucknall and Bulwell at the minute) don’t appeal to me - a big clown’s face, which I’m afraid doesn’t bring out the child in me, it brings out the terrified teenager who was once exposed to Stephen King’s ‘IT’ and didn’t sleep for a month afterwards.

Of course I know most circuses now don’t feature performing animals, but I think even the chance that they might have animals there, in potentially poor conditions,  just fills me with dread. 

Perhaps a circus is something Erin should witness, I know my grandparents took me to see the Moscow State Circus when I was little, but I do remember being a bit bored after the first few dozen acrobats had thrown themselves around a bit.

I know, I’m a heathen, but I just don’t get it!

I’d much rather take Erin to see a Cbeebies show (which will be happening in April!) or visit a farm park so she can see some real animals in their own environment. And as for the acrobatics, don’t get me wrong I find it incredibly impressive and some of the feats are jaw dropping, but I have a limited concentration span when it comes to trapezes. Erin has a limited concentration span full stop, so between us we’d be a waste of two tickets I think!

I’m never very good with any event where people turn up on a piece of land and put on some sort of entertainment - never liked the fair for example. But I’m sure I’m probably in the minority, so if you’re heading to the circus over the next couple of weeks, I hope you have a good time, just keep your beady eyes on those clowns!

Day 57: ‘Gobbledygook’

AS the mother of an 18-month old, I suppose I have to expect the majority of my day to be filled with constant babbling, gobbledygook and dribbling - but that’s enough about work!

I’m not sure what’s worse: not understanding a thing Erin’s saying, or the half way house - some level of intonation, but nothing with any clarity, that can result in no end of wrangling, pointing and frustrated pleas of “gggrrrrr”. 

I think I’m expecting to pick Erin out her cot one morning, and instead of just pointing at the cats and shouting “dar” - which I believe to be toddler for cat, or Russian for yes - she’ll say “Morning mummy, where have you been all night?”

I realise words are a gradual thing, just like walking, improving dexterity with their hands, nodding, smiling and all the other things that change so quickly in babies and toddlers, but that doesn’t make me any less befuddled! 

In fact, so much does happen in a child’s development that you very quickly forget when and how long it took to happen. 

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but I can’t remember how long ago it was that Erin didn’t know how to use her spoon properly, or how long she was wobbling around tentatively, holding on to both of my hands, trying desperately to walk on her own.

Do we naturally block out this level of detail as it’s more important to be constantly looking ahead? Helping them to tackle the next challenge or learn a new skill is so important that anything that came before is almost irrelevant?

In a way I wish I’d written things down at every stage so I could refer back and remember what happened and when. I don’t need to know, all I do need to know is that Erin is progressing and changing every day, but it would be a ‘nice to have’. 

From now on, I’ll make a note. When “dar” evolves to “cat” and “rar roo” changes to “Charlie” I’ll make sure I keep a log.

Day 56: ‘Would you live here?’

MY bestie sent me a link to a story today that I will hold in high esteem for some time. 

The Mirror ran a piece on the rudest street names in the country - exactly what I want from a news organisation - topical filth! 

Well of course they names are brilliantly entertaining, enough to bring out the teenager in all of us. 

Nothing could ever stop me finding Minge Street, Bell End, The Knob, Fanny Hands Lane and Cock A-Dobby amusing.

The most interesting thing about this article is not the contents of Crotch Lane or the residents of Slag Lane (sorry, I had to do it) it’s the fact that on average there’s a 22% price difference between properties on streets with rude names, than their more mundane equivalents. Never mind the average, one comparison in Berkshire shows a £160,000 difference.

All this makes me think is..get me a house on Cockshoot Close! 

Most of the roads look nice, and in my mind it’s more of a dinner party piece to say you hold this address, than an embarrassment to live on - think of the fun you’d have at the Post Office sorting your passport form out, or the laughs you’d have when filling out a customer feedback form!

Might I suggest we all leave the snobbery on our (now rather boring) ‘King Street’ or ‘Edwards Lane’ doorstep and pay at least 22% less for our new home on Cock Lane! 

I would also like to appeal to all new-build developers out there - purchase an urban dictionary and bring the fun back into street names!

Day 55: ‘We need our next fix’

DON’T worry mum, dad, I’ve not suddenly taken to the drink or become a drug addict overnight! 

What I’m looking for is far more addictive, and far easier to get hold of..I’m talking quality drama series - in our house often American, but I’m not averse to the odd British classic.

My husband and I are both addicts. In fact as I’m writing this blog I have one eye on the 3am till 4am episode of 24 (season eight if you want specifics), having just completed season one of House of Cards, while waiting for the next disc of Elementary season one.

I told you. Addicted.

Whether it’s West Wing - I love CJ, Josh, Toby, Sam, Leo, Donna and Jed (Mr President) as if they were actual real people - Sherlock, Desperate Housewives, Dexter (our cat’s namesake), Breaking Bad, Luther, Spooks or Hustle, I have been engrossed in every one of them at some point in the past few years.

Of course the series I have seen more times than my own feet has to be Friends, but having just sold my box set on Amazon, and the frequency of episodes being cut on Comedy Central, I am slowing having to realise, there is life beyond Central Perk. Slowly.

We’re getting to the end of our current list and we need suggestions. Tell me what we’re missing, is there another Jack Bauer out there yet undiscovered? Have we overlooked a Sherlock in the making? Does anyone do the Jackal like CJ? 

Come on ladies and gents, there’s another 311 evenings left in 2014 to fill - and in reality we’ll only be out of the house for about ten of those, so there’s a potential 1,200 hours of viewing to be had! 

Answers on a postcard to…

Day 54: ‘Keep Britain Tidy’

THE Keep Britain Tidy campaign has been around for nearly sixty years, so why have so many people not quite figured it out yet? If you want a country that looks nice, it’s not just the job of the local council - it’s everyone’s responsibility.

There’s a reason some countries look so clean and beautiful - littering is a serious crime and there’s every chance if you’re caught, they’ll chop something off!

Despite being in the back-end of a double dip recession, on-the-spot fines for littering don’t appear to be enough of a threat for some people. I’m not suggesting we start chopping things off, I just wish people would adopt more of a moral compass.

Probably the most blatant, ignorant and common incidences of littering is people dropping cigarette butts out of car windows. My husband recently pulled up alongside a well-to-do looking woman at traffic lights who’d just deposited a fag end out of the window of her Range Rover. Not being averse to offering feedback, he wound his window down and asked her why she felt it was fair to litter the streets (possibly slightly less politely than that). Surprisingly she had the gall to respond with: “That’s not littering”, didn’t even just opt for the standard two finger salute, she actually believed she was in the right.

There are also those who drop litter within yards of a bin - who are these people? Are they enacting some sort of protest, or are they just that stupid and lazy?

Finally, the one that I can’t abide, and something that seems to be committed by a wide range of people from every walk of life, is those people who don’t pick up their dog’s poo. 

If you have a dog, then you need to pick up after them when they leave yesterday’s Baker’s Complete in the middle of the pavement, on the nicely mown verges - or even someone’s drive. 

The most ridiculous dog owners in the world are not those who dress them in hoodies, socks and leg warmers (although they come reasonably close) it’s those who go to the effort of picking up their dog’s poo..and then hanging the bag on the branch of a tree as if it’s some sort of Christmas bauble. 

When exactly do they think that bag is going to disappear and biodegrade? It’s possibly worse than just leaving the poo on the grass verge. 

Not only do I not understand the action of littering itself, I fail to understand the mentality of anyone who litters the streets (or allows their dog to), without feeling the slightest bit of embarrassment, shame or guilt. 

The perfect time for this word I feel….MORONS!!!!!

Day 53: ‘Let girls be girls’

TODAY’S blog follows a visit to the hallowed ground of the East Midlands Designer Outlet this weekend.

When Mark returned Erin’s little push-around car back to the ‘car lot’, he came rushing back to let me know about the latest ‘attack of the baby girl headgear’.

I’ll explain. 

Ever since our first visit to the baby clinic when Erin was a few weeks’ old, Mark and I have noticed there are two camps when it comes to mothers of girls - I’m saying mothers, not to alienate the fathers, but to distance them from what I can imagine had very little to do with them.

There’s the mothers who, like me, will pretty much put their little girls in anything, pink, blue, green or red, and generally opts for sleep suits until they’re old enough to sit up.

Then there’s the mothers who like to make absolutely sure that everyone knows their little girl is definitely a little girl, however many accessories that takes! 

The first baby clinic we went to, there was a girl, around six weeks old I think, cause Erin was the same age. When she was being weighed in her birthday suit, she looked a picture - beautiful.

However, while Erin and the others were dressed in their sleep suits and vests, this little munchkin had more paraphernalia than a float at the Nottinghill Carnival! She was dragged into a frilly pink tutu, a cardigan that appeared to have been made out of a feather boa, sparkly booties and a headband that had a large flower protruding from it, with thin strips of bright pink ribbon cascading from the petals, and spending most of their time flopping into her eyes. 

My first thought wasn’t: “Oh bless that little girl, she looks so fancy.” It was more like: “Oh that poor little baby, she must be fed up with those ribbons falling into her face, and must be desperate to stretch her toes out.”

I know it’s not fair to judge other parents’ actions, we all have our own way - I’ve been told a number of times that Erin doesn’t look girlie enough, so I understand we can’t please everyone. 

I just wish people would understand how simply beautiful their little ones are - every single one of them. They don’t need dressing up like a Christmas tree to prove they’re a girl, if someone feels they have to ask, it’s not an insult, they just don’t want to get it wrong. 

Day 52: ‘The stinkier the better’

BEFORE I even delve into this subject (already regretting the world delve considering the subject matter) I would like to lay the blame for today’s blog firmly at the door of my friend, Jennie Prentice. 

I am wondering whether her job poking around in the lady gardens of Nottinghamshire and delivering babies covered in gunk on a regular basis has made her immune to things that make you feel a little queasy!

Jen pointed out to me a phenomenon she had come across - apparently innocently, but I’m not so sure - on eBay *other auction sites are available.

It appears that some people, and when I say some, I mean a lot, sell all their tatty old slippers and well worn shoes on eBay - with that very description. In fact it appears the more the seller has worn the slippers, the stronger they smell, the tattier they are, and the more holes they have, the higher price they’ll fetch.

Are we to blame Christian Grey for this phenomenon? I haven’t actually read 50 Shades of Grey, but I’m almost certain it won’t have involved somebody who enjoys nestling into a size 5 matted fur pair of slippers that smell like gone off cheese and look like a stray dog’s back side. 

Has he made fetishes so acceptable that the general public are happy to sell off something that should by rights be in a tip somewhere creating landfill, in order to satisfy the needs of others?

There are a number of people (strippers) selling their old dancing shoes on there - these things are completely knackered and fetching in excess of £30! 

But in a strange way I understand that someone with a foot fetish might be interested in a pair of sky high stilettos that were once worn by a stripper. Don’t get me wrong, I still expect them to appear on Crimewatch in a few years’ time known as ‘Jack the Cobbler’. But slippers?

Anyone who has ever seen my feet will understand why I can’t really understand the fascination and so won’t be putting my slippers online, accompanied by a ‘sexy pose’ of my three days hair growth calves, with a little toe poking out the front (this is what they do!). 

I believe that feet are something that should be covered up if at all possible, and duly ignored if it’s too warm to do so!

The world gets stranger and stranger! And Jen, I think your husband is quite right, you do need to stop looking at dirty slippers and get some sleep!

Day 51: ‘I’m so not with it!’

I’M sure many of you will have watched the Brits last night.  

I can only hope I wasn’t alone in thinking: “what the frick was that?” 

I haven’t watched it for a few years now, so maybe I’ve changed rather than the Brits, but it appeared to me to be merely a love fest between the bands, presenters and James Corden.

How many times could someone strut (or swagger in the case of Pharrell and Kylie - two people I actually recognised) onto the centre stage and point with both arms at James Corden and say something along the lines of: “Can I hear some love for James Corden tonight ladies and gentleman?” or the classic “Give it up for James Corden tonight.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love James Corden, he can always make me giggle, and if the whole event was hinging on his cheeky banter and witty asides, then perhaps I could have got on board. But I’m sure he’s being paid enough, and has had enough national and international acclaim in his career, to feel confident without the barrage of very public bottom kissing - not to mention actual kissing from the disaster that is Nick Grimshaw. 

I know it was his last Brits, and I would whole heartedly recommend him sticking to that, cause another year of that malarkey and it could be a career-ending moment!

Then there was Kate Moss in some ancient David Bowie outfit looking like someone’s drunk auntie at a wedding attempting to read the best man’s speech, dressed in a toddler’s sleepsuit. And a girl dressed as Morticia Adams, accepting her award more confidently and eloquently than any middle aged Bafta nominee - seventeen..she was seventeen!

And when I thought all would be salvaged at the arrival of Beyonce, I’m afraid I was left feeling luke warm about the whole affair..unless it’s All the Single Ladies or Destiny’s Child and Survivor, I’m afraid I’m reasonably indifferent.

One thing I did enjoy however was the Mastercard adverts straddling the coverage, that lady in the fairy outfit dancing with the kids to Happy was fabulous! (I fear I may have missed the point.)

Day 50: ‘Friends, I need you!’

WELL I’ve reached my half century - 50 blogs for the first 50 days of the year, 16,545 words, 25 hours and some pretty achey fingers!

In cricketing circles it would be time to raise my bat, do a mini lap of the crease and take a bit of a breather, in life it’s the point you realise you’re closer to 70 than you are to 20, and in Cockney money you’ve hit the bullseye.

It’s been great - for me - so far, getting a chance to comment on my days, the things that matter to me, the things that bother me, and just reflect on the weird and wonderful world we live in.

But in the rather David Brent way my husband says it: ‘feedback is the breakfast of champions’ so please, tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop. And don’t tell me to keep going just as some punishment for boring you for 50 days, cause let’s face it, I’ve still got 315 blogs left to do, and that’s no mean feat!

If you’ve had enough, then please speak now or forever be bombarded by blogs - don’t be too emphatic though, I have a thick skin, but I’m not completely devoid of sentiment! 

If you’re looking for more, you’re mildly happy for me to carry on, or indifferent to the whole thing, then please help! I need subjects, thoughts, musings..even just a word to debate (expletives and naughties will not be permitted in the ideas field!)

I need more ideas than I have friends, so feel free to be a regular contributor! 

Day 49: ‘The world is changing’

SOMETHING rather strange happened today.

I had a Facebook friend request from someone I know. Doesn’t sound weird to you? Well wait.

It was my Gran! Yes ladies and gentleman the wonderful Brenda Shelbourne is Facebook bound, online and looking for friends! 

I of course accepted the request instantly and then recommended some others to join me. Two responses I expected, but still enjoyed.

Message from Laura Mellor: “Brenda’s on Facebook..AMAZING!”

Text from Lee Henshaw: “Having a friend request from Brenda has made my day.”

You see, it’s the little things!

When I informed my sister of the dramatic event in my Gran’s online progression, her response was: “Oh lordy”, my husband followed close behind with: “You’re kidding me?” 

But I think it’s excellent news (this will test whether Gran’s really using Facebook won’t it) and why shouldn’t she? It’s a great way to have a nosey at photos, hear the local gossip, find out what’s new in the world of Flappy Birds and try to get her head around the whole ‘hashtag’ phenomenon, which appears to have wended its way into the world of Facebook now. 

It’s practically a coffee morning at church, just with the added benefit of not actually having to drink luke warm tea and buy a cake that’s just been poked at by a passing toddler. 

It must actually be a wonderful thing to use something as technologically advanced as Facebook when you remember a time when gramophones were popular, post took days to arrive and a cassette tape was only a distant dream!

Yes Grandmother dear, I welcome you to the world of status updates, photo tagging, likes, comments and pictures of cats, dogs, children and selfies. 

Day 48: ‘What a difference a Costa makes’

MONDAY is a Mummy and Erin day in the Hitchings household. 

We often like to head out somewhere in the morning, mainly to keep the little monkey occupied and prevent me from getting cabin fever!

Today’s choice was a quick trip to Hucknall High Street, the primary target being the brand new Costa, which has just opened its doors.

Costa? I hear you say. 

In Hucknall? 

It makes our very proud North Notts town a veritable metropolis! 

Oddly it really did feel different going into Hucknall knowing there would be something so cosmopolitan at the end of my wander. When I say Cosmopolitan, I realise anyone who lives in a city centre, or London, will think I sound positively prehistoric. But something like this does make a huge difference to the experience of a parochial high street.

The manager of the Card Factory store next door must be ecstatic for the amount of footfall Costa’s arrival is going to cause, and I can imagine Peacocks is expecting a distinct rise in profits for its position in the runway to Double Caff Skinny Latte Shaken not Stirred heaven. 

Interestingly I don’t like coffee. But I would happily sit with a hot chocolate, a blueberry muffin and a flapjack (for Erin, I’m not that greedy) watch the world go by and await the next retail giant to shift its game-changing bottom into the empty unit that formerly housed Bon Marche. 

It’s going to happen, I can just feel it. I will put my money on Dorothy Perkins to be the next arrival - I have no basis in fact, just wishful thinking!

Day 47: ‘Have a break from the Kit Kats Kiddicare’

AFTER reading about some parents’ experience of customer service at Kiddicare in Nottingham, I’m surprised I still go there. 

However we do have a toddler, and they do have a big sale on, and this weekend we were in need of a couple of items, so I’m afraid my boycott (if more in willing than reality) was breached. 

To be fair to Kiddicare, I hadn’t as yet had my own bad experience, so up to this point, it was their reputation to ruin.

There were no disasters, customer service was mildly mediocre, but nothing to complain about, we found everything we needed, and Erin was even able to play with the toy cars. 

However, Mark picked up on something that just didn’t seem right.

When arriving at the tills - for those who’ve never been to Kiddicare, it’s a store dedicated to everything and anything you need for babies and toddlers - we came across a ‘last minute sales pitch’ that bemused us both. 

Kit Kats, Maltesers and Mars Bars. Eh?

Erin loves her food, but she’s not quite at the age yet to recognise wrappers for things that she’s not allowed to eat, so she didn’t have a clue what they were. But give her six months or so, and I’m guessing she’d be tugging on our trouser legs demanding a sugar rush. So why have they done it?

It’s hard enough for parents at the supermarket tills - but in fairness to supermarkets, people with young children are not their primary audience, and their core business is to sell food. Kiddicare’s business is selling prams, cots, kids’ clothes and car seats, and their only audience is parents with young children.

From a marketing perspective it made no sense, from a PR perspective it was poor, and even worse..it made me want chocolate, so it cost me over 300 calories in a Costa Hot Chocolate on the way home! 

Day 46: ‘Oh I’m sorry, have we not paid you enough?’

A FRIEND highlighted an issue to me today that I think is well worth a rant - thank you Sir Guy of Northernshire!

If you’ve invested in a product - often quite expensive like a TV or a computer - you wouldn’t expect that when something goes wrong, you’d have to fork out again - a little thing called manufacturer’s warranty. 

But you’d be wrong! While they can’t charge you on repair or replacement, the big thieving corporate giants can do you sideways (note the editing) for calling their premium rate numbers! 

It’s one of those things that I haven’t pondered too much before, because for some god forsaken reason I trust in large retailers, banks, travel firms and mobile phone operators, that they wouldn’t dream of charging me to discuss a problem with the product they so confidently sold me so recently. 

But apparently my blind faith has failed me once again, hasn’t it Barclays, Vodaphone and Currys? (apparently some of the worst offenders).

When you’re calling to order something new, or to discuss upgrading a new contract, you’ll be talking to a friendly chap or chapesse on a freephone or locally charged line. However, their friend just down the corridor in ‘call centre towers’ is talking about the same products, to customers who have already bought them, and charging extortionate call rates for the privilege.

The more I thought about this - and the more I worried that I’ve succumbed a number of times to premium rate calls without realising it - I did a bit of research. 

Thanks to the lovely Martin Lewis, the country’s resident Money Saving Expert, I feel I will sleep a little better on this subject - Martin Lewis of course whose financial advice is invaluable, not least for the fact that he set up his money advice website just a few years ago and recently sold it for £87m, while in turn becoming a household name - bloody genius! 

Rather than me paraphrasing, here it is from the horse’s mouth:

‘From June 2014 the new Consumer Rights Directive, which is due to come into force in June 2014, will end expensive premium 084 and 087 numbers for customers calling airlines, train operators and major high street and online retailers.

Meanwhile the Financial Conduct Authority (FCA) will consider whether it could introduce similar measures for those calling banks, insurance companies and investment brokers.’

The only real sad part as a consumer, is that this ‘ban’ is being enforced on the companies that we choose to spend our money with. They haven’t chosen to be the good guys, they’re doing it while handcuffed to a drainpipe, being whipped by Messers Cameron and Osborne. 

Day 45: ‘GOLD! Always believe in your…Mervyn’

I COULDN’T be more proud tonight when I saw Lizzie Yarnold had won Gold in the women’s skeleton event in Sochi. Interestingly the skeleton event has nothing to do with actual skeletons - apart from the fact that you could seriously damage yours by taking part!

I’m very proud of young Liz for getting our first Gold at the Winter Olympics - we don’t expect many, so we should savour this one as long as we can!

However for me, it’s not just pride in the actual achievement - as impressive as it was of course. I was delighted to hear that Lizzie has named her sled Mervyn.

An excellent choice of name, it really says ‘Britain’. It also doesn’t really sound precocious or in anyway expectant of success. Many will have named their sled ‘Power’ or ‘Lightning’ of ‘Jet’ (I realise now I’m just naming Gladiators), so when Merv actually clinches a medal, it’s like David beating Goliath!

I am rather partial to naming inanimate objects myself. In the Hitchings household for example, we have Little Dick the handheld Dyson, Horace the toy Owl, Barry the night light, Gordon the stand lamp, Albus the Audi, Cyril the Citroen, Big Dick the normal Dyson, Terence the Tumble Dryer and Archibold the iPad. 

And Mark may roll his eyes when I first dish out the names, but he has adopted many himself. In fact sometimes our conversations could often sound like we’re holding a number of hostages or dead bodies: 

“Did you leave Barry in the cupboard?”

“No, there wasn’t enough room with Little Dick in there.”

“Oh right, maybe I left him in the overnight bag when I was quickly trying to stuff Terence and get him turned on before we went out.”

I’ve never been given a Gold medal for my hoovering skills or for the way I empty and refill the tumble dryer. But just cause Mervyn happens to travel at 80mph down some snow track thing in front of millions of people, Lizzie gets a medal! 

In all seriousness, congratulations Lizzie..and to her dad Clive incidentally, whose wonderful moustache and Indiana Jones style hat can only be forgiven when you’re the father of a Gold medal winning Olympian, or Tom Selleck.

Day 44: ‘Light drizzle’

BEFORE I begin my rant, might I point out that I do sympathise with anyone who has been affected by the recent extreme weather.

However.

I say extreme weather - it’s all relative isn’t it? For Britain, the wind and rain that has battered the South coast in the past few weeks is extreme. But when you look at some of the more volatile climates in the rest of the world, what Britain has been experiencing in the past few weeks is merely light drizzle.

As with any form of weather extremity, we are not prepared for it. Any time there’s any sign of snow, thousands of head teachers start rubbing their hands together at the possibility of closing their schools, buses and trains will almost certainly cease running, and you can guarantee every council in the land has run out of gritting salt. 

But of course, why would we be prepared for these events? They happen so rarely, putting the infrastructure in place would be a phenomenal expense, that could duly be wasted if the following ten winters, nothing untoward happened.

Any Government is in an impossible position to deal with such unprecedented acts of god, but they’re the first people to be blamed when people find themselves in strife.

One screaming woman in Somerset decided the other day to speak directly to camera midway through an interview with the BBC, accusing David Cameron of neglecting her and her community, vociferously insisting he puts on a pair of waders and personally helps them clean up. 

I appreciate her desperation and it would be a fantastic PR stunt for Mr Cameron to don his Barbours and head for the rising waters - it’s the sort of action an American President would almost certainly fulfil. 

But I do agree with the PM’s advisers, that surely when something with such gravity is happening, alongside other internal and worldwide issues the Government faces on a daily basis, that he is better placed in Downing Street, running the country, and wondering how many jokes he can create about Ed Milliband’s hair before the next debate in Parliament.

The thing about the screaming lady in Somerset is the choice she made at some point in the past about where she lives.

A riverside village or coastal town is a beautiful place to live on a sunny summer’s day. But at the point of purchase of a new home, one thing is ultimately clear - you are in close proximity to a moving body of water that is just a few feet from ground level, and given a few weeks of rain, has the potential to burst its banks or breach a sea wall. 

If you think the risk’s worth it, and you’re prepared to pay the high insurance premiums that come with such a purchase, then buy a house by the river or on the seafront - but when you do, also buy a small boat, a family pack of waders, and don’t complain when the ‘Big Guy’ decides to send in the storm clouds. 

If you’re more of a loafers than waders sort of person, I’d perhaps look at a hillside property, at least half a mile from any large body of water.

Harsh? But fair I think.

Day 43: ‘The old ones are the best’

I’VE always loved music that was generally more popular before I was born - or I develop a soft spot for it at least ten years after it was in the charts. 

I love Motown, eighties pop, rock and roll, nineties Indie pop, I happen to believe Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ and ‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant’ are possibly two of the greatest songs ever written, and think anyone who doesn’t jump out of their seat and head for a dance floor when they hear the first few bars of ‘Come on Eileen’ and Barry White’s ‘You’re the first, my last, my everything’ are frankly mad!

The only exception to this rule has always been Take That..I was there at the start, proposed to Mark Owen via letter at the impressionable age of ten, was mortified when Robbie left, distraught when they broke up - and of course delighted when they made their triumphant return to the top in 2005! 

Of course with age comes wisdom, and I have - in the 20 years that have since passed - now withdrawn my undying devotion to Mark Owen and made the sensible decision to transfer my affections.

Privileged to have been to see this wonderful specimen of a man many times before, and looking ahead to another encounter this April with my lovely ladies, I’m not sure whether this allegiance will ever fade. 

I sense that, just as my dad follows Ralph McTell religiously - these days to slightly more intimate venues like the Newark Palace Theatre and the Buxton Opera House - I will similarly be calling Laura and Tracey in 20 years’ time to arrange such escapades, perhaps with a civilised afternoon tea beforehand! 

True love never fades, so I’m afraid I am destined to make sure A Million Love Songs is the last song I ever hear, and Do What You Like is the last music video I ever watch. 

Goodnight Wembley!

Day 42: ‘Food glorious food’

I am happy to admit, I’m a big eater. 

I love my food, it’s only due to the insanity of working for myself, being mother to a hilarious, but crazy toddler, and running the ‘pink’ jobs in the house, that means I haven’t as yet become Dawn French. Might I add, I have an very high regard for Miss French and believe she’s an incredibly beautiful woman, working in an industry that only regards you as such if you wear eight inch heels and have a 24 inch waist.

I spent my entire twenties making sure I had the decent balance between eating, drinking and going to the gym enough to keep me in my favourite jeans. This often meant eating more salads than I would care for, saying no to cake and avoiding McDonalds, unless I’d been to the gym for at least an hour and a half each day. 

Sweet mother that was boring! 

I know some people love exercise, but I’m afraid I’m not one of them. I find most conventional exercise routines as boring as a two hour meeting on the health and safety concerns issues with a new lock on a disabled toilet. It happened!

I enjoy the accidental exercise you get from dancing (normally alongside Laura Jane) to music that most people regard as ‘uncool’, playing some sort of makeshift sport in the summer (usually rounders or cricket), walking the dogs with pram in hand, and the obvious aerobic and anaerobic activities involved in childcare.

I know a day will come when I won’t be chasing around so much and I’ll have to resort to convention if I want to have any chance of keeping a healthy heart, and fitting into my favourite jeans. But for now, I’ll stick with my carefully tailored routine of chasing life around, and my regimented diet of ‘whatever’s in the fridge’ or the Saturday treat of however much I can handle from the curry house!

Day 41: 'The night before Tuesday’

TWAS a Monday lunchtime and all through the house

not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Well all that is true, with the exception of one, 

some call me Clare, Erin knows me as mum. 

It’s a common occurrence in the Hitchings abode, 

that when everyone naps I’m on work mode. 

Whether it’s checking my emails, or writing my blog, 

doing the ironing or cleaning the bog

There’s lots to do when the baby’s asleep, 

with some precious moments myself to keep.

I wonder sometimes whether I should have a nap, 

but I’m rarely that tired and if I did that, 

I might well wake up to a whole lot of mess, 

no emails answered, a lost hour fruitless.

As I’m writing this ditty, Peppa Pig’s in full swing, 

I’m hoping the little lady finds it tiring

Peppa tends to be the final straw

if In The Night Garden has failed to bore, 

this ball full of energy who just ten minutes ago 

was racing around the lounge, with no signs she would slow.

With bedtime looming and dinner to eat, I’m delighted to say that pig worked a treat. 

I just popped the little lady down in her cot, 

and kissed her forehead thinking whether or not, 

she’ll sleep through the night, or be up with a start, 

at 2am just cause she needed to….find her dummy! 

Day 40: ‘Some things don’t need explaining’

EVER since having Erin, I’ve been in awe of many things.

However much we women moan about our bodies - we have periods, we have to wear bras, our bodies continue to grow hair where we don’t want it, and we can’t just wee anywhere - pregnancy and motherhood has made me realise just how amazing we actually are.

We can grow a living person inside us, we can carry them until our body decides it’s time for them to come out - through a significantly smaller hole than it appears will fit - we can produce food to feed this child and continue to help them grow. Feeding our children actually helps our stomachs to go back down to their normal state, and in just a few weeks, our systems seem to resume a normal service again. Nobody could build such a machine!

Then there’s the children themselves. In just 12 months they go from a helpless tiny little mite, who can only lie on their back, cry, eat, sleep, wee and poo, to a ball of babbling nonsense who can get themselves around - either horizontally or vertically - enjoy things, understand some of what you’re saying, recognise people and show affection, joy, interest, disgust and amusement. 

One of the things I’m constantly in awe of, is the sheer happiness and excitement the same toy can bring every day. The uncontrollable joy I see in Erin’s face every time she sees the cats, my parents, my sister, their dogs, Peppa Pig, a pile of leaves or a chocolate biscuit - sorry to bunch you all into the same category!

When she wakes up in the morning, her first reaction is to be excited to be awake, thinking instantly what she’d like to do next. I really wish I could spring out of bed every morning in the same way, although waking up to that little fizog does certainly help!

I never feel I need an explanation as to how or why any of this is possible, I’m just delighted to know that it does!

Day 39: ‘There she was just a-walkin’ down the street, texting do wa diddy diddy..oops!!’

WE’VE all done it. You’re walking along reading a text or an email, Facebook or Twitter, and you bump into someone, or trip over something, or put your foot in a puddle about three inches deep with ballet pumps on - what, just me that one?

If you’ve ever witnessed someone walking into something, or someone while they’re doing this, it really does look funny! But what if they were doing that while crossing a road?

You wouldn’t read a book while crossing a road, or write a letter to someone, so why on earth do so many of us do this? That’s right, I’m guilty too! 

Add in to the mix wearing headphones (not guilty on this front your honour - only on the grounds I’m too likely to start singing out loud, or dancing alone in a public place) and you are literally a walking disaster - that’s two senses completely out of the picture!

In America 53% of adult mobile phone users have been involved in a ‘distracted walking’ encounter and 70% of 18-24-year-olds have been bumped into by someone who was using their phone while walking. More shockingly, between 2004 and 2011, 116 pedestrians were killed or seriously injured in the States due to wearing headphones.

In fact, in Fort Lee, New Jersey, people can actually receive on-the-spot fines for ‘jaywalking while using a cell’ - or phone as we like to call them.

An article in the Daily Mail (please don’t judge me, it was a brief encounter online) recently talked about a scientific study in Australia, that looked at the way your walk changes significantly when using your phone. It affects your walking gait, speed, balance and sense of direction - http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2544044/Texting-walking-affects-balance-risks-injury-warn-scientists.html. 

From this moment forward I will attempt to either stand still with my phone, or just leave it in my bag, as I must look ridiculous - not to mention putting my life and others at risk!