Wardrobe woes

Am I the only one who’ll be relieved when autumn arrives?  It’s not that I don’t enjoy the summer – such as it is – but the days when I could prance about in cut off denims and crop tops are long gone.  Those breasts which once stayed firm and pert beneath a flimsy vest top now chase each other from side to side like excited spaniels unless restrained by a supportive (and heavily padded) bra.  It’s far easier to make out they’re still naturally buoyant when I can slip them under a thick woollen jumper, teamed with the sort of high-waisted jeans which, unless hidden behind long winter tops, look like they belong on the set of the Golden Girls.

Holidays away in July and August might give you a nice tan, but that assumes you’ve managed to find a swimsuit to cover the worst bits of your anatomy whilst still retaining some semblance of style.  Sometimes you just have to compromise.  The garish monstrosity I bought after my second pregnancy does nothing to diminish my child-bearing hips, but boasts a reinforced stomach panel which stops me frightening the fishes.  No, far better to take a holiday in November, when a fortnight trekking in Austria permits extra pounds to be passed off as insulating ski-wear and nobody can tell if you’re not breathing in. 

Even my feet have never quite recovered from the spread of pregnancy, straining at my flip flops and appearing visibly more relaxed at the prospect of being encased in winter boots.  The cooler seasons are just so much simpler to dress for.  Invited to a posh do recently, I made the mistake of wearing my trusty fat pants under a cocktail dress to streamline the lumpy after-effect of too many children and even more chocolate.  Encased in reinforced spandex from knee to nipple, I sweated my way through a three course meal and passed out before the band struck up.  Summer is not a time for synthetics.  Unfortunately I fear fat pants are a necessary weapon in my fight against the baby body-snatchers, who four years ago stole my toned torso and replaced it with something more gelatinous. 

It seems it’s all the rage to ‘embrace the way you look’ nowadays, and to celebrate the miraculous achievements of your body in creating and feeding a child.  Well that’s all very commendable, but could I not still acknowledge how clever my body is whilst retaining super pert knockers and a stomach you could bounce peas off?  It seems not.  “Why don’t you have a belly button, Mummy?” three year old Evie wanted to know yesterday.  “I do have a belly button,” I insisted, “it just doesn’t look like yours.”  She wasn’t convinced and I can understand her confusion.  Stretched beyond all reasonable proportions to accommodate her and her seven pound twin sister, my post-pregnancy stomach is creped and puckered two years on, sucked into my tummy-button like quick-sand down a sink-hole.  This is not the stomach I signed up for.  It’s certainly not the stomach to be sandwiched between low-slung summer shorts and a bikini top, or stretched out on a St Tropez sun lounger.  It’s a stomach to be gently coerced into a forgiving waistband and wedged into a sofa at soft-play.  Ideally with biscuits and a milky coffee. 

So I’ll be breathing a sigh of relief when summer’s over and I can once again dig out my comfortable, forgiving, all-encompassing winter clothes. I might not have good genes, but you can hide a multitude of sins under a decent pair of jeans. 

What would you do with two child-free hours?

One of the advantages of having children very close in age (three within 15 months, in my case) is that they tend to have the same friends.  This makes is significantly easier when organising play dates or sending out party invitations.  Last weekend my tribe had been invited to a friend's birthday party and I duly dressed them up and got them to the venue in good time.  Expecting to follow them into the hall, where hordes of children were already hurling themselves around a bouncy castle, I was stopped at the door by a friendly helper jotting down names in a notebook.

"Could I just take a contact phone number just in case we need to get hold of you?"

I wondered how big the party was, that they might need to call parents' mobiles instead of just hollering for them.    And then I realised...

"You mean, I can leave them here?  I can go home?  Without them?"

Whichever way I said it, the answer was apparently yes.  I could ditch the kids and head off footloose and fancy free.  Readers, I'm ashamed to admit I barely said goodbye to my offspring, such was my enthusiasm for the prospect of two child-free hours.  What should I do?  Sit in a coffee shop with a good book?  Go for a swim?  Have a bath?  Much as I was tempted by the idea of two hours of total indulgence, I was far more tempted by the idea of doing the grocery shop without six sticky helping hands.  I sailed round the aisles for an hour smiling smugly at parents trying to post recalcitrant toddlers into unyielding trolley seats.

When I arrived to collect the children we were all blissfully content; they with their E-numbers and I with my replenished cupboards and recharged batteries.  I thanked the birthday girl's mother profusely, silently noting that she seemed significantly more harassed than two hours previously.  And that's when I realised - that's what birthday presents are all about.  Never mind deciding a budget based on how much you like the child, how much everyone else will be spending, or how much you can actually afford.  From now on my expenditure will be based purely on the potential return on my investment; any parent happy to take my children off my hands for two hours can be assured of a humdinger of a gift for their progeny.  It's the least I can do.

Total insanity

I have gone insane.  Not for the first time, you could say, although on this occasion retrieving my sanity shouldn't involve medication, a course of counselling and a hundred-weight bar of Dairy Milk.  The husband and I have embarked on an eight week DVD-based fitness programme which is appropriately entitled Insanity.  There's no link, because this isn't a review, so if you want to find out more about it you'll just have to Google it.

The brain-child of a deranged fitness fantatic, the programme involves forty minutes of high intensity cardio work six days a week for sixty days.  Yes, that's sixty days.   Eight whole weeks.  Two months.  If that in itself isn't sufficient to be classed as insane, each session sees you jumping around like a loon while Shaun T yells motivating commands such as "keep it up y'all!"  I am a mother of three - my idea of insanity is to splash out on a second latte before going home to tackle the ironing.

All the participants of Shaun T's sessions are impossibly toned.  The girls wear minuscule shorts and cropped tops and somehow manage to look sexy whilst pouring with sweat and doing jumping jacks.  I made the mistake of glancing in the mirror at this point; I had a vein throbbing in my temple and looked as though I were fending off a bee attack.

One of the women, nicknamed The Machine by Shaun T (and presumably not The Bread Machine, which I suspect would be my own moniker) even finds the wherewithal to lick her lips seductively at the camera as it pans past her in pursuit of ever more perfect torsos.  I find myself torn between simultaneously wanting to be her, and wanting to hurl something at the television.

At some stage during the session the men will take off their t-shirts, ostensibly because "damn, it's gettin' hot in  here!" but actually in order to show we pathetic lard-arses at home what could be achieved if we laid off the Ginsters in pursuit of the body beautiful.  Biceps the size of my not insignificant thighs and stomachs so defined and taut it's as though they've been sculpted from stone.  At this stage I'm usually completing the exercises with a look of desperation on my face, eyes fixed on the count-down clock in the corner of the screen, which tells me I still have ten minutes to go of this agony.

As the session finishes, Shaun T and his harem of super-fit men and women leap about the screen high-fiving each other and pretending to be exhausted ("Man! That felt good, didn't it?") while the husband and I collapse on the floor, limbs jerking occasionally in a post-exercise spasmodic cramp like fish out of water.  Insanity.

Oxfordshire's newest literary festival

I'm one of the organisers of a brand new literary festival in Chipping Norton, a beautiful Oxfordshire market town on the edge of the Cotswolds.  The town was recently made famous by the 'Chipping Norton set' involved in the phone hacking scandal.  I can assure you there'll be none of that going on at the Chipping Norton Literary Festival...

I know that many of those who read my blog are writers themselves, and that many of you are passionate readers.  So the reason for this post is to let you know that the Chipping Norton Literary Festival will take place in April 2012, over a three day weekend packed with workshops, author talks, readings, signings and discussions.  We've already got some fantastic names booked, and we're working on sponsorship to make the event a real talking point.  Our authors and volunteers will enjoy a luxury green room filled with treats, and we can assure them a fantastic welcome in our beautiful town.  We'll be launching a short story competition in the run up to the festival and have lots of events planned for local schools too.  In addition to scheduled events such as 'How to write your memoir', 'Writing for the BBC', 'How to get published' and many others, our central meet and greet point will have book swaps, reading corners and even a Scrabble tournament.

If you'd like to be kept informed, then please leave a comment below or opt in to our mailing list.   If you are a published author, agent or publisher who would like to be involved in the festival, or you represent a business and would like to offer sponsorship, please do register your interest to find out more.  Although early days, you can follow the planning team on Twitter.  We're hugely excited about #ChipLitFest and we hope you will be too.

Just another day?

I'm not someone who clings onto the past.  Not someone who wistfully recalls first dates or even knows exactly what time each of her children arrived.  Earlier this year my husband and I were bemused to be presented with a gift from his mother - we had both forgotten our wedding anniversary.

My son died on December 10th and the date is indelibly etched on my heart.  I can't forget it, I can't get over it, I can't change it.  Each year I have to take the day out from work commitments or meetings with friends because I don't function until the calendar flips round to the next day.  I don't know how many years will need to slip by before I can wake up on December 10th with any kind of normality.

When my father died I didn't note the date, in fact I tried my utmost to forget it, to rid myself of the ability to count the days, the weeks, the months since he died.  I couldn't bear to lose another day of the year to grief.  But it's today.  July 20th.  I know this not only from the beautiful messages I've received this week from friends and family, but because I woke this morning with a leaden pain in my chest and a cloud which won't leave me, no matter how fast I run.

So today is about my father, the most amazing man I've ever known.  A brilliant doctor, a clever, funny, talented man who never failed to give the right advice at the right time.  I miss him every single day, but today - perhaps today I miss him just a little bit more.

Am I having a mid-life crisis?

"Can we get a puppy?"

"No, we can't get a puppy."  My husband is as adamant as I am beseeching.

"Not even a little one?"

"No."


Strictly between you and me, I fear I may have stumbled inadvertently into a mid-life crisis.

In men, the mid-life crisis translates into unsuitable sports cars and eager-to-please secretaries.  In women it's more likely to mean impulsive sprees in Cath Kidston, an edgy hair cut and the acquisition of a doe-eyed puppy.

Am I having a mid-life crisis?  Well, let's look at the facts.  I've just left a secure job in favour of an erratic freelance income.  I've had a drastic hair cut, I'm begging my husband for a baby-substitute pet and last week I spent £82.50 on floral napkins, two hand towels and a teapot.  It's all down hill from here.

It occurred to me that my apparent mid-life crisis could be down to the HRT.  Women blame all sorts of things on HRT, from lack of libido to shoplifting, so it wouldn't be an unreasonable accusation.  I asked my husband to tell me if I had become at all irrational.

There was an ironically pregnant pause.

"Er... no,"  he said, pulling nervously at his collar.  "I don't think I can do that."

"Why on earth not?"  I snapped, irrationally.

Ah, I see his point.

Giving NHS waiting times the finger

Over the weekend I broke the little finger on my left hand.  Apart from the agonising pain which subsequently ensued, this event brought with it a rather tantalising treat; a trip to A&E.  Oh, I know what you're thinking - that doesn't sound like much of an outing.  I'll admit it's not quite a night in the West End, or a day at The Sanctuary, but it's a solo trip out and beggars with three children can't be choosers.

The last time I picked up the Daily Mail, average waiting times in A&E were three to four hours.  Three to four hours!  That's three to four hours of reading magazines, snacking on vending machine Snickers and doing edits without infant interruptus.  The prospect was positively mouth-watering.

Armed with a takeaway Starbucks, four back issues of Grazia, a wedge of manuscript and a French manicure kit, I settled myself into a moulded plastic seat between a knee injury and a miscellaneous stomach cramp.  Coffee still too hot to drink, I opened the first magazine with a contented sigh.

"Emily Carlisle?  The doctor will see you now."

Now?  Barely ten minutes since I parked the car?  Don't these people read the Daily Mail?

"Really?"  I said.  "Right now?  Wouldn't you like to see some of these people first?  I don't mind, really..."

......

Two fingers of my left hand strapped together in a Spock-style salute, I drove gingerly home, still sipping my latte.  I passed a rather nice pub in Woodstock, and contemplated stopping off to while away a child-free afternoon in its garden with Grazia and a glass of Pimms.

How was A&E, darling?  Oh it was simply ghastly, I was there for hours..."

But of course I wouldn't do a thing like that.  Would I?

Vlog: Do anti-ageing creams work?

Anti-ageing creams don't work.  That's my starting point.  So I was rather surprised when Garnier sent me a camera and told me to share my thoughts with the nation.

For those of you who don't want to watch me in my dressing gown (and frankly I don't blame you), basically Garnier have launched a new product called Ultralift which claims to reduce the visible effects of ageing in just 14 days.  In order to convince those sceptics amongst us, they're dishing out samples and challenging us to prove them wrong.  So that's exactly what I intend to do.  This vlog, ineptly filmed by my four year son and totally unedited by me (not for reasons of integrity, but because I haven't got a clue how to do it), shows the start of the challenge.  In two weeks' time I'll come back and film an update.  Possibly without the dressing gown, which I now fear was a mistake.  For many reasons.

If you'd like to do the challenge with me, you can order your kit - complete with 'the Ultralift wrinkle reader' (I kid you not) - from www.ultraliftchallenge.co.uk.  If you're brave enough to vlog your challenge do come back and share the link and I'll update this post.

Enough of an introduction.  I give you, the More than just a Mother Garnier Ultralift Challenge!

What people talk about when they're married

I remember going out for dinner with my boyfriend, now my husband of seven years.  Together for barely a year, it seemed there was never enough time to talk about everything which jostled for space in our respective heads.  Playing conversational tennis, we'd rally for hours and never find ourselves short of something new to serve.  At dinner one evening we scoffed gently at a couple who sat for two hours over their meal, never once speaking beyond asking the waiter for more bread.  We'll never be like that, we said.



And then of course we got married.   And I realised that this is what people talk about when they're married;

Houses
Married people talk about whether they should move, whether they should extend, and whether they should invest in a buy-to-let. They discuss the DIY outstanding on the house since they moved in four years ago, and deliberate over whether a new bathroom would be a better investment than a kitchen.

Children
Married people with children talk about how wonderful their kids are, what on earth they're going to do about little Johnny's attention deficit disorder, and whether they should move house to get into a better catchment area (this loops neatly back to the previous topic, which is handy if you run out of things to talk about).  Married women quite often talk about whether they should have another baby, which often results in a spontaneous suggestion by their husbands that they get a dog.

Holidays
Married people love talking about holidays.  The ones they've been on, the ones they're planning, and the ones they dream of taking.  Planning a holiday loops nicely back to children (Centerparcs or the Seychelles?) and to houses (you could have the Seychelles if you decide not to go for the new kitchen).

And that's basically it.  Three topics of conversation, each linking back to the other in a continuous yet stilted loop.  Houses, children and holidays.  When you finish a topic there's an uncomfortable pause until one of you blurts out "I wonder if we could convert the loft?" and you fall upon it in relief until the starter arrives.

It takes some effort to break out of this conversational rut but it's crucial that you do, otherwise before too long your children will be grown up, your house downsized and your holidays limited to a three day coach trip to Bognor.  Try adding the following to your repertoire;

Sex
How much you're getting (ideally with each other), what's good and what's not, and whether or not you're willing to try that thing he's always wanted to do.  If nothing else you'll give the other diners something to talk about.

People you hate
From work colleagues to neighbours to celebrities, it's always good value to spend an hour or two discussing how awful other people are.  Do check the restaurant first to make sure none of your intended victims are actually there.

Speak in a different accent
This is my favourite, guaranteed to liven up proceedings.  It's best if you warn your spouse you're about to do this, otherwise they may think you've gone quietly insane.  Simply adopt an accent of your choice, from Glaswegian to Czechoslovakian, and commit to spending the entire evening speaking in that voice.  Even if you default to one of the married topics outlined above, it'll be so much more interesting in a Welsh accent.