This is by far the most innovative loaf of sliced bread I've ever bought.

It has its own hanging loop!

Now you can take your toast into the shower!

sorry 'bout yesterday's post, was on downer. As much as I adore spending time with baby Smudge sometimes I just get a bit frustrated 'cos I'm not using my brain and we don't get out much. Also it's just so hard to get anything done while you are looking after a baby. So there is stuff I need to do, like finding work (fairly urgent, or I will soon be on zero income) and it's just not feasible. I need to believe in my business again, I need to feel confident that I can get it back up and running, but it's hard when I haven't done it for so long and I can't get around to the basic tasks like getting my website off the ground or tendering for contracts. I spend every spare moment doing laundry like a maniac, because the baby creates so much goddamn washing. Parsley comes home and regales me with tales of his day and all I have to report is "I've done some washing" or "Smudge did three poos today". Riveting stuff.

Anyway I shall stop whingeing because I am truly grateful for what I've got and just got in a bit of a state yesterday because I was feeling that I wasn't important. But that makes me a silly billy because without me where would Smudge be? In a very very pooey nappy that's where! And I can't speak for ParsleySage but I suppose I must be important to him too. A man needs clean socks after all!!

just
become
invisible
again

do i matter?

For your information and delectation, I present: how to prepare and cook your own haggis, from 'A Feast of Scotland' cookery book by Janet Warren.

Thoroughly wash the stomach bag in cold water.

(If that bit makes you feel ill, I wouldn't go any further.)

Turn it inside out and scald it, then scrape the surface with a knife. (mmmmmmmm!!)
Soak it in cold salted water overnight.  Next day remove the bag from the water and leave it on one side while preparing the filling.

Wash the pluck.  (No idea!)  Put it into a pan, with the windpipe hanging over the side (gulp) of the bowl to let out any impurities. (eugghhh!!)
Cover the pluck with cold water, add 1 teaspoon of salt and bring the water to the boil.  Skim the surface, then simmer for 1 1/2 - 2 hours. 
Meanwhile parboil the onions, drain, reserving the liquid, and chop them roughly.  Also toast the pinhead oatmeal until golden brown.

Drain the pluck when ready and cut away the windpipe and any excess gristle (oh my lord).  Mince half the liver with all the heart (ok, enough now. I mean it!) and lights (don't know, don't want to know), then stir in the shredded suet, the toasted oatmeal and the onions.  Season well with salt and pepper.  Moisten with as much of the onion or pluck water (I'll give you pluck water!) as necessary to make the mixture soft.

With the rough surface of the bag outside (please stop!) fill it just over half full - the oatmeal will swell during cooking - and sew the ends together with the trussing needle (nooooooooo) and fine string.  Prick the bag in places with the needle. 

There you go, boys and girls.  Bon appetit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Was walking through town with the pram and 3 young lads nudged each other and muttered "MILF!" as I walked by.

It was obscene but it did make me smile.

Off to Sainsbury's this afternoon.

Just been checking the list:

(In ParsleySage's handwriting)
Whore Licks.

(In my handwriting)
Courgette.
Lasting Satisfaction.

Well - what can I say?

I do like to sup on nice hot milky fluid when I can't sleep at night! It ain't my fault that Parsley can't spell.

And it was a very silly name for Shape to call their yogurts, too.

It is nap time for Smudge, the boy who hates going to bed.

I draw the curtains and dim the lights. I lay Smudge in his cot and tuck him in with his favourite teddy, Barrett Bear. I kiss him gently on the forehead and pop a dummy in his mouth.

His current favourite occupation is blowing raspberries, so I put my finger on the dummy for a few seconds to encourage him to start sucking on it instead of spitting it out. (I can already feel this anecdote going off at a tangent in juzzzy's head, but I shall soldier on).

The minute I remove my finger, Smudge blows hard and out pops the dummy and lands on his chest.

"Hahahahahahaha," he cackles, quite distinctly, looking up at me and grinning expectantly like a stand up comedian down the YMCA on talent night.

There may be trouble ahead!

Parsley's been changing nappies again. Of course I always, always appreciate him doing stuff but...

It's a good job I love him so very very very very much, isn't it?

Cooked a civilised Sunday Saturday night roast last night for me, Parsley and Taf. We are enjoying nice family conversation. Taf mentions a little girl at his nursery, who goes by the name of Kayleigh. (Actually she doesn't, but I think it's best to protect her identity).

Referring to the different groups of children at Taf's nursery, Parsley asks politely:

"Is Kayleigh a Busy Bee?"

"No," says Taf. Then continues: "She's a bit rough."

Being very badly behaved and prone to giggling, Parsley and I both snort with laughter, which upsets Taf greatly. He says,

"It's not funny!"

and then adds, self righteously,

"It's not nice to laugh at people who are rough."

Which, indeed, it isn't.

Unfortunately though, I did have to leave the room and cry with laughter in the living room.

I set a very poor example. Bad stepmummy, bad!

Eating someone else's chocolates. For breakfast.

It's not that I lack chocolatey treats among my personal possessions. Why, only yesterday morelearning oops ParsleySage came home with a gift he had purchased expressly to tantalise the taste buds of a girl with the superior inclinations of his delightful 6p.

I feel cherished now!

*At this juncture I pause in order to mop a copious pool of baby vomit from inside my nursing bra, whence Smudge has just deposited it with highly selective aim. Can one possibly desire a woman with baby sick down her cleavage? I suspect not. In the past, having warm wet body fluids spurting down my cleavage has been a different experience entirely. However, I digress.*

It's not just that I covet PS's Christmas chocs (for the record, Thorntons Mint Collection is proaly my idea of choc heaven - and you try typing probably on PS's keyoard with the non functioning 'b'). It's soul food after baby Smudge had one of his Bad Nights.

He's now sat eside me on the sofa, complaining about eing tired (join the queue, rat boy). In a cursory effort to do something useful I have changed his nappy (reuseable, bien sur. We'll have no environmental destruction here.), dressed him in yesterday's trousers, a stripey top and, more recently, a bib (horse, stable, bolted). However, my attempts to be productive stop short at the washing up because I fear I shall cry. The kitchen stinks of last night's curry, the bin is overflowing and every visible surface is covered in debris. Taf will be here in an hour and a half, I haven't washed my hair for four days and PS is in bed recovering from having been up half the night watching skiiiiiiiiiiing* with insomniac baby.

*When I was 9 we were playing Hangman with a sports theme in class. No one could guess my sport so Mrs Underwood asked me to give a clue. I said "it's got two 'i's together in the middle" and she said "There aren't any words with two 'i's together in the middle".

Alas, I can't rememer why I started this post and now I have to go. Smudge is grunting in a way which means "put me down for a nap or I will make your life hell for the rest of the day". As opposed to the grunts which mean "mmm, this is a sticky one" since he did three of those yesterday.

Tootle pip.

Welcome to the Alliance & Leicester card activation line!

Six: I'm phoning to activate my card.
A&L: Can I have the... [words unidentifiable due to screaming baby on my lap]
Six: Hold on, I just need to put my baby down.
[A moment later]
Six: Sorry... what did you ask me for?
A&L: [impatiently, in the voice of one who does not have children] Your card number.
[Six obligingly recites number and then answers a series of security questions]
A&L: That's just going through now. It will take a few minutes. Now then... are you aware of the identity fraud problem? Perhaps you have heard about it on TV?
Six: Er, yeah.
A&L: What have you heard?
Six: Pardon?
A&L: What kind of stuff have you heard?
Six: Why is this relevant?
A&L: Well... er... we're trying to establish a picture of our customers' awareness of identity fraud.
Six: Well I've heard what everyone else has heard.
A&L: The thing is you see, we do offer identity fraud protection.
Six: Ah.
A&L: There are two levels. You can have blah blah blah or blah blah more expensive blah. Personally I would recommend blah blah more expensive blah, I really would.
Six: So you are actually trying to sell me something.
A&L: Well...
Six: No thanks.
A&L: Can I ask why not?
Six: Because my baby is crying.
A&L: Oh.
[pause. Smudge wails obligingly]
A&L: Your card's gone through now.
Six: Thanks. Bye.

Honestly. You can't even make a frickin phone call (at my own bleedin expense) without some dullard trying to capitalise on your potential misfortune.

I don't know what made me think of this but it's one of those enduring memories that always make you laugh.

The year: About 1981.

The scene: Six and Boglet are sitting on the platform on top of the scaffolding out the back of Six's house. I have no memory whatsoever of what the scaffolding was doing there, but it was the full height of the house and we used to climb right to the top, no matter how many faces Mummy Sixpence pulled about it.

Anyway, from there we have a cracking view into the house of the P family next door. As we discover when Scott P (aged about the same as me, which is 10) hails into view, damply, wrapped in a bath towel, which he then removes and proceeds to give himself a good rub down.

As you can imagine we were giggling so much we nearly fell off the scaffolding. But things got even better when his big bro (hell yeah), Jason P, enters the room in the same attire and follows suit (or should that be follows birthday suit).

Boglet and I were clutching each other with hysterical laughter by now but one of them must have seen us because suddenly they both make a swift exit and 60 seconds later Mrs P (peroxide blonde, essex girl, lots of gold jewellery, black jumpsuit) appears in her back garden and screeches up at us like Barbara fookin Windsor:

"Are you lookin at MY BOYS comin in from their bath?"

I'll never know how we made it down off that scaffolding. It still makes me cry with laughter now.

It must have upset them, 'cos they moved to Spain after that.

Parsley celebrates the fact that he managed to empty his load* without me noticing.

*aka the kitchen bin

and other great Beatles numbers.

I am hereby proposing that Baby Boco be renamed Smudge in blogworld, as that's what we call him at home. However, I feel this renaming presents an opportune moment to appoint blogparents to guide him through the murky quagmire of cyberlife.

Therefore, we are seeking a Blogfather and Blogmother. If you wish to apply, please comment on this post outlining your suitability for the role and how you would propose to bring up your blogson Smudge (aka Boco) in a bloglike fashion, in accordance with the word of blog.

I look forward to receiving your application.

Last night I dreamt I was on the run from the law and I had to run away and live somewhere else and could only communicate with ParsleySage through the medium of Blog. It was all very clever. I assumed a new Blog identity wot was so tricksy that only PS would know it was me. I shan't tell you what it was in case I ever need to use it.

In other news... I am currently eating a microwave meal for one. They always scald your tongue to pieces. It's PS's night to teach night school which means I'm on my own with the babe who took an hour and a half to get to sleep as he had nasty vaccinations in his leg today and is out of sorts. I sang Silent Night 46 times which is not easy when you are snivelling with frustration (and that was just me).

I have had long hair all my life but I think I may have to have it off *pause for Old-Nick to stop sniggering* as the baby keeps grabbing it in his tiny baby fists and yanking it as hard as he can. "Wear a ponytail" I hear the female readership cry but unfortunately I am not much cop with Doing Stuff To Hair as I seem to be missing that bit of the female genes and anyway, a ponytail makes me look a bit like Margot Fonteyn with jetlag.

Oh look... it's after eight, and by coincidence I have some leftover Christmas chocolates about my person ideally suited to such an occasion.

*munch*

The rain hammered down on the steamed-up windows of my Honda Civic as ParsleySage and I met in a car park this Monday lunchtime.

It was just like when we were courting! 

Only with slightly less snogging.

And in those days, the primary objective of our meeting wasn't to go and see the bank manager.

Baby Boco (aka Vomiting Vince) just managed to vomit into the back pocket of his own jeans, while he was wearing them.

He's such a gifted child.