Card bard

Mindful that the second child's baby book is usually a lot emptier than the first's (though possibly not in our case, as I was pretty slack first time around too), I thought we should do something different just for the second child, so we invested in some cute-but-slightly twee milestones cards. They look like this.

There are various milestones included in the pack - smiling for the first time, sleeping through the night, first steps and so on. It got me thinking that there's definitely a gap in the market for new parents too.

So I have created some prototypes:

I think I would probably have used this card every three days at best in the early days. When you finally do get round to it, it feels like the most luxurious thing you've ever done, and a bit like spending three days in a spa does to normal people. I imagine. I have never willingly been to a spa. It looks a bit boring.

This just isn't going to happen. Babies are instinctively trained to exterminate potential siblings and will start a mammoth meltdown at the tiniest hint of an erection. That sentence sounds incredibly wrong. Long story short, I think TheBloke (TM) may have escaped a vasectomy in favour of enforced abstinence.

I found myself in the position earlier this week of needing a poo. The baby also wanted to spend time with me and was wailing on her playmat. Reader, I positioned her Bumbo facing me on the toilet so she could see me whilst I shat. This, reader, this, is parenting. (And for non-parents, this is a Bumbo.) I look forward to be able to holding up this card. My three year-old still likes to walk in to "watch". If this is her only entertainment, maybe we ought to spring for the Disney channel after all.


Oddly, ever since I answered the door to our postman with one knocker out, we now seem to get a second post as well as a third and fourth. Not really. He actually changed his route and we now have a female post person. I haven't scared her with my tits yet. I did however answer the door to the Tesco delivery man last week not only with my bra on total display, but with my jeans fly unzipped as well. I expect they have a list with people like me on it.

At 10.45 p.m. last night, I told the baby to fuck off. I am not proud of this, but it happened. She stuck around anyway though, and we've made up since.

Everyone complains about babies sleeping. I saw one woman online complain that her 12 week old baby wakes up at 5 a.m. Ours wakes up every 20 minutes. Every fucking 20 minutes. During the day, during the night. (Hence the "fuck off" at 10.45 p.m. last night.) I cannot have a night off because I'm breastfeeding. This is all fine. This too will pass. But I am looking forward to holding up this card with the smuggest well-rested face in the land.

But, in the meantime... Small victories.

Rebirth

A parent I bumped into recently said that going from having one child to two is like going from owning a dog to running a zoo. There certainly seems to be the sort of volume of poo I'd expect from a medium-sized animal sanctuary, so perhaps he wasn't too far off.

Yes, we have a new baby, with all the upheaval it entails. And it's been so long since I've Plogged that I barely know where to start. So how about at the very beginning?

This time I had a planned Caesarian section because I could not face full labour followed by an emergency Caesarian section like last time. Major surgery is never to be undertaken lightly, but it was the best choice for us.

Here are some things you might be interested to know about a planned C-section.

• They are much, much scarier than an emergency C-section because you are totally drug-free and compos mentis. In an emergency, choice is taken out of your hands and you just kind of go with the flow. 
• They still use forceps if they get stuck. I really didn't know this.
• They have the radio on. Our daughter was born to James' Sit Down whilst surgeons rummaged in my tummy.
• If you have a bastard surgeon, they will stick the surgical dressing to your pubes. This isn't a problem at the time, but two days later when you try to remove the dressing, you'll realise that your pubes are a mass of glue and plaster and you will vow to hunt your surgeon and his family down. You can't just pull off the dressing with a sharp rip because you have a massive wound. So you have to pick it off slowly, one pube at a time, whilst your partner stands outside the shower room with your screaming newborn.
• Your surgery might get bumped. I anticipated being bumped by an hour or two, or possibly a day because of emergencies. Then they tried to bump my surgery by ten whole days, until I cried down the phone at my midwife, who pulled some strings. Had I had to have been pregnant for another ten days, I think I would have tried to perform my own C-section, using Ikea kitchenware.

I have two weird and pointless skills in life. The first is knowing - usually to the second - when the oven timer is due to go off. The second is being put in the worst hospital bed in the country.

Last time I gave birth, the woman in the bed next to me used her hospital pay-for TV, but unplugged the free headphones provided, so the whole ward could hear her programmes; she then pumped up the volume, and fell asleep. She then snored so loudly she drowned out the sound of her own baby crying, waking up only occasionally to pop downstairs for a fag.

This time, I had a similar chav in the bed next to me. She was incredibly passive-aggressive, phoning people at all times of the night to boast (quite rightly) about how her own baby didn't cry at all, but everyone else's babies were - and I quote - doing her fucking head in. What she didn't mention was the reason everyone else's babies were crying was she would fall asleep and snore so incredibly loudly, she would wake up every single baby on the ward. They would then start crying; she would wake up, and make another passive-aggressive phone call complaining about the crying babies. It would have been funny had I not been desperate to sleep.

Too long, did not read?

- A planned C Section is better than an emergency one

- I attract chavs

- We have a new baby. She looks like this.

Cat nip

I guess, all in all, it had been a rough weekend for Monty Cat. We are currently awaiting installation of a catflap, so currently he is dependent on us to let him in and out of our house.

On Friday lunchtime, we let him out... and didn't see him again. Now, Monty Cat is not the sort of cat who will willingly skip a meal. In fact, if he thinks he can get away with it, he is fairly likely to try and con us into a second breakfast by vocally pretending he hasn't been fed that morning. We've even fallen for it a couple of times. He also tries to scam visitors in a similar way.

So we were worried that he hadn't come home, not least because we've just moved house onto a new-build estate, and there are a lot of building sites and potential cat-squashing machines all around.

We walked the fields in the area, calling him, with the toddler bellowing, "MONTY WHERE ARE YOU" at a volume that would have scared off a medium-sized shire horse.

It was over 48 hours before TheBloke (TM) found him; the not-too-bright cat had managed to get himself shut in an unused garage next door.. He was hungry when he came out. But he is generally hungry anyway, so he didn't seem to have suffered any ill effects.

The toddler was very sweet with him when he came back. She stroked him gently and told him she had missed him so much.

And today, he snuggled up with me on the sofa and let me take a cute selfie with him. He tipped his head back so I could stroke his furry chin. He purred and wiggled cuddlingly into my hugely-pregnant tummy.

Then he turned round and bit me. On the nipple. Right on the fucking nipple. It really hurt.

The ginger cunt. Anyone want a cat?

Toilet talk

It is a truth universally acknowledged that once you have given birth and shown multiple strangers all of your bits, several times over, any coyness you had about your own body pretty much disappears. This became apparent to me two days after getting out of hospital with my first child. The midwife came over to our house to weigh the baby (it turns out). I thought that she was there to check on me and how I was doing, and before she even managed to sit down on our sofa, I'd whipped out my arse to show her a funny rash I was a bit worried about. The curtains were open. To this day, I'm surprised she didn't report me for sexual harassment.

I thought I was totally beyond any type of embarrassment. I had had a midwife "sweep" pre-labour (medicalised fingering). I had had two midwives simultaneously pop their hands up to "have a feel". I had had at least six different midwives show me how to breastfeed by squeezing my tits. There was no way I could be further embarrassed. I had disconnected totally from my body.

Until this pregnancy.

To put it bluntly, I have always had something of a sensitive digestive system. This is not helped by iron tablets, needed for anaemia. While most people apparently get a bit constipated on iron tablets, they have the opposite effect on me.

Picture this. TheBloke (TM) and I take advantage of a rare afternoon that's free, and head into Romford for a nice meal. After our nice meal, we take a wander (OK, waddle, in my case) around HomeSense. Suddenly I need the loo. There are no loos.

I go to the front desk and ask if they have a toilet I can use. Whilst this is clearly not normal procedure, they take one look at my massive comedy tummy and two members of staff take me through the stockroom, where they have - presumably - a staff toilet. I am in no position to take my time and thank them. I lock the door and proceed to complete what can only reasonably be described as Very Noisy Shitting, punctuated with stomach cramps and religious expulsions. ("Jesus Christ! Oh God!")

Fifteen minutes or so later, with newly-formed haemorrhoids the size of small dogs, I wash my hands and stumble blindly back into their stockroom area. It's at this point it turns out that HomeSense clearly has a policy of not allowing customers unattended in the stockroom, which I guess is fair from a shoplifting perspective. There are three worried/amused-looking members of staff standing right outside the toilet door.

"We were beginning to wonder if you were OK," says the area manager. "You were in there a long time, and making some worrying noises. We thought you'd gone into labour."

"No. Just... you know... iron tablets plus irritable bowel syndrome," I stuttered.

I was led back through to the main store. TheBloke (TM) had found some nice children's books that the toddler might like. But now I knew everyone in store far better than I wanted to, the only option was to get out, stay out and move house in case anyone ever recognised me ever again.

So we don't live in London anymore. And we do most of our shopping online. Where no-one need know that you sometimes have to poo.

The hypochondriac's 12 gifts of pregnancy

In the sixth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: vomiting until week twenty-three

In the seventh week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me, total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the twelfth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the fifteenth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the twentieth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the twenty-fourth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: 24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the twenty-eighth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the thirtieth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: severe anaemia
acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the thirty-first week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: explosive diarrhoea
severe anaemia
acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the thirty-second week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: two leaky boobs
explosive diarrhoea
severe anaemia
acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the thirty-third week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: 15 random mood swings
two leaky boobs
explosive diarrhoea
severe anaemia
acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three

In the thirty-ninth week of pregnancy, my true love gave to me: one baby girl. At least, I fucking hope so.
15 random mood swings
two leaky boobs
explosive diarrhoea
severe anaemia
acid reflux
24-hour back pain
ONE HAEMORRHOIDAL RING (ouch)
fifteen random nosebleeds
sinusitis
total exhaustion and
vomiting until week twenty-three.


Seven weeks to go. Ugh.

Desperately Seeking Asylum

As a teenager I read Anne Frank's diary. Miep Gies was the quiet, unassuming heroine. It was she who successfully hid the Frank family, who travelled to several different suppliers daily to get food for the family (so as not to raise suspicion), who brought it to the family herself, at great personal risk. It was she, when the family were eventually captured, who went to try to bribe the officials, sadly unsuccessfully, to let the family go.

She died a few years ago at 100 years old, rightly celebrated as one of the world's greatest people.

Another hero, Nicholas Winton, who died earlier this year, rescued nearly 700 Jewish children, bound for certain death, and was dubbed "the British Schindler".

Speaking of Schindler, his great work was celebrated in novel and film format. Tears were wept at the amazing achievements of this man.

These are ordinary people, who did extraordinary things to save people whose lives were in danger. These are people who put their own lives at risk, by going against the regime at the time.

I know no-one (nor wish to) who thinks that the things these people did were unacceptable, or wrong, or anything less than incredible.

And yet, and yet...

As a country we seem unable to accept refugees who have lost everything, risked everything, escaped untold atrocities. There is no punishing regime threatening our deaths if we help these people. There are no physical consequences to our actions. No-one would be punished for taking an asylum seeker into their home. No-one would risk imprisonment, death camps, shootings.

And yet, and yet...

There is a fear that this "swarm" (David Cameron's words, not mine) will overrun Britain, stretching our healthcare system, stealing our jobs.

If you saw a young man lying by the road, clearly injured, would you really ask him his taxpayer status before doing everything you could to save his life? I have seen how stretched our healthcare system is. So let's fund it better. "I don't want to pay more tax," you might say. Fuck you.

Miep Gies, Nicholas Winton and Schindler risked their lives for other human beings. No-one is asking you to personally experience any discomfort whatsoever. Humanitarian response to crises is a tiny drop in the ocean of taxes we pay every day for things we probably don't really believe in or care about.

I once worked for a large financial institution that made literally billions of pounds in profit every year. It was considering moving one of its offices from London to Scotland. Despite the fact that this deal greatly benefited the company (Scotland is cheaper for staff salaries), the firm took a whacking (and I mean whacking) grease-the-wheels payment from the government as the Scottish government was trying to stimulate jobs in the area at that time. This was all above board (details are in the public domain)... though you can imagine the company didn't shout about it. Who benefited ultimately? The massive financial institution and its shareholders. That is what your taxes are paying for.

I bet most of us have sponsored a colleague for £10 or £20 to do something like running a marathon for a worthy cause. Almost all of us have had a cheeky takeaway or expensive round of drinks. It's hardly a sacrifice to spend an extra few quid to help people whose entire existence - their homes, their families, their children - has been destroyed.

And as for stealing jobs, firstly depending on their refugee or asylum seeker status, they may not be permitted to work. Even assuming they can work... well, that's great, isn't it? If they work, they will be paying tax. And how bad at your job do you have to be before you're replaced by someone for whom English is a second language and who only arrived in the country yesterday?

Perhaps we can't all be Miep Gies. But perhaps some of us could open our homes - our spare rooms - to refugees, to support them for a little while until they are able to support themselves. If we can't, then perhaps we could begrudge a few extra pounds of tax each year?

But in order to do that, first these people have to be allowed to arrive here. Sign this - right now.

And here are some other practical things you can do.

I loved the idea of the Amazon wishlist, but it looks like that is currently fulfilled (though worth checking back). A donation to the Red Cross seems a good place to start.

Please stop sharing pictures of dead kids on social media and thinking you've done your bit. Or wringing your hands and saying "how terrible" without doing anything.

History will remember those who helped - those who made some personal sacrifice. And it will also remember those - like the Nazis - who caused human misery, like those who that those people were somehow "other" and deserved it. Or those who felt they somehow deserved their "luck" of being born somewhere where they have the right skin colour and belief system. History will remember you too. Make sure you're being remembered for the right reasons.

Beating off the competition

We are moving house soon. And as such, have decided to get rid of a lot of crap before we go, so we're not just transporting crap from one house to another.

Within this sort-out, I stumbled across my secondary school reports, handily contained in a single spiral-bound binder for future reference, in the case that a future employer may wish to find out what my Latin was like, aged 15 (non esset bonum).

I hate tidying at the best of times, and - as previously referenced - being pregnant is very much not the best of times. So, happy to have a few minutes' distraction, I leafed through my high school reports. I was delighted to come across my Religious Studies report for my upper fifth (Year 11).

I mean, yes, it doesn't necessarily seem immediately relevant to Religious Studies (it wasn't a Catholic school after all), but I think it's nice when the teachers really take the time to get to know their pupils' interests. Odd that the topic came up in the examination, but great for all concerned that it was "especially pleasing".

School's out for ever

I threw up on the morning of my A-level results day, just like I had on the day of my A-level British History exam, and just as I would find myself doing seven years later on the eve of my first ever paid stand-up comedy gig.

Nerves, you see. Let's not even talk about losing one's virginity. Vomit isn't everyone's idea of erotica.

On A-level results day, I was sitting on an offer to read English at Cambridge; an offer that surprised almost everyone, not least my English teacher. But they wanted three A grades. It was no means certain I was going to get the grades. My French was always weak.

We went to the school to get the envelope. My History teacher wouldn't meet my eye. Whilst I had managed somehow to get an A in French, I had missed my History grade. To get an A I needed 480 out of 600 marks. I had achieved 479.3. My History teacher had to hold the pen and do the maths for me as my hand was shaking too badly to make legible marks on the paper. I was 0.7 of one mark, out of 600 marks away from an A. I had missed my grades by 0.05%.

My History paper was sent for a re-mark.

My friends and I spent a weird afternoon in the park. I think they went drinking that night, but I don't remember going with them.

It took Cambridge five days to reject me, by which time all the best clearing places had gone. My insurance offer uni offered me halls of residence for "young ladies" only, about five miles from the department.

A month later, my History re-mark came back as an A. I had achieved my grades, but it was too late for Cambridge. I felt more adrift than I ever had before. I had never thought I was definitely going to get such high grades, but I also didn't imagine being left in this hinterland of having technically achieved the grades, but still being rejected from my first choice university.

My friends quickly firmed up their futures - the vast majority off to uni, a couple to adventures overseas. I dithered. I dithered some more. I seriously considered breaking contact with all of my friends as I could never be that person I wanted them to see me become. This was madness, depression, desperation, whatever you want to call it. Thankfully, it didn't last.

One day, let out from my summer job early one afternoon, I waited almost an hour at the bus stop by the September blackberries in the hedge. Unbidden, a half-forgotten Eagles' lyric popped into my head. "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you..." It started to rain.

I turned down my insurance offer. I decided to stay with my summer job for a year, and reapply to other universities with my three A grades, the following year.

My friends left. I made friends at work. I got a car. I visited my friends at their universities. I sent off my UCAS form for the next year. I wrote to my overseas friends. I started enjoying my job. I started getting really good at my job. I got to use my French. I got to travel regularly to London. I learned the basics of sales, marketing, accounting software and how to deal with clients and suppliers. I became a valued member of the team. Fast forward eight months, despite an unconditional offer from a top uni, I didn't want to leave the job, and had to fight myself to take the next step back into education.

University, when I finally got there, was something of an anticlimax. My English degree helped me to land a graduate job, for sure, but I have never used the contents of my degree, nor my English, French or History A-levels in my "real" life. My History is incredibly fuzzy and I still can't remember if it's Cranmer or Cramner. My French is pre-GCSE standard these days. I do still love reading, but as a pastime only.

I can't be glib and say A-levels don't matter at all, but if you're reading this today and the world feels slightly unreal, and the future is foggy, you likely have a very long time left to start becoming the person you want to be. As Mr Nunn always says, "Life is a long race".

What practical advice would I have liked on the day? Probably that which was inaccessible at the time: words of wisdom from my 35 year-old self. So here we go:

"It would be dishonest if I didn't say that I still occasionally wonder how my life might have been different had I gone to Cambridge, been in the Footlights, got that First... but I regret nothing at all about how my life has actually turned out. I am happier than my teenage self ever thought was consistently possible. It may be raining, but there are rainbows above you. Also, try and get some more contemporary taste in music and don't eat that lasagne before sex."

Out of her (family) tree

"So anyway," said Mrs Nunn, "I told the vicar I'm Jewish now."

Mrs Nunn has always wanted to be Jewish. Not from a religious perspective, I don't think (I assume one is still allowed to convert), but from a cultural perspective. "I just feel Jewish," she says, before going on to list a whole load of stereotypes which she feels apply. "My family is very musical. I'm good with money. I have that, you know, Jewish sense of humour..."

I stop her before she strays too far into unintentionally racist waters.

You see, this is kind of my fault. Mrs Nunn has been enjoying researching her family tree, and has always maintained she's Jewish. This is not as easy to disprove as saying, "You're mental, Mum, back in your box," which works for most situations. This is because Mrs Nunn's maternal grandfather is something of an unknown quantity. By all accounts he was a Greek bloke who popped over to London for a bit, knocked up my great-grandma and then buggered (no racism intended) off back to Greece.

"There are lots of Jews in Greece." Mrs Nunn asserted.

"Are there?" I asked, not being particularly aware of a large Jewish community in Greece.

"Yes," said Mrs Nunn. "Greek Orthodox. Very well known."

"You know that the Greek Orthodox church is Christian, not Jewish, right?" I asked Mrs Nunn.

"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn, thus effectively ending the argument.

So, how is this insistence on her nascent Judaism my fault? Well, for her birthday, we decided to get her a DNA test that she could use with her family tree tracing. Turns out - genetically-speaking at least, she is only bloody Jewish.

And she's told the vicar.

I was surprised that the vicar didn't reply, "Don't worry, mate, so was Jesus." Apparently what actually happened was an "I am Sparticus" scene in which several other members of the Parish Church orchestra also stood up and announced their Jewish heritage. I would have liked to have seen that.

This has also given Mrs Nunn free rein for nagging ("I can't help it; I'm a Jewish mother."), advice on money ("Trust me. The reason us Jews have been hated throughout history is we know what we're doing with cash, and we work hard for it.") and short temper ("It's my Mediterranean temperament" - despite the fact that apparently her temper comes from her solidly British father rather than her calm, half-Greek mother.). She also suggested we could use our Jewishness to get the toddler into some of the higher-performing schools in the area. I'm not sure they accept DNA results as entry criteria, but perhaps it's worth a try.

So yes, Mrs Nunn is Jewish. And apparently so am I. Mazel tov!

Got it licked

There are moments as a parent that you find yourself saying horrific things, completely by accident.

Case in point: the toddler generally has to be bribed to do anything she doesn't want to do. Anything she doesn't want to do can usually be put in the category of "anything you do want her to do". These bribes can range from food (biscuits) to playing whatever game she's into at the moment.

At the moment she likes to pretend to be a dog. This involves saying, "I'm a dog, Mummy," and then panting and licking my face. Every so often she likes to mix things up by having me pretend that I am the dog.

The toddler needed a wee. But the toddler did not want to go for a wee. "Be a dog, Mummy!" insisted the toddler. "Lick me!"

I decided to employ my bribe strategy to get her to go to the toilet.

And this, readers, is how I ended up saying this evening, "Do a wee-wee, then I'll lick you."

I am a terrible parent.

Neti no-no

I am pregnant, therefore I am miserable.

Last pregnancy I wanted to punch each and every person who told me to treasure each special moment. Which bits should I be treasuring exactly? The random vomiting, often striking without warning, mid-sentence, leaving the forehead damp with sweat, dark circles under the eyes, gasping for air and breath that smells of a dog's nadgers? Or maybe the spotty tits, the oddly hairy stomach or the fact that my temper is so short I'm genuinely a bit furious that the space bar on my keyboard is very slightly sticky? Or the fact that when I get out of bed each morning, it feels like I've been horse riding, which is ironic as when you're pregnant you're not allowed to ride a fucking horse.

I am not a new-age kind of person. I am very much of the attitude, "If there's a drug that will sort that out, I'll fucking have it." Unfortunately when you are pregnant, they don't let you have all the drugs. They will only let you have a Starbucks under strict supervision, and if you order a shandy in the pub, three well-intentioned citizens will call Social Services, who will arrive in 12 minutes and patronise you appropriately.

It is shit.

I have a cold. It is not a bad cold, as colds go, but it is a cold nonetheless. My usual cold routine goes like this:

- Vitamin C
- As much paracetamol as the packet allows (or Lemsip if I'm feeling indulgent)
- Sudafed nasal spray
- Cold and flu tablets (obviously not with the paracetamol or Lemsip - I'm not a fucking idiot)
- A tissue shoved up each nostril, and plenty of moaning.

Unfortunately, once pregnant your options are limited pretty much to:

- Vitamin C
- Tissues and moaning

This does not cut the fucking mustard.

Technically you can have paracetamol, but this involves an unprecedented amount of eye-rolling from Mrs Nunn who believes that paracetamol is the work of the devil, and even one tablet will result in irreversible kidney damage. Taking two tablets in pregnancy is basically child abuse. Also, it doesn't unblock your nose anyway.

In a spectacular whinge-fest on Facebook, I was recommended by several friends the use of a neti pot. Reader, I was desperate. I ordered one. It arrived.

I excitedly made myself a saline solution. I watched this video where an attractive woman happily neti-potted herself back to full health, smiling all the time. I would be like her! My nose would unblock! My makeup would be flawless! I might enjoy yoga!

It looked brilliant. It would sort out my sinuses, and I could stop moaning. Or at the very least, find something new to moan about.

I waited for my saline solution to come to the appropriate temperature.

Bent over the kitchen sink, I enthusiastically started to neti. In went the spout. Nothing happened. My nose was too blocked for water to go anywhere. I un-nettied myself, blew my nose, and tried again.

This time I was successful. I waterboarded myself. The stinging pain of the salt, which simultaneously went down the back of my throat, whilst further blocking my nose (rendering breathing impossible, for anyone who's following the biology), made me feel dreadful. Not being a quitter, I blew my nose again, and tried the other side. So I can be absolutely certain when I say I know what it's like to be waterboarded through both nostrils. (I assume this is what waterboarding is. It's either that, or something you have to pay extra for at Centre Parcs.)

Things reached an impressive crescendo as, still struggling with morning sickness (which is always worst - obviously - in the afternoon) I vomited copiously.

Pregnancy is total bollocks.

Luck of the draw

So, tomorrow sees the general election. We will either have a Conservative or a Labour PM. Beyond that, it's pretty much anyone's guess how the rest of parliament will be formed.

Far be it from me to tell you how to vote (I am just about to tell you how to vote), but here are some things to think about.

It would be hard to argue that the Conservatives are not the party that traditionally supports the wealthy, the traditional, the "conservative". They have cut bedroom tax, which affects the most vulnerable people in the country. They have deemed people "fit to work" who have died a few weeks later, and sanctioned people's benefits, causing at least one death from lack of food. The NHS was the UK's jewel for several generations. By the time my daughter is my age, it is unlikely to be free at point of access any more. This is entirely Tory-led and heart-breaking to see.

The Labour party isn't my ideal party. But, they have some solid policies around welfare, around supporting the vulnerable, around making sure that every child has a decent start in life - not just around maintaining the wealth those who were born lucky.

Because basically, luck is what it comes down to.

"No," I see you say. "I have worked hard. I have made sacrifices. My money was hard-earned."

No. You were lucky. You were lucky to either be born with brains to get an education, or with the genes that allow you to knuckle down and work hard, or with supportive parents who were able to provide for you a good education, or help pay your way through university, or even just give you a quiet place in your house to do your homework.

"No," you defend yourself. "I was born on a council estate and was fed gravel. I used to go to the library to do my homework because my grandma used to throw bottles at my head and call me a swot if I did it at home. And I still got into grammar school."

Then you were lucky. You were lucky that you live in a country where there are libraries and safe environments to do school work. You were lucky that you had access to an education. You were lucky that you were born with the grist to make yourself study when the odds were against you. You were lucky that grammar schools (feel free to replace with "that excellent teacher at my local comp") were there for you.

Or, if your schooling was a disaster, you were lucky that you were born with a brain for business, that you had and took that golden opportunity, that you were born with that appetite for risk - or that it was fostered in you during your upbringing.

Contrast this with a newborn baby born to a young, inexperienced single parent. The mother's own parents are not particularly supportive, or educated. There may be alcohol or substance abuse problems in the family. There may be physical, verbal or sexual abuse. This too is luck. Just a different kind. It would be a harsh person indeed who blamed any of this on the newborn baby.

And it is so, so much harder for this brand new person ever to achieve anything in life. The hand she has been dealt is not equitable. Yes, there is a chance that she too will be born with the vim to find the library, to knuckle down, to take those risks. But there is a far, far greater chance that she will be sucked into a similar life as the generations before her.

This is luck.

And if you are reading this, if you care enough to have waded through these political paragraphs, you are likely to be one of the luckier ones.

I want to live in a society where those of us who earn "more" than the average (regardless of how much we think we've earned it) can subsidise those who have been dealt a less lucky hand. Because the life we live is a lottery. And if I was holding a losing ticket, I would really appreciate some assistance to live a dignified life from the millionaire standing next to me, holding their winning ticket.

Don't let the Conservatives fool you with their nonsense about "fairness". There is no fairness. Just humanity. Be the bigger person. Be thankful for your luck.

Magic moments

I have a week off work. This is a glorious thing, and I decided that I would keep the toddler at home with me for some quality time. By which I mean "for two days of the week; I'm not a fucking saint."

Yesterday we planned and executed a fantastically packed day of holiday wonderfulness. We:

• Made pizza dough
• Went to the country park to look at all the animals. We petted donkeys, ran away from peacocks, and made up a song on the swing
• Came home for a boiled egg with dippy soldiers
• Had a lovely nap
• Got up and went to the library and read lots of books
• Went for a special treat chocolate milkshake at the ice cream parlour
• Fell over, scraped a knee and put a magic plaster on
• Came home and made our own pizzas, putting all the toppings on ourselves
• Had a bath, read some stories and fell asleep after a lovely day.

Sounds good, right? Sounds like the perfect day of glowing childhood memories?

Well, when TheBloke (TM) got home, she greeted him with, "Daddy, I fell over and hurt my knee."

That, ladies and gentlemen is why you shouldn't bother doing anything nice with your children. They are ungrateful little gits.

I'm doing it all again today.

So far, we have planned a picnic. I asked her what she would like in her sandwiches, giving her the choice of tuna or cheese. She said tuna. I asked her if she was sure. She said yes. "I want tuna, Mummy, it's my favourite." I asked again if she was sure. She was. I opened the tin of tuna.

This was immediately followed by, "I don't like tuna! Yuck. Also, I done a poo."

Happy holiday to me!

In the pink

TheBloke (TM) and I don't get out by ourselves very often. However, this weekend, Mr and Mrs Nunn were visiting, which provided us with the perfect opportunity for them to have some quality toddler time, whilst TheBloke (TM) and I had some quality alcohol time.

We decided to go to a bar in London called The Alchemist. It makes what it calls "molecular" cocktails - all a bit Heston Blumenthally - lots of smoke and special effects. I am a sucker for a cocktail, and even more of a sucker if it does something interesting.

The only problem is TheBloke (TM). Neither of us are big drinkers, nor have an encyclopaedic knowledge of cocktails. I tend to stick to the firm favourites (Long Island Iced Tea - mostly because unit-for-unit, I reckon you get the biggest bang for your buck), whereas TheBloke (TM) likes to try something new.

No matter which country in the world we're in, no matter what the cocktail might be called... he ends up with the girliest-looking cocktail in the world. Now, you know me and my lack of fondness for gender-stereotyping; I can only assume TheBloke (TM) is channelling his inner feminist because no matter what he orders, it is always bright pink.

Desperate to break the curse, TheBloke (TM) has previously ordered the manliest-sounding cocktail on menus across the world: a gruff-sounding Caravan (pink), a Gunfire (pink with sparklers) and a Football (pink, sparklers and whipped cream).

This time, not to be fooled, deftly sidestepping such traps as cocktails called Bubble Bath and Wow Woo, he ordered a cocktail intriguingly called The Colour-Changing One. What could possibly go wrong?

It started so well! He was presented with a no-nonsense glass with a huge rock of ice in the middle. He was then handed two scientific beakers, each with a different coloured liquid. One was blue, and the other was clear. His instructions were to mix them. All he needed to make this even more brawny was a hi-vis jacket and some safety goggles. Because he is cavalier when it comes to safety equipment, he didn't even need these!

This is what happened when he mixed the two beakers.

Pink. Pink and bubbly.

Not to be outdone, his next cocktail was called Red Dead Zombie. Can't get gruffer than that, right? It was pink. Pink and bubbly. Again.

Mine, on the other hand, had a rugged piece of bark poking out.

I think it's clear which one of us is more feminine in this relationship. *scratches balls*

Limbo dancing

Today, in the House of Commons, MPs will be voting on three-person babies. For the uninitiated, this is a technique to prevent children being born with life-limiting conditions and disabilities. It has been rigorously tested, and is considered safe and effective. All three people involved in creating the new life are consenting, and a teeny-tiny bit of the DNA (just to replace the faulty part) will be used from the third-person donor.

It stops children dying at birth. At age 2. At age 7. At age 21. It will save hundreds of parents the devastation of losing a child.

This pisses off the Church, who would much rather children suffer (hence "suffer the little children" - they are quite clear about this. I'm not sure why we haven't rumbled them sooner.)

What I really fail to understand is why the Church thinks this is any of its business at all. It's just surreal. I wonder if they regularly phone up Audi and say, "The bishops are divided on the issue of your Vorsprung durch Technik. Therefore, the Church has no option but to condemn your Germanic engineering."

As far as I can tell, the Church's opinion on this issue is totally irrelevant.

It seems to me, far more relevant for scientists to have an opinion on some of the utter guff that the Church puts out there. I'm not talking about the "be nice to people", "try not to murder" and, "why don't you take Sundays off?" I'm OK with most of that (so long as the shops stay open). I'm talking more the Catholic literal belief that taking communion literally (and yes, I do mean literally) turns into the flesh and blood of Jesus once it enters your body.

If I were a scientist, the first thing I would do is fight back. "You can have an opinion on our processes, once we have validated some of your own." I would get some willing volunteers to take Holy Communion, blessed by a Catholic priest, and then do some sort of endoscopy or gastric study to prove, once and for all that bread and wine categorically don't turn into human flesh once you've eaten them.

If they did, I rather think Cafe Rouge might have gone out of business by now.

The Catholic Church believes (or used to believe, until last week, or something, when they - based on no further evidence either way - scientifically changed their minds) the spirits of dead, unbaptised babies fly round an imaginary place called Purgatory.

But, according to the Church, we should condemn a new, evidence-based, life-saving medical procedure, and add to that number of dead Purgatory babies, rather than increase the numbers of live, healthy ones.

Good work, humans!

Silence in the library

The Christmas holidays were... ages ago. Because I am totally lazy and keep putting off writing, even though I actually enjoy writing when I actually start writing. Because my brain is a dick.

Anyway, both TheBloke (TM) and I were off work for a decent stretch, and now we're both working full-time, we don't get to take the toddler to baby classes anymore. So we thought we'd take her to our local library who were hosting Rhyme Time. It was either that or watch more Bing which is basically crack for toddlers.

At 10 a.m. we were the only people in the children's section of the library.

At 10.02 the largest person I've ever seen walking unaided flopped into a chair, and put a CD player on the floor next to her.

At 10.05 We all (by which I mean me, the librarian and TheBloke (TM)) started singing to Old McDonald. The toddler picked her nose.

At 10.06 after a duck, a dog, a sheep and a pig, I realised how long Old McDonald actually is, and wondered about downsizing his farm.

At 10.07 the librarian had some sort of tuberculotic coughing fit, almost exactly in time to the music: "...with a *hack hack* here and a *hack hack* there" ("Old McDonald had TB, ee-i-ee-i-o"). TheBloke (TM) got the giggles, and had to leave the children's section and collect his thoughts by the "surviving domestic abuse" shelf. As he stood there giggling (but looking a bit like he was crying), concerned members of staff shot him sympathetic looks.

At 10.09 the toddler lost interest in Old McDonald and wandered off to find Daddy. It was just me and the librarian left.

My enduring memory of Christmas is sitting in the children's library singing Old McDonald to an obese librarian.

When another baby arrived five minutes later, I greeted his father like an old friend. Even when his child literally put his fingers in the toddler's eye sockets, I was delighted for their company.

We might just stick to CBeebies from now on.

A wee problem

We had tried potty training before.

And we had given up pretty damned quickly, after what can only be described as "spiteful pooing".

But, with the toddler now quite a lot older, and mostly able to communicate what she needs, and with us both off work for a couple of weeks over Christmas, we thought now would be an ideal time to try potty training. SPOILER ALERT: we were totally wrong.

Day one, midday

Toddler is wearing her big girl pants. She is excited about this. We ask her to sit on the potty every so often. She does. Nothing comes out, but it's going really well. We should have this cracked in about an hour. Maybe two.

Day one, 1 p.m.

Toddler does a little wee in her pants. Reassure her that this is OK. Be relieved that we have "the accident" out of the way. Remind her the potty is for wee-wees. Change her, clean up. On with the day.

Day one, 2 p.m.

Toddler no longer wants to sit on her potty. Wees incessantly in her pants and then cries as she's upset. We tell her that's OK, and remind her that she can put her wee-wees in the potty. Start to do this through very slightly gritted teeth. Consider buying shares in Dettol.


Day one 6 p.m.

Toddler now refuses to go anywhere near potty, or toilet. Clutches herself screaming, "I don't want to wet my pants." She has no such qualms about weeing once she's sitting on my lap and wets my pants as well as hers. Right through my jeans. Neither of us have any clean clothes left.

TheBloke (TM) giggles as both the toddler and I with our bare bottoms hanging out, load our clothes into the washing machine.

We will try again tomorrow.


Day two, 7 a.m.

Toddler is still wearing nappy from overnight. But she won't eat breakfast, and is instead clutching herself and saying, "I wet my pants. Change me!" I try to explain to her that that's OK because she's wearing a nappy, but she doesn't get it.

We put her in her big girl pants.


Day two, 9 a.m.

Toddler has been crying for two hours and fidgeting like a cat on a hot tin roof. She is clearly desperate for the toilet (and great she's recognising the signs) but will not go anywhere near the potty or the toilet. In terms of bribery we have tried so far:

• Chocolate
• Calling Grandma and Grandad
• Father Christmas (brings extra presents for girls who do wee-wee in their potties)
• More chocolate
• Star charts
• The fucking Elf on the Shelf

Eventually she wets her pants and is absolutely miserable. We put her back in nappies. This totally doesn't work.

Day two, 11 a.m.

Toddler now refuses to wee in her nappy either. To recap, now she refuses to wee in:

• Her nappy
• Her potty
• The toilet
• Her pants

She is incredibly uncomfortable and is crying a lot. We try and reassure her that it's OK just to let go. She won't. We try to reassure her that she can go to the potty. "Look! Mummy is on the toilet! Look, Daddy can sit on the potty!"

No dice.

"I don't want to wee-wee," she said.

I explained to her that everybody wees and that your wee-wee has to come out sometime.

"NOOOOOO!" she screamed, inconsolable at the thought of ever urinating again.

And that, Ploggers, in an attempt to show her how weeing in a potty is fine, is how I ended up in the middle of our kitchen, pissing into a potty at 1 p.m. this afternoon.

If you ever decide to go down this route (which I heartily do not recommend), once you have exiled TheBloke (TM) and the video camera from the room, do try and remember that you might need toilet roll. I forgot this.

So at 1.03 p.m. this afternoon, I was calling up the stairs to the recently-exiled TheBloke (TM), who found me sitting in the middle of the kitchen over a pot of my own piss, shouting for toilet roll.

The toddler found the whole thing quite funny.

But sadly, still won't wee.

Pub regulars

I met Hazel when I was about eleven years old, and haven't yet managed to shake her off.

Some would suggest I haven't tried that hard - in fact, when she emigrated to New Zealand, I booked a plane ticket and went and visited her almost immediately. But, I maintain I was just checking she was really gone, and that she wasn't just lying to get attention.

We have remained firm friends throughout the last two and a half decades. As you will see, we have blossomed from awkward-looking teenagers, right through to awkward-looking adults.

This was our school trip to Coventry Cathedral (the glamour), 1993. We look like an even gayer version of The Wizard of Oz. If it hadn't been filmed in technicolor. Lot of grey in that uniform. Hazel and I on the far right. Not in a Nazi way.












School trip to London, 1994. We could wear our own clothes, and for me that could only mean one thing: double denim. Hazel and I on the right again.








We didn't get any more mature as adults, unfortunately, though we learned to dress a bit better.

When we were about 15 years old, at a very academic school together (it mostly consisted of homework, shouting, and shouting about homework), we had fairly similar lives. This mostly involved homework. Playing an orchestral instrument was seen as borderline rebellious (it wasn't - strictly speaking - homework). My parents thought I was sad and needed to get a life. They were probably right, but I'm not sure Mrs Nunn's offer, as reported in my diary, was realistic, legal or helpful:

"Mum says I need to get out more. She has offered to get me a fake ID and drive me and a friend to a nightclub. Or to join Young Farmers."

To this day I am not sure what Young Farmers is, but in my mind - associated with nightclubs as Mrs Nunn clearly did - I imagine it to be a hotbed of hard house and hardcore humping.



Anyway, on one such enforced night out, Hazel and I made a pact, the type that 15 year-olds make - that we would meet up in 20 years time, at the same pub (Peggy's Bar in Loughborough, known primarily not for the quality of its drinks nor its ambiance, but its willingness to serve girls who had very recently turned 15).

I particularly like the fact that I passively-aggressively wrote on the beermat, "Don't worry, I'll remind you!" In actual fact, it was Hazel who kept the beermat, scanned it in and realised that it was in fact this year that we were due to meet.

After having ascertained that Peggy's Bar no longer exists, and we both now live in the South East, we agreed to meet in Central London instead. I tried to find a Peggy's Bar in London, to no avail. After which, I started looking at Loughborough Junction (too far away), and eventually settled on Efes Restaurant, which I decided on because of Efes Kebab Shop that we used to go to for chips with mayonnaise after a night out drinking 20/20.

A lovely night was had by both of us. Mrs Nunn did not have to drive us there, and whilst we fully intend to make sure that we see each other approximately every month from now on, as usual, we have also made plans for twenty years' time.

Well, it's traditional.

Being elfish

For I while, I had been hearing about Elf on the Shelf. It seemed to be an American story book, that came with an elf doll, and seemed to be brilliant for two great reasons:

- The parents hide the elf doll every night so it looks like it's moved by magic (on its way back from visiting Father Christmas), increasing magical anticipation of Christmas

and

- The elf reports on naughty behaviour to Father Christmas, hence derailing some bad behaviour on the way.

As we are firmly in the terrible twos, anything that could stop a tantrum sounded like a good idea. And as I had a (very quick) trip to New York for work in diary, I thought I'd pick up an Elf-based present for the toddler.

Once home from the Big Apple, we opened the box with excitement, and the toddler loved reading the book... which actually is quite horrible. It seems our elf is a nasty little snitch who is watching the toddler all day and passing back any minor misdemeanor to Santa. Santa gets "sad" if you do anything wrong.

Worst of all, apparently the elf will be reporting to Father Christmas whether or not you have been "saying your prayers". Vom. We skipped that bit when we read it to her.

Seeing as we were even in two minds about whether or not to tell her about Father Christmas (as atheists, the idea of lying to a child about an omnipotent being that judges her behaviour, felt hypocritical). We decided to allow it because we are weak and want to have some hold over her behaviour. Next week, we might become fundamentalist Mormons.

Anyway, our elf is just hiding around the house, and it has to be a force 9 tantrum before we suggest that the elf will be snitching.

In the meantime, here is Scout the elf, taking a shit in the toddler's advent calendar.

Full-time Mummy

Since going back to work full-time, I made the vow that I would try really hard to make weekends special with the toddler. I see far less of her now that I don't have two days a week when it's just us alone, so I try to think ahead about the precious Mummy and toddler moments we can have.

This weekend went as follows:

Friday evening

Planned

Try to get away a bit early to spend some bonding time reading a book together

Actual

An overrunning meeting meant I was late back. But never mind, I was there to give the toddler her bath. In which she had such a mega-tantrum and thrashed around so much that I physically couldn't lift her out of it. It was like wrestling an angry dolphin.


Saturday

Planned

A quiet day at home doing craft activities and maybe learning to read (why not?).

Actual

It started well.

I turned my back to empty the dishwasher, and the toddler chose this moment to impress me with her anatomy vocabulary: "Mummy I painted my nose and my chin." That bottle of Kahlua you can just make out in the background is medicine. (For me, not her. I haven't stooped that low. Yet.)

Sunday morning

Planned

Giving TheBloke (TM) a chance to do some revision for upcoming exams by taking the toddler to soft play where she would practise her physical skills and have a great time burning off some energy. I would catch up with some friends with children the same age and have a lovely cup of tea. We would finish at least three sentences between us.

Actual

The toddler wailed for about an hour and a half and refused to leave my side (this has literally never happened before). The only time she would go and play would be if I would come with her. This, readers, is how I found myself halfway up a sodding climbing wall, whilst simultaneously boosting up two toddlers, who'd found themselves unable to go any further. Then I had to crawl through a metal tunnel (not designed for adult knees), across a rope bridge and then realised that the only way back to the floor was down a sodding slide. My arse got stuck.

I did not manage a lovely cup of tea. The only sentence I finished was, "I think we ought to leave now." The toddler put on her shoes... then (of course) ran immediately back into the soft play area. Shoes are verboten in the soft play area. So, thinking she finally wanted to play, I tried to take her shoes off again. The sound she made was something akin to the sound Monty Cat makes when you accidentally stand on his tail.

She lay on the floor at my feet and banged her bottom up and down. The only reason I could figure for the tantrum was that she neither wanted to stay nor did she want to go home. Great. A two year-old with an existential crisis.


Sunday afternoon

Planned

We would make carrot cakes together. It would be educational with weighing, identifying ingredients and understanding how heat changes batter into cake. She might even be able to grate the carrots by herself.

Actual

All went well until I asked her to weigh out the sugar. Once the sugar was in the bowl, she stuck her chubby toddler hands in, and grabbed and handful and ate it. When I told her that was naughty (I had already said, "Don't touch,)" she threw the remaining sugar in her hands in my face and tried to tip over the bowl with the flour in. When told very sternly that that was naughty, she lay on the floor and tried to kick me as I went about adding the rest of the ingredients.

She did, however, do some funny dancing this afternoon, so she just about redeemed herself. But her quarterly performance review is going to involve some difficult conversations.