Did you like the Baby Alive doll??? Ask the kids...

Since becoming an official ToysRUs 'Toyologist', back in August, I have received an impressive three toy boxes containing a rather hefty amount of toys, especially tailored for my two daughters aged three and six.

I have a lot to thank ToysRUs for.

So how do I thank them?

By completing a grand total of ZERO toy reviews, that's how. I'm sorry ToysRUs, I fear I may have crumbled under the weight of responsibility, not to mention, rather large toy boxes.

However, today I couldn't keep the toys under wraps any longer and the two girls chose their favourite toy out of the 18 for our first review.

Baby Alive Changing Time Baby.

As it says on the box 'I pee and poop'.

Imagine our excitement.

It's been a while since we've seen baby poo in this house.

In fact, not since the incident with the dog.

And then of course there was the, erm, rather large one.

And then the little incident in the car.

And that other incident where I was clearing up chocolate chip cookies. You remember the one.

But don't let me hog the limelight. It's the girls' toy after all. Just click on the video below and let them tell you what they thought.

And just to conclude, after 27 friggin' takes, it may be 'Baby Alive', but Mummy not quite so.

How to deliver an award-winning speech in 10 easy steps

Sorry, did I say award 'winning'?

My mistake.

I meant award 'giving'.

Just a subtle difference.

*cough*

Unfortunately.

I am speaking, of course, of presenting the award for the Funniest Blog at the MADs, the extravaganza that everyone is talking about, which took place last Monday at Butlins in Bognor Regis. I'll try not to delay this post with all the details of just how amazing and wonderful Butlins is because I already did that last year at the launch of the Ocean Hotel. And if you're still sniggering at the thought of me singing Butlins' praises, then click HERE and read my post. I guarantee you'll be sniggering no more.

Anyhooo, this post is not about Butlins, as great as it is, or about Sally Whittle, organiser of the MADs, as great as she is, but about me, as great as I am.

Ahem.

So without further ado, I hereby present you with my guide to preparing, writing and delivering THE presentation speech.

1. Agree three months in advance to present the award.
2. Think nothing more of it.
3. Be told, one month in advance that you will need to deliver a speech as well as the award.
4. Mildly panic, laugh nervously and then think nothing more of it.
5. With two days to go decide that you're going to ad-lib, free-flow, wing it and of course, be a resounding success.
6. With one day to go decide that it might be a better idea to at least jot down some notes.
7. With 12 hours to go, majorly panic, write a speech long enough for ten award ceremonies and go and make a cup of tea while you work out which bits to edit out.
8. With six hours to go, contact professional speech-writing friend who asks you to e-mail speech over.
9. With five-and-a-half hours to go, have said speech completely ripped to pieces with comments such as 'it's dull, flat and completely un-funny'.
10. With four hours to go, google a few parenting jokes, pack your Mum's red dress and hope for the best.

So there you go. And it all seemed so effortless at the time didn't it? Who knew?

Thank you to everyone who laughed at my jokes. Your cheques are in the post.

And of course, a huge congratulations to Slightly South of Sanity who actually won the award, rather than just presented it, meaning that she is much funnier than me and you ought to check out her blog rather than mine.

Until next time x

Laughing out loud - it's good for you

This morning I laughed out loud.

In a coffee shop.

People may even have turned to look.

Part of me wanted to share with them exactly what had made me laugh so loudly, because, d'you know what? It was such a wonderful feeling. Laughing out loud. That sudden, taken by surprise exhalation. No wonder there's such a thing as laughter therapy. The amount of endorphins I must have released would be enough to keep the whole of Brighton happy for a year.

I wanted to stand up and read the article to all those who would listen*. I wanted them to laugh as well. I wanted us all to laugh together. But I didn't think that the middle-aged lady sipping her Chai Tea Latté (I'd been in the queue behind her when she'd ordered) would appreciate Frank Skinner's take on Wayne Rooney's dalliance with a prostitute. But then again, I may have been wrong. It was extremely funny.

So instead I re-read the article, needing to replicate that feeling. The laugh out loud didn't come, obviously, seeing as I had completely taken away any element of surprise, but I smiled nonetheless, happy with the knowledge that I had, albeit for a milisecond, felt on top of the world.

And it got me thinking about what I've been missing this past year because you may or may not have noticed that I have been the world's worst blogger. Not only has my output been shameful, but I've also read a whole lot less than I used to. And I miss it. I miss the poignant posts, the heartfelt ones, the beautifully written ones and the engaging ones, but most of all I miss the funny ones. I miss the ones that make me laugh out loud and spit my PG Tips or my Sauvignon Blanc, depending on the time of the day, all over my keyboard.

However, and this post does have a point...somewhere, I aim to change all that. I aim to laugh every day and if that means blogging more and reading more, then so be it. And by way of celebration, I will be attending the MADs on Monday. And, get this, I will also be presenting an award. Guess what for? The funniest blog. I do so love it when a post comes together.

If you're also going to the MADs, do please come and say hello. I look forward to laughing out loud with you.



*And in fact I wanted to share the article with you too, but The Times wanted to charge me £1 a month to subscribe and I just couldn't do it. So you'll just have to take my word for it. Or go out and buy The Times.

A little bit on prejudice and crawly creatures

Prejudice - "A preconceived belief, opinion or judgement made without recourse to reason...most commonly used to refer to a preconceived judgement towards a people or a person because of race, social class, gender, ethnicity, age, disability, political beliefs, sexual orientation or other personal characteristics..." Wikipedia.

We all know that prejudices have existed since, well, rather a long way back. I mean, who knew that the Good Samaritan would have been, so, erm, 'good'? He sent shockwaves right through the New Testament, so much so that five-year-old children are still making plays about him now.

What concerns me though is that 2000 years later, we are no nearer to a lack of judgement, tolerance or grace in our everyday lives.

Do let me give you a little example.

On Saturday my husband and I took the two children to a birthday party. It was in a soft-play area where children not associated with the party were also allowed to play.

As we watched Renée and Edie frolicking with an older girl, my husband, who, it should be known, is the world's biggest snob (when asked whether he would have been attracted to me had I been christened Sharon or Tracey* rather than Emily, he simply smiled and said "well it would have been a lot harder"), turned to me and whispered,

"Ew, look at that girl. She's all dirty. And I bet she's got nits as well."

It has to be said, I may have laughed. But I may also have said something along the lines of,

"You can't say that. Don't be such a bloody snob. She's no more likely to have nits in her hair than any other child here."

And that, I thought, was that.

Except, of course, it wasn't.

Cut to the very next morning and Renée just so happens to scratch her head...

Rather too many times for me not to go a foraging in her hair. And what do I find? A whole host of tiny little blood-sucking parasites.

I think my husband was rather too smug for my liking.

You see, the problem with bloody prejudice is that on occasion our original assumption turns out to be correct, thus reinforcing whatever prejudices we may have had.

I give up. At least on the bit where I try to persuade my husband to stop being such a snob.

But having spent all day yesterday picking the little suckers out of both my children's hair, I may just give up on the Mothering front too.

*Absolutely no offence meant if your name just so happens to be Sharon or Tracey. But don't expect my husband ever to fancy you.

Death

My Granny died today.

I'm not sure how else to start a post like this, except that way.

She died. She fell down the stairs, broke her hip and wasn't found for more than 24 hours, by which time her kidneys had been damaged due to dehydration. When the doctors operated on her, she was too weak to make it through.

She was 85.

When I told Renée, she was sad because she said it meant Nanny wouldn't get her letter from the Queen, not that the Queen even sends letters anymore, but Renée seemed to think she did.

No, she won't get her letter from the Queen.

Renée also said that there'll be no more sticky jellybeans covered in fluff and hair from her pocket. She's right. There'll be no more of those.

I feel bereft. It was a struggle to put the girls to bed. A struggle to hold it together before I could allow myself to cry, alone.

But that's what I'm doing now. I'm crying big fat tears and it's ok. I don't think she'd mind. I think she'd like it that I cared enough.

I knew one day she'd be gone. It's normally just a matter of time, isn't it? I just didn't think it would be today. I didn't want it to be today, or any day for that matter. You never want the people you love to die do you?

And what happens now? I have no more grandparents left which means we've all moved one level further up the tree of life. And so it continues. Life and death. Death and life.

Nanny, we love you. Enjoy the peace and happiness that I know is waiting for you.

A comment without a reply is like a blog post without a comment...

Can I just scream?

Aaaarghhhhhhhhhhh.

Thank you.

Damn blogger, damn the Thai Internet connection and damn this friggin' concrete bench that I have been sitting on for the past two hours. My bottom now has no feeling in it, whatsoever, and in fact, it probably never will have, ever again.

I wanted to write a post about comments and about how important they are to a blog and about how, since I've had my little blogging break, I have totally neglected replying to anyone's wonderful comments and about the constant daily guilt I have felt as a result.

I wanted to say, well the guilt has been lifted.

I am now totally guilt free.

Because as of now, I have replied to every last comment I have received since I stopped replying to comments which just so happens to be four months, 11 posts and 318 comments ago.

That's what I wanted to say.

That's what I was planning on saying.

But I'm just going to stop and re-group instead. Take a breath. Because I have typed and re-typed the same long reply eight times (yes EIGHT) and each time I have lost the connection, and thus the comment too. And it is driving me crazy. And my bottom is numb.

And I need a drink.

And I can't keep typing it again because I may just go insane.

So please, bear with me.

While I go back and attempt to reply to every last comment that has been un-answered (and I promise, on pain of death, I will do), tell me something.

Tell me about comments.

Do you reply to every single comment you receive? Do you feel guilty if you don't? Do you go back and check if someone has replied to your comment?

In the past, I have always replied - I like to - I like to feel that people feel heard and listened to. And I'm sorry if I haven't made you feel like that recently. I have been reading them. I just haven't had the energy to reply. But I do now. I just don't have the frigging technology.

Typical!

And if you have commented on my previous posts and haven't yet had a reply, then please do go back and check...I need it to have been worthwhile!

Thank you.

History and Happiness

Seventeen years ago I fell in love.

Completely and utterly.

I knew my life would never be the same again.

And I was right.

I was 19 years old.

But it was nothing to do with a man. Or even a boy. Well, ok maybe it was just a little bit, but for the purposes of this post, it wasn't.

It was a country.

Thailand.

I loved it. I loved the people, the food, the climate, the hapiness that it gave to me so easily.

In those days I think I had a permanent smile etched on my face.

And sometimes when I'm sad and exhausted and overwhelmed by my present day life, I like to remember those times. I like to think that maybe one day I can feel like that again. If only for a moment.

So, it was only natural, given the past few months, that I would want to come back.

So here I am again. Seventeen years after I first arrived and 15 years since I was last here. Looking for just a little bit of that happiness.

And do you know what?

I think I've found it.

Back then I fancied myself as a bit of a philosopher. Still do, but shhhhhh, don't tell anyone. At 19 you can get away with it. At almost 36, you can't.

So if I say I wrote the following when I was 19, maybe you can forgive me, just a little bit.

You will always love the place where you learnt about life
Because you'll never believe anywhere else can offer you such riches
And understanding life being one of the world's greatest riches.

But what you have to understand is that you can never stop learning.
So don't be fooled into thinking that there's only one place for you.
The key to understanding is that you can never understand everything.

So expect everyhting, but wait for nothing.

Because if you wait it will never come.

Thailand, I still love you. Thank you for making me feel happy again. I owe you one.