There's just one thing, darling. I'm pregnant.

The day after moving day; boxes piled high from ceiling to floor, making it impossible to get through the house without weaving from side to side in a dry slalom. The only room fully unpacked was the baby’s, and he was lying in his cot, basking in the sunshine streaming through the windows and giggling at me while I pottered around upstairs, deciding where to put things. This house represented a new start, away from the sadness of our previous life; the death of our son, the nursery that would always be missing a cot. Further back than that; the years of trying desperately to have a baby, of injections and scans, and of an eventual pregnancy that was far from textbook, but resulted in our two precious boys. This house was our future; a home for our little family unit. No more fertility treatment; just us.

A few days previously I had been out on a wild night out (this is ‘wild’ as defined by the New Mother’s Dictionary; two glasses of wine, a pizza, and in bed by 10…) with some of the girls, and I just couldn’t shake the hangover that had followed. Maybe I was coming down with flu; I felt really most peculiar. Horribly sick, and actually quite achy – around my breasts… Surely not. I couldn’t be. No, I really couldn’t be. My husband scarcely has two sperm to rub together, and I have a hostile uterus. (When I was pregnant with the boys and facing premature labour, it acquired an ‘irritable’ label instead. It’s clearly not a very happy part of my anatomy; next time I’m going to order a ‘charming uterus’, or a ‘mildly amusing and quite clever’ one).

Husband called up the stairs to remind me we were due for tea with the elderly neighbours in ten minutes, so I scooped the baby out of his cot and brought him downstairs. “I just need to pop to the loo”. I scrabbled around the bathroom cabinet for the pregnancy test I knew was in there somewhere. When we were lucky enough to fall pregnant through IVF, I became a compulsive pee-sticker; buying in bulk and carrying out test after test. I needed to see a positive result for each of the painful slap-in-the-face negatives I’d seen over the years.

I dutifully wee’d on the stick and stuck it on the side while I dressed, laughing slightly at the absurdity of even considering doing a test when we’d been reluctant carriers of the badge of infertility for so many years. As I glanced at the results window, the lurch in my stomach had nothing to do with the nausea of the past few days. It was impossible. Totally and utterly impossible. My baby was barely seven months old, we’d had sex approximately 2 and a half times (don’t ask) since he came home, and anyway – I couldn’t get pregnant.

“Honey, we really need to go”. Husband called up the stairs and I shoved the test in my pocket, numbly walking across the road with him, the baby cradled in his arm. “There’s just one thing, darling”, I said as we rang the door bell. “I’m pregnant”.

Childcare cheating

Having a nanny is like having a wife. I have always felt it somewhat unfair that wives (generally speaking) don't get to have their own wives, and I am immensely enjoying the experience. My house is permanently tidy, the dishwasher and the laundry baskets are always empty, the children well fed and tidily dressed, and a batch of fresh-baked cookies always waiting on the counter to cool. Well, actually that last one's not true, but I'm thinking of adding it to her job description. (If you missed it, here's the bit about the arrival of the nanny)

Last night I was gripped with panic that the nanny might leave me. Or worse, that she might already have a roving eye, and be planning to cheat on me with another family. The other day she gave me a card, saying 'thanks for making me feel so welcome'. Surely this is the childcare equivalent of a guilty man bringing home flowers for his cuckolded wife? Up and down the country, poor deluded mothers are being led up the garden path by nannies who couldn't lie straight in the beds they'd made themselves. There's probably a specific agency for nannies who are already gainfully employed, but fancy a bit on the side. My mind raced as I thought of other sure signs of her infidelity; her solicitous enquiries into my own well-being, her desire to know exactly what time I would be back... Perhaps I should come home early one day, in the hope of catching her 'at it'? I almost wept to think how she could be thinking of throwing away our relationship for the sake of a fling with a yummier mummy on the other side of town. Is it me? Am I an awful employer? Do I have too many children? I'll change, I promise...

Seized by paranoia, I began plotting her downfall. I'll go through her phone to check for text messages from her ex; I never really got to the bottom of why she left her last position - maybe she's planning to go back to her? With the skill of an MI6 interrogator I will quiz her subtly about her evening; listening for clues that she's been baby-sitting for someone else. She's bound to get complacent and slip up sooner or later. I'll offer to take her coat, idly slipping a hand into her pockets for rogue receipts; who did she take for a milkshake at the Golden Loaf? Should I take my binoculars and camp outside her house, peering through a hole in a newspaper, to see if any strange children go in and out?

In the end I didn't do any of those things; I did what any suspicious wife would do, who is desperate to keep her relationship going... (no - not that! What sort of woman do you think I am?) I studiously ignored any possible signs of infidelity, dutifully made her lunch, several cups of tea, and gave her an early finish. After all, I've got to be better than the others, haven't I?

Photo credit: koesbong

How to drive a mother to drink

I don't generally diarise my life in my blog; it would be spectactularly dull to read, for a start, as well as lacking in variety from day to day (got up, orchestrated chorus of whines and moans, tore out hair, drank vat of wine, went to bed). However today I am going to give you a glimpse - just a tiny peek - into my life, by telling you about my morning.

Generally speaking, the children all sleep for a solid twelve hour night, but sometimes one of them will wake. Occasionally two of them will stir. From time to time all three will summon my attendance. How I live for those nights; to be afforded an audience with the smallest members of the household, to break up the tedium of eight hours in bed.

This morning followed one such night, as I was awoken by the toddler pulling at my duvet; "am wake now mummy - stop making that noise". This has become a common theme in recent weeks; I can only assume that he is referring to the gentle snuffles I have been known to make in my sleep. Ahem. I dragged myself from the warm abyss of exhausted slumber and traipsed downstairs with him, flicking on CBeebies and handing him a banana in one practiced move. Getting the girls up is always a joy; the opening door is met with a squeal of delight from both corners of the room, and beams from ear to ear. Alas, the day inevitably goes downhill from that point...

After breakfast I took the bold decision to leave the three children in the playroom while I had a shower. I washed in record time, my head sticking out of the shower curtain to listen to ominous shrieks. But all was quiet. Too quiet... Back downstairs, at first glance everything appeared in order; the girls were rolling a ball back and forth, and the toddler was feeding something to his lego sheep. He handed it to me; "look mummy, sheep hungry", and I rolled it around my palm absent-mindedly. Too late, I detected a familiar aroma, and realised to my horror that the toddler had done the poo to end all poos. And handed me a bit of it. It was a poo affectionately referred to in our household as a 'poo-nami', although there is really nothing affectionate about a tidal wave of faeces. This particular poo-nami had swept out of the side of his nappy, meandered down the inside of his trouser leg, and burst out into fresh air at the bottom. A large pile of it sat next to a plastic carrot and a stickle-brick, like a surreal still-life, and small pieces were dotted around the room. It looked as though we'd been visited by a colony of rabbits. I intervened just too late to stop one of the girls popping a piece of second hand sweetcorn in her mouth, and as I delved under the sink for the bucket and the scrubbing brush, I muttered under my breath the soothing mantra of every mother with small children; "gin and tonic, gin and tonic, gin and tonic..."

Photo credit: Dunechaser

An exercise in inspiration

My enjoyment from writing, and therefore my primary focus, is to take an isolated incident and describe it in such a way that it takes shape before the very eyes of the reader; so that they can see the events unfolding as though in a movie clip, and picture the characters I describe, as if flicking through a photo album. I came across this writing prompt via a post of Debbie's and have enjoyed the challenge of turning this concept on its head, by unfolding the unwritten text of a photograph.

She sits on the pavement, newspapers a defensive arc against the cold of humanity. Nobody notices her. Even as they drop a coin and snatch a paper, hurrying by to meet self-imposed deadlines, nobody notices her. In the rain they run past her, kicking up sleet in her face. In the blinding heat of the sun she sits, still as a lizard, as children’s laughter echoes through the streets. She has worked the fields till her feet bled from exhaustion; she has borne the children who will shape the future; she has been a daughter, a sister, a friend, a mother; but nobody notices her. She is old now, and one day soon the winds of time will sweep away yesterday’s papers without her. And nobody will notice.

Shuffle ball change

We make a motley crew as we traipse into the village hall on a Wednesday evening, coats buttoned up against the cold. I suspect I'm not the only one who firmly believes, every time I put on my shoes, that I'll be transformed into Ginger Rogers. We've all danced before; a spot of ballet as a child, some modern or jazz, even some ballroom, thanks to Strictly. But tap is new to most of us, or at least it was a couple of terms ago. Now we consider ourselves dancers, and practice our tap springs self-consciously as we push a trolley full of toddler down the aisle at Tesco.

The hall is clean but tatty and unloved, despite the weekly schedule of dog training, toddler groups and WI meetings that keeps the caretaker busy. We freeze until five minutes before the end, when the heating finally kicks in and the wall-mounted bars beat down on us fiercely. But it keeps us on the move.

The teacher is young and optimistic. She allows banter for which her eight year olds would be severely reprimanded, and indulges our requests to do "the one with the finger clicks" at the end. The average age of the class is around 45; our tentative taps almost drowned out by the clicks of arthritic knees and artificial hips. Elderly Audrey started tapping after her husband died; for company and to "postpone the inevitable", she always says. Rachel, a braying spinster with hair too long for someone who won't see 30 again, is technically faultless, but has the grace of a rhino on ice. I'm intrigued by Julia, who I guessed was in her early fifties, then was astonished to hear tales of her 9 month old baby. She has worry lines permanently etched on her face, and doesn't seem to enjoy the class very much. Maybe she doesn't enjoy life very much. Camilla ("we want to start trying for a second baby, but I do need to fit in another ski season first") is frightfully enthusiastic and a jolly good sport. Her biggest problem is keeping her Alice band on during an energetic set of springs. Sam is one of those odd sorts who refer to themselves in the third person; "Sammy's going to crack this ball change tonight", which I find rather disorientating. She laughs maniacally when she gets a step wrong, which tends to hold up the class somewhat.

And there's me. At the back, doing a Corporal Jones. My leg-warmers serve a dual purpose; not only are they essential in the fight against the village hall's damp chill, but they hide the fact that I was blessed with cankles the size of oak trees. And anyway, they make me feel like an extra in Fame!, so I continue to wear them (but steer well clear of the day-glo lycra leggings, you'll be relieved to know. I once tried on a pair of orange leggings in a dance shop. With the sheen magnifying every dimple, my backside looked like a genetically modified tangerine).

We watch the teacher intently and follow her every move. So much so, that when she accidentally slipped, six women diligently lurched forwards to the floor with arms outstretched. She turned round to find us there, prone, expectantly looking up at her for feedback on our finale. It was at that point, I'm sure, that she realised the enormity of her task. The spirit may be willing, but the body is not only weak; it's over-weight, under-exercised and completely lacking in rhythm.

Photo credit: athena1970

In praise of the toddler

I spend far too much time moaning about my children, and not nearly enough time appreciating and enjoying them. After all, does it really matter that, thanks to an application of crayon, my decor is more shabby than chic? Or that, thanks to a couple of natural twin deliveries, I have lady-bits that would put Dumbledore's sleeves to shame? So I have resolved to take time to praise my children, and today it is the turn of the two year old.

My son is technically 26 months, although I gave up counting in months sometime ago. A colleague of mine still refers to her children that way; she has a '37 month old'. I fear she may have issues with accepting that the baby days are far behind her... I wonder how long she will continue; "my 216 month old has got 9 A*s at A-level", "of course my 420 month old is a barrister now..."

My son was born at 28 weeks, weighing 3lbs, shortly after his brother, who came in at 2lbs 9oz. For five weeks they lived side by side and linked hands as I held them both in my arms. I wonder sometimes how it will impact on him; this abrubt change of identity from twin to singleton, when his brother died that day. Impossible to know, and I am conscious not to impose my own grief on his two year old innocence. He is, however, a miracle; both of nature and of science, and I am grateful for every second I spend with him. I just don't always show it.

He was only 16 months old when his sisters arrived, following a period of months where he came to believe that mummy was surgically attached to the sofa. Annoyingly, his father still holds that view, which I feel is grossly unfair. Good one to one time between mother and son has been limited, so yesterday we left the girls with the nanny and went off for an adventure. This involved a trip to a large antiques centre so that we could hunt for clocks. My son is obsessed with clocks, which he unfortunately pronounces - loudly - without the second letter. When he visits my parents' house, he spends much time in the hall looking at the grandfather clock; a harmless pursuit, except that he frequently informs me, generally in Waitrose or some other public place, that he has been playing with "Grandad's big clock". I'm just waiting for the call from Social Services...

Photo credit: Balakov

Having a dog and barking yourself

The Nanny started last week, in preparation for The Big Return to Work. Having staff is a whole new experience for me; I find it difficult even to ask the window cleaner to do the pane he has missed, or to suggest to the builders that a three hour tea break may be a little excessive. After all, they're working so hard... However, we have now joined the ranks of the middle-classes by hiring a nanny, whose previous charges were called Cosmo and Araminta. Of course.

Whilst working on her contract I came across all sorts of helpful sites about the relationship between you and your nanny. One suggested a variety of concerns I may have; from whether or not she is stretching the children (developmentally, as opposed to physically, which would clearly be unacceptable. Unless you have particularly short children), to whether she is forming sound local links within the childcare community. Noble concerns, however I was more worried about whether a) she would look down her nose at our far-from-being-a-mansion house (it's a development, actually, not an estate), b) she would fancy my husband, or c) she would find my vibrator under the bed, and tell the town I am a sex-starved nymphomaniac. Perhaps they already know that, I'm not sure.

During her interview I recalled explaining that "basically I'm looking for someone to do what I do". I should, of course, have added, "... only better". Because frankly the last thing I want is someone who stays in her pyjamas till noon, doesn't load the dishwasher till the only remaining place to put the dirty plates is the floor, and turns the childrens' socks inside out so they'll do another day. So on the nanny's first day I determined to start as I meant her to go on; as the doorbell rang at 7am (prompt) I was already showered and dressed, the children sitting meekly in the playroom, drinking their milk. I had had the foresight to administer a 'just in case' dose of Medised at a quarter to, which had taken effect nicely.

Throughout the day I continued the Stepford routine, setting an excellent example to the nanny, who was dutifully making notes. The children seemed somewhat confused at being handed regular nutritious snacks and drinks, instead of having to grub around themselves in the kitchen cupboards, in the hope of finding some rice cakes amongst the bottles of bleach, but they played along admirably. Remarkably, they didn't appear to notice the absence of the playroom television (secreted in the understairs cupboard at the eleventh hour - television? no, my children scarcely know what a television is...) although they were slightly stunned by the array of craft materials I laid out on the table, following my trip to Hobbycraft the previous day.

Once the children had gone down for their lunchtime nap, the nanny took the clean laundry out of the washing machine and asked me if there was a special way I would like it folded. I'm sorry - there are special ways of folding washing? You mean there are other ways apart from 'dump it all in the washing basket, leave it on the landing for three days while you gradually pick out clothes to wear, then fill it full of dirty washing and start again'? I burst out laughing and instantly regretted it, turning it into a sort of sneeze. Maybe I should have a special clothes folding technique; it would become my sort of 'signature crease', making my children instantly recognisable at toddler groups. Parents and nannies across the country would discuss its merits; Anthea Turner might even want to learn it. On second thoughts...

The laundry done, we still had over an hour to kill before the children were due to get up. "What do you normally do now?" the nanny dutifully asked. Er, scoff two dozen biscuits, watch crap day-time TV and surf the internet, usually. "Well", I began, despite a sense of impending doom, "I do some batch cooking for the freezer, then once that's in the oven I start the housework". And so off we went, scrubbing the kitchen floor for the first time since we moved in, cleaning the fridge (ditto), and moving all the toys in the playroom to give the skirting boards a "jolly good clean". As I took the four Shepherd's pie's from the oven I heard the first of the children's dulcet tones from upstairs, and knew with a sinking feeling that my lunch-break was over. I have never worked so hard, or been so exhausted in my life. I can't wait to start work.

Photo credit: Express Monorail

Dear Burglar

My next door neighbour was burgled last night. This is a major event for the entire street; we are all middle-aged people in a middle class street, in a town which has the lowest crime rate in the South of England. Based on the theory that criminals often return to the scene of the crime for more easy pickings, I have been considering our options. One: buy a scary guard dog. Two: wrap razor wire round the perimeter. Three: leave the day's collection of nappies (normally 11) outside the front door, and rely on the waft of their contents to put off any would-be intruder.

Having discounted all the above, I have settled on the far more civilised option of leaving a note on the gate for the burglar, which I have reproduced below, in the event that any of you find yourself in a similar situation.


Dear Burglar,

Thank you for selecting us this evening; we feel honoured that you feel there is something worth stealing in our home. Sadly the outside of our house may have misled you slightly. However, please do have a look and judge for yourself.

I have enclosed a key to the front door to save you smashing a pane of glass, as it is a tremendous hassle and expense to call out a glazier. Just pop the key back through the door once you have finished. On the same note, although the house may well look as though it has already been ransacked, I do in fact know where everything is, so please put things back where you find them. Unless of course you are taking them with you.

I would be grateful if you could refrain from using the third step if you come upstairs. Since having children I have become a very light sleeper, and I would rather not wake up while you are in the house. My husband may take it upon himself to defend my honour and tackle you, and to be honest we just can't afford the subsequent legal action. Once upstairs, please do not open the children's bedrooms; I have left their money boxes on the landing, to save you disturbing them.

Please take the large television in the sitting room, as we are planning to replace it. If you could also see your way to damaging the grotesque carpet in that room, that would be marvellous; an insurance claim for some new flooring would make my year. When you take the silver photo frame collection, perhaps you would be good enough to remove the photos first and just pop them on the table. Thanks. Please also remove the memory cards from the cameras. In the conservatory is a rather expensive telescope which my husband received for Christmas. It is far too large for the house, so it would be much appreciated if you could take that with you. There are several other items I never use; feel free to remove the breadmaker, the oven and the hoover.

In the playroom is a selection of DVDs with a good re-sale market at car boot sales. Please leave Jungle Book, or my life will not be worth living. You will note that the room appears to have suffered an explosion of plastic crap; please take as much as you like.

I doubt there is much of interest in the garage, although there are many unused power tools if you would like to liberate them. The triple buggy has an excellent re-sale value on eBay, but it was imported from New Zealand, and really would cause me an enormous inconvenience. Perhaps you could take the double Maclaren instead?

My handbag is in the the kitchen; could you just leave me a fiver in case of emergencies? I may need to tip the locksmith.

Best wishes,

More than Just a Mother

photo credit: Feral Indeed!

The hidden cost of children

A friend of mine asked me recently, "so just how much do children cost?" It brought to mind a colleague who, after discovering his girlfriend was unexpectedly pregnant, calculated optimistically that a mere £6 a week was required to sustain this future child. I would love to track him down, some seven or eight years later, and find out how accurate his estimation was.

There is an enormous amount of well documented research into the real cost of bringing up kids; it appears regularly in the broadsheets, and I would not presume to re-work it here. Such lists cover the cost of feeding a child from birth to sixteen, nappies, childcare, school fees, educational trips, clothes and so on, but I have yet to see a piece of work which covers the true cost of having children, so here is a starter for ten...

• Sanity - missing in action: last seen prior to our first conception, with only fleeting - and unsubstantiated - sightings since. Cost of a residential stay at The Priory, in an attempt to retrieve it; £25,000
• Stomach: never revealed to the general public, for fear of causing mass hysteria. Likely to be mistaken for a Shar-pei. Cost of a tummy tuck; £4,000
• Lotions and potions: a ridiculous amount of Bio-oil and Mama Mio in a dedicated yet pointless attempt to rescue my tummy from its wrinkly grave. Cost; I'm too embarrassed to say.
• Breasts: once nicknamed Pinky and Perky, now reminiscent of those deflated balloons you see a week after the party has finished. Cost of a boob job; £4,000
• Complete wardrobe: pre-baby clothes now sag depressingly on the top half, and burst alarmingly on the bottom half. Perhaps I could wear them upside down? Cost of a complete new wardrobe: £1,000 (for now...)
• Conception #1: IVF (ICSI) £3,500. And I'm going to make him pay me back every penny...
• Conception #2: two Bacardi Breezers and a portion of chips. £5.20. And we got twins again - what a bargain ;)
• Chocolate and miscellaneous confectionary: essential fodder at various stages of the last few years; pregnancy hormones/lactation support/post-natal blues. Cost; probably in the region of £72.48. Or a little bit more.
• Raisins: to be found not only in the pantry, but in my change-bag, coat pockets, glove compartment... anywhere I might require them to defuse a child-related emergency. Cost: £42

For everything else, of course, there's Mastercard...

Please feel free to add to this list :)

Photo credit: Taekwonweirdo

Waiting Room

Day Five,
originally uploaded by ~Prescott.

You see the same plastic, hard-backed chairs in any other waiting room, but the tension here is palpable, and the atmosphere rarified. The room is full of couples - the occasional same-sex pair, the odd lone female, but mostly couples; holding hands as though this show of solidarity alone is enough to beat the odds. The walls are plastered with baby photos that no-one wants to see, and a collection of toys grows dusty in the corner. For today's waiting room is in the fertility clinic, where doctors hold in their hands your happiness and your legacy.

The magazines are carefully chosen not to cause upset, scattered amongst the leaflets offering counselling, and help living 'child free'. Written across the faces of the waiting women is a plethora of emotions; hope, despair, uncertainty... They are the waiting women; the women born to be mothers, hurtling towards a future with empty arms. The women who offer due congratulations to a pregnant friend, then replace the handset and sink slowly to the floor, sobbing for the baby they so desperately want for themselves.

The fertility clinic is inaptly situated above the maternity unit; the cries of newborn babies follow you up the corridor as you pray that one day soon, you will be able to turn your back on the lift up to level six, and walk through the double doors to delivery suite. But for now you are simply waiting; waiting for another negative pregnancy test, another cycle of treatment, another chance to hold your own baby. Waiting to finally become a mother.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqfGqOx2iDQ

Becoming a working girl

No, I'm not planning to drop my (considerably more expansive post-children) knickers and go on the game (it's not an issue of morals; the pension plan just doesn't measure up to the public sector) but I do need to re-join the rat race. I left work in 2006 when, six months into my first pregnancy, my waters unexpectedly broke, and I haven't been back since. I merged seamlessly from one maternity leave to another, having my children in batches, like a hamster. Two and a half years on the coffers are empty, and unless we want to teach the kids early on how to fend off the bailiffs, it's time to go out and earn some cash.

I recall an early encounter at baby group, where I casually dropped into conversation my plans to work full-time. Silence descended upon the group. An icy wind blew across my nipple shields, then the entire roomful of mothers let out a collective gasp, clutching their babies tight to their bosoms as though I had just announced my intention to microwave my baby. And eat it.

"Full time!" one exclaimed, "oh you poor thing!"

It may have been my imagination, but I swear she glanced at the soles of my shoes to check for holes. There is nothing a Cotswold stay at home mother likes better than a genuine Poor Family to get her teeth into; food parcels (from Daylesford, of course), hand-me-down baby clothes (cashmere - hand wash only, because that's practical), and a feeling of well-being to share with her NCT group ("she's terribly poor, but frightfully amusing")

"No, you mis-understand", I countered, "I want to go back. I have a career. I enjoy it".

Cotswold Mother looked blankly at me. It was never going to work. I gathered up my swathes of muslins and left (for other mothers, muslins are a decorative accessory; for me, an essential weapon against the endless streams of bodily fluids my children produce. I have never understood this).

In recent months my desire to get back in the corporate saddle has less to do with picking up my flagging career, and more to do with the more prosaic aspects of life. I dream of drinking a cup of tea without the need to explain to my colleages that it's "hot, hot, hot!" Conducting a telephone meeting without hissing "mummy's talking" at the tribe of pygmies following me from room to room. Reading a report sitting in a real chair, at a real desk, instead of having to retreat to the locked toilet, simply to finish a chapter of a book I started while I was still pregnant. The first time.

I can't wait to brief my team without the need to impersonate a CBeebies presenter on acid. But most of all I am looking forward to being able to go to the toilet without someone sitting on my lap. At least, I assume that'll be possible - unless things have seriously changed in the last three years. I must check with Personnel...

Costa Boy

On Christmas Eve I went to Leamington Spa. It was a snap decision, taken somewhere between picking play-doh out of the carpet and explaining once again to my son that, despite appearances to the contrary, Father Christmas, Jesus and Noah are not the same person.

I needed a present for my husband; one which would justify the cold war I initiated two days previously, when he bought my Christmas present in front of me then handed it to me in the carrier bag; "I guess there's no point wrapping it, really, is there?" I guess not, dear.

On first consideration, Leamington was an odd choice; an hour's drive away, and not generally hailed as the shopping mecca of the middle classes. However, an hour's nap was required for the two most junior members of the family, therefore it was a perfect destination.

I found a parking space right in the centre of town and dutifully noted the time; I had two hours. Like a woman possessed, I decanted the children from the car and headed for the shopping centre, where I roamed the levels searching for inspiration - and a shop large enough to fit the triple buggy inside.

Ninety minutes later two out of three of my children were screaming, and the third was moaning gently to himself. I made the decision to abort, but not before I grabbed a take-away coffee and a sandwich to revive me before the drive home. I headed to Costa Coffee and ordered my latte and panini from the young man at the counter. "Cheer up", he said, "it might never happen". I looked pointedly at the gargantuan buggy beside me; the wailing babies and the recalcitrant toddler. A little late for optimism of that nature, I feel. Costa Boy smiled in spite of my glares, and moved in slow motion to toast my panini. "So", he continued, "do you have any help with that lot?" One-handed, I squeezed a sachet of Calpol into a waiting mouth, as I paid for my lunch, and wondered why this boy persisted in trying to jolly me out of the obvious despair in which I was currently wallowing. "No", I said, "the fun is all mine. Now can I have my panini?" As he wrapped my over-priced mozarella morsel, with agonisingly languid movements, he said "you must get some free time? Perhaps on Saturday?" He met my confused gaze and stared at me, challengingly, as a dim and distant recollection tugged at my addled brain. This was definitely a familiar scenario, but I had no recent frame of reference, and quite suddenly I wasn't sure how to behave. Was he flirting with me? Was that what it was? The long looks, the cheeky smile, the persistance in the face of adversity.... Good Lord, he really was. I shoved my panini in my bag and deftly manoeuvered the buggy out of the shop, balancing my latte on the handbar with one finger.

With all children now caterwauling, I weaved through the throngs of last-minute Christmas shoppers, wondering if I was perhaps slightly deluded. Catching sight of myself in a shop window, I concluded that either Costa Boy was Oedipal in his fantasies, or he had mistaken me for a nanny. By the time I got back to the car I had shaken off all thoughts of flirtation and could see the situation for what it was; a keen employee putting into practice his recent Customer Services ('we care because you do') training course by engaging a harassed middle-aged mother in conversation. Perhaps I should write to his boss and commend him? He might get a star on his name badge, or be named employee of the month. Of course - he must have been on the look out for mystery shoppers, and suspected that my fraught air was just a cover story...

My head was pounding with the stress of the shopping expedition, and I had loaded the children into the car before I caught sight of the bright yellow envelope stuck to my windscreen. Fan-bloody-tastic. Happy Christmas from the traffic wardens of Leamington Spa. Five minutes; just five minutes over my allotted two hours, before which time I could easily have been back, had it not been for Costa Boy's charm offensive slowing down his service. I should write and complain. I tore off the ticket and turned on the engine; the sudden vibrations lulling the babies into calm. I breathed deeply and leaned back into my seat, tearing the wrapper from my panini.

A napkin fell out of the wrapped package, with looped writing across the front; "Yummy Mummy, call me on 01296 ------ We could have coffee" Well, well, well...