Drowning Dog – attempt II and other trucs.


, ,


Hello there and good afternoon.

I’ve just finished my online purchases of more tat for the house whilst the Husband isn’t looking. Do you know how quickly I can punch my bank card numbers into this computer without being caught? Do you also realise how my greed need for these purchases is only short term – i.e. 5 mins after throwing money down the toilet, I’ve forgotten all about it until

‘Zere ees a man at le door avec beaucoup de packages. What ‘ave you been buying?‘ –

it is a good question and my answer of ‘erm…..not much and maybe someone sent it to me as a present?’  is surely followed by

‘why do you keep buying so much merde?’ – the truth hurts? I’ll say but probably not as much as a depleting without being replenished bank account.

Anyway, let me tell you what happened one morning during our holiday in the Department of Somewhere with Lidl Supermarket Dog.

The beach was deserted. The clouds were low, full and very grey – I would go as far to say, moody (truly without trying to sound like a wally).  The grass of the dunes rippled by the gusts of winds changed from green to yellow to silver in colour.  The tide was in and the sea was choppy.


Having learned the hard ( shameful, wet and cold) lesson of letting Lidl off the leash for a swim a few weeks before, I herded both dogs towards the dunes for some fun, SAFE, no danger of getting wet or drowning, play.


They scurried up the dune and were lost in the grasses.  I followed (however, I can’t apply my movement as a scurry – more along the lines of an elephant trying to climb up and out of a large……very large…..HUGE..bowl of blancmange).

We remained within the safety of the dunes, far enough away from the sea for Lidl to not be able to make a 2nd attempt at swimming the (English….how the French hate that) channel.

Just before we came to the end of our walk and just as I was about to put their leashes back on, that bastard adventurous dog made a break for it up and over the last high dune towards………horror of horrors, the place where the estuary meets the sea.


Maisy gulped and managed to look ashamed on behalf of her hairy sister.

We ran up and over that last dune only to see Lidl supermarket dog begin to swim from the fairly calm estuary water towards the open sea.

It had started to rain.

The wind was now howling and gale force.

I took off my shoes and some clothes and went in screaming Lidl’s name.

The shock of the water temperature stopped me for a few seconds. I took in a breath and then it felt like my lungs reduced in capacity; it was ARCTIC in that water.

Lidl was having a ball. Swimming around and around. Looking at me quizzically (surely, dogs can do this….). I looked at her quizzically (how far around her thick neck will my hands reach whilst I throttle her).  My feet were slipping and sinking into some oozy mush.

She swam out further.

The cold of the water was punishing. The blood began to drain out from my fingertips. I was now in up to my shoulders.

The storm continued.

Im going to drown or die of hypothermia and then who will write my blog?


If I die, people will realise just what a dirty chaotic house I live in and how slack I am at paperwork

These thoughts gave me the push to survive.

So I made one last water-slow leap forward and grabbed her collar and dragged her very wet and soggy derriere out of that water.

What I didn’t call her as I started to take off my wet clothes and exposed parts of my very white body to some dog walker who must have been laughing at me from the dunes and who happened to walk past just as I started stripping, is of little import.

The storm worsened.

We had to walk at least a mile back along the beach without any respite from the sand blasting wind and rain.

When I got back home and by now I was so cold that I was dizzy and wanting to vomit, the Prof said to me:

‘I told you not to let her go back near the water.’

which was helpful…………

A few days later, we revisited the place of the second almost drowning and I saw, as the tide was out, exactly what I had been standing in:


I started to look up about dogs and drowning and found the piece which said:

Labradors are natural swimmers and have the ability to swim for hours. Only a total idiot of an owner would risk going in after them as even their tails act like a water propellor.

I’ll remember that next summer.

Right, now the bottle of bleach which I put on the workbench to begin burning and scraping the peepee and caca off the toilets is starting to shame me in the longevity of its position out of the cupboard that I’m off to put it back……..ok, I’m off to clean…..off to clean…..really…..

Until next time.

By the way, go crazy today, post me a comment.


Various from the re-Crippled

(For anyone that i’ve emailed this week, don’t bother reading this blog as I’ve already exhausted your sympathy with my moaning about my back. For anyone else, read on and sympathise!!!!!)

Blog, good afternoon and a g’day to all of my followers especially Story time with John and Felix O’Shea (maybe not a follower but now that I’ve applied some pressure…)who between them have given me some (blog) laughter on an otherwise pain filled Sunday (except when Fatty ran into my room, stumbled and 3 of his toes ended up inSIDE the posterior of the sleeping Lidl Supermarket Dog… rude awakening indeed. Entre nous, I also laughed whilst watching the Gumball cartoon on Cartoon Network even if the kids weren’t there. Bloody funny that show).

Crippled Again

Life can be cruel.

So, as I knew that Fatty was about to start school (and I’ve been waiting three years for this to happen), I ordered some new running shoes expecting to be able to run a marathon in the way that some men of a certain age still believe they can fit into their 20 year old, size 28 waist jeans? Actually, no. Optimist I may be; deluded? I wouldn’t say never but only rarely.

However, my super duper run like the wind shoes remain unused as:

5 months on from The Stone Steps Bounce and near Ruin, I find myself immobile again. At least it’s different this time. If my spine were representing a letter from the alphabet, it would be an S…….could be worse….could be a Z …heaven forbid, a W.  Funnily enough, I’ve learned from the tongue yanking, ear shoving, coccyx tickling experience with the local osteopath (see post The long road to recovery) and will try a new guy on Tuesday. Watch this space.

s shape spine


The 5 boys – an update

The Prodigal

Out of sight out of mind. Sounds harsh? Ok, he is in mind but as I can’t see or hear what he is getting up to, I can’t worry too much about it (except in the long, dark hours of middle night).  He has moved into a flat belonging to some person who lives somewhere in London. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number when I get it. mum’ and ‘yeah, everything is great.’

As with the osteo appointment; WATCH THIS SPACE

The Face

Has been gallivanting in style. Most of his summer was spent in England and he enjoyed two weeks in Sri Lanka.

‘How was it, Face?’

‘yeah…..it was ….erm…….yeah, it was hot.’

I’m hoping that at the start of this new school year, we reach a break through on the understanding of what is homework and what is revision and the difference between the two.

‘So, Face, do you have lots of homework AND revision for this weekend?’

‘Nah, I did it on Thursday.’

Start as you mean to go on, why don’t you.

The Prof

Has started a new school.

It is a Catholic school, in fact but that’s not why he chose it (unless, there is more to him than meets the eye. Mother WOULD be pleased to have, if not a son who is a priest but a grandson).

Although I was brought up Catholic (and let me tell you that one day soon I shall blog about my childhood memories of our family praying together activities……yes, all 8 kids and parents – especially during the month of MAY), the Prof has only been inside a church a handful of times so I’m fully expecting to find him doing some Mass research from the ‘R.C. guide to Mass Etiquette’ prior to his school’s welcome mass next week.

child and bible

The Lips

Still making dark paintings and drawings. Spends lot of time alternating between cuddling Fatty (and who can resist all that softness? All that softness yet what a very foul mouth) and punching him. I guess it’s good training for Fatty’s introduction to Ecole.


‘Mum, your legs are SOOOO SPICEY!!!!! You LOOK.LIKE.A.PLANT!’

A picture of me, second one in from the left:

cactus legs


Well his Dad (whom he revealed was actually Michael Jackson) who lives in England now has a wife………yes……called Mum.  Fatty was talking to them both on his plastic telephone and passed me over to them.  It was very much a one sided conversation which I terminated after a few pleasantries.

The next day:

‘Hey Fatty. How is your English dad and mum?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘Eye spy with my little eye, su’fing that is yuk’

‘We don’t know Fatty. What is it?’

‘Papa’s arsehole’

I’m relieved that at our local school, the English speaking teacher isn’t there until January.

Upcoming posts:

Catholic family prayer (not to be missed)

The nearly drowning dog, part II

and my thoughts on the recent scientific achievement of brain to brain transmition of thought……actually, I won’t write that down, I’ll just think it to you.

Blog and readers, happy Sunday to you and hope that you don’t get that Sunday evening ‘Haven’t done my homework feeling’ that some decades after leaving school, I still suffer from………unlike my eldest children…….they haven’t done their homework but they don’t suffer from the feeling!





Windswept & interesting


, , , ,

Bonsoir Blog,

We’re still holidaying (is that a word?) up here in the Department of Somewhere.

Here’s a list of some of our enjoyable activities:
-Making the kids cycle to the next town on their gearless, pygmy bikes and deciding, just for fun, on the return trip to take the road less travelled …. Or never, ever since Time began, travelled by anyone other than say, a rabbit. It was bumpy.
It was boggy.
It floods at high tide.
The extremely narrow ‘track’ was lined by brambles on one side and an electric fence on the other (to stop holidaying terrorists from entering the local airport?) and as we all tested the fence to see if it was live, we were glad to report that it wasn’t.
The kids didn’t moan……. Oh what I mean is that the kids moaned non stop.
The Husband, full of an unusual amount of vigour, took on this treacherous course with a smile (plus 20kg of dead weight called Fatty in the baby seat (DO NOT EXCEED 15KGS) attached to his bike).
Ah, happy memories.
Luckily, the hunting season started the next day..

-My husband, in having PAID for a summer pass for the pool at the Tennis Club (imagine this scene: the Tennis Club is FULL of fab-u-lous, beau-ti-ful, coloured jean wearing Parisians and my husband quitted la maison covered in plaster, paint etc.) cycled over to the Club yesterday with Fatty (DO NOT EXCEED 15kgs) comfortably if not snuggly attached to the bike, the Prof and the Lips in tow on their pygmy racers.
A car (audi big boy car) cut it’s corner and nearly hit the husband and Fatty (Id put my money on the car coming off worse in that collision).
The husband and the Audi driver exchanged pleasantries and it crossed the husband’s mind if he could swing a left at the driver without wobbling Fatty off the bike.
Happy to report that my innocent, gentle children (well… in an ideal world) didn’t witness this act of violence
The Husband is now scanning every single Audi that passes (up here, this means every other car) and is utterly obsessed in correcting this WRONG.
He is talking of Audis in his sleep, he throws the word Audi into every sentence, he has joined the Audi Appreciation Association in the hope of finding this driver:
-‘What colour was the car?’
‘Black … No maybe grey but dark.’
-‘oookkay – and which model?’
‘A big one.’
-‘ what did the driver look like?’
‘Like a Parisian visitor.’

This year, my husband had been distracted by not one
But THREE women (‘they were just friends’) from his past; his very murky ‘I dont remember much about it’ past; the ‘I’ve been holidaying up here in Somewhere since I was a small child all the way through to my lusty teens and 20’s, past’.
One of these ‘just friends’ approached me in the local supermarket to ask if I could remember her to my husband and then left (to get into a large black, grey Audi?). How did she know who I was?
This ‘just friend’ turned out to be a not very insignificant girlfriend going back 20 years.
Never heard about her before.

Is this the reason for the Husband’s diet?

Is it more to do with this portrait of Papa by the Lips:


Boys and their boules


, , ,

Howdy blog,

Up here in the Department of Somewhere the August holiday makers have arrived. And whether there is sun, hail, rain, hurricanes or snow, they WILL be outside enjoying themselves. The August bunch who flock to this seaside town are on the whole, from Paris. What this means is that everyone not from Paris blames any and every act of rudeness on the capital’s residents…. And with due cause.

Comments from my children

1.Yesterday we passed a toy shop with such a display layout that once you enter, the only way to make enough space to leave the shop would be with a 4 foot shoe horn and a tub of vaseline OR perhaps a large purchase:

‘Can we go in?’ asks the Lips

‘Oh – well we could if there weren’t 3 buggies, 4 adults and kids already in there. We couldn’t fit in.’

‘Oooh but you said……….. THEY HAVE SUCH FAT BUTTS THAT WE CANT GET IN!!!!’

He said it in English – at least.

2. ‘My daddy lives in England.’

‘Yes, Fatty. And what is your daddy’s name?’

‘Michael Jackson.’


Im feeling fairly fluent in the local language that day and believe that I can successfully navigate returning books, taking out new ones plus renewing our library membership. Easy?

-Return of the books – done
-Choosing of new books for Fatty, the Prof and Lips – done with ease, surprisingly.
-Checking out new books with an expired membership? Well…

There was some confusion with me hearing prendre or rendre which meant the books got stamped as returns.
Then stamped back out.
‘Your library carte?’
‘Je n’ai pas la carte.’
Her eyes roll up.
‘Je dois to renew our membership.’
‘Votre nom?’
This question actually floors me in it being easy on one hand but complicated on the other – the other being the pronunciation using the French alphabet.
‘Hmm mon mon. Oui. Erm – mon nom? Alors, mon nom est V… Erm…. V … Erm.’
The kids start to slide away from me for shame. Eventually the Prof tells me how to spell my own name and we’re back in business.
Our membership has expired over two years ago so we have to begin the process from the start.
At this point, the unwilling librarian pulls a fast one on a colleague who happens to come to the desk (as of course, dear reader, there is quite a queue forming behind the English speaking idiot) – she moves away from me to make it look like im not being dealt with and the new librarian? Well she picks up our checked out, checked in, checked out again books and yep – she checks them in as returns.
The first librarian realises her escape from me and allows me to flounder around linguistically as I explain that these are the books I want to prendre and not rendre but I need to renouveler our membership blah blah blah
‘D’accord. Votre nom?’

This evening, in the company of my Beau parents (in laws), I am trying to convince my father in law that I have seen seals on the beach. He refuses to believe me as he has been visiting this beach for over 70 yrs and what Im claiming is to him, nonsense.
‘C’est vrai. Le premier fois that I saw one, I thought it was a labrador swimming in the sea.’
What I said – in French was – ‘… I thought that it was a snowing labradors.’

The fact that I was having a tiny drink of rose out of my tea cup did nothing to improve my credulity. I could also hear my charming husband informing his mother that I drink rose out of a tea cup all day. She believed him.

Boys and boules

Last night we took the boules to the beach for a quick game before bed.
We took the dogs too.
We took a constipated fatty.
So we organise who gets which colour boule and someone throws.
Fatty begins to squat.
‘Where are your trousers?’
I see him bending his head to check out his own under carriage whilst Lidl Supermarket dog starts licking her lips.
‘Im doing a poo!’
He then lifts up his bum and shuffles some sand on his deposit then runs mid game to collect the boules including the potential winning shot.
‘FATTY!!!’ Noooooooo.’
Meanwhile, Lidl sees another dog and runs which pulls me backwards onto the sand.
Fatty drops the boules and squats again.
Another dog appears…… Etc etc etc


Happy holidays

Bonsoir Blog,


Promises of regular blogging?
The road to hell is well paved.

Here in the year 1904, summer is being enjoyed.
Hang on – did I say 1904? What I mean is living as if I was in 1904 -when this house was built – but without the conveniences of staff….. And a well kept holeless roof – it could be called old fashioned air conditioning?

Still – a summer holiday washing up for 6 at a sink which is so low, Im already resembling a hunchback (yes, a very old fashioned idea – washing up by hand!) 3 times a day is a change from loading a dishwasher for 7 (yep – you’re on the ball ce soir; Le Prodigal has removed to Angleterre) and we do have electricity and 4 channels on the tv but no phone or, horror above all horrors, no internet.
We threw a bed away today. The mattress was stuffed with horse hair – you get the scene?

This evening we tried for the 9th time to try and catch the sunset at the beach.
There have been various obstacles which have prevented this simple yet fulfilling and soul refreshing activity.
Lidl Supermarket Dog enjoyed her first freestyle swim in the sea.
She swam.
She swam further.
We felt a bit uneasy.
She swam further perhaps to make the first canine attempt at swimming the Channel.
The husband stripped down to his underpants – ‘im going in’
We screamed her name.
She swam.
He waded.
She swam.
Fatty screamed as i pulled him from the water to strap him into the buggy to avoid a 2nd near drowning as I had to go in too – with a leash.
I must point out that I did not strip down to my pants as by that time we had an interested crowd.
I left Maisy the now very smart looking dog in charge of the kids and in I went as The Prof incessantly chanted ‘she’s going to drown. I told you she would’ and Fatty roaring ‘i want to go in with you and Papa!!!’

It has a happy ending. Although that walk home in our clothes soaking wet as the storm started behind us, felt LONG:
Finally she saw the leash and swam near enough to be grabbed.
By way of thanks, she left me a sea enema deposit in the sand to clear up and I suspect similar greetings in the morning.

Sunset tomorrow?


The long road to recovery and some other stuff


, , ,


I’m back.

It’s been 6-7 weeks since I was last in touch (and none of my uncaring Readers asked when the next post was which tells me one thing – that we (that  is you and I, blog)  are BOOOOOOOO-RING).

The night that I actually felt fully recovered enough to drive, I had an appointment with the osteopath.

‘So your daughter…?’

‘My son, you mean?’ I reply – the osteo was referring to Fatty who came with us to my first appointment and had to sit in the waiting room for an hour and a half so naturally wasn’t feeling too co-operative when the time came for my husband/him and me to talk to the osteo, post neck and back cricking.

‘Yes. Your son. Does he have nightmares often? Is he hyperactive?’

This guy is about to give me free parenting advice as well as a neck manipulation. Hang on, if he is dealing with my neck, why is his hand under my butt and he is twiddling his fingers?

He went on to talk to me about Fatty’s behavior and if we didn’t sort it out, he would not be accepted by society. Whilst his hand was still place under my buttocks, i was concentrating hard on not passing any air, shall we say?

This relaxed me no end.

‘Ok, stick out your tongue’


‘How do you say?’ as he pokes out his tongue

Here we go again, I think.

He waits with a tissue in his hand and his fingers in my ear, whilst I stick out my tongue.

‘I am going to pull on your tongue and you are going to try and swallow. This might be difficult.’

I kid you not. He nearly pulled my tongue out of my head whilst jamming his fingers into and pulling my ear.

What makes it worse is that I paid for this torture. However, I’m still fairly happy as it’s my first fully recovered evening and I go home and think of all the things that I can now do until…


I wake up at 3.00 a.m. with the worst bout of cystitis that I’ve ever had.


The 5 boys

What Fatty says:

‘I know that you are a mum but who are you?’

‘My Daddy lives in England. He has lots of money and he will send me some and I will give it to you, Papa. He is bigger than you, Papa….’

What Fatty does:

Toilet training, Fatty style equals squatting in the garden doggy style, letting his load  drop and then checking it’s all out and then wiping his fingers on himself.  I don’t have to worry about picking up his deposit as Lidl Supermarket Chain dog always gets there before me.

The Prof & Lips

Fighting less (but that’s because it’s hard to get a punch in when the Lips and Fatty are fighting).

Pokemon card CRAZY. THese bloody cards are the bane (bain? that looks a bit French) of my existence. I’ve had to deal with pokemon cards for the best part of 10 years.

The Face

Is still extremely popular. His herd fan club of girls regularly hang around the village hoping to get a glimpse of him. As he has a 24 hour on call hairdresser (the Prodigal), the Face always keeps his hair looking tiptop

The Prodigal

Where do I start?

When will it end?

I’ll cut out the nonsense of the last 7 weeks with the story of Mothers Day evening. It goes something like this:

‘Dinner, Prodigal’

He comes down (finally) and I realise that he is smashed. We exchange pleasantries for about 5 mins and he leaves to stagger back upstairs.

I decide that rather than have an escalation of his drunken bad behavior and as it is mothers day and as I still have feckin cystitis, I will just not deal with him and put it off until the morning.


It doesn’t work out that way.

How it does work out is the Prodigal speaking to me in an unacceptable manner; me putting it to him how I feel about this; him giving me a demented look and walking over to his bedroom window, climbing out of it and dropping about 10 or so feet down onto a SLOPE where I hear some words that I couldn’t repeat to my own grandmother and look down to see him struggling to get up.

A trip to the casualty, another trip via ambulance to another casualty and an operation for his smashed up ankle scheduled for the next morning.

This has NOTHING to do with the fact that he had exams the next two days……….don’t ever let it be said……just not connected at all……really…..


I call his Dad who actually does live in England but who has NOTHING to do with the biological make up of Fatty and explain what’s what.

That told me.

Within a few days, the said Dad and the ex of me together with my charming Husband are sitting down to lunch together at this house.


My one concern was that Fatty would start calling him Daddy.

My unknown  but what was soon to become apparent and greater concern was how drunk my husband was getting. My husband, stressed up to the eyeballs had decided the day before to give up his 4 year nicorette addiction (and I don’t use that word lightly).

If you have seen the Hangover films, you’ll understand what happened next.

Still, all is well that ends well and the Gendarmes only knocked on our door once and no one was arrested.

Blog, as I’m nearly at the 1000 word mark, I’m going to clear off but rest assured, I shall be back within the week. Can’t wait?


Between some stone (stairs) and a hard place


This is how my Tuesday began:

I push off the covers and sit up. Have no idea of the time but the full moon is on the left side of the window which means it’s before 5 a.m. (yes, I use my bedroom window as some kind of lunar clock….doesn’t everybody?).

I don’t feel well and rush out to the bathroom which is about 5 ft from my door.

Simple enough movement


Your balance lets you down and you manage a sideways cartwheel veering left and down the stairs (stone).

Legs go over my head as I roll down.


-Do I call out to my husband? I decide not. His laughter at seeing me halfway down the stairs in an unladylike pose will wake up the village. Also, I still need to pee. Also, I now think I need to vomit. Even more also, I might need to…..        I remember thinking ‘if only there was a sink 1/2 foot away from the toilet and then I could manage all evacuations without having to clear up any spillages’

I’m naked.

The sheer potential shame of one of the (elder) kids coming out and seeing me and my bodily fluids all about the stairs gives me some strength and I CRAWL back up and into the bathroom.

-‘do I sit on the loo or lean over it?’  – when I ask myself this question, I think ‘which one would i prefer to clean up?’ – so I lean a bit and then sit.

I said SIT.

At this point, I’m not feeling my best so think the sensible idea is to get back into bed.

Except, the next thing I know, I am looking up at landing skylight and wondering why my husband is calling me and trying to lift me up.

‘my face feels weird’

‘love, what are you doing on the landing floor? I heard a crash. I thought that the roof had fallen in,’ (this said with a French accent).

Even in my concussed state, I remember thinking ‘Hey! I’m not THAT heavy!’

To faint, mid walk is not good for your brain. It is also not good for the box of tiles that my head hit on the way down – a novel way of cutting tiles but not very precise.

We saw the doctor who said ‘mon Dieu’ and laughed.  This was the preferred reaction. We were worried that due to the previous Adventures (Delusions) of the Prodigal, she, the dr., might actually think it is the Husband bashing his wife and step son and sirens would soon arrive at the surgery.

So, moving on (almost):

WHEN I get out of bed, I have to shuffle because of sore everything,  whilst skimming the wall in case I fall over as I’m now suffering vertigo.

This means that I can’t do much (no driving, cooking, cleaning, shouting – yep, it hurts when I shout)

This means that the Husband will have to do much whilst fussing over an invalided wife.

This means that the wall (garden, see previous moans blogs) will not be built.

This means, that luckily the Husband has another week of the Face and Lips at school before half term so hopefully I will be recovered to take back the domestic responsibility? Well, it would


a note posted on the school wall yesterday says ‘the teacher has fecked off. So those families who can keep their children at home (that’s only us) next week, should do so’ – a two week vacances begins a week early. How nice!

I would have laughed but it hurts.

Ok Blog, I actually had loads more to write (about the Adventures of the Prodigal; FAtty’s potty training and the Gourmande Lidl Supermaket dog (these are connected); the attendants to my sick bed (the black bitch twins but one is there only to root out and much nicorette packages) but as my head is a bit turny, I shall say au revoir.

People out there – it’s true what your mum says about stairs. They ARE dangerous.

p.s. did I mention the little bit of rose, that I had drunk some hours before I had my descending cartwheel? Non? oh, probably not connected then.

Edit? you know the score. Someone do it for me.









Sprung Sprang Sprong Spring

Well Blog,

What a day. Has your day been like that? IS your day currently like that?

Let’s have a photo of something peaceful to calm down any unhappy spirits:



Did that work?

Not even a little bit?

Then we’re all doomed to depression.

Anyway, moving on:

In this old stone (crumbling) abode, we have had a (half) week of peepee and caca.

If it wasn’t Lidl Supermarket Chain Dog with a urine infection? Bladder control? Bad manners (certainly) then perhaps it was Fatty pushing the limits of his Freedom of Nappy Bottom Phase. There has been wee every-where. I have been walking around with an old rag (actually, the husband’s favorite item of clothing – it would be hard to distinguish the two) and disinfectant spray. It’s got so bad that I think the villagers are dropping in just to pee on the floor. I exaggerate NOT.

We’ve also had more poo munching by the said dog; taking toilet paper (used and a deep shade of …..brown) from the toilet (‘but I always flush the chain, mummy’), a bare bummed Fatty squatting in the garden and releasing his bowels without getting any on his trousers …….or so I thought.


‘mummy, I wet my trowlers’ as Fatty comes in with his feet apart and his lower body resembling a triangle.

‘all right (feckin feckin feck). Come over here and I’ll take them off…..and your wet shoes and weewee socks”

‘are you cwross, Mummy?’

‘no, fatty but next time, tell me.’

So I cuddle him as I put him up onto my knee, lift up his bum to pull down his ‘trowlers’ and ‘oh, but what’s this on my hand and jeans? I didn’t give you any chocolate, Fatty? AGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Yuk!’

“mummy, are you cwross now?’

The Husband

has gone to Paris.



I know.

The other one is far more demanding and alluring than moi.

Never mind, it’s not like he left half the garden wall pulled down and unfinished and not like he left a power drill switched on in the area that Fatty plays. No…..not like that at all.

Normally, when the Husband is gone, the Prodigal behaves.

I said normally.

But not this time.

The Prodigal

If I could package him up in a box and another box and another box and then cellophane (industrial strength) it, put a chain around it and padlock it and then send it (the box) to a destination 1,000km west of, say,,,,,Sydney……then I would!

I get home at 10.30 this morning:

‘what’s wrong with you, Prodigal?’

‘You’ve come home.’

Great. I can’t say our exchanges got much better from there. Still, it beats him tapping his fingers on the kitchen table (incessantly) for around 15 mins on Sunday when I accused him of having drunk alcohol.

He denied it.

But then he always does.

He gave me some words of wisdom. In his denial of having drunk alcohol and generally tripping over his sober…..yes, sober words, he told me: ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’

Yep. My 18 yr old said that to my 41 year old self.

The Face

Has fans.

Yep. Two girls from the village who hung around (for at least an hour) the (broken, unbuilt, unsecured) garden wall JUST to get a glimpse of him…….. I’m presuming it’s of the Face they’re interested in and not say, the builders bum showing, half naked, wild haired husband. Well, there is no accounting (none) for taste.

The Prof

Has yet to edit his latest love letter to his amour. Currently, he signs off saying:

‘It’s been ages since you rubbed me’ – we need to work on his spelling – it’s not what he meant to say (I hope).

The Lips

Told me not to worry that I couldnt’ remember something as ‘you don’t sleep too good.’

what an understanding child. Funny though, because as he said it, I swear I saw him smile towards his father in a ‘check out the mad old bat’ (yes, each insult has it’s own facial expression).

My parents

Visited us.

I enjoyed that.

We even left the house and ate in a place called a restaurant. Not once but twice.


yes, I know that I covered him (and he covered me) earlier but I’ve just realised that he has been asleep for 40 minutes and it’s 5.20 p.m. MERDE!

I’m signing off dear blog/readers/weirdos

but I shall leave you with these wise words:

“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

(that’s here as in the village of Nowhere, SW France).

Who will edit this post for me?






Liebster Award anyone?


, ,

Bonjour Blog,


So one of my charming fellow bloggers has nominated me for the LIebster Award ( boybandinthemaking.wordpress.com – check out her blog, It is hilarious. Different hilarious to mine (does that make me sound desperate to keep my darling readers?) )

This means that I’m now an award (nominated) winning (?) blogger? Stop.The.(word)Press!!!!

This means that I should start editing my posts? Never.

This means that I can now give up my domestic slave status and become a full time blogger? Fear not, it doesn’t

This is what I have to do:

Hi Fran
I’m sharing the love and nominating you for a Liebster award: http://boybandinthemaking.wordpress.com/2014/04/01/parp-parp-ive-won-an-award/
Here are your questions:

1. Why should anyone read my blog?

I would highly recommend against reading my blog.

2.What are the best and worse smells in the world?

A bleached (which equals CLEAN) toilet (BEST)

An aroma from an emergency evacuation mixed with the faint smell of a bleached toilet (WORST)

3. If I could go back in time and assassinate someone, who and why?

It would be either the child catcher from Chitty chitty bang bang OR the wicked witch of the East from the Wizard of Oz. My choice is self explanatory.

4. Describe my perfect mate

A well behaved dog

5.If I couldn’t live in my home country, where and why?

I don’t live in my home country but if I had to pick another place to live it would be Stockholm and me and the well behaved dog would have to be blardey loaded  (Stockholm means dreamy guys and they do cozy so well….not the guys..well maybe the guys but the Stockholm bars; lots of little islands which offer a different ‘theme’; not much daylight in the winter which means I could trick bribe the kids into staying in bed for about 20 hours of the day; long, loooong (so long that it doesn’t really get that dark) summer evenings; not too much burning sun (for my very olive-Irish skin).

6.Embarrassing moment?

Tricky tricky – this one will be the least offensive:

Wearing my sister’s wrap around skirt with shiny (slippery) tights (pantyhose for those of you on the other side of the Atlantic) on my way to work.

I’m wearing a coat.

I board the packed train.

I spot a seat (in between two grumpy people and opposite two (grumpy) others and they all have bags at their feet).

I run to get there.

It’s hot on the train.

Before I sit down, I take off my coat (in a kind of slinky, shrugging of shoulders. If I try and do it normally, I’ll knock out 4  people) and allow the coat to drop to my waist where I whip it around, roll it up and throw it up above into the coat/bag rack.

I feel a breeze.

I look down.

My skirt is completely and utterly wrapped around my waist like a bulging belt.

My uncovered bottom (other than silky tights) is on full show for the world (and I’m telling you, the entire world was packed into that train carriage). Why oh why were bum slicing thongs in fashion then?

My blush brings the temperature of that train carriage up to an uncomfortable 5,0000000000000 degrees and lasted all the way to Liverpool Street Station.

But worse than that –

I take the same train to work every, single weekday and the above event happened on a MONDAY!

Back to the award

The Liebster award rules state that I should answer 11 questions (FAIL) and nominate 11 other bloggers (FAIL).

however, what I will do, is nominate write down below the blogs that I follow (and it’s only a couple) and I think they already have 1000000’s of followers anyway:




and last and by NO MEANS, least:


Mumager of boybandinthemaking, thank you very much for thinking of moi for this very awarding award!


Over and out.





Cinderella Law ? God help the parents of teenagers.


, , , , , ,

Hey Blog,

Guess what they’re up to now?


Bringing in a law which makes it illegal to emotionally abuse a child. A law which will help to stop – prevent even, emotional neglect by the parent/carer of that child or children.

In an ideal world, I’m all for this.

We should protect the weakest members of our species (although I would imagine that parents of determined toddlers or wreckless teenagers would cry ‘Weak???! Weak??! They’ve nearly broken us!!!!!’).

To visualise a child witnessing and encountering any kind of abuse leaves us, the adults, feeling angry at the perpetrator and earnest to bring about some form of protection for that child. This is the right thing to do.


-how on earth, heaven or hell can this be legislated ?

-How can one person’s definition of emotional abuse, meet another’s?

-Will this law bring about criminal charges for ‘abuse’ which took part 10, 20, 30 etc years ago (as it currently happening with sexual misconduct accusations)?

-This law could be used to ill effect.

-This law could be in itself abused.

This law, if it comes about, is going to be used by every, single, self obsessed, hard done by, stroppy teenager to their own end.

Teachers of children age 11 up must be pulling out their hair, grinding their teeth, sharpening pencils to stick in their eyes, rocking in a corner saying ‘no, no, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ – perhaps. It is just a suggestion………but we know, don’t we? We know what our little darlings are going to try on us at home:

‘Mum, if you don’t give me this, that, the other and let me do this, that and the other, I am going to report you for emotional abuse’

‘Tell you what, oh child of mine, you’ll be reporting me for physical abuse too if you carry on with that line.’

I can also feel the Daily Mail gearing up (rubbing their hands with glee) about this topic. They must already be on the search for every, single chippy 20/30/40 year old who feels that they can whinge to an audience about the fact that their parents ‘didn’t show them any love’ – if I sound harsh, it’s because this law, despite it’s great potential to help a genuine case of neglect, is going to bring all manner of emotionally deficient mud life to the surface: all manner of self seeking types who probably have had a very good upbringing but are starved of attention…..or rather, starving for attention. This law scares me a little.

Now, I shall admit that I am not the most affectionate parent to the children of mine who are taller than me! However, what they lack in receipt of physical affection from me, I hope I make up in the manner that I speak to them (when I’m not shouting); the jokes that we can share; the banter – (the washing of clothes, the cooking of food, the encouragement when they do a good thing, the pulling them up on all the dumb things they do…….because..it WILL make their future selves, better)? Is the fact that the Prodigal’s self medicating as a result of emotional abuse?

Well, I can’t answer that one, can I? Some people would claim that it is.

What constitutes good parenting? Is what is good for one child, good for another (that’s the line I take in this house with regards to rules – although not necessarily in how I deal with the rule breakers)?

What I hope with this possible Law is that when evidence is being gathered, a LOT of common sense is used; a lot of different people are involved in giving their witness statements – a full and well rounded case is presented before the court – closed or otherwise.

I hope also that if this law is passed that it lifts up out of abuse, genuine cases of neglect and puts them in a far happier and emotionally secure environment.

As ever, I shall post this unedited. Again, please edit for me. I shall listen (barely).

p.s. Mother, can you imagine if they had brought in this law when your child number 2 was a teenager? I think his teachers would have resigned and been taken away by the white coated ones. /;