How to behave in the nude **warning - not for little eyes!**

We women are strange creatures *cue men across the globe agreeing like a sea of nodding dogs*. I was at the gym this morning, and was getting myself dried after a shower, when a woman walked in and put her stuff down on the bench. Until this point I had been on my own, and quite happily skipping about in the nude. Well, not actually skipping, that would have been a bit strange. But as soon as she came in, I yanked the towel up and began the 'trying-to-get-dressed-under-a-towel dance', like I was in the middle of a crowded beach. I go to the gym 3 or 4 times a week, and keep myself in fairly decent shape, so why I was suddenly overcome with modesty, like I was covered in scales and warts the size of satsumas. Which I'm not, by the way. I could get into a deep debate about how women are made to feel insecure thanks to all the airbrushed images we are subjected to in the media blah blah blah. But the fundamental difference is that men do not give a rats ass. There's none of the awkwardness, the fretting over cellulite, surreptitiously comparing boobs while trying to hold a conversation about how much things at Asda have gone up recently. In fact, I think this pretty much sums the two genders up perfectly...

HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A WOMAN:

• take off clothes and place them sectioned in a laundry basket according to colour.
• walk to bathroom wearing dressing gown
• if you see husband along the way cover up any exposed areas
• look at your physique in the mirror, make mental note to do more leg lifts/sit-ups in the morning and wonder if bingo wings are bigger than they were last week
• get in the shower
• use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah and pumice stone
• wash your hair once with sage and cucumber shampoo with 43 added vitamins
• condition your hair with grapefruit and mint-enhanced conditioner
• wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for ten minutes until red and close to bleeding
• wash the rest of your body with gingernut and jaffa cake body wash
• shave armpits and legs
• turn off shower
• sponge off all wet surfaces in the shower
• spray mould spots with tile cleaner
• dry with towel the size of a small country
• wrap hair in super absorbent towel
• return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head
• if you see husband along the way cover up any exposed areas
• spend 40 minutes drying hair with hand held jet engine

HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A MAN:

• take clothes off while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave in a pile on floor
• walk naked to the bathroom
• if you see wife along the way, shake your willy and make a "woo-hoo" sound
• admire your physique in the mirror and the size of your manhood. Scratch backside
• get in shower
• wash your face
• wash your armpits
• blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse the snot off
• spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area
• wash your hair with stuff from the bottle nearest to hand
• make a shampoo mohawk
• pee like a racehorse and schusch the yellow water down the drain with your feet
• rinse and get out of the shower
• fail to notice water on the floor because the curtain was hanging out of the bath
• admire size of manhood in mirror again
• leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on
• return to bedroom with towel around waist
• if you pass wife, pull off towel and make a "woo-hoo" sound as you shake your willy at her
• throw wet towel on bed
• run fingers through hair twice to dry it

And if you needed further proof that men truly are a different species when it comes to nudity...

 

I rest my case.

It could be MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Being skint is pants. I know I shouldn't really complain; we're not completely impoverished to the point where Charlie has to wear his sisters handmedowns (unless I'm feeling particularly cruel), or having to sell body parts on Ebay. Yet. But as I look out the window at the rain, and our blue bin being blown across the road like it's got a motor and someone very small driving it around, I yearn to be able to afford to just sod right off somewhere hot. Being on one wage, things are tight at times, and (like many others) I've been trying to economise. Aldi is good, but I can't manage to get a whole weekly shop there so end up popping to Asda for lettuce, and come out with £20 worth of sweets and a jumper.

When it comes to the food shopping, it's quite difficult to make cutbacks when you're a) an impulsive bi-polar who has as much self-control in a shop as a dog on heat at Crufts and b) you're a bit of a food snob. I refuse to compromise on certain things, because in many cases it's a false economy. Cheap meat has more fat on it than erm, something very fat. Economy bread tastes like cotton wool. And Smartprice chopped tomatoes are basically tins full of all the cores from the tomatoes that go into the decent brands.

As I check my bank balance, I can't help but wistfully dream of what I could do with a decent lottery win. I wouldn't be greedy about it - I'd be happy with a few million. Actually, I'd be happy with twenty quid at the minute, but you know what I mean. A holiday would be the first thing on the list, somewhere very hot and luxurious, where I'd lay roasting myself while minions brought me beer and Haribo. *Sigh*. Of course, I'd pay for the very finest boarding kennels for the cats...and the kids. Only the best for my lot! When I get back I'll go shopping for a new car, and for new clothes to go new car shopping in. I'm still undecided about a new house. Part of me can see myself as Lady of the Manor, allowing the cats to live in the West Wing and a private cinema/gym/bar in the East Wing. But then another part doesn't want to leave this house. Maybe I could offer him-next-door lots of money to move out, and just have his house as well?  Plus, that way I wouldn't have to listen to his girlfriend and her excessively loud laugh. Yes, I'm liking that idea. Maybe I would buy The Husband a new car, if he was nice to me. If he wasn't nice I'd just set a bit of cash aside for him to get his aircon fixed and for the regular turnover of tyres his car seems to have. I'd pay for the kids to have proper haircuts at a top salon, instead of having to hold them down chanting "Head up! Sit still or I'll cut your ears off!" as they get DIY trims.

The only tiny thing standing between me and a life of luxury is odds of 1 in 13,983,816. Oh, and buying an actual ticket. That might help...

I'm a 'celebrity'...get me a career revival!

Most reality tv bores the bellybutton fluff out of me. I stopped watching 'Big Brother' years ago, mainly because watching a houseful of ego's with enough talent between them to fill a thimble is about as much a form of entertainment as picking the hard skin off my feet. The so called 'celebrity' version of it is no better, and is cringeworthy for all the wrong reasons. But once a year, I make an exception. The hilarious Geordie munchkins Ant'n'Dec (think I've finally grasped which is which thanks to Ant always standing on the left, like his name-see!) bring some sunshine into the dark winter days in the form of 'I'm a Celebrity - get me out of here!'. I bloody love it! Whoever thought of it is a genius. Even The Husband, who doesn't watch crap like that, sits down and says "I'll just watch this bit and then I'll go and wash the pots" and is still there an hour later.

Taking a mixed bag of  (mostly) famous, privileged people into the middle of the hot, humid, creepy-crawly filled (and I know - I've been) Australian rainforest is brilliant viewing and I never tire of it. Granted, there are a few no-marks on that programme too, but there's nothing like having to crap in a hole in the ground and eating possums bumholes in order to eat to level the playing field! There are a couple of them in this year who I've no idea about. The lanky posh bloke with legs like knotted string is from another reality show, so I'm clueless about him. And the female mp means nothing to me, other than she looks a bit like Bianca's mum Carol in Eastenders. I didn't know much about David Haye either, but I now know is a thoroughly nice man. With the abs of a superhero and buttocks like two hardboiled eggs in clingfilm. Limahl ("from the 80's" he said, like he'd just arrived in a time machine) is literally the most boring man ever to walk the earth. Everything about him makes me want to take a nap. But Helen Flanagan - her what was Rosie off of Corrie before she left to become a full time WAG - is hilarious. Mostly unintentionally. She was made for programmes like this - the public cruelly voting her in for every bushtucker trial, just to see her shrieking like a big blouse and failing miserably. Despite looking like a tramp and smelling like dirty bums, she's still so aware of the cameras on her that she walks round pouting like a fish that's been yanked out the tank.

there isn't a thing I don't like about this programme. Even when I'm dry heaving along with the eating trials, I love it. I get somewhat disappointed when some of them are ruled out of trials on 'medical grounds' (which is a nice way of saying they're too old or fat), but then you get a classic televisual moment like Rosemary Shrager trumping in Limahls face when they'd only been acquainted for about ten minutes. Brilliant. And the best thing of all? Knowing that there will always be a constant stream of celebs so desperate for cash or airtime that they'll do practically anything. Bring it on!

When I were a lad..

Thanks to the constant barrage of toy adverts on kids tv, my two have been chanting their mantra "I want that for Christmas!" for what feels like months. Although The Boychild still doesn't really understand what Christmas is actually about, so he's been saying it when he sees adverts for crisps and yogurt, bless him. And I know I'm showing my age but Sweet baby Jesus! Everything is extortionate! The crappiest plastic toys cost an absolute fortune! I guess I should be grateful that my two are still at an age where they're not demanding a widescreen tv and blue-ray player - each - or the latest games console. I could buy everything from the Pound shops and leave the price tags on, and they wouldn't know the difference (cue evil laugh). I wouldn't; things haven't quite got that bad. Yet.

I must admit, now we've got the kids, Christmas has become quite exciting again. There's a phase in your life when it's all a bit pants - apart from your mum and best mate, people have stopped buying you presents because you're too old, and you have to cook your own Christmas dinner. But when you have kids, you get excited because they are, and it reminds you of what it used to be like all those years ago. I used to go to bed at 5pm on Christmas Eve, because my mum used to say "the sooner you're in bed, the sooner Santa will come!". So there I would lie - for about 4 hours usually - willing myself to get to sleep. Of course, I would be awake at insane o'clock, like kids across the world, practically weeing myself with excitement. I remember once getting out of bed, clicking on the light and seeing that "He's been!", and unwrapping all of my presents like a miniature tornado. And then midway through my first selection box mum coming in and giving me the mother of all rollickings because it was 2.30am.  Well, if Santa was stupid enough to leave my presents in my bedroom...!

I still believed in Santa until an age that is probably deemed ridiculous by todays standards. And even when an older friend of mine, Paul, told me that he didn't really exist, my mum argued with him with a fury never before seen in an attempt to keep the pretence going for a little longer. The kids today seem to grow up so much faster that I wonder how many years we have to enjoy the glorious innocence of it all. But for now, I shall revel in the traditions of old - leaving a bottle of Rekorderlig and box of Matchmakers out for Santa on Christmas eve (I've heard he doesn't like sherry and mince pies anymore) and try to forget that I'll hardly get any presents and will be in the kitchen for 4 hours on Christmas day, cooking a dinner the kids won't touch because they're desperate to get back to their ridiculously expensive bits of crappy plastic. Magic.

What a coincedence!

I don't know that I'm a big believer in fate. Nor do I entirely believe you make your own luck. Some people seem to have more than their fair share of suffering, while others by comparison seem to be born lucky. I read an article recently which claimed people who open themselves up to chance encounters increase their chances of good things happening. Which I suppose makes sense, but surely that also opens you up to the likelihood of bad things happening too? Anyhoo. No matter what you believe, there are some things that happen in life that make you go a bit *brrrrrrr*. Take today for example. I was merrily cleaning out the cat trays (actually, merrily is probably the wrong choice of word when describing scraping cat crap into the bin) and all the time I had Alicia Keys new song 'Girl on fire' in my head. I was still singing it when I got into the car to go to the gym, and as I turned the key in the ignition the radio came on - with Alicia Keys new song! There I sat, momentarily paralysed by the thought that I may have developed magical powers overnight.

It's not the first time weirdy things have happened to me (which I'm sure comes as no surprise to my friends!), and having spoken to other people I am convinced this phenomena is quite widespread. When I lived with my parents I frequently used to get the feeling the phone would ring, and it did. This ability seemed to stay at that house though as I've not experienced it since. There were also  several instances where I lost something that I desperately needed to find (homework, credit card, a toddler) and out comes the failsafe prayer - 'Dear God, if you help me find my homework/credit card/toddler I promise I'll never swear again/ stop bringing animals home' - that sort of thing. And it worked, moments later the lost item would surface as if by magic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be psychic or anything or saying that there's some sort of divine intervention helping me; I once thought my hamster was hibernating so left it by the gas fire to warm him up and hopefully revive him. But no, he was just dead. Nearly singed, and dead. 

I watched a documentary a few years ago about a psychic who was undoubtedly very good; at reading minds or Googling people to find out when their Aunty Beryl died, I'm not sure, but he was very convincing. And what was even more convincing was that he didn't charge through the nose to sit in someone's house throwing names and places around hoping to hit the nail on the head. He did it all for free, and made his money writing books on his 'psychic experiences'. I believe that 99.9% of so called psychics are nothing more than money grabbing opportunists, who use peoples grief and desire to obtain some comfort to their own advantage. The vast majority of people who want the services of psychics are bereaved, and there are countless ways of finding clues as to who and when - the internet, photos around the house, body language and verbal clues. The experts know what they're looking for and how to find it. And they know that the person sat in front of them, wringing their hands with hope all over their face, either believes what they're saying, or wants to, which is just as effective. I guess if it gives the bereaved peace of mind, then there is a silver lining, but it's the taking money under false pretences that gets me.

So suffice it to say, despite my obvious abilities and links to the psychic world, I'll not be setting myself up as 'Mystic Bobs' anytime soon. Because although I could tell you when your phone's going to ring and what song will be on the radio when you get in the car, there is so much still to learn. I'll not be satisfied until I've honed my 'predicting hamster deaths' abilities. Watch this space.

Say Cheese!

For an old bird, I don't think I'm in bad nick. With a bit of slap and some forgiving lighting ( semi darkness, a bit of alcohol and poor eyesight in the beholder doesn't hurt either) I'm not too shabby. So why do I have to be the most unphotogenic person in the world? Stick me in front of a lense and it all goes wrong. What I hope is a cheeky 'girl next door' grin actually makes me look like a maniac. If I'm captured mid-laugh, I look like I've had way too much Ribena and need a lie down. What is 'good bone structure' in real life gives me the sharp features of Winnie the Witch once captured by 8megapixels.

My mum gave up trying to look decent in photos years ago, bless her, and consistently pulls a 'look at me, I'm a bit drunk and lairy!' face. Which is fine, of course, if you are a bit drunk and lairy, but I had to step in and stop her giving (what is known to schoolkids everywhere as ) 'The Chin' in our wedding photographs. It's safe to say this affliction runs in our family as The Daughter is also exhibiting the same symptoms. When she was a toddler she had a lovely smile for photos; not a glimpse of self-consciousness. But over the past year or so she's become so aware of the camera and pulls the most awful fake smiles. I've had to politely decline her last two school photographs because they were, quite frankly hideous.  Surely professional photographers are able to get even the most reluctant child to relax and smile, but not my girl. Oh no. She had a smile so mean it could turn you to stone, and eyes like slits because she hates the flash. In real life she's so pretty and animated and I wish photographs reflected that instead of turning her into a freaky little bean.

The Husband says that photos don't do me justice, but he has to say that - it was one of the conditions of us getting married that he told me ego-boosting falsehoods as often as possible. Of course I know he's lying but I have to try and believe him. If I thought I actually walked around looking like a maniacal Winne the Witch on a sugar high, I would start saving for plastic surgery right now! I wonder how much I've got in that penny jar...?

Food, glorious food

The Daughter hates mushrooms. She hates a lot of things, food-wise, but she really hates mushrooms. So imagine my confusion when, as we were in Asda shopping this morning, I asked her what she wanted for lunch and she said "mushroom soup". I didn't question her choice until after she'd finished eating. "Why is it you turn your nose up at anything I cook that has mushrooms in it, but you've just eaten a bowl of mushroom soup?" I asked. She gave me that withering 'Crikey, you're a moron mother' look and said "Well, it's not like it's a bowl of mushrooms is it?!". Hiding my smirk behind my hand so as not to provoke her rage further I steeled myself and said "Yes, that's exactly what it is sweetheart; mushrooms, vegetable stock and a bit of cream". She was visibly torn. Should she flounce off upstairs, having been proved wrong? Or should she man up - stay and grudgingly accept that, yes, she did indeed like something she's been painstakingly picking out of meals for the past two years? She chose the middle ground and simply said "Humph. S'pose they're ok in tiny pieces". I went solemnly into the kitchen and did a small celebration dance of smugness.

The Husband was vegetable-repellant until he moved in with me, it's a wonder he didn't hit adulthood with scurvy, rickets and severe anaemia. And I'm determined the kids aren't going to grow up eating nothing but supernoodles and chicken nuggets. I've always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with food, these days mainly it's the 'love' side. I think back to what I was allowed to get away with eating (or not eating, as was fairly often the case) as a child and it's nothing short of horrific. I never used to have breakfast; occasionally choosing a bag of beef Monster Munch to eat on the way to school. Lunch would be a sausage roll and chips and a cream doughnut - every day!, or tomato ketchup sandwiches if I took pack up. I was never made to eat any fruit or veg, and my 'passing fancies' were ignored. Fancies like eating nothing but banana flavoured toffees for a week. Or the one where I ate nothing but boiled white cabbage with salt and pepper. This was actually quite nice...for a day or two. It wasn't until I got to University, and lost a ridiculous amount of weight by eating nothing but the odd cheese toastie, that I realised my eating habits were abysmal and actually began to crave fruit and veg.

Of course, the majority of kids go through fussy stages, and it's during these times that I believe you should never give in to their whims just to get them eating something. I would rather my two ate a few bites of something healthy than a plateful of something with the nutritional value of Lego. It's even more important when you have kids, that you encourage them to eat well. And the best way to do that is to lead by example. How can you expect your kids to tuck in to boring veg (and let's face it, most people throw their veg down while it's piping hot because as soon as it gets cold it's total ming) when you're sitting there eating cheap hotdogs made of pigs bumholes, and 'potato' in the shape of numbers and letters? Girls have it hard enough these days, without the issues of diet and appearance following them round. I wish someone had told me as a teenager that it's better to eat well and have a strong, healthy body, than it is to survive on diet Coke, ciggies and Haribo because you don't want a fat bum.

Those who know me know that I can put a serious amount of food away, and a fair bit of it is crap I admit. It's just that I save the crap for after the kids have gone to bed. Partly for their own health benefits, but mainly because I'm a greedy cow and I don't want to share! But I'm healthy, and fit, and a better role model now than I ever would have been years ago. So tomorrow I shall continue with my small but significant victory, and serve up something with mushroom...in tiny pieces of course!