stuff I do to relax

I don't remember what it was like to believe in Santa Claus.

That's because I never got a chance to.

I was four years old when the older child who lived over the road told me in no uncertain terms that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. My mother was furious, but the damage could not be undone. What was heard cannot be unheard.

Four is such an innocent age. It's pretty hard to shake the faith of a four year old. You can tell them not to be terrified of an enormous fuzzy moose that is walking towards them and seems to want to grab them and gobble them up. You can reassure them that the moose is just a man dressed up and therefore not terrifying at all. But they won't believe a word of it. That moose just keeps coming, and the four year old will start screaming and won't stop until you drag them into a nearby shop where the moose is not.

You'd think therefore that someone could tell the same four year old that Santa doesn't really exist, and the four year old would ignore that statement, because they want to believe the alternative.

But not when the person bearing the news is another child. Adults don't get a look in - children look up to other children like some sort of short mutant God. If a child says it, then it's gospel. Kind of how some people view the gossip rags.

So I have no idea what it's like to look forward to Santa, or to dream of Santa tiptoing in the night. I have no memory of a time when I did. And yet, the fantasy of christmas for me was still a wonderful time. And the reason for that was my little brother.

I didn't believe in Santa because I knew better, but I was determined that my little brother wasn't going have his reality mashed in like that.

My brother was six years my junior. People often say that siblings who are close in ages fight more. That couldn't have been further from the truth with my brother and I. From the moment he turned about four, World War III raged in our house. We may have loved each other deep down, but you had to dig really REALLY deep to find that love on most days.

I was the verbal winner - with the advantage of six years on him, I could cut him down with my tongue in a way he'd never be able to compete with. His retaliation was always physical.

One time we fought, his payback to me was to come into my bedroom and tip over my bookcase. As a typical tweenager, my bookcase was not just full of books, but lined with porcelain ornaments. Ballerinas who spun on their toes when you flicked them, colour changing doves who told you the weather in a rainbow, little bells with silver clangers - and so on. All when crashing down underneath "What Katie did next" and "Pollyanna", and the complete series of "Secret Seven" and morphed into sparking shards and disembodied limbs. I was devastated.

On the upside, boy - did he EVER get in trouble!

But no matter how much we fought, come christmas time I would become his Santa mentor.

If your big sister tells you that there IS such a thing as Santa, then you believe her. You believe her all the way up to your 10th year, when it finally dawns on you that if the tooth fairy wasn't real and the easter bunny was a farce, then things aren't looking so great for Santa!

As christmas approached, I would help him write a letter to Santa which I would mail for him. Then I would write a reply to him from Santa, with illustrations. He never wondered why Santa's handwriting was so appalling, and similar to a teenaged girl's, and his drawings often involved noses and high heels (I had a slight obsession with the profile view).

Christmas was exciting for me because of the wonderment and excitement that he had, and I shared in it and fostered it in a way that was almost parental. 

For myself, knowing the santa truth actually gave me some power. With my birthday in February it meant that I could bargain bigger presents by pulling the combo card.

Once christmas was over (or even on the day) we'd got back to screaming at each other and he'd throw the occasional battery at me (they embedded themselves into the bathroom door, which was hell to explain to mum!)

But she always wondered in amazement at the fact that no matter how much we fought, I never pulled out the santa rug. I never shouted in anger that it was all a lie. I kept that fantasy going for 10 years for him. She asked me about that when I was in my 20's. My reply was that "you can't take that back". I knew that no matter what ammunition I wanted to use in an argument, I would never do something that I couldn't undo. I wouldn't destroy a fantasy that couldn't be reclaimed.

That love must have been closer to the surface than we knew!

Now that I have my girls, I am glad that neither of them have had their belief taken away prematurely. At 8, Miss Trouble Pants both believes and is shy of Santa Claus. Miss Comic Relief is 5, and fervently excited about christmas day, but is also nervous of the man himself. She was so shy of him that she couldn't think of what she wanted for christmas when they both saw him at the school christmas fair, so asked for the same thing as her sister. Which was a skateboard. Which is NOT coming. 

We just used the "Call Santa" app on my iphone to leave a message for him about what she'd actually like for christmas. Turns out it's a new pair of roller skates, which she remembered that she wanted after I reminded her that she'd grown out of her old ones. How handy... because Santa's already procured those bad boys!

Adulthood comes quick enough as it is, without robbing children of fairytales and Santa Claus. Nothing helps erode that belief faster than not getting what you asked for!

Fairytales, Santa and iphone apps go hand in hand really. They are all quite unbelievable to adults!

And I hope the child that took away my Santa Claus years ago now has children who believe in Santa Claus too, and that they all have a merry christmas together. 

See how full of love I am? Oh, and Santa, I'd really like that video camera I can't afford you know...

Picture this...

A flickering fire low in the fireplace. The glimmer reflected in the baubles swinging gently on the tree, and perched on the edge of the over stuffed armchair, glass of sherry in hand sits Santa. His ruddy face houses eyes of blue that twinkle in the firelight as he inspects a mince pie - lovingly left out for him by the children of the house.

But the picture is kinda scewed. 

Lets try again.

A flickering fire low in the fireplace. The glimmer reflected in the baubles swinging gently on the tree, and perched on the edge of the over stuffed armchair, glass of sherry in hand sits Mrs Claus. Her genteel face houses eyes of blue that twinkle in the firelight as she inspects a low fat mince pie - lovingly left out for her by the children of the house.

Because lets face it - when it comes to the traditional family, who actually plays Santa?

Who spends the weeks before the big day drawing up lists (and checking them thrice) for the children and working out the fairest distribution of toys for the clan?

Who sorts out gifts for grandma, grandma, grandpa and grumps, regardless of whose parent they are?*

Who buys the wrapping paper and carefully hides the special "santa" paper where the kids will never see it?

Who does the wrapping and hiding of the special santa presents?

Who finds the stockings in the loft and checks for spiders? (Twice.)

Who waits until the kids are asleep and then tiptoes about the house filling stockings hung with care (and without spiders)?

Let me tell you who it ISN'T.  It isn't Mr Drunky who goes out for a beverage or two on Christmas Eve and stumbles home near midnight smelling like a brewery, then thinks he deserves to eat the snack left out for Santa.

I am sure I am not alone in this household allocation of roles. So why don't we update the santa fantasy and let the old red suited dude retire. Mrs Claus can step into the breach and take over the running of the family business. Let's face it - she probably does most of it as it is.

And she's doing it all while also juggling the elves welfare needs, the catering for several hundred, animal husbandry for the reindeer, education for the mini elves, as well as toy production classes and technology refresher classes.

Mrs Claus ROCKS. All she needs is a nice new set of matching hat and gloves, some kick-ass sexy (and yet so sensible) black boots, and a sleigh with a new paint job. The old go faster naked woman on the bonnet doesn't really work for her.

It makes the lyrics "she knows when you are sleeping, she sees when you're awake" so much more pertinent, because how many men actually know what their kids are doing at any point in time when they are technically under their control? Unless the kids happen to be sitting next to them, ALSO watching the football, then there is a good chance that they are actually dismantling the neighbours car. Or cat. Or both.

Nope, Mrs Claus brings in a new era of serious consequences for naughty children. She really does have eyes in the back of her head, she she knows the value of following through.

But in the meantime, I'll continue to masquerade as Santa, and get generally overwhelmed by the vast to-do list set before me. And to round that off, I've adjusted the lyrics of a well known christmas jingle to reflect my mood, and also to make marymac happy.

---

All I want for christmas

Everybody pauses and stares at me
The sanity is gone as you can see

I don't know just who to blame for this catastrophe!
But my one wish on Christmas Eve is as plain as it can be!

All I want for Christmas is my sanity,
my sanity, or a lobotomy.

Gee, if I could only have a holiday,
then I'll survive a "Merry Christmas."

It seems so long since I could chill, 
sitting on a chair with a decanter.

Gosh oh gee, how happy I'd be,
if someone else was playing santa

All I want for Christmas is my sanity,
my sanity, or a lobotomy.

Gee, if I could only have a holiday,
then I'll survive a "Merry Christmas."

---

Why thank you very much, good night.

By the way, this is why the snack left out for Santa is rightfully MINE!

* Although I have to admit that this year, Mr Boxer Shorts said to me "What did you get my parents?" And I said "nothing yet". And since I'd already flown to Australia, and he hadn't (and his parents will not be) he decided to get them presents all by himself. I don't actually have proof that he did that yet though... 

I'm dreaming of a white christmas,

People like to edit their own memories and cut out a lot of the chaff. This is called selected recall. It means that you just don't remember quite how awful an event was, beyond the fact that it was awful. This is why I don't really remember the finer details of childbirth. Although that could also be down to the fact that I was totally stoned at the time.

Plane trips and childbirth have a lot in common. There is the mess, the fuss, the long drawn out process, the pain and of course the screaming. What a way to begin a holiday!

It took us 22 hours and 40 minutes to fly from London to Sydney. And by us, I mean myself and two small girls. Everyone loves a child on a plane, don't they!

As we boarded the plane, each with our bright pink carry one bag, I was determined to ask somone to lift my bag up for me, since I am not supposed to lift for 6 weeks after the surgery. I looked in the row behind us - 80 years in the shade. The row in front - angry domestic in progress. To the side... person rolling their eyes at me for being in the way. Forgetting all my resolutions, I lifted and shoved. The bag was stowed and we sat down. The kids were already arguing over who gets the window seat, and black marks were quickly given out in a low hiss. But seconds later all that was forgotten.

The girls love to fly. They love the plane and all the associated rituals. They love the trays in the seat backs and the personal televisions. Miss Trouble Pants is fervently hoping that the game she played last time is still available. She's also a bit of an experienced jet setter, and is thus a bit too world weary. "Oh" she says "Airline food again. *sigh* It's too awful." She rolls her eyes. Shut up - the children's meals are better than what I'll be getting!

But food aside, they are hopping with excitement as we wait for take off. I put them back into their seatbelts about 17 times. Why can't I lock the seatbelts at one length? What is going to happen when we crash if these things don't stay tight? Oh wait, it's all academic isn't it. If we crash we all get smashed to a jammy paste, whether we've seatbelted and braced or not. Why even bother with the life jackets? I guess it's to retrieve the bodies from the water.

Stop.

Stop it.

Stop thinking about things like that!

Quick prayer. "Please God, take care of us. Please keep us safe. Amen. And God, sorry I've not called since... um... since last time I was sitting in a plane about to take off."

God replies "You owe me." That's very true. (Caveat - God did not actually reply to me.)

We're on one of those new A380 planes, flying with Qantas. The lovely thing about being on a new plane is that the seats look and feel pleasantly fresh, and there is a good chance that the recline function hasn't been smashed to bits by over zealous fatties.

The bad thing about being on this plane is that - to be honest - it's a great big albatross that practically has square dimensions. Don't tell me this thing can fly, it's obviously impossible!

Apparently my aeronautical asserations are a pile of crap, because the plane can, and does take off. And stay in the air.

The first leg is the longest part of the flight. 14 hours sitting in a cramped chair with a tv touching your nose when the person in front reclines his chair abruptly into you. 

When I travel from England to Australia, one of the first things I do is set my clock to destination time, and then try and behave accordingly. If that means a bottle of wine for breakfast to get me off to sleep, then so help me God (he did) then that's what I will do!

That method doesn't work when you have kids. Well - I am sure it works very well. Just not so popular with the people around you.

I've got no qualms about drugging my kids. I've come onboard with piriton at the ready to help them doze off. My plan is to try and get them to sleep for the last 8 hours of this first leg, and then stay awake for the whole of the second leg. I don't expect it to all run as planned, but the fact that the girls have had two late nights previously, I am hoping for a good chance at that early sleep.

Plus my girls understand that system, seasoned travellers that they are. They don't argue that they don't feel tired, they just do their best to fall asleep.

I've flown both with kids and without. I know it's every other passenger's nightmare to have a kid near them on a flight. And it's the parent's responsibility to make sure their kids behave themselves. It's just that some people kinda suck. One of those people is sitting across from us with her pre- 2 year old girl.

I know the child is under 2, since she did take off and landing on her mother's lap with the extra seatbelt attachement. And I know what it's like to travel with that age. They really don't understand the wider picture, and have no way of empathising with others. They don't have an internal filter, every emotion just sprays out like an out of control hose that someone let go of. That's totally natural for that age. But that doesn't excuse a parent who lets the hose splash about without trying to grab hold of it and divert the water.

I am sitting in the middle seat of our three, with both heads on my lap. They try their hardest to fall asleep, and after some pillow arranging and fidgetting, finally Miss Comic Relief is twitching at the threshold of sleep. She's got the better position, with the window side, and she's smaller. Plus she's ended up with two pillows, so she drifts off with 5 hours potential sleep to have.

Miss Trouble Pants on the other hand, is fidget mad. The fingers are on the face, itchy cheek, itchy nose. The feet are hanging over the edge of the seat, failing to stay put under the arm rest. The metal parts of the seatbelt are sticking into her back, so I try and arrange soft toys at strategic places. I stroke her hair and sing lullabies. But the plane is so noisy, she can't help but be distracted.

There is a crackling sound coming out of the air vents that is constant. There is an echo to that crackling sound coming from the front row of our section, as a bunch of heifers chow down on something that involves crackly wrappings. I reassure myself that even if they do gain half their weight from the chocolate and chips that they are stuffing into their faces, it's merely weight transferance from one form to another, and can't affect the balance of the plane. Not unless they all move about at once, which they can't do - being the size of Houston. (This is totally imaginary, since I can't SEE those people! Turns out they are a couple with a child, and are of normal size. They are still crackly and annoying though).

Miss Trouble Pants finally finds a comfortable position on me, and starts to fidget less. I am hoping for about 3 hours sleep for her now. But this is when the aforementioned 2 year old near us starts to kick off.

Her mother has headphones on and is watching something. She doesn't hear her child start to use the video remote as a drum on the floor of the plane. The rest of us DO notice this. We all start to send violent messages of dismemberment to her using telepathy. Strangely, it seems to fail to work. What does get her attention is when the child tumbles into the aisle.

Time and time again this child makes drumming noises which the mother fails to notice. Then the child starts to shout. Finally the mother decides to take her for a walk. Peace and quiet for the shortest of times until they come back. Which is far too soon.

Now the child is standing on her chair, facing the back of the plane. "I see lots of people mummy!" She shouts. Mummy doesn't even say "Shhh".

The child starts to climb up over the chair, and shake the back of it. Mother is standing there beside this child doing nothing. The woman sitting behind the child is now watching an earthquake, no matter what she was actually viewing. Her tv is being shaken back and forward by this child who is also jumping on the chair. The mother doesn't stop her.

I hear someone hiss "SHHHH" and realise it's me.

Finally, the mother takes the child for another walk, and mine finally falls asleep. Bliss. But she's only got a chance of 2 hours sleep now. And after 1 hour her breakfast is brought to the seat.

And I want to slap the woman with the 2 year old. I don't think I am alone either.

I know it's hard to keep a child happy on a plane. But you have to TRY. There is a baby in the bulkhead row who wakes up and cries. I hear his mother soothe him. He never cries for long. She might be doing what I did the time I travelled with Miss Trouble Pants when she was 6 months old. I was breastfeeding her, so every time she cried I stuck my boob in her mouth. This worked a treat and kept her quiet for the whole trip. Made my boobs think I'd just had another 4 children though, so when we landed and I couldn't keep up the demand to match the overloaded supply I had to suffer through the whole engorged boobs thing again.

The worst travelling was when she was 14 months old. We spent a lot of time walking up and down the aisles, or hanging out in the galley. But we did not just LET her disturb others.

This is why I am so angry with this woman for not calming and controlling her child.

But this hump is now past us. The first leg of the flight ends, and we refuel in Singapore. We get back on the plain for a 7 hour flight. Now the girls must stay awake, so they can take full advantage of the entertainment system.

I can't give qantas enough kudos for their entertainment. The seatback tvs in this new plane are an excellent size (for viewing at 14 inches, certainly!) And they are also touch screens. The children get the hang of navigating through them quickly, and there is kids only menu that is more vibrant and just has the stuff relevant to children on it. There are plenty of games, masses of movies and tv shows.

And because you can pause, rewind, fast forward - I can even watch movies myself, inbetween dealing with the girls.

What the makers of this plane forgot to provide though, was some hooks on the back of the chair for those little snack bags that they give you. These are great - a bottle of water, dried fruit, mints and a chocolate bar. But after taking out the water, the bag inevitably gets placed on the seat beside you and then get slides its way under your buttocks. Later you retrieve the flattened package from your behind, and contemplate whether a squashed mars bar is worth attempting to eat.

Apparently, it almost always is. It IS chocolate, after all!

Miss Trouble Pants was right about the airline food though. At the end of the second leg we get a meal that is classed as "light refreshment" and involves what is apparently a chicken sandwich. It was downright awful, and none of us ate it. There is something quite wrong about a white bread sandwich made in Singapore. I hope the 2 year old's mother ate it and got dysentry.

No wait, I don't wish that.

Just some flatulence then. She deserves at leat that.

I only hope she's not on the flight home if she's farting like that!

So, it is exactly one week until I will be leaving on a jet plane. All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

Well, almost.

And to further destroy the illusion, I DO know when I'll be back again.

And I WON'T be lonesome, because I'll have two children with me, to keep me company on the plane, to constantly want to go to the loo, need help working out the seatback games, and want me to get the bag down YET AGAIN to find something new.

Won't THAT be fun.

Mr Boxer Shorts, on the other hand, will be tarting around town for a week like some kind of fricking BACHELOR and then flying out by himself a week later.

Him being on a completely different plane to us actually makes little difference to the whole travelling scenario, since he always sticks the headphones on and settles down to watch a movie the minute he gets on the plane. So actually, this way I get to travel with 2 children instead of 3.

So I wasn't completely lying when I said I was all packed - we very nearly are. And right now I am working on THE MOST essential part of the travel accessories - the children's entertainment bag.

I am actually disappointed that the seatback TV has got so good in planes now. Because when it comes to packing the entertainment bag for two small girls, I really ROCK at it.

What I don't rock at soooo much is remembering to put it in the car before we leave...

Let me tell you a little story!

Three years ago we went out to Sydney for Christmas just as we're doing now. I packed a carry on bag for the girls that was simply the dogs bollocks in terms of contents. There was plasticine, putty, polly pocket and puzzles. For some reason I was really living in the "p"s. There were also colouring books, pencils, pens, chalk, mini blackboards, etch-a-sketch, scratch-a-doodle, dominoes, magnetic hangman and magnetic snakes and ladders. There were story books with accompanying ipods filled with ME reading the stories (with little "dings" to indicate when to turn the page!). There were also other audio books and nursery rhymes to listen to.

And there was Pyriton, to put the buggers to sleep.

The bag was so heavy, because of the books in it - that I was going to have to pretend it was only half that hard to pull along. It was sitting on the kitchen bench, a-waiting to go.

We were half way to the airport, being driven by my father-in-law, when I suddenly said "Did you pack the pink bag that was in the kitchen?"

"No" says Mr Boxer Shorts.

At this point, I began to wail. There was gnashing of teeth, there was howling, there was "no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO NO!!" There was a good deal of crying. My life was ruined. Pretty much.

"There is nothing we can do about it now, so just stop acting like an idiot" says Mr Boxer Shorts. Wrong thing to say to a hysterical woman - or in hindsight - the RIGHT thing to say.

I got on the phone. I rang my neighbours who were now in possession of the house key in order to collect the mail. I asked them to go over to the house and see if the bag was there. It was. I asked them to call a cab and see if they could get it sent to the airport. They could - and they did.

So there we were - sitting in the most God Awful traffic jam on the way to heathrow, with somewhere - half an hour behind us - one of our bits of luggage.

The traffic was so bad that I had to call the airport and ask if I could check in over the phone. Apparently not. But they got the message that we were coming.

We finally got there and checked in. Stunningly, my message had got far enough down the line to ensure that they'd held the bulk head seats for us. We had about 45 minutes until take-off.

And we were still missing one bag.

"We'll wait until half past." I said, gamely. Thinking that it was obviously never going to arrive.

At 25 past I got a call - the cab was here. He also wanted money. Mr Boxer Shorts ran out, paid him £40 (£40!!!), and got the bag. We dashed through customs, the plane was boarding, we dashed on, we sat down.

We breathed again.

As the plane levelled out, I opened the magic bag of stuff. I lined up something for each girl to play with. I sat back and relaxed. Did you know that children have very VERY short attention spans?

"Mummy, I want to play with something else now" said Miss Trouble Pants.

57 seconds down, 23 hours and 3 seconds to go. Holy crap!

And on it went like that, all through the flight. They played with almost nothing for longer than 5 minutes. Mr Boxer Shorts slept and watched 3 movies. I played the role of entertainment recycler.

That was 3 years ago. I don't have to pack so much these days. Fortunately, now the inflight entertainment is much more advanced. You can pause, rewind and fast forward what you want to watch. You NEVER have to wait for the movie to start again on the preset timer. 

Plus at least one of the girls is a fully fledged and capable book reader. For the other one, I've stumbled over a simply fantastic site full of audio books from those wonderful old 78 records we used to get when I was a kid (and a lot BEFORE my time I might add!) called kiddie records weekly. I've downloaded about 20 of them to itunes, including the record sleeve artwork. 

And the girls also have a Nintendo DS each, with about 12 games. I wonder how long those batteries will last?

 Not long enough, that's for sure!

Photo credit: SC Fiasco

We're travelling to sydney this year for christmas, which is brilliant and wonderful and fun, but hideously stressful at the same time. The travelling itself - sitting in weeny seats on a plane by myself with two children - isn't the most stressful part though. What really cranks me up are the bits that come in the run-up to the travel date. The packing, the insurance, the ensuring all documents are up to date, the children's entertainment, and just pretty much living through the chaos.

It was very hard to find flights that we could afford at this time of year, since travelling as a family is very expensive. The kids are as close to full price as you can get without paying for the cheese sandwich as well (kids get much better meals, actually - especially for breakfast. Luckily mine will probably be asleep again when that arrives, so I am looking foward to the blueberry pancakes!). I try and make sure that we get as much quality time out there as we can, and travel in the cheapest slots that exist and also include seats with cushions, and exclude livestock. For this reason, our flights leave Heathrow on Sunday the 6th. That is a mere 11 hours after I finish playing the christmas concert with my orchestra. It's also two weeks before the school holiday begins.

Normally the night before a journey of this magnitude is filled to the edges like an overloaded peanut butter sandwich with packing, repacking, panicking, and then forgetting at least one major item. My night before however, needs to be done at least a week prior to flying. On the day of the concert I need to be totally packed. If we have to wear disposable underwear because I packed it all, so be it.

With 6 weeks to go, I've tried to make sure I've thought of all the things that could go wrong. One of the things that I made sure I checked was the expiry date of the passports. That was lucky, because mine expires the week before we fly. Oh sugar. The renewal time is 10 days from when they receive your form in the mail. It's a good thing the postal service is on strike, isn't it. Normally you would mail the documents, photos and your old passport to the Australian Consulate in London. But there is no way I was trusting my most important document to the Royal Mail, so I had to go and drop it in in person. I also had to get a new passport photo.

The regulations for photographs have changed a lot since my last passport photo. Here is my last one (see left) - actually it's really good, considering that it's a passport photo! And then there is the one before my current one (see right) - I was doing the "look off-to-the-side-and-grin-as-if-someone-just-made-you-laugh-at-the-last-minute-in-the-photo-booth-look". It wasn't true. I can't work out why my head is so small! By the way, I don't have a beard, it's just the cancelled stamp. Honest. Facial hair wasn't a problem back then. 

But now you are not allowed to smile, and your head needs to be fill the area, and be exactly 32mm from head to chin with a few millimetres leeway. The easiest thing to do is to take a good normal photo (front on, not smiling, etc), then upload it to passpic and have them send you back a perfectly suitable version. Unfortunately, they use the Royal Mail.

Now, I hate how my face looks when I am not smiling. I look like the churchill insurance dog. All I can see in the photo is a pair of jowels that reach my shoulders, hanging down like fleshy wrinkled slabs. So I didn't want to go down to snappy snaps and put myself at their disposal. I could just see myself getting thrown out of the shop after rejecting 27 digital snaps on the trot.

So I decided to create my own passport photo. I dug the old blackout blind from the babies room out of the loft, and hung it in the conservatory. Then I set up a stool, and the camera on the tripod and made myself a little studio. With my remote in hand, I took a series of photos with various tilts of my chin, and with range of mouth styles, from totally relaxed - which looks like I've just had a stroke - to an almost (But not quite) smile. Then I loaded them up and had a look.

I had to reject the first lot, as the flash was leaving blue spots in the corners of my eyes, so I tried again without the flash. These were not good either, the lack of flash made the shadows fall into the jowelly bits.

The third attempt was more successful, and I managed to edit the shadow from behind my head too. I doubled it up and saved it as a jpg to take down to snappy snaps. It cost me all of 50p to have printed out (if they'd taken the photo it would have been £6.99). So all in all, it was a successful venture. Or - it will be if the passport services department doesn't reject it! 

So, having sorted the passport out, I now need to do some packing. There's a problem with that... all our suitcases have given up the ghost. They were my parent's old suitcases brought from Australia when I first travelled 13 years ago. So they've started to disintegrate, and as they only have handles, they are more tricky to cart about. Last time I travelled alone with the girls, I ended up having to carry all three by myself as there were no trolleys in the arrivals hall.

On that day, I was the kind of person that con-men prey on. As I struggled towards customs and the exit door at midnight with these three suitcases and two tired and upset children trying to pull 3 carryon bags - a friendly man offered to help me carry the bags. I took one look at this guy with no baggage at all, and knew he was planning on carrying them through the door, then just walking off with them while I greeted my husband. So I smiled, and said "that would be lovely thanks!". And he picked up two bags.

We made our way down the tunnel and there was Mr Boxer Shorts waiting with his arms wide. The girls dropped their bags and leapt (tiredly!) into them. I put down my bag, took several fast catchup steps, placed my hand on his arm as he continued walking away from me, and said "just here will be fine, thanks!". I gave him my brightest smile, and took both bags out of his bag. He looked disconcerted, and wandered off in no particular direction. He didn't go outside the building though. If he HAD managed to steal our bags, he may have found that the 5 year old shorts and summer dresses didn't quite fit him.

So with that experience in mind, I need new bags that can be piled on top of each other and pulled along on wheels. Plus I want them to be quite unique, so that any opportunistic thieves will pass them over for more bland luggage to appropriate. I've found something I like, but it might not be to Mr Boxer Shorts' taste. It's a set of bright pink floral luggage. Because we are very pink in this family it will suit us to the ground. But Mr BS is travelling a week or two later than we are, alone. Do I dare make him carry a bright pink bag too?

But maybe they'd be laughing at me if the knew what was going on in my house while we were away! There are now 12 loads of washing tower in the conservatory, and the washing machine is glaring at me with undisguised disapproval. Only about 4 of those loads are camping clothes however. The rest are made up of duvets, sheets and throws that I covered the sofa's with while we were away.

I think that going on holiday in February in Britain is always going to carry the risk of freezing conditions. Canoeing and sailing were out of the question. But overall, a five day jaunt at Center Parcs turned out to be quite pleasant.

I don't think I'd rush back, not unless the cost was drastically reduced. But having said that, there were a lot of nice aspects to the whole experience. The indoor pool area was perfect for the girls, with two small slides, a salt water pool that went outside, and salt water rapids, a lazy river and wave pool. There were also hot pools dotted about the place, and a toddler area with another two mini slides.

The villa was clean and tidy, with crisp white linen and towels. They had that scent-free starchedness that is the hallmark of hotel pressing. The layout was curious, with the bathroom leading off the back of the kitchen, and our bedroom off the side. The toilet was back out past the front door (in order i guess to fulfill the two doors between kitchen and bathroom rule). Each villa had bike stands out the front for locking your bikes up to, and around the main are where huge bike parking areas. The whole place was designed to be ridden around.

We booked the girls in to the time out clubhouse for 3 hours one afternoon, while harried husband and I retreated to the spa for a glorious two hours of hot and sweating sitting. (In small smelly rooms with other people!) They had a huge choice of steam and heat rooms, including a balinese steam room, a japanese steam room, greek herbal bath, traditional sauna and Indian steam room. The spa was in an outside courtyard in the centre of the complex, which meant going outside to get in it. I think it was about 6 degrees C out there! Once in it was lovely, with massive taps pouring water over you, as well as bubbles and jets.

We managed to stick to our guns, buying our shopping on the way up rather than in their overpriced mini mart, and only eating out one night for dinner. We had our lunch on the last day at cafe rouge, but the children's play area broke as we walked in, and we didn't get served for about 40 minutes. That wasn't too pleasant.

I can't see us going again in the near future, but maybe once the girls are old enough to take part in some of the adventure activities we'd consider it. If we ever do go again, we need to remember that on the last day, the pool is NOT the place to be - as everyone else thinks that's a great thing to do after checking out too. It was overcrowded and difficult.

I have to say though - the staff were very friendly. And we did have a lovely time.

4 days to go, and far to much to do. I've packed the suitcases, and labelled them. I've painted T-shirts with the girls, on the back of which I have put all the relevant details, should a bag fall on my head and knock me out cold.

The girls and I fly out on Saturday 26th, leaving hubby all on his lonesome. I am not particularly looking forward to the joys of 23 hours in transit with two small girls, but I think i have covered all the bases with entertainment.

Now if only the airline could get our tickets right.

I've now got 3 issued e-tickets, one with all three of us on it, but dd2 is a boy, one with dd1 and me on it, and one with dd2 on it. I spent 30 minutes on the phone yesterday trying to make sure that all the things on ticket one were still confirmed on tickets 2 and 3. (They were not.)

The sales rep told me that child meals are automatically assigned when you book a child seat. I beg to differ - that is what I assumed last time, and my children had to eat veal convidient. Which they didn't. No-one mentioned this last time, and I find it ludicrous that I am the one explaining the need to book child meals to the so called expert. Finally she looks it up and then books them.

So I ask to confirm our baggage allowance. She tells me it's 32kg each. Even without looking that up, I know it's wrong. That's business class. Economy is 20kg. Unless somewhere along the way I've been upgraded. (Unlikely.)

I also asked her what the regulations for liquid in hand luggage is. She tells me to google it. Then she remembers the site - baa.com - I wonder why that was so difficult to have had that to hand.

I do google though, looking for any other information specifically related to the tightened security so that I don't turn up with the wrong things in our hand luggage (they wouldn't let us have child safety scissors last time, even though the metal ends are flat and plastic wrapped, and they are about as sharp as a spoon. And technically - according to their list - they were allowed).

And what do I find?

In one breach, which was given prominent media attention, a luggage handler drove across the tarmac at Sydney's airport wearing a camel costume taken from a passenger's luggage.

Sheesh.

I hope we don't have to sit next to the camel. My daughters are terrified of men in suits!

When you take 2 children on a 24 hour flight to Sydney - alone.

Oh my, I must be a sucker for punishment. I am taking the girls to Sydney, leaving Paul here in London to work. We'll be over there for a month. The month over there will be fun, even though it's going to be winter. Winter in Sydney isn't exactly that taxing. At least you can still go out and about and don't have to crack the ice off the swings in the park.

The flying over on the hand, is a completely different kettle of fish! The people in front and behind us are probably going to hate us - even if they don't play up. A 3 year old and a 5 year old, with very short attention spans can be noisy.

Hopefully I've got the entertainment covered, I've been recording myself reading their books (with 'dings' to indicate page turns!) and I am converting them to mp3s. I'll have my nano and paul's nano loaded with the same stories and songs. I've never actually timed the battery life on my nano, but it's got to beat the battery life on my original ipod (it's exactly 0 minutes).

To plug into the nano, two headsets with a splitter so that they can listen at the same time. The headsets fit them, which is more than I can say for the plane headsets. Last time we flew I had to wedge a sock under them, on top of Molly's head in order to get them to stay. And that wasn't really successful anyway.

Plus we get video on demand, and they are playing happy feet. That's the only movie that they are showing that is suitable for Jamie to watch... Kids love repetition, I just hope she is happy to watch it 10 times. Molly can also watch a Night at the Museum, which she's seen before.

And there are the games on the seat back tvs - there will be at least one that Molly can play. And the cartoon tv channel.

So, that's about 4 hours entertainment we've covered, right!?

Also packed in the bag will be a similar conglomeration to last time - putty, plasticine, board games, polly pocket, chalk board, doodle pads, pencils, paper, rub downs, cards, dinosaurs in slime (ew) and a kinder egg or two.

Wish me luck.