creative spayce

train wreck tv

2012-02-18T16:52:54Z

I got home just in time to watch the last 5 minutes of the latest instalment of "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding", which wasn't anywhere near as exciting as the utterance of those 5 words might imply.

It's yet another season of train wreck tv, and could easily be renamed "Come and watch the Pikies" because that's the only reason the majority of viewers tune in to watch. They watch because they want to be disgusted at just how lower class someone else can be, and ride the wave of moral outrage on a surfboard of genetic superiority.

And it's not alone. The line up of television offerings in the recent years have been increasingly focused on the misery of others. The disadvantaged, the socially appalling, the ill bred, the in bred, the morbidly obese, and of course, those who are too embarrassed to talk to their doctor about the fungal growth on their genitals, but seem perfectly happy for a camera to zoom in and broadcast it to millions.

What makes people tune in to watch this parade of disfunctional humanity? And what prompts the subjects of these "documentaries" to opt in to the project? They must surely understand that editing of whatever footage is taken will show them in the most controversial light possible, in order to garner audience reaction. They are looking for shock and outrage to get the audience emotionally invested in the program. It's all about ratings, not sympathetic portrayal of the subject.

I noticed that this episode of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding seemed to be full of constant references to the high moral standards that the Gypsy's have - said while looking at a teenager who is dressed to resemble a hooker in wedding fantasy clothing. And what's worse, is that the dress is about to be worn to church. And it's not the worst of the bunch. Of course, there is a big difference between dressing like a slut, and acting like one. But that's not how the overall scene comes across.

It seems to me, that besides the portrayal of their poor taste in fashion and bad dress sense (which is not a crime), if the network really wanted to give an educational and sympathetic viewpoint on Travellers, then they'd explore the manner in which they support themselves. Show us what they do for a living, and how they make an honest wage. Balance the scales of the extreme spending. Show those travellers who don't parade their daughters around dressed like porn wannabes.

Is that even an option? Even if it was (and I am trying very hard not to project my own predjudices into this article!) I bet the audience would turn off.

The program has attracted ire and anger from the viewers (who tune in to get wound up), and disapproval from the traveller community who say it misrepresents them.

Jane Jackson, deputy chief executive of the Rural Media Company, a charity which publishes the Travellers' Times said: It's posing as a documentary, the voiceover is saying we're going to let you into the secrets of the traveller community - and it [sic] just not true. It might be true of the particular families in front of the camera, but it's not generally true. They're made to look totally feckless, not really to be taken seriously as an ethnic group" from bbc news

Foxes in the snow

2012-02-12T16:41:52Z

]]> This is Legs. He is one of a mating pair whose territory includes our neighbours yards and our shed. He and his girlfriend - Foxy Lady - spend their days sleeping in the sunshine on our shed roof or up against the fences of the yards I can see from my window.

He's called Legs because he's lame in one leg. And I think he's a "he" from the presumption that if Foxy Lady is a "she" then Legs must be male. And I know Foxy Lady is a girl because she wees like one. That's about as scientific as I get with my fox gender recognition! Of course, they could also be gay foxes.

Legs is just the tiniest big less red in the fur than Foxy Lady. But he's a lot braver, and I've been able to sneak closer with my camera to him than to her. Mostly I set the camera up in the bedroom on a large tripod. I'm hoping that the neighbours over the back realise what I'm doing, otherwise I can probably look forward to a knock on the door from the peeping tom squad pretty soon.

Foxy Lady, Legs, Steve, and Fox Number 4 are the four inhabitants of my fox viewing point. I've not seen Steve in some time, and it's possible that Fox Number 4 is really just Legs in disguise, since I've not seen them in the same place at the same time. It's pretty difficult to know for sure which fox you're seeing at any one point in time, since the fur colouring difference is only really obvious when they are together.

I can't know for sure, but I think that Foxy Lady and Legs were the kitten sized fox pups who were left parentless when last year's mating pair were killed on Croydon Road at the same time. There were three tiny cubs, and two older juveniles at that time, and that family seemed to stay together and look after each other without the parents.

I could be completely wrong, but I like to imagine these healthy foxes are those tiny little cubs all grown up!

View other photos of the fox in the snow on Flickr: Snow on my birthday and of both Foxy Lady and Legs in Foxy Lady and Legs and then some that include Steve and the mythical Fox Number 4 in The Foxes

You're just small potatoes

2011-08-29T07:54:29Z

Mother Nature and I had a conversation the other day. Well, not so much a conversation, as me making a mental statement, and Mother Nature giving me a slap down to make sure I knew my place in the world. Thanks, Mother N.

It went somewhat like this...

Me: This year I've been really on the ball. I got my potatoes in at the right time, and I made sure they were well watered when they most needed it. I can't wait to dig up these lovely big potatoes I'm growing!

Mother Nature: Dig away, loser, we'll see who's got the big potatoes. It ain't you. You - you're small potatoes."

Mother Nature didn't so much say this, as make it obvious by letting me dig up my potatoes, at which point she figuratively and literally pointed out that my potatoes were - indeed - small.

I don't get it. I must have done something cataclismically wrong in the whole Mother Nature and vegetable world in one of my previous lives.

Or maybe I didn't use enough poo. Or any poo, for that matter.

There is a guy with a plot right near the entry gate who is constantly growing huge stuff. He doesn't do it underground in secret - he makes sure he grows things that are going to shout out "I'm huge, look at me!". Pumpkins, for example. My pumpkins on the other hand, forgot that they were supposed to bear fruit.

His plot is about 10 away from mine, so there surely can't be much difference in the soil, appart from one thing. I know he's got a dead fox buried on the edge of his plot.

I think Mother Nature likes a good old blood sacrifice.

I can't quite bring myself to catch and kill a fox, and I've not had the (mis?)fortune of one dropping dead on my plot in the years that I've been doing this, but I wonder if a small child would suffice?

This holiday has been rife with arguing between my two girls, and it seems to me that by eliminating one child I'd kill two birds (figuratively) with one stone (perhaps literally). I'd appease Mother Nature and grow some big potatoes, and I'd return a sense of peace and tranquility to the house.

But then again, explaining why one child was no longer in school might be tricky.

On the other hand, who's going to miss my husband if I chop him up and plant him in a shallow grave? He's certainly going to produce bigger potatoes than a 9 year old...

Of course, I guess I could just try using some horse manure for next year. Maybe Mother Nature would accept that I am just full of it?

Sunset through the trampoline mesh

2011-08-28T08:36:26Z

Contemplations on eyebrow hair

2011-06-13T10:05:43Z

From there to here,
From here to there,
Crazy eyebrow hairs
Beware.

Here's one that's long,
Here's one that's grey,
Here's one that needs a pluck
Today.

-------

I find getting older is full of horrible surprises that keep popping up like little bags of burning dogpoo on the doorstep. And for the most part, these suprises are all "hair" related. Eyebrow hairs that are an inch long and grey, or the inch long surprise straggler coming out of my shoulder. Even worse are the dark hairs that seem to represent a bikini line that is horrifically lost, and might be starting a migration to my knees.

I've always had caterpillars for eyebrows, a legacy bestowed on me by my grandfather who had a enthusiastically bushy pair with a matching head thatch until his dying day. I am only pleased that the ear hair didn't come with it.

I found the poem above scribbled on a piece of paper in a pile of junk I was tidying up. The pile had been sitting on the shelf beside my desk for some years, and the tidy up was an action only undertaken when the shelf collapsed on Friday and spewed forth its contents onto the middle of my desk.

I don't even remember writing it, which is another indicator of old age - or perhaps a resurgence of sleepwalking with an added literary twist. Perhaps I should try and write the rest of my book in my sleep. I'd get more done than currently!

Anyway, I forgot I had a blog. One day I just forgot about it, and it's stayed like that until now, when I decided to share a bit of extremely mediocre poetry with you. That's because I am old, hairy and crazy. Enjoy.

my dishy man

2011-02-19T18:55:34Z

He is dishy, of course. But that misleading title belongs to a little diatribe all about my man and his relationship with our dishwasher.

If you've ever read the first ever blog post I wrote - written back in the days when blogs hadn't been invented yet (1996), but published here on this blog in 2007 - you'll see that the washing machine and my husband don't see eye to eye. That relationship deteriorated to the point that he was banned from touching it before we were even married. I'd be surprised if he even knew where it was these days.

The washing machine might be out of the picture, but the dishwasher has struggled on, trying desperately to please. It's never been a good relationship, but he's never managed to flood a neighbour's kitchen with it, which is always a plus.

The big problem is that he lacks the necessary logic to stack dishes in a manner that is conducive to successful washing.

I know we all complain about the male ability - or lack thereof when it comes to dishwashers.

And I know that it's quite possibly a deliberate attempt to get himself relived from the duty purely by being so damn rubbish at it.

Let's take exhibit A.

This is the dirty washing that didn't fit in the dishwasher because it was allegedly "Too Full".

A pot, a strainer and a spoon.

Couldn't be fit in at all. No room. No space.

You know what's coming next, don't you!

Lets have a look at Exhibit B.

I looked in the dishwasher, and what did I see? A half packed dishwasher looking back at me.

Now - we ladies know how to stack a dishwasher. It's a process that has been raised to an art form by our kind.

A man might look at those racks and declare that he was right - there IS no space left. But what that man would be forgetting is that these racks were STACKED BY A MAN.

Useless.

And even worse - this is after the cycle has run. And some of the items were facing the wrong way or blocked from the jets, so they didn't clean properly.

So - being the loving wife that I am, and sick of telling him to stack in a more logical way, I am doing what any normal woman would do. I am providing the world with photographic evidence of this ineptitude, and comparing them with what he SHOULD HAVE DONE.

Exhibit C - The right way to do it.

First up - the bottom rack.

As you can see, plenty of room for that pot that got left out, yes?

And now for the top rack...

That's where the sieve is going to sit nicely, isn't. And maybe a small rabbit or several hamsters.

And that's it for our lesson in dishwasher stacking today. It's all in the pursuit of dishwasher utopia.

Coming soon, Exhibit D - the tea cup that hits me, moments after Mr Boxer Shorts reads this post.

Don't tell mum!

2011-02-13T17:32:59Z

When I was at university, I made sure I learned everything I could about social interaction and cultures. I'm not talking about my course - I'm talking about what you do when you're not studying. I excelled in this regard.

I also had some quite adept mentors on my side.

My mother used to get a pained expression on her face when I told her about nights out that I had when I was at uni. With her lips pressed together like a pinched nerve, she'd warn me that the longer I stayed out, the more chance there was that something would happen.

I used to think... GREAT! I'd love something to happen.

What she meant of course, was the longer I stayed out, the more chance there was that I'd do something I'd regret, but she under estimated my sense of regret. I have a feeling that her main fear revolved around sex. She was scared that I would HAVE it. She didn't want me to have it, and even more urgently - she didn't want to know if I did.

She once said that she'd rather I didn't tell her what I was doing. But she failed to realise that despite how much I was telling her about my life, I was already editing the stories greatly to get them down to "ok for mum" status. I so I thought.

I'd tell my mother about the night that six of us went out to "Fanny's" on the foreshore and got back to the house I shared with two other girls very late and started cooking. But I didn't tell my mother that the reason we were making vegetable mash and eating it at 2am was because we were so stoned we had serious munchies.

I definitely didn't tell her about the time when my friend Katarina's neighbour dropped in looking for some orange juice to add to the meths he was planning to drink.

I totally omitted the time I was sleeping on the sofa and Nina had to take her boyfriend to hospital in agony because he had a twisted testicle (apparently it's not as hilarious as it sounded!)

I also didn't mention the 7 foot tall 15 year old I was going out clubbing with (I was 18). It just didn't seem to pass the "ok for mum" bench mark.

Ignorance is a state in which many people like to live, and sometimes it's just easier to go along with it. But as a parent of two girls I wonder how I will feel when they both go off to university 200km away and tell me about their nights out.

Especially when I know that they are probably editing out the bits that they think I don't need to know!

I went to sex education in year 6 with my parents. I learnt the rest in "Personal Development" classes in high school. My mother told me that you can't use tampons until after you've had a baby, and that you must not have sex before marriage. I disproved the former after about 6 attempts when I got my second ever period.

My oldest daughter is now in year 4, and she sknows that babies grow in the mummy's tummy, and come out their middle bottom. She knows that having a baby is a choice, and there needs to be a daddy as well. What she doesn't know yet is just how that whole thing comes about.

"Let me tell you about the horizontal tango, my darling child..." I can't see myself starting this conversation!

Recently we went to the natural history museum as part of a field trip and spent a lot of time in the body section, learning about how muscles and bones work. The entry way starts with the growth in the womb, and most of the children squealed in quasi disgust.

And then they came face to face with a cut away illustration of a man and a woman having sex. The torso's touching, embracing, and the penis in the vagina - the moment of conception. It was cut right down the centre of the beast with two backs. It took up an entire wall as we walked into the next room.

As we walked past it, I gave the teacher a look of horror - was I about to have to explain the joy of sex to seven 9 year olds? But with one glance they simply walked straight past it and ran into the next section where the elements on the wall displays were clearly more recognisable to them. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was too alien. They just didn't see what the picture was showing them.

I have a feeling that year 5 is the point at which the school will introduce sex education and part of me doesn't want my daughter to start thinking about that. I don't want her to ask me what a condom is, or what abortion is. These are things I think she's better off being ignorant about.

And yet - I can't afford to think that for very long. I have to equip her with the tools she needs to manage the world she lives in, and that includes the knowledge of things I don't want her to do.

Like my mother before me - I have to manage that difficult task of giving knowledge and guidance. Setting down expectations and rules and then allowing my children to apply them to their own lives in a their own way.

In many ways, my girls are quite naive in comparison to their peers. Some of this is down to me, and some is down to their own nature. I am fine with that - childhood is for experiencing as a child, not a micro adult. That doesn't mean I curtail their freedom - I am happy for them to walk to school on their own, but not to watch sexy music videos or watch violent television shows.

My girls like some pop music, but they have no idea that bands put out music videos to go with their songs.

But then again, neither does my mother, and she's 70. Maybe it really is possible for me to keep my babies in the dark for the rest of their lives!

photo: Ben30

Saling through the seasons

2011-02-10T12:24:42Z

No, I didn't mean to type "Sailing", and yes, that is a word - I just made it up, but it's still a word. Because it was all about the Sales. Department store Sales, New Year Sales, January Sales - whatever you want to call them. They were up in my face, and I wasn't happy about it.

I'm a really "with it" type of person when it comes to fashion, and when I say with it, I pretty much mean totally without. I like what I like, and I don't notice what is going on around me. Being in fashion is either an accident produced by dressing in dark, or retro fashions that I am still wearing rolling around for a second coming.

Early on this winter I did notice however, a trend amongst the chavvy set for the wearing of massive puffer jackets with fake fur trip on the hoods. Several years ago it was bomber length puffer jackets, which is terribly irresponsible to your kidneys - you must keep them warm for your health, but this season it was past mid thigh.

It wasn't until half way through this season - and by that I mean now - that I noticed that there were actually some quite nice looking coats walking about as well. And then with my trip to New York in winter coming up, a down filled parka would actually be quite suitable.

Of course - I said to myself somewhat deludedly - I'll buy one in New York!

Off we went to New York, to fill a long weekend with touristy wonders - and it really was fabulous - but this isn't about that. It's about the nightmare that was shopping.

As it was February, I assumed that the sales would be over, but they weren't. The biggest trouble however was that as far as the fashion world is concerned, winter IS over. Their spring lines are bursting forth bright and bubbly from the racks. And there in the back, on overcrowded rails, are what's left over from winter.

Firstly - I abhore sales. I feel physically ill if I walk into Next several days after christmas. It looks like someone fed all their stock to a giant hungry robot, which gagged on the harem pants and threw up the lot - right back onto the racks. Everything is everywhere, sizes are mixed up, and you can't find a single thing. I won't do it.

But with my potential jacket in mind, I braved several well known New York department stores, and still came out empty handed. Macy's had nothing coming close, Bloomingdales left me cold and was overpriced, and Century 21 was just one scary bottomless pit into which everything had been tossed. They did have jackets, and plenty of them, but they didn't have anything in my size or even close. (Mr Boxer Shorts did find a good pair of swimming shorts though!)

We also went into Abercrombie and Fitch. I love their clothes, but have to admit that I have majorly grown out of that store. It was black inside, music pumping, and ceiling mounted boxes were spraying their brand of scent all over the place, like a tomcat marking its territory. The moment I walked in I felt like a spike was driven up my nose and into my left eye, as I am very sensitive to smell. There were no jackets, but I picked up a few items to try on, and after asking three people for directions to the fitting rooms (or a head lamp to wear) saw the queue of 12 people waiting, so I dropped the clothes back on their relevant tables (nearly) and left.

Not far from the A&F shop was a tourist shop selling everything from NY keyrings to the exact coat I wanted. It was a brand I'd seen in other shops, but this one was less than a quarter of the price. Alarm bells tinkled lightly as I felt it and looked at the tags. 100% and real fur. I probed down through the fur until I got to the fabric mounting. Erm... coyotes don't wear vests do they? I found the same coat again in a boutique later - the tag on this one said it was 100% down and faux fur. The price was back in the hundreds. I'd gone off it though. I wouldn't have worn real coyote fur in the first place, and yet now I was poo pooing it because it wasn't!

So I came home NY coatless and ordered one online. I found a perfectly gorgeous Abercrombie one for a fraction of the cost, and shipping from dozens of "outlet" stores in China (so in other words, total fakes), and then I ordered one from a store that is demographically the opposite to Abercrombie - Lands End.

By the time it arrives I am sure it will be spring and the coat won't even get worn until next year. But that's fine - it keeps me constant with my total lack of fashionability! And besides - I've now noticed that over 50% of the mums in the playground are wearing them now. By next year I'll be unique. Out dated - but still unique.

Photo: Antwerpen

distorted reality

2011-02-09T13:48:30Z

Only mad dogs and Englishmen (go out in snow)

2010-12-22T09:56:18Z

The recent snowfall in England has successfully done its job once again, in bringing pretty much most of Great Britain to a complete standstill. Airports closed, network rail halted, and roads gridlocked with abandoned cars.

Of course, only the crazy and stupid people would choose to get in their cars and add to the problem when the snow is falling and the gritters are still stabled. The warnings come thick and fast to NOT drive unless you absolutely have to.

Which of course, is why we found ourselves driving through Saturday's blizzard, both dressed in wedding finery, and going nowhere fast.

The event was a wedding in St Albans, and the groom was my husband's work partner and friend. My husband was an usher. So simply put, we HAD to travel. We had planned to give the journey - apparently 1 and a half hours - 3 hours to make. But as the snow fell heavier and heavier I knew we should leave earlier by at least an hour.

The problem was that we couldn't leave until my in-laws arrived to be with the children, and due to the weather, they were also delayed by an hour and a half. So in the end we left at the original planned time of 11am and set off.

The roads were thick with snow, nothing had been ploughed, and more was falling all the time. Visibility was down to about 20 feet, with the fat white flakes hitting the windscreen thickly and staying there. There were a couple of hills that had me clutching the edge of my seat for grim death. But luckily we made it through the blizzard, and by the time it stopped we were half way though London, joining the Kilburn High Road.

And that's were we stopped.

The traffic was just one long parking lot, creeping along at a rate of ten feet every ten minutes. It was so bad that when my Mr Boxer Shorts needed a toilet break he was able to get out of the car, go to Starbucks, have a wee, buy coffee and muffins, and get back to the car. I'd moved it all of 4 car lengths by the time he got back.

We kept crawling on, new scenery appeared, with local comedians entertaining us by slipping over as they did their christmas shopping.

Eventually I went for a walk too, popping out of the car to visit a chemist and stock up on decongestant tablets. Unfortunately they didn't have a loo, because by now I was hopping about, desperate after the coffee.

Luckily for me, we pulled into a service station a little further on which didn't have a public loo, but the lovely manager let me use the staff one.

Everything got a bit quicker after that, with us finally joining the M1, where the roadway wasn't clear, but the middle lanes were drivable. The only real problem was that we'd now been on the road for 4 hours, and the wedding service had just finished. But we were still coming - afterall, what was the alternative?

The traffic flowed along at a speed that was fairly consistent. It wasn't fast, but that didn't matter. I was using both of our phones to check traffic and travel news, and from what I read we decided that we needed to get off the motorway one exit early, as there had been an incident between junction 8 and 9 - and 9 was the one we were going to get off at.

As we approached junction 8 the queues began, and we started to slow down to stopped. We moved over to the slip road and took the early exit. I was concerned that the smaller roads off the motorway might be more dangerous, but we didn't even get that far.

As we drove down the slip road we saw seven cars in front of us, several stopped, some skidding sideways, and a few people out of their cars trying to work out what to do. Hastily we veered back to the feeder lane that rejoined the motorway, and headed back to the gridlock we'd wanted to avoid.

And somehow - we jumped over it! The stopped traffic was behind us, and the traffic we joined now was again flowing.

The incident at this area became clear soon. I suddenly realised that there was not a single car on the opposite side of the motorway. Then we saw people walking. Then as we crested the hill we saw the queue of traffic going southbound totally stopped at the base of it. Halfway up the hill was a car lorry laden with cars at a slight angle, going nowhere. Several cars were also stopped on the hill, none of them totally parallel with the road.

They simply couldn't drive up the hill, and now the tailback behind the lead 4 trucks who had halted at the base of the hill looked to stretch on for miles.

I couldn't help but feel totally relieved that it was them, and not us, as our exit came and we got off the motorway with just a few short roads to go before we reached our destination!

Famous last words!

The wedding location was a boarding school nestled amongst green fields and country lanes. The first road we turned onto was a narrow hill, and we were greeted by the site of one car sliding slowly backwards down the hill towards us.

Instead of giving up, Mr Boxer Shorts started the ascent. We reached the sliding car and steered around him, turning the wheels this way and that, and we slowly moved up the hill. I didn't expect that we'd actually manage to reach the top, but we did, and the next few roads were snowy, but flat. I couldn't take a good photo of these though, as we were really bouncing around.

The next thing we came to was a downhill stretch, with a hairpin bend at the bottom. I was cautioning Mr Boxer Shorts to go slower, when the car stalled completely, and started sliding down the hill. In order to start the car again, it had to be totally switched off first - which turns off the pressure assistance on the brakes, so there we were sliding even faster than before, and now in total darkness!

He started the car with 30 feet to go, and tried valiantly to make the hairpin corner, but to no avail. We ended up in a ditch.

Wearing wedding shoes, full tails and waistcoat, Mr Boxer Shorts had to bounce on the bonnet while I navigated back and forth to get us out of the ditch. Eventually I was able to drive forward and onto the road again, and we continued, feeling slightly shellshocked.

Two more turns and we arrived at the school, parked on someone's flowerbed (probably) and joined the party. Six hours late, but just in time for dinner.

Over half of the guests manage to arrive at the wedding, though not all for the actual service. At the time we arrived the canapes were being served, but the chef hadn't made it yet - he arrived not long after, having hiked up. The seating plan, which had been agonised over for weeks was tossed out the window in an instant, and we were told to sit where we liked, as close to the top table as possible. Fortunately, the top table was in the middle.

The meal was wonderful, despite half the cooking being done initially by one of the waiters. And the ushers were not needed to serve, as enough waiters had shown up by the time the meal was ready. The atmosphere was warm and content as the snow continued to fall outside.

While this probably wasn't the perfect wedding day that the bride had envisioned, it would certainly be a memorable one, and made special by the fact that so many people did make a huge effort to be with them - despite all the odds. My husband wondered what this auspicious start says about their marriage, but my thought is that it says that they will weather all challenges thrown at them, with a smile, hand in hand.

May this be their mantra in their married life yet to come.

Not too impressed

2010-12-21T15:12:01Z

body dump

2010-11-29T19:13:35Z

I've spent my whole life being perpetually disappointed in my body. It just tends to fail to completely satisfy me. It's the underachieving equivalent of the X-factor contestant who is the first one voted off the live show.

It almost - but not quite - gets to perfection.

Before I had children, I had a flat stomach. Well, almost. I never actually had a FLAT stomach, more like a kind of little bubble let's say. But I could suck it in really well. For ages. Until I had a beer, then I'd forget, and just flap about down there.

And I had shapely thighs. Because sausage shaped is a legitimate shape.

And a pert bottom. It could hold up a pencil. And probably the notebook to go with it. Somewhere there was a black woman who wanted her booty back.

And in short, I had dancers legs - which is a not so subtle way of saying my calf muscles could probably crack walnuts.

I went to the gym, I worked out, I ran, I cycled and I played softball. So I was always fit. And yet... my body never managed to make it to a revered status in my mind. I never loved it.

Then I hit 40, discovered that I'd had two children (that part wasn't really such a shock) could best describe my stomach skin as "crepe-y", had the same amount of bottom - and yet it was so much lower, had a lot less boob - which was also lower - and flatter, and had developed little muffin tops despite doing endless sit ups in body attack on a weekly basis.

And I loved my body.

It's so much more imperfect now, and yet I love it and appreciate it for all the life it's given me. I look back on my "imperfect" previous body and realise how lucky I was, and how under appreciated my body was. The photos I look back on show me a slender, fit and sporty looking person. I see nothing in those photos to illustrate all the flaws I saw at the time.

Magazines distort your idea of perfect. They show you something which isn't real and make you think that you're therefore defective, deficient, disfigured even.

And you're not - whoever you are, you're not defective, you're perfect. Because perfect covers such a huge variety of normal and average, and it also covers above and below average.

To celebrate the fact that real people and real bodies are not what the media parades in front of us, I foolishly agreed to create the artwork for a calendar illustrating just that - the real body beautiful. Real people (bloggy type people), real bodies, really kinda naked. Ish. And then I found myself even more foolishly - fully aware of the consequences - agreeing to be in it.

The day of reckoning is now upon us - the calendar is raring and ready to go. 11 ladies, 1 gent, including me (I'm not the gent) all stripped down to a state of semi nakedness. Here is the sneak peek, but I don't just want you to look - I want you to buy it.

The proceeds of this calendar go to a charity called the National Eating Disorders Association.

Because you know that you're perfect. So let us remind you about it EVERY DAY of 2011.

Running for royalty. Sort of.

2010-11-04T18:05:02Z

When last we spoke I was training for the Royal Parks half marathon - well, the big day has come and gone. I find it hard to talk about though, hence the pregnant pause between my last entry and this one.

The bald fact of the matter is that I was beaten by both Ernie AND Bert. And an oil drum. And also The Stig.

It's a hard truth to face - I was completely unable to overtake two men wearing fleecy head masks representing two of my favourite Sesame Street characters. They must have been sweating like devils, but they kept pace. I knew they were still in front of me, because Bert was about 7 foot tall and I could see the fluffy top of his head, and people kept shouting to him that Ernie was ahead of him.

The oil drum I took on early in the race and left behind me with an easy stride. But only a mile later I realised he was nudging forward beside and and had soon got a good heading on me. I closed the gap again and went past head held high but again he fought back.

This went on for 8 or so miles until he finally pulled himself well forward and I lost track of him.

In my defense however, his "oil drum" was thin polyester jacket lining strung around a hoop. It's not like he was running in the real thing.

I didn't see The Stig at all, but I know he finished in front of me as I approached the finish line and heard the announcers hooting with delight that he was just crossing the line.

Imagine that - this guy ran 13.1 miles wearing a motorbike helmet. His facial features must have been so cooked he probably had 3rd degree burns. If he had cauliflower ears to start with all you'd need would be cheese sauce.

I have no idea if he was wearing a matching formular one pants suit, but if so then it's highly unlikely that he'll ever be passing on the seed of life unless it's for pizza topping.

Had I tried to run in a get up like that I would probably have drowned in my own sweat and been hosed off the street by the cleanup crew.

So anyway, personal affront aside, I actually ran pretty well. If you remember, this was the second half marathon I've ever done, the first being 11 years ago, and oop north.

Back then (pre children) I ran 13.1 miles in 2 hours 16 minutes. So I thought a good target would be 2 and a half hours. And I hoped to do it in just under that - and with luck, about 2 hours 20 minutes.

But on the day you don't run in the same way as you do while you're training. Firstly, you need to keep up with the crowd, so you end up running a bit faster. And then - if you're me - you have to run like you drive, and overtake everyone in front of you. So I did.

My nike app lady told me that my run pace was 9 minutes per mile, which was 2 minutes faster than my training pace, so I knew I was going faster than normal.

And also - the queues to the toilet were so long that I didn't go, so I needed to wee from the first mile. I was hoping to reabsorb it! And so I ran fast to get to the loo at the finish line quickly!

I was slightly worried that the increase in speed might mean a complete and utter collapse (potentially accompanied with a mental breakdown or a total paddy!) mid course, but I managed to keep up the 9 minute miles for 5 miles, then my pace dropped to 10 minutes per mile.

Bert and Ernie were pulling away from me. Disaster.

My pace went back to 9 minutes per mile, and then I realised that there were only 3 miles to go. I had totally lost Bert and Ernie, and I wanted to find the oil drum and trip him up, so I picked up the pace on the 11 mile marker.

Then my nike app lady announced that I was apparently pausing my workout. WHAT? Half a mile was spent trying to tear my iphone holder off my arm and turn the workout back on. I was so sweaty that I couldn't get it back up onto my arm afterwards, so ran with it on my forearm instead.

The last two miles also switched out the water tables and replaced them with percy pig tables. Small pink sweeties were shoved towards me, and I took them for the sugar burst. As a non veteran runner, I was unaware that shoving a whole percy pig in your mouth is likely to choke you, and the damn thing sticks in your teeth and is unchewable. I wasn't the only one to give up on old percy, as I also finished the race with several percy's stuck to the underside of one shoe which I could NOT dislodge (and thought was dog poo until I inspected later). I was doing a running shuffle trying to wipe off the lump on the grass for some time, but it was to no avail. It was like running on one kitten heel.

Despite the percy pig situation I did the last 2 miles in 7 minutes per mile, and didn't even catch up with the damn oil drum. But I did lose all feeling in my legs and feel like I was walking on rubber!

The wonders of technology mean that as soon as I ran over the finish line, the little chip in my shoe sent my finish time off to the Gods of running, who then texted me my final time.

Which was a crowd pleasing 2 hours and SEVEN minutes!

Beat that, Bert and Ernie! Oh no wait... you did.

Photo credits: Royalparkshalf.com

Run until my legs fall off

2010-10-02T19:59:15Z

Ten years ago, when I was young and fit (ten years younger at any rate) I ran 13 and a bit miles along some jolly Newcastle roads with a few other crazy people in the Great North Run, and had three distinct thoughts when I crossed the finish line.

They were - in quick succession, and this order:

Never again. Ever.
This is half way in a marathon? Never doing THAT! EVER!
I think I'll train more next year.

The next year didn't happen, as I managed to get lightly toasted and fall down a flight of stairs while in Tucson, celebrating the end of a week of competitive ad league softball, and break my ankle several weeks before.

And the year after that I was about to drop baby number 1 just before the great north run, so applying to run was generally frowned upon.

And so, I find myself - ten years later - having not run a half marathon since that day in Newcastle - training for my second half marathon, which is taking place in exactly one week.

Fortunately, it's not the Great North Run this time, as that's 9 hours to the north, and the traffic leaving is somewhat reminiscent of throwing out time at Legoland. When we ran last time we ended up abandoning our car and finding a B&B to stay the night in, since we simply couldn't leave the outskirts of town, such was the crush of people attempting to ~~escape~~ leave.

This time I am running in the Royal Park's half marathon in London, and despite my third thought when I finished that first half marathon, I don't think I've successfully trained as much as I should have.

There are two good reasons for this, and both of them are small girls. Well, plus the difficulty of fitting running in around work, school holidays, a cold, and boredom.

Boredom is a big part of it. I think running is quite boring.

I've discovered that running with a podcast is a good way to make the whole thing more enjoyable. And I've also discovered that having a running app on your phone is a useful motivator, as you can see when you're getting faster.

The only problem with that is that I only have one shirt that has a pocket that my iphone will fit in, and it has long sleeves, so it can get a bit hot. And I don't have an armband to hold my iphone.

I tried to find an alternate method of carrying the phone during one run, and thought that wrapping it in cling film and then stuffing it down the front of my pants would hold it wedged on the front of my stomach. That was the theory.

Theory and practice turned out to be two very different things however, as the phone gradually bounced itself down further and further until it came to rest in a certain place, at which point it stopped migrating down.

Had it gone any further, then it would have been the first iphone to turn into an ipad that ever existed.

I aborted that run very quickly. There is nothing less condusive to good running than having your phone bounce up and down on your lady parts as you do it. No matter what you might think.

So an armband has now been procured from Decathlon, in readyness for the race next week. My phone can now accompany me safely, track my route via GPS, and deliver Chris Moyle's podcasts into my ears for entertainment.

Or I might rethink the whole Chris Moyles thing, as recently I've found his podcasts a bit too funny, and running and laughing out loud aren't exactly made for each other either. It's especially dangerous to run past Kelsey Boys School students while snorting.

As long as I have something interesting to keep me entertained while my legs pound the ashfelt for two and a half hours. I don't care what it is. I do know that the race will provide a lot more visual stimulus that running past the canada geese in Kelsey park does.

The armband might be a bit annoying, but I think it's worth it. Apart from the Nike app, I also like the fact that at the end of the race I'll have a phone on me. Because no matter where you agree to meet your other half, I can guarantee that with MY other half, things will go wrong.

We both ran in the Great North run way back then, and as expected, he finished ahead of me. But instead of going to the H meeting point as we'd agreed, he decided to go to the finish line and watch me finish the race.

The trouble with this idea was that as he was walking back to the finish line I had already finished, so he didn't see me at all. I went to the agreed meeting point and waited. And waited. For 45 minutes. No sign of my husband.

By then I was getting pretty panicky. I knew he had problems with his knee, so I presumed something had gone wrong. I went to the announcements area and asked them to check the medical tents, but he wasn't listed. I then went and checked the medical tents myself, in case their lists were wrong, but he wasn't there. I returned to the announcement tent and they rang the hospitals. He wasn't in any of them. I'm now in a complete lather of anxiety.

They announced his name over the tannoy several times between our hospital calls, but he didn't turn up. The reason he didn't turn up after they announced him was because he'd gone to our car - in a campsite down the road - to get his phone (despite the fact I didn't have one) and didn't hear the announcement.

Eventually they announced him again, and he heard it, and arrived where I was. I was a total mess by this stage. It was nearly 3 hours since I'd finished the race before we were reunited.

All because he was a typical man, and didn't stick to the plan.

So, one week from now, I'll have my phone so that I can call him if he fails to show up at the meeting point after the race. Of course, he'll probably have lost his phone, turned it off, or given it to some tramp he ran by.

So if all goes well, my legs won't give out half way through, and I'll find my husband when I finish. I think that's all I can really ask for!

I am pretty sure it will be fine, and if not - I can always phone a rickshaw.

Don't call me mummy

2010-09-25T07:36:58Z

On the back of the mummy blogging issue, I was thinking a lot about my "status" as a mother, and the fact that I get annoyed if I am wedged into a predefined genre of "mummy blogging", purely because I happen to have children.

Am I defined by being a mother?

I've realised that almost all things that you do, or are, define you in some way. But it's the sum of all parts, and no single things is a definition of who you are.

By playing sports - softball, tennis - I am defined as a sporty and active person. Running, training and going to the gym regularly also define me in a way that makes me the person I am now.

I've always been a bookworm, and I used to spend whole afternoon's playing final fantasy on the playstation.

My camera and I love to disappear for a day taking photos of odd things.

I grew up moving through the girl guide organisation, and still retain my inner geek (and always will).

There are so many things that define the me who is at the heart of me. All of those things are things that I chose to do them. I do them because I like them.

Becoming a mother is usually (but not always) a choice. Something that you are, as well as something that you do. Something that you like in theory, although when you've got mustard poo dripping down the side of you from an explosive nappy, or you're arguing with a 8 going on 15 year old child about why you just confiscated all the toys that were left on the floor - you sometimes lose sight of the overall "joy"

Being a mother cannot help but change your whole life and lifestyle. You can't be a mother partime, or only on the weekends. You can't take a break from being a mother.

Becoming a mother means changing more than just your schedule.

When I was 2 months pregnant, I was made redundant (it was not because I was pregnant, don't worry!). I had to face a choice early on. Do I go to job interviews and tell them I am pregnant, or do I go to job interviews and omit that fact, then force them to give me time off for maternity leave. Neither option appealed to me, especially when added to the fact that I didn't want to be a working mother.

So I started my own company and began doing what I do today.

That was the first change in my life, and that change was purely because I was going to have children. I had to change my job and my working hours drastically in order to be an "at home" mum.

Some women choose not to do that. They might continue with their career and not cut down on their working hours. But even they need to make changes to their lifestyles greatly - they'll need to organise childcare and contingency strategies. They have to rush home from work and prepare meals for children - or pay someone else to do that.

When they wake up on the weekend, they have children who want to do things, go places and play games.

When the children are young, a new mother can often spend a lot of time searching for information on how to deal with different things. They go looking for parenting advice in the form of books, magazine articles, internet sites.

No matter which path a mother chooses, they can't help but be impacted by the new arrival, in time, finances and lifestyle.

Having a child also means a different emotional outlook for most mothers. I am a CSI fan, but I can't watch shows that include children without running to check on my own. The vulnerability of children is even more moving to me, as I can equate things I see with my own. I feel extra protective in a way I never did before.

So being a mother changes your outlook, your lifestyle, your career path, your wealth, or all of the above. Having children is like deep impact on your whole being. It moves your orbit when it hits you, and you just can't help that.

It does define a large part of you. It defines how you think, feel and act, it changes little everyday things that you don't realise will be affected.

But it doesn't replace the things that already made you "you". You're still a woman, a sports person, a musician, a lover, a reader, a dreamer, a writer, a dancer, an artist, an adult - the list goes on. You don't remove those things to become a mother, you add them on top.

Some people think that it's very important for the rest of the world to always perceive them as a mother. They've made it the forefront of their persona. They shout about it, and use it as a badge of honour. It's like that's all they need to be.

I wonder why? I wonder if these people had little else in their lives before children.

Or maybe being a mother is just such a wonderful experience that they are happy to eschew the other things that they used to do to concentrate on writing about their kids.

Or perhaps that they find being a mother such hard work, that they find that they can't pursue other activities at all. I can understand the plight of a single mother in this regard. But that theory works for the kind of activity that you need to leave the house to pursue, and once your kids are going to school that excuse is no longer valid either.

Maybe it's just a bandwagon that people think that they need to jump onto. I don't know the answer, but I know this:

I am a mother. It's a large part of my lifestyle, but it's only a small part of my personality. It changes me, but it doesn't define me. There are only two small people who have the privilege to call me mummy. And one slightly larger one too.

So I no longer spend a whole afternoon playing final fantasy on the playstation - but I do sometimes slip a final fantasy game card into one of the girls DS's when they are not looking.

Now excuse me, but I think I have some monsters to slay after I iron these school tunics.

Photo credit: Scott Liddell