Day 89: ‘Mother's Day'

HAPPY Mother’s Day one and all.

Interestingly, much like Christmas, Mother’s Day is a date in the calendar that affects us all. 

Most of us are lucky enough to spend our Mother’s Day with our wonderful mums, grans, sons and daughters, making sure those ladies who carried us for nine months, and loved and cared for us unconditionally ever since, get spoilt rotten and know how much they mean to us.

Walking into Tesco last night to pick up some extra bits for today’s Mother’s Day dinner - a dinner that was delivered as a solo expedition with Mark taken out by the flu - I was almost knocked down by a man with three bouquets in his hand, clearly unable to see where he was going. As I walked down the ‘Mother’s Day aisle’ to get to the milk, I was met with a plethora of men with children, selecting from the vast array of chocolates, flowers, toiletries, pyjamas, books and teddy bears.

When I woke up this morning, Facebook and Twitter, unsurprisingly were flooded with messages for all mums out there, and of course the retail outlets hadn’t missed their opportunity to email me reminding about the significance of the day, highlighting their offers and discounts.

Everyone seemed to be doing something for Mother's Day.

While it has been lovely, and I was myself spoilt to a meal out last night, I have been reminded over the course of the day of people who won’t be with their mums, who don’t have anyone to send a card to, or spoil rotten, or make dinner for. 

For those who have lost their mums and find Mother’s Day bitter sweet, I hope you were able to spend your day remembering everything that was wonderful about your mum, and raise a glass to her memory.

However the day has affected you, I hope you can end it smiling.

Day 88: ‘Two fat ladies’

AS it’s day 88, I thought it was appropriate to go with the traditional bingo callers’ ‘two fat ladies’. However the ladies I’m talking about are neither fat, nor in fact ladies.

My eldest cousin, Jonathan, enjoyed his Stag Do last weekend. Sadly for all of us, social media permits photographs of these blessed affairs, which in Jonathan’s case I felt should perhaps have been kept on a ‘what happens on tour, stays on tour’ basis.

You’ll see from the photographic evidence supplied, that in good old honest Stag tradition, the Groom-to-be was indeed dressed up in some form of feminine attire.

I think you’ll agree, this is a frightening image, something that his dear Bride-to-be (Teresa) didn’t need to see, never mind the rest of us innocent bystanders.

The cheeky blighter then presented me with a secondary image yesterday of one of his other cross-dressing exploits, and in essence signed himself up for this blog!

I feel it was almost inevitable that Jonny would head down this road at some point..it’s in his genes, as you’ll see from our third picture this evening.

This features my late Grandma and Grandpa at a fancy dress party over 25 years ago. I expect you’ll find this image as disturbing as I do. 

My Grandpa (on the right to save any confusion): the local Baptist Minister, a much respected member of society, stood with his wife: a primary school teacher, vicar’s wife and equally dignified woman, in what can only be described as the most frighteningly convincing attempt at cross dressing I’ve seen in some time without the aid of surgical procedures. 

All I can say is..oh dear. Teresa, I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for?

Of course taking after Eddie Pilling would be one of the greatest things Jonathan could ever do, so if the only sacrifice is the occasional cross-dressing situation, then I can highly recommend you stick with him! 

Perhaps don’t do it again for a while though Jonny..my eyes can’t take it!

Day 86: ‘There’s always cake!’

WORK today was good. Our photocall went well, I used a camera and managed to remember to remove the lens cap, while taking half decent photos, and there was cake. Oh, did I mention the cake? And this wasn’t just a cake, it was a masterpiece!

In fact, despite the press story today being a good one, and a lot of time and effort on my friend Kay’s behalf to get the event together in the first place, it was all about the cake.

Forty hours and a lot of patience and skill went into this baby, and it became the focal point for the entire afternoon. 

When I think about it..of course it was! Think about any big happy event in your life and I bet a cake is involved somewhere along the way!

Birthdays, Christmas, christenings, bar mitzvahs, weddings and anniversaries..they all involve a cake, and you can guarantee when it comes to cutting the cake, or blowing out candles, the cameras will come out to mark the occasion! 

So effectively today that’s all we were doing! We were celebrating the end of the first phase of a building programme - and as it’s a celebration, clearly there has to be a cake.

It did look way too good to cut up. I was a little mortified when the call was made that it had to be eaten, but I suppose that’s what cakes are for at the end of the day! 

I think I ate a small estate on Wollaton Vale and a short stretch of the A52. Yes, that’s what I said. If you look at the cake in detail, you’ll understand my ramblings.

Right, I’m off to try and shake off this sugar rush! 

Day 85: ‘Who remembers The Box?’

TONIGHT my friends from school are heading to watch the Backstreet Boys at the LG Arena in Birmingham. 

Even thinking about Marie, Helen and the Backstreet Boys instantly takes me back over 18 years.

When you’re in your teens, everyone has their idols. Mine were the starting eleven at Mansfield Town, Take That and my Dad of course. For a couple of my closest friends, it was Backstreet Boys all the way. 

Sitting in my lounge tonight, I can remember distinctly what this room used to look like in the nineties when my Gran and Grandad lived here. Me and my friends would walk up here most lunchtimes to have our sandwiches and watch music on my Gran’s Diamond Cable box.

At the time there was the more polished MTV option, but there was far too much talking from presenters for our liking. For us it was The Box all the way. A constant stream of music videos, some often playing over and over again - at their height it was almost impossible to watch it for more than 15 minutes without seeing the Spice Girls!

The nineties was fantastic for dance routines, simple moves that anyone could emulate. The likes of Steps, Spice Girls, S Club 7 and Five. 

As a rather clumsy, flat footed, tom boy, I could just about manage to remember most of the moves from these more simple, easily replicated routines (and still can now if the music and mood takes me!) But I wasn’t dedicated enough to recreate routines that Backstreet Boys put together - my friends however were far more committed!

At Helen’s 30th birthday party last Summer, they proved just how committed. It all came flooding back to me as I watched Marie, her sister Louise and Helen jump up when ‘Everybody’ came on over the loud speakers. 

Far too professionally for a troop of 30 plus women, the dance was delivered faultlessly, to the point that I believe some mirror-based rehearsals may have occurred in the evening’s preparations! It made my evening, week and month all in one! 

I may have to start re-watching these videos on YouTube to enhance my skills for the next time we convene near a dance floor. 

In the meantime I’ll stick to my near-perfect rendition of Steps’ ‘5,6,7,8’ (chorus only), faultless performance of Whigfield’s ‘Saturday Night’ - not all the way through though, I get knackered by the second verse - and of course the unforgettable jig to Wham’s ‘Wake me up before you go go’ that can only be achieved in the company of Laura Mellor…preferably only with very drunk people watching!

Day 84: ‘My life runs in timesheets’

IN many of my jobs in the past, I’ve had to apportion my time. 

Now as someone who works completely based on the amount of time I work for clients, I keep exact timesheets, so I know how long I spent on which client, and I know what to charge for that time.

I’ve become so accustomed to clocking in and out of my timesheet software, or making a mental note of how long I spent in a meeting, or out on a media event, that I’ve started to mentally apportion everything I do. 

My days now almost take a modular form, of course they vary, but when Erin’s at nursery for example, they go a little something like this:

Erin waking up/miscellaneous racing around looking for the cats

Erin breakfast time - a mish mash of weetabix flying around and pointing out every animal she can spot in the garden

Getting Erin ready - more chasing around the house - normally one clothing item per room

Getting me ready - just how quickly can I do this while the little lady’s still engrossed by the Tweenies?! 

The nursery drop off

Start work - here my actual time sheets kick in, you don’t need to know that level of detail!

The nursery pick up

Home for two and a half hours of play time

Erin’s bath time, followed by getting ready for bed, a cup of milk

Obligatory Night Garden and Peppa Pig

Erin bedtime

Eat, sit and undoubtedly watch some sort of American series

Sleep.

Is it modular, or is it just routine?! I have to say whatever it is, I’m a bit lost without it. Last week when chicken pox ensued and nursery was out of the equation, my pattern of events was all to cock! I literally didn’t feel like I was functioning properly.

I know they say children really need routine, and by they, I mean the people who write the baby books and those who do a lot of nodding and tilting of the head when they talk to you about your ‘parenting style’ - believe me there’s no style to these parents, just a hop, skip and a jump from day-to-day, hoping we’re doing the best for her!

Day 82: ‘Behind the screens’

IT might not be the usual Sunday lunch chit chat, and boys may decide to avert their attention, but I’m talking about cervixes! Yes the lady garden, the bits down there, items that half the population have, but nobody wants to mention, well it’s out there today for all to read!

I’m not just talking about cervixes to make the gentleman of the species uncomfortable - as fun as that always is! I’m talking about it because of the recent stats revealed by a cervical cancer charity, showing that attendance at cervical screenings is down - again!

In 2008 the reality TV star, Jade Goody, quite publicly faced the realities of not going to her appointed smear test (cervical screening) when she was diagnosed with cervical cancer.

Sadly for Jade it was too late and, at the age of 27 - five years ago this weekend - she lost her battle with the disease. Before she died, Jade took to every TV channel and magazine to spread the word to women all over the UK of how important it is to be screened regularly. 

Her legacy was to increase attendance at cervical screenings by 400,000 that year, which had to be some small bit of comfort to her family. You would have hoped that this level of awareness would last more than five years. Apparently not, with levels of attendance dipping in the past year to less than it was before Jade died. 

Had she been for her smear test at 25, Jade could have been one of the 5,000 women who’s lives are saved every year thanks to the cervical screening programme. 

I’ve never missed a smear test, ever since I had my first appointment letter at 21 - which did used to be the age you first started screening. In 2009 - ironically the year Jade died - I noticed something wasn’t right, so went to the doctors to request a smear. I was referred straight to the colposcopy department at the QMC’s treatment centre, where I had a few biopsies taken from my cervix (I know, I used the word again!). 

It was a pretty simple procedure, nothing particularly dignified about it, but you have to go with the belief that almost certainly every person in that room has seen worse. The nurses hold your hands if you want them to, the doctors are kind and far less brutal than a practice nurse with a speculum (another mortifying word I know!), and in ten minutes it’s done, sorted, over. The worst bit is the wait for results.

It turned out like thousands of other women every year, I had some pre-cancerous (abnormal) cells. Mine were mid-grade and needed removing. So that was another trip back to the Treatment Centre a couple of months later to have those bad boys taken out - even easier than the biopsy cause this time you get a little local anaesthetic. 

Six months later my smear was clear as a bell and any worries I had were gone. I now have a test every year rather than every three, and up until this year they’ve all been fine. In fact my call back this year was another legs in stirrups, nervous laughter-filled, strangely comfortable lie down for another biopsy, but it was fine and I won’t be seeing my friends in colposcopy again for another year.

Shockingly five women who are eligible for screening do not take up their invitation and for young women aged 25-29 this rises to one in three.

I’m sure there’s many reasons women don’t go. I can understand the anxiety and the scaremongering that sometimes happens around these things, but it’s one ten-minute session out of your year, every three years. Surely it’s worth it? The chances are it will be absolutely fine, but if it’s not, it’s far better that you know, and can do something about it - the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

On behalf of myself, many of my friends who I know have been in similar positions, and for those who sadly can no longer speak for themselves, ladies get yourself booked in for that appointment!

As for the campaign to lower the age for regular cervical screening, I’m all for it, and have signed the petition. I have no idea what this means to the NHS in terms of funding, and I appreciate the pressures on services like this, but at least going back to what it used to be - minimum age of 21 - surely that’s a start? 

Day 81: ‘Looking for something new’

I KNOW quite a few people at the minute who are looking for jobs. Most of them are in a job they desperately want to get out of, some of them are looking for career progression, and a couple are currently out of work.

Whatever position you’re in, it’s a tough one at the minute. So many more people are going for the jobs you’re applying for, there are more and more qualified people, with excellent experience, going for the same jobs, so how on earth do you make sure you stand out?

Recently a brand new Costa was opened on Hucknall High Street and apparently more than 1,300 applied for just six jobs. How on earth as an employer do you manage the shortlisting for that one. Undoubtedly with that many applicants you’ll have a range of ages, backgrounds, levels of experience and qualifications, and you know you have to let down 1,294 of them.

While on the other hand, one of my clients advertised a job before Christmas that required some level of skill and knowledge, but with a wide enough remit for a large number of people to have been eligible, and received a grand total of zero applications. 

When you look at the two extremes, both advertised within two miles of each other, it’s hard to decipher what really is the current situation locally when it comes to the job market. 

And if you’re searching for work, just where do you start? There’s the obvious job sites I suppose, perusing the adverts in the paper, and signing up to a recruitment agency. 

But is the most reliable method just asking around? Are you better to pro-actively get out there and speak to people you know, find out who is recruiting, or even just speak to the places you’d like to work and confidently let them know you’re available, you’d like to work for them, and is there a way that can happen? 

It’s cheeky, it’s brash, and nine times out of ten it isn’t going to work, but when you really want to find a new job, isn’t it worth forgetting the usual British reserved, polite, ‘do it by the book’ procedure, and just ask the question? The worst that can happen is you’re told ‘no’ and I know we’re programmed to not like that word, but if you see it as a hurdle rather than a barrier, it could be the best thing to drive you forward to find the right job for you.

I know I’m not in that position, so who am I to comment? But I have been, and I was brash and forward, and it worked..the fourth time! Now I run my own business and pitching for new business comes with the same trappings as looking for a new job, but these days I love it. 

My fingers and toes are crossed for all my friends looking for new work, I hope they find their way in, and in some cases, their way out! 

Day 80: ‘How do they do it?’

I’VE always wondered how TV and news presenters do it when they’re having to talk about something heartbreaking, live on-air, while still maintaining a level head, clear voice and some level of composure. 

Are they superhuman? Do they have some sort of trick to help them block it out? In most cases, they probably do.

Brilliantly and rather beautifully this evening, Davina McCall proved that it’s not always possible to cope with that. I watched the same video she’d just watched on an old man called Bob, who was talking about the help he gets from a Sport Relief-funded service called SilverLine. The 92-year-old spoke about losing his wife to Alzheimers and how being able to call this helpline, day or night, is more of a lifeline to him, than just a phone number to call.

At the end of that film, I wouldn’t have even been able to read out the Sport Relief donation phone number to myself, never mind try to explain why it was so important to do so to millions of people. Davina managed it, but she made me worse as she struggled to get her words out, and a couple of times just had to stop, swallow, breathe and attempt to then read the number out. 

In any normal circumstances, a TV presenter unable to deliver their lines properly might get a few titters from the audience, but that film had completely silenced the audience, and Davina’s reaction floored everyone in the studio as much as it affected us at home I’m sure - you could have heard a pin drop.

It was unintentional, but fitting and genuine. Not something you see very often from someone in her position.

To end on a more comical note, if you haven’t already done so, watch back the Sport Relief Only Fools and Horses episode featuring David Beckham…so worth it! While you do, it might be worth a donation if you can.

Day 78: ‘Which animal would you be?’

I’M coming back as a tortoise. 

Over the past three nights, I’ve had in total seven hours sleep. Of course it’s not poor Erin’s fault, those chicken pox spots are itchy and make a good night’s sleep virtually impossible.

Somehow I’ve stayed awake all day, but during each and every of those waking days, I’ve looked around at the cats snoozing away and thought: “I wish I could just sleep like you two.” 

But the fact is I can’t. There’s nothing built in me that can make me nap of an afternoon, even when Erin was newborn and I was up every two hours at night breastfeeding, I still saw out every day bar one. 

So you can understand why the cats do make me jealous with their ability to just drop, sleep and chill, wherever they are, whatever time of day. 

But if I had the choice, I wouldn’t come back as a cat. I can also see the pitfalls.

Firstly there’s fur balls - they just don’t seem pleasant. Then there’s toddlers..they pull your tail, attempt to lift you by your back paws, they give you a cuddle that essentially means two stone of pure child resting on your rib cage and there’s of course traffic (RIP Dibble). 

No, being a cat is too dangerous. 

I’ve thought it through and I think I’d have to be a tortoise. 

My friend Louise is mum to our little shell bound friend, Horace. He’s got a great gig. He sits in his box and watches TV, has a nice wander round the house and the garden every now and then, and when he sleeps, he really sleeps! He’s in a purpose-built toddler proof shell, you never hear of a tragic road accident involving a tortoise and did I mention the sleep?

Horace’s life hasn’t been short on adventure though, oh no, he’s been on many an expedition! Somehow he actually ran away (something which amazingly also happened with my mum’s tortoise when she was little). It’s hard to imagine how either of these incidents happened, but I like to think that Horace and his Horace-kind are sneaky little critters, figuring out their route, taking their time and fooling the lot of us. 

Tortoises also live to a ripe old age, but don’t appear to age at all. Forget all these lotions, potions, nips and tucks, our slow-footed friends have the real anti-ageing secret sussed - lettuce! 

Day 77: ‘One of those days..’

I THINK today could be classed as ‘one of those days’. 

Not necessarily one of those days because everything went wrong. I didn’t for example wake up with hair like Kate Bush and a spot the size of Vesuvius on the end of my nose. I didn’t lose any business, break numerous nails, prang my car or accidentally tumble dry angora.

No today was ‘one of those days’ because it was a day that we knew was coming, wouldn’t be the easiest, but was incredibly important and needed a bit of super human strength. 

Today we said our final goodbye to Bri (my Grandad for those who missed last week’s blog) just over a week after he died with vascular dementia.

I said to a friend last week something I heard my dad repeat at the Wake this afternoon (clearly I have listened over the years): “There’s nothing more certain in life than death - it will come to us all at some point”. He’s right of course. 

It doesn’t make it any easier for those left behind, and it doesn’t make it right when someone dies before their time, or more tragically and unexpectedly. But one day there’ll be people gathering (we have to all hope) to say goodbye to all of us. 

That’s why, in the case of someone like my Grandad, a funeral doesn’t always have to be a terribly morbid affair, but a time to remember the man you’re sitting there to honour. To celebrate everything that made him who he was, to acknowledge his legacy and the people he’s left behind, and giggle about some of his best stories. 

Bri lived to the age of 75 and although in his latter years his enjoyment of life was a bit more limited due to the onset of dementia, he had a pretty cracking life to that point. 

One thing I was always so grateful for when his dementia started in 2009, was the fact that he had been forced to retire on ill-health grounds with his back a long time ago.

This may not sound that great a thing in itself. But in actual fact I think it was. 

It meant that although Bri lost a lot of himself and his freedom at the age of 71, he had been lucky enough by that age to have had many retired years enjoying life. He had the time to spend with my Gran, going away a number of times a year, playing a huge part in my sister and I growing up, and spending thousands of afternoons drinking coffee, eating cake and relaxing in some of the county’s finest garden centres. 

That’s more than most people could ever ask for, and more than most of us will get from retirement. 

He would never have asked for the hand he’s been dealt over the past few years, nobody would. But for me, he managed it with dignity, grace and more often than not, a smile. 

In light of me running out of my own words, I’ll leave you with those of Mary Frye:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Day75: ‘The return of the pox’

Ah, the age old adage about only ever having chicken pox once. Might I respond by saying, respectfully, what a load of tripe!

Erin had chicken pox at seven months old, it was very mild, but we know she definitely had it because she gave it to Mark - who had it far worse than she did!

So when I spotted two little spots yesterday morning before handing her over to Mark’s parents for a night away, I thought of everything else before chicken pox. Despite us warning his mum and dad, they insisted they’d be ok to have her, so we continued with our quiet Saturday evening.

On the phone this morning we were told there were a few more spots and by the time we picked her up at lunchtime, the little mite was covered..all over her tummy, back, neck, ear and a few on her face. 

Ever since she’s been home she’s been bright as a button, racing around as normal, causing as much havoc as she’s capable of in a short time period. But I reckon just in the few hours she’s been home, we can notch up at least another 10-15 little critters. 

Chicken pox really is insane, and it’s frightening how quickly these things can take hold. We definitely want her to have these childhood illnesses while she’s little, get them out the way, build up her immune system for when the next things comes along - but this week is not ideal.

I have mountains of work for every client, it’s my Grandad’s funeral on Tuesday, and we have lots to sort in the house. Damn you mother nature! She really doesn’t like to take account of these things does she, the cheeky minx. 

So the nursery will be working on 100% profit in the name of Erin Hitchings this week - apparently an illness she caught at the nursery that prevents her from attending for a week (their rules) isn’t good enough reason to waive the fees, so there’s more than £100 down the drain!

Thankfully we have such a bright and bubbly little lady, and except for her looking like a Cath Kidson mug on legs, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong really. 

Let’s just see how she gets on with the scratching tonight!

Day 73: ‘What we’re missing out on’

I WENT to Newark today for a press meeting to talk about one of my clients’ work restoring the Magnus Buildings and building the brand new National Civil War Museum.

For two reasons I found this trip particularly interesting. 

Firstly, Newark is frickin beautiful!

It was a gorgeous Spring morning to be making the trip anyway, but the approach into the town from the A617 is idyllic. With Newark Castle on your right as soon as you get there, and then the old pretty buildings, nice little cafes, the Palace Theatre and the quaint little shops. 

It’s the perfect place to go and have a stroll and some lunch at the weekend, and it’s not so far away. 

Now I’ve been to Whitby, Harrogate, Cheltenham and Derbyshire towns like Bakewell and Matlock a number of times in the past ten years, so why on earth do I miss these local gems? 

I was speaking to someone the other day who has lived in Nottinghamshire almost all their life, but never been to Newstead Abbey or Nottingham Castle. Is that strange, or is just complacency?

I’m guessing most people who live in London have, at some point or other, popped down the road to see Liz at Buckingham Palace, or shimmied on over to Madame Tussauds to have their pic taken groping David Beckham’s wax butt cheeks. So why do we sometimes ignore what’s around us?

My second observation today came from speaking to the marketing manager from the National Civil War Centre. He was telling me how significant Newark was in the English Civil War, in fact it was sieged three times, with one in six homes being destroyed by the conflict. 

Now I was doing a lot of nodding and smiling, and I have some basic understanding of the English Civil War - you know, the Roundheads and Royalists etc, but I could have told him significantly more about the family history of Peppa Pig! 

Embarrassingly for our education system, I’m certain that will be the case for so many others. Surely our own civil war should play a key part in the National Curriculum? 

Maybe it’s a part of our history that has traditionally been suppressed by those in power, but from what I have learned just today, there’s so much we don’t know about our own history, that perhaps we should.

Day 72: ‘The middle class bubble’

SOME people live in a middle class bubble. A life where they move in lovely circles, have lovely friends, live in lovely houses, and have jobs that expose them to little else but the middle class-ness of a lovely life.

The closest they come to a world outside their bubble is the trip between the car park and John Lewis, where they may bump into someone on their way to Primark.

To try and understand where I sit in the whole class system - I genuinely wasn’t sure - I did the BBC’s Great British Class Calculator. Clearly a definitive way to decipher my position in society.

I’m joined by 25% of the population in being Established Middle Class. Not a bad place to be, but I wonder how many of my fellow middle classers live in a bubble, and how many of them truly understand the society we live in?

Thanks to my career, I’ve been very privileged to mix with a broad range of people. From having tea with Earl Spencer (while I interviewed him, he didn’t invite me to Althorpe or anything) to spending hours on building sites and visiting people who are struggling to live on the breadline.

Unlike the predictable middle class, the 15% of the population that make up the lower class, are to me the most diverse. 

Some of the most genuine, kind and generous people I have ever met would be considered lower class due to their income, home, social life and career choice. But they’re rich in everything else. They’re always turned out immaculately, their homes are clean and tidy, their gardens are neat and cared for, and they do everything they can to provide for their family.

Sadly where there’s good, there’s almost always bad. Those who have more rubbish at the side of their bin, than in their actual bin. Those who choose to have more furniture outside their front door than there is in their lounge, and those who seem to neglect their children’s chance for an education, just so they can stay at home and watch Jeremy Kyle. 

Thankfully they’re in the minority, but sadly these are the people most represented on reality TV and in the press, the people we notice when driving past their houses, and those who shout the loudest on the street. If you’re in a middle class bubble, you’d have no reason to believe otherwise. 

I feel privileged because I’m lucky enough to know different.

But that calculator..Established Middle Class? My arse!

Day 71: ‘The things mum used to say’

I HAVE found as I’ve moved through my twenties (and into my thirties before someone pulls me up on that one), more and more people tell me: “you do look like your mum”, or “aren’t you just like your dad!”

I can think of worse things to hear.

The one thing I’ve noticed recently is the ever inevitable arrival of my ‘mother voice’. I find myself saying things to Erin that I have never had cause to say before, but have heard many times:

“The sooner we do this, the sooner we can go and play,” (obviously!)

“If you finish your carrot, you can have your pudding,” (bribery never fails!)

“Erin, I’m going to count to three,” (when in reality I can get to at least ten before she even considers cooperation!)

“Don’t look at me with that face,” (what face do I expect her to use exactly?)

I suppose it’s bound to happen. The main point of reference most of us have for childcare is our parents, and the way they cared for us. It’s almost scientific fact that we’re going to end up like our mum and dad, it’s in the genes. 

In fact I do think for Erin that me, my mum and sister are almost interchangeable. Our voices are very similar, and our mannerisms are often the same, we say the same things, and it’s almost like a straight swap sometimes. 

The first few times I used the ‘mother voice’ I almost shook my head as if to shake the demons out of me. But since then the slip of the tongue has become habit, and now: “a kiss and a snug will make it all better” and “big girls don’t snatch things”, however inaccurate - see ’24 hours in A&E’, ‘One Born Every Minute’ and ‘Crimewatch’ for further details - are almost involuntary responses

Day 69: ‘Find a Penny pick it up and all day long your phone will ring’

DOES anyone know Penny Goodman? Don’t worry, this isn’t a missing persons report, it isn’t even a search for a long lost friend or family member. I would just like to know whether she actually exists, and if she does, why on earth does our phone number appear on every form she’s ever filled in?!

A couple of years ago we registered with the Telephone Preference Service and since then we don’t get cold calls. We get the occasional recorded message from our bank, and the odd call from a charity when one of us has filled in a form and ticked the wrong box, but none of the old “we understand from our records that you’re looking to buy a new oven” delights. 

However every day, without fail, we will have a call for a lady called Penny Goodman. The frightening thing is, the companies who ring us, let us know so much about this woman, we know the amount of debt she has, the bills she hasn’t paid, the amount of complaints eBay is fielding on her behalf, the type of car she drives and the hotel she stayed in just a few months ago.

Now there are three options:

 - Penny Goodman doesn’t actually exist at all, she’s all part of some grand telesales scheme to get people to talk

 - This woman genuinely thinks her phone number is the same as ours

 - Old Penny is pulling a fast one and spends, borrows and holidays all over the world, passing on all sorts of fake contact details, in order to remain untraceable.

I suspect it’s the third, I hope it’s the second, and if it’s the first then I’m afraid sunshine, it hasn’t worked. Random calls to the landline receive very little welcome, unless Mark’s in the mood to play, and then he will have a long conversation with the poor soul at the other end about Penny - the illusive, or somewhat invisible woman!

If you have any information on the whereabouts of this woman, or know the trade secrets in telesales about the name Penny Goodman, please let me know - I’d love to be able to catch them out next time they ring!

Day 68: ‘Saying bye to Bri’

I DEDICATE today’s blog to my Granddad, Brian Shelbourne, who passed away this morning.

Bri, as I’ve called him since I was about ten years old (still can’t remember where that one started), was one of the main men in my life - a short but distinguished list.

As a little girl your Granddad, much like your Dad, is one of the strongest, cleverest, funniest and most wise people you’ll ever come across. They can literally do anything..they fix things, they can lift things bigger than you, they used to skip with anacondas in the jungle, they build sandcastles to rival any other, they spoil you rotten and offer the best of cuddles.

With age of course, came the knowledge that perhaps Bri wasn’t the strongest man in the world, in fact he’d got a really bad back, and perhaps his stories about skipping with anacondas may in fact be more fiction than fact, but it didn’t stop us doting on him.

In recent years, thanks to the rather sudden onset of dementia, Granddad’s mind has become less and less his own. He’s not always had the right answer to your question, and some days he’s been in a completely different world. 

It’s amazing how you get used to someone behaving so differently, and how easy it is to forget what they were like before. But there’s always been inklings, little snippets of the man you remember, however briefly. Perhaps a little roll of the eyes when one of us says something he thinks is daft, or a cheeky smile cause he knows he’s said something he might get some grief for. That’s enough, it’s all I’ve ever needed.

The latter stages of dementia offer very little comfort to the sufferer or their loved ones. It’s a shit of a disease (sorry Mum, when it comes to this one, it’s not editable!) 

None of us would ever choose to have lost Bri this morning, but we also know that given the choice, he would never have chosen the life he would have had, had he gone on.

Although the past few years are fresh in my memory, it’s the moments before I remember most fondly. 

His favourite country and western singer, Roger Whitaker’s cassettes in his car, that after years of listening to them, I knew off by heart. 

His love for old Westerns, particularly anything with John Wayne in it. 

The rocking dog he made for me by hand, because I loved dogs so much and wouldn’t want a rocking horse. 

The ice cream milkshakes he’d make for me and Katy every Saturday night when we stayed over. How patient he was when I decided he should stop smoking cigarettes and move on to a pipe - particularly when I threw all his cigarettes in a bin, while on holiday in Cornwall! 

The fact that he was on first name terms with the staff at every cafe, garden centre and tea rooms within a 20 mile radius. 

To name just a few.

Night Bri, sleep well. 

Day 66: ‘Make mine a glass of squash’

I’M just going to come out and say it: “I don’t drink”. And by that, I don’t mean I’m teetotal, or have an aversion to the stuff, and I’m not saying I haven’t tanked it (as ladylike as that sounds) in the past.

I just mean I’m a cheap date. If I had the choice, I would always go for a glass of squash, a diet coke or a cup of tea before I’d even consider opening a bottle of wine. 

Don’t get me wrong, there’ll be the odd occasion where I may sample a few tipples (normally in the company of Laura Jane - terrible influence) and in the right circumstances, I’ll enjoy a gin and tonic. But if I had to fill out a form and tick the box next to ‘How many units of alcohol do you drink a week?’ I’d have to say none! I reckon in total over the year I probably consume 10-15 units of alcohol..in my twenties that used to happen in one weekend!

Is this a conscious decision, or something that’s just crept up on me? A bit of both I think. 

This isn’t done on any principle, or for any health reasons, it’s just quite simple - I’m not that bothered about it! That doesn’t mean I’m not whole heartedly entertained by an inebriated friend or family member at a party or wedding, I positively endorse it!

A number of times I have been in the company of drunkards (and I say this with genuine endearment) and to anybody else’s knowledge, I am one of them - until I walk straight out the building and jump into the car to drive home.

I’m very lucky that I have friends who get it, who get me, and wouldn’t try and ply me with the strong stuff. They know I don’t need it. You just give me a dance floor, one or more dancing partners, a bit of eighties and nineties pop, and it’s like I’m six drinks in and £40 lighter, despite having spent a tenner on pure hydration!

Not having a drink in your hand in a social situation does have its pitfalls. As a woman of child bearing age, you are easily mistaken for someone in the early stages of pregnancy, and will either be whispered about, or in some cases brazenly asked about your delicate state.

There are also those people who believe you’re being unsociable by not having a drink. It’s almost like there’s something wrong with you if you’d rather have a lime and lemonade than a glass of merlot in your hand. I have literally in the past faced a barrage of questions for choosing to drive home, or sticking to the tap water on the table. 

As Whitney Houston once said: “It’s not right, but it’s ok” - on both occasions, my head the next morning was clear as a bell, I can’t imagine theirs were!

Day 64: ‘Is there anything better than a great song?’

SOMEHOW music has the ability to stir something in you, that you didn’t even know was there.

For example, if I was to watch every single episode of X Factor, back-to-back, without the emphatic songs in the build up to big moments, it wouldn’t matter how many sob stories I heard, I’d be interested, but not necessarily moved. 

But if you add in Daughtry and ‘What About Now’ or throw in a touch of Leona Lewis’ ‘Moment Like This’..I’m done, I’m gone, you can’t talk to me for five minutes - or I won’t talk to you for five minutes for fear of the controlled weeping eye turning into uncontrollable sobs, for no other reason than the song got me!

When me, Laura and Tracey went to see Gary Barlow last year in Leicester, the cheeky blighter brought out a number of his solo hits, one of which is Forever Love - I literally can’t listen to it without tearing up. I have no idea why. 

I think everyone has that song that can instantly turn on the water works. I’ll never forget one morning at work about ten years ago, when Bridge Over Troubled Water came on the radio - it wasn’t long before a few of us realised Rachel in the corner was blubbing away. Concerned she’d just had some terrible news, we all rushed to her aid, only to discover her attempting to laugh through the tears at her own inability to listen to that song without crying. 

And then of course there’s the songs that have the adverse reaction - the ones that instantly make you happy, or get you dancing.

Try and keep me still when the opening bars to Wham Freedom come on, or the B52’s Love Shack, it’s virtually impossible.

Whatever sort of day I’m having, however I feel, if you blast Girls just wanna have fun through the speakers of my car, it can literally make me forget the trials and tribulations of the day, and just bop around, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes.

My latest fix is Jon Boden’s How long will I love you, the theme song to Richard Curtis’ latest, and as I understand it, final film About Time - make it the next thing you listen to, if you like this sort of slushy nonsense!

And finally, teenagers of the nineties, Boys to Men: “I’ll make love to you”..last dance at every school disco?! Snogathon!

Day 63: ‘Google - a GP’s best friend’

I WENT to the doctors today, nothing serious, just a dodgy tendonitis thing that won’t go - something to do with lifting a two stone toddler far too often apparently!

The reason for my visit was to say, in no uncertain terms, ‘What the bejesus can you actually do to make this damn thing better?’ I obviously phrased that with far more sensibility and grace, I wasn’t dragged up you know!

I already know I have ‘de quervain's tenosynovitis’, it’s not the worst thing in the world (however hard to pronounce), and is common in mums with young children due to all the lifting and pressure on your thumb joint. The advice from the first doctor I met was that the only real way to improve your symptoms is complete rest. 

Hmm..anyone with a child under the age of three will know that’s pretty difficult when it comes to lifting, shifting, dragging, man handling and general management of wriggly, sneaky little monkeys!

So six months down the line, I’m back in the misery of a doctor’s waiting room, surrounded by sneezes, wheezes, coughs and splutters, wondering if I’ll leave with something I didn’t come in with.

I have a great deal of faith in the NHS, but there is nothing more likely to diminish that faith, than your GP resorting to Google before doling out his medical advice. 

Not only were we perusing search engines for a good five minutes to find the right splint, we then had to decipher the name of the tendon that is causing me so much gip! 

*Cue confused look and eyes darting around the room for some sort of medical credentials*

Am I wrong to question his actions? I remember the days before doctors had the tinterweb in their offices, and they would often pull out their medical dictionary to check a couple of things. For some reason I would never question a doctor making reference to this book, so why does it bother me when it comes to Google? 

The next time I need a doctor, I’ll be checking the iPad first!