For This Award I'd Like To Thank My Gran, Doctor, Goldfish, Hairdresser...

LUCKILY I HAD my tissues at the ready. Not that I was crying in that mascara-bleeding Beauty Queen OMG-I’ve-just-won or that out-of-control-for-once Gwyneth Paltrow accepting-an-Oscar kind of way. But I needed something to wipe the giant smile off my face.

Because I’d just been told I’d won not one but two awards for my blog. They’ve got special titles but I’m just going to call them Blog-Oscars and start thanking my hairdresser, stylist, my music teacher, the man down the road who just waved at me and dedicate it to my babies, my husband, my goldfish and Buttons the cat who died when I was at university. Don’t get me started on my inspiration…

This is the first time I’ve won anything for years.

I’ve been up for awards before during my career and spent the evening clutching friend’s hands under the table to calm my nerves.

I’ve bitten my lips until they nearly bleed but I’ve always come away with the same thing. Nada. Well nothing worth having. A runners-up certificate to go with all those highly commended gymkhana rosettes gathering dust in my mum’s cabinet.

She was a highly-skilled horsewoman when she was young and thought I’d naturally inherit her equestrian skills.

The only thing horsey about me were my bandy legs and my ability to go over a jump solo after my mare refused.

Still, I dusted myself down and tried again – something that’s proved to be useful ever since.

It’s what kept me going when I entered Blue Peter competitions and was the only one of my friends never to get a badge.

And it taught me resilience when I entered myself into a beauty contest at the age of nine and came nowhere after the audience and the judges thought I was a boy.

That’s when I decided to stop trying to be like everyone else and do the things I liked. So I started writing short stories and poetry.

My teacher Mr Sidney encouraged me and secretly entered them into national competitions. And guess what? I won one. OK, it was only a pen but I still treasure that today. And now I have something else to put into my ‘trophy cabinet’ and I can’t stop grinning. So a big thank you to Linda at 'You've got your hands full' for my ‘I love your blog’ award. The rules are I have to pass it onto 15 other blogs I like which are…drum roll…

Troutie 

Rosie Scribble

mummy do that
caution woman at work 
a confused take that fan 

whistle jacket 
have a lovely time
crystal jigsaw
noble savage
single parent dad
wahm-bam
all that comes with it
baby baby
perfectly happy mum
martini mummy

And finally, another thank you (sob) to perfectly happy mum for the cool meme. The rule for accepting this is easy: One question - one word to answer. Difficult but fun:

Where is your mobile phone? table

Your hair? frizzy

Mother? feisty

Father? dead

Your Favourite Food: Italian

Your Dream Last Night: scary

Your Favourite Drink: fizz

Your Dream/Goal: security

What room are you in? kitchen

Your hobby: blogging

Your fear: pain

Where do you want to be in 6 years: beach

Where were you last night: home

Something that you aren't: lucky

Muffins: blueberry

Where did you grow up? sussex

Last thing you did: this

What are you wearing: jeans

Your TV: loud

Your pets: dead

Friends: loud

Your life: chaotic

Your mood: mercurial

Missing someone: paymaster general

Vehicle: tube

Something you're not wearing: tights

Your favourite store: bank

Your favourite colour: pink

When was the last time you laughed: saturday

When was the last time you cried? yesterday

Your best friend: dependable

One place you go to over and over: past

One person who emails you regularly: mr junk

Favourite place to eat: mcdonald’scarpark (does that count as one?)

And I happily pass it on to:

A Modern Mother
nixdminx

little mummy 
new mummy 

wife in the north

And if anyone has a Blue Peter badge they don’t want can they send it to me! 

DIY Beauty And The Beast!

IT WAS a bad day in the mirror. A red-eyed monster with Einstein-inspired wild hair stared back at me. 

Dark circles under my eyes, straggly brows and the hint of – oh no! – a moustache made me grimace. Long, wiry hairs poked out of my tights and I was too scared to even think about, let alone look at, my bikini line.

‘What’s happened to the woman who sometimes looked like a woman?’ I gasped.

She’d vanished after weeks of surviving on three hours sleep a night. I could barely keep my eyes open most of the time.

So how was I supposed to groom, preen and glamorise myself while in a mummy-with-a-teething-baby coma?

Normally, I’d have taken myself off to a beauty salon for a head-to-toe beauty MOT.

But my career had been credit-crunched.

For the last few months I’d had to sacrifice new clothes, highlights, blow-dries and professional waxing and plucking for DIY fashion and beauty care.

Which to be honest meant showering every day and binging on cheap junk food so I had an entire new range of stylish clothes to wear – my fat wardrobe.

‘I’m a recessionista not a fashionista,’ I told myself, rooting around in the bathroom cabinet for my wax strips and tweezers.

‘Hairy legs attack,’ I muttered, warming up the strips in my hand, plonking them over the carpet covering my shins and yanking hard.

‘Mmm, not bad,’ I smiled, inspecting the bumpy chicken skin left behind. ‘At least there’s no hairs and it didn’t hurt too much.’

Buoyed by my home salon success, I set to work shaping my eyebrows into fashionably thick arches.

‘Now top lip,’ I said, cutting my leg wax strips into smaller slivers.

I rubbed the strips over my top lip again and again to make sure the wax covered every little hair. Then I pulled with all my strength.

My eyes watered so much I could only see a blur of red inflamed skin where the offending moustache had been.

‘Nearly done,’ I sighed, turning my attention to my bikini line. I was tempted to shave, but remembered the rash and terrible itching as the hairs grew back from my teenage years.

No, best to be brave. So I slapped on the warmed-up wax strip, waited and yanked. ‘Ooooowwwww, ooooouch,’ I screamed. Half the delicate skin had come away with the hair. Blood and bruises quickly flooded the waxed area.

‘I’ll just trim lightly,’ I told myself, slapping another strip on the opposite side. ‘A Brazilian would kill me.’

That side hurt just as much and bled even more. My bits looked like they’d gone 10 rounds with Rocky – in every one of his films. ‘I won’t be wearing a bikini or undressing in daylight for years to come,’ I shuddered.

But at least I was trying to look feminine. ‘It’s not that bad,’ I told the woman in the mirror as I dabbed concealer over my top lip, under my eyes, below my brows and dug out some giant pants to my freshly-plucked bits wouldn’t chaff against my size 16 jeans.

‘Presentable at last,’ I said, slicking on lip-gloss. My son was at school and it was one of the afternoons my little girl went to nursery.

‘I could have a look round the shops,’ I thought, feeling confident. ‘At least I’ll know what to wear when I can afford to be fashionable.’

It was fun mooching around on my own for once, without having to worry about warming up milk or sniffing Anais’ bum every 10 minutes to see if her nappy needed changing.

I was feeling great – and then I bumped into another mum. Her child went to my son’s school. ‘How are you?’ I said.

She looked me up and down. ‘I’m OK. Where’s the baby?’

I told her all about Anais toddling and starting nursery. ‘She’s such a big girl,’ I said, proud.

She nodded. ‘And who does she look like now?’

I smiled. ‘She has big blue eyes and she’s got my hair.’

I was so proud of her blonde curls and couldn’t wait for her hair to grow so I could put it up in cute bunches.

The mum’s mouth pulled back into a sneer. ‘Oh, she said, ‘so it’s frizzy?’

I didn’t know what to say, and just stood there, gawping.

Unperturbed, she turned to go. ‘Oh well nice to see you,’ she smirked. ‘And let me know if you want the number of WeightWatchers. They’ve started up a local branch, apparently. I know some of the other mums are going so you’ll be in good company.’

Cheek! I’ve never really liked her but been polite for my son’s sake. But now she’s a full on mum-enemy. Be friendly to her at the school gates again? Fat chance!

Have you been insulted by another mum? How did you get revenge? Please let me know before I bump into her again!

Let's Get This (Kids) Party Started!

HE'S HAD a party on a boat, in a museum and even in Italy but this year our son wanted to celebrate his seventh birthday at our house. 

‘Good idea,’ I thought. It would be less hassle to organise and credit-crunch friendly on the purse too. 

So I agreed he could invite as many of his little friends as he wanted and leave the rest to us. ‘It’ll be easy,’ I told my husband, Alexio. ‘I mean it’s only seven six-year-old boys coming over for a few hours. What could go wrong?’

A lot actually – so here’s my top six tips to surviving your little one’s birthday party:
Be prepared – it’s best to make the guest list early. Little Johnny or Keanu has a packed social diary so send out Save The Date e-invites six months before.

This should be followed up with a hand-written (preferably hand-designed) invitation with every which way to RSVP – which no one ever does. Most mums ask for a present list. This could be done at John Lewis or Toys R Us or you could set one up online. Or do as I do and say: ‘don’t bother, he’ll only break/lose/hate/have it anyway.’

Never just send out an invitation email, like I did, a week before. It might mean no one turns up to your child’s party. Or that everyone knows you’re a slovenly disorganised slummy mummy.

Let us entertain you – don’t ever think a bunch of kids could enjoy themselves playing together with your child’s toys. They must be entertained at all times.

Hire in boy bands (for mixed parties), Girls Aloud (for boys only), anyone who will make them march around like soldiers (but not your veteran granddad), teach them football, or to sing and dance (David Beckham and Britney).

Otherwise call in anyone who’s been on the X factor or Britain’s Got Talent – this is easier if you’re friends with Simon Cowell or ask him to be the godfather to your child. Best to do that before the party to avoid disappointment.

On no account hire a magician (all kids hate them), stick on one of your ‘albums’ for them to dance to or dream of making a pass the parcel. Party suicide.

Drop the dead (sweet-filled) donkey – a piñata is the ultimate in party fun. Stuff the hollow cardboard donkey with sweets then blindfold your little one and his/her friends and tell them to bash it until its guts (sweets) fall out.   

This is great for anger management and building up an appetite before bringing out the party food.

Unfortunately, it has to be hung up – usually on a washing line, so the kids can get a good swing at it without getting hurt.

We don’t have a garden, let alone a washing line, so I tied two dressing gown cords together and made my husband and his friend hold either end in the middle of our tiny living room. Nearly being smacked by blindfolded kids only added to the danger and excitement.

I’d also forgotten to buy a stick so had to improvise with Deme’s Harry Potter broomstick.

The boys loved pummelling the donkey. But it was so stuffed with sweets it wasn’t given up without a fight. One friend beheaded it, my son took out two of its limbs but still it held onto the sweets.

‘Hit it harder,’ everyone shouted as their craving for sugar increased. Deme almost took another boy’s eye out and one of the other boys snapped the broom in half.

It smashed into the balcony window, bounced off and narrowly missed the plasma TV.

Half an adrenaline-fuelled hour later the donkey finally split and the broken sweets came out in a mushroom cloud of sugary dust. It coated us, the kids, our furniture and the floor with a zillion bits of love hearts, lollies and boiled sweets.

We then invented an even better game of pan and brush – where the boys had to sweep up the mess before their friends could eat all the sweet debris.

Have your cake and eat it – never, ever make your own. A lop-sided, burnt Victoria sponge with green icing will not pass as a Ben 10 Alien Force intergalactic cake.

It must be from a supermarket, packed full of additives, sugar and have an iced figure of the latest hero on top for the guests to fight over.

‘I want his omnitrix,’ my son wailed as his guests bartered over which body part of Ben 10’s they deserved. My husband performed a professional autopsy before everyone stopped screaming.

Bags of fun – party bags are the real test of how good the party was. You could have booked Justine Timberlake, Diversity or Beyonce to entertain your little one’s friends but if the party bag’s not up to scrutiny you’ll be judged accordingly.

Last year we thought we’d cheat by buying posh metallic Transformers and Spider-Man ready-made bags. ‘Wow,’ all the boys said until they opened it. ‘This is rubbish,’ one five-year-old sniffed.

‘It’s only got a poster and a sweet in it. It’s not even worth taking home.’

So this year we went all out to impress and stuffed the bags full to bursting. Not only was the best candy inside but a yoyo, parachute soldier, harmonica, spinning top, flashing necklace, edible vampire teeth, glow-in-the-dark skulls, bubbles, cuddly toy…if the supermarket had it, we bought it.

‘Not bad,’ my son’s friends murmured.

Next year we’re saving up to include Apple Macbook pros, I-phones, a Wii and an all-inclusive trip to Disneyland with £1,000 spending money each.

Stock up on stain removers – sleepovers are the new going out and every guest must be invited to stay the night.

That doesn’t mean they will, of course. Most will wait until it’s at least 10pm, you’ve relaxed, had two glasses of rioja so you’re over the limit, and then decide they need to go home right now.

Do ring their parents to collect them. Don’t try to persuade them to stay. They’ll only wait until you’ve had another two glasses and gone to bed before repeating the same process.

Do put a DVD on a continuous loop, give them popcorn in bed and tell them to help themselves to breakfast. You’ll need all the sleep you can get before beginning the big tidy up after the party.

Make sure you’ve got a variety of stain removers before the sleepover part of the party begins.

The kids will find a way to cut themselves, be sick down the stairs carpet, and miss the toilet.

Buckets, plaster and bed mat protectors are optional but will save the laundry/dry/steam/industrial cleaning bill.

We’re still cleaning up the house three days later. ‘It was a brilliant party,’ my son announced last night. ‘All my friends can’t stop talking about it.’

Neither can me or my husband – as we desperately try to find a carpet cleaner, decorator and psychologist to repair the damage.

At least we’ve got a year to organise the next one. I’m thinking Macdonald’s, the O2 or The Albert Hall…it’ll work out cheaper and less stressful.

A Wee Problem

THE SHOES in the shop window made me stop and drool. They were ballerina pink satin with a fake block toe and delicate ribbons to wind up your calf. 

Very Darcey Bussell – and totally ridiculous for rainy, grimy London. ‘They’d be ruined first time out,’ I thought, prising myself away.

But I couldn’t forget the shoes and kept making reasons to go past the shop to see them. ‘They’re so beautiful,’ I muttered, shocking myself. I’m definitely not a shoe kind of girl.

I was brought up as a tomboy in the country where most people thought I was a lad until 38DDs erupted from my chest at 13.

Wellies, trainers and sensible flats have encased my size 7s most of my life.

I’ve dabbled with the odd stiletto and ended up with a sprained ankle every time. I really can’t walk in anything above an inch high.

So these ballet slippers were perfect. Until I dared to go inside and saw the price. ‘Eighty pounds!’ I coughed, blinking.

They were only a bit of satin with some ribbon attached. ‘Outrageous,’ I tutted, shaking my head. I could buy the food shopping with that, or pay the gas bill.

But I had to have them. I’d never felt this way about a pair of shoes before. ‘And I do need a treat,’ I told myself.

I had two children – a six-year-old boy and little girl, 17 months, who kept me frazzled. I’d been ill, lost my job and hadn’t been able to find another one. ‘I deserve cheering up,’ I decided, taking the shoes to the till.

Back home, I unwrapped them from the tissue and stared at them in the box. They were so delicate. So feminine.

Then I looked down at my feet with their bunions, chipped nail varnish and wonky toes. It had been a long time since they’d done a plie or pirouette.

But once I’d slipped on the slippers, I felt like dancing, they were so gorgeous.

‘Wow,’ my little girl, Anais, said over and over again, pointing to my feet. I laughed.

‘Yes wow,’ I repeated and taking her hand, did a twirl.

These shoes were magical, transforming me from a frizzy-haired, clumsy mum into a giggling girl.

‘Let’s take the shoes out for a walk,’ I said. It was a crisp, sunny October day. No hint of rain, nothing to scuff or ruin my new shoes.

Strictly gorgeous

In them I even walked differently – delicate, as if I could appear on Strictly or put leg warmers on to watch Fame.

‘I’m going to live forever,’ I sang, pushing the pram faster.

Then I looked at my watch. Oh no. I had to pick up my son, Deme, from school. And I still hadn’t bought any food for tea. I’d been too preoccupied with my new shoes.

‘We can’t be late,’ I said, sprinting along with the pushchair now. Deme was the last one waiting by the school gate.

‘Sorry sweetie,’ I panted, guilt – and not the shoes - pinching. ‘I’m not late am I?

He looked down at my feet. ‘Nice shoes, Mamma,’ he said. ‘You look like a dancer.’

I grinned. These shoes were ridiculously expensive but really made an impact.

I was in a good mood as we walked to the supermarket. ‘I want to go home and watch Ben 10 Alien Force,’ Deme moaned.

‘It won’t take long,’ I promised. I only had a few things to get. But at least it was a good excuse to show off my new girly shoes.

Deme sulked down the fruit and vegetable aisle, then begged to look at the toys.

‘Just let me get the shopping,’ I said, trying to ignore his pleas and the baby’s singing.

I was trying to decide between spaghetti and macaroni dried pasta when I heard it. ‘Ooow, ooow, oooww, ooooh,’ my son wailed.

I looked up and saw he was bright red and dancing about on the spot. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as he jigged and wailed in pain.

‘I need the toilet,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Right now.’

I glanced around for the toilet sign, then sprinted down the aisle, past the cakes and burst through the doors into the nearest loo – the disabled one.

There was enough room for all three of us, including the pushchair. ‘Made it,’ I said as Deme struggled with his trouser buttons and zip.

‘Oh noooooo,’ he screamed, desperate now.

‘Let me do it,’ I said, battling to undo his zip as Deme hopped from one foot to the other.

Finally I wrestled it down and turned to give Deme some privacy. Too late.

He needed to go so badly, a fountain of wee arched in the air. In slow motion, I watched it begin its descent, frantically trying to get out of the way.

Before I could move, the wee hit the rim of the toilet and splattered everywhere – raining down on my new shoes.

‘Aaaaah,’ Deme sighed, relieved.

‘Noooooooo,’ I screamed, distraught. I was now standing in a puddle of wee and could see it spreading across the fine pink silk of my shoes.

‘Sorry,’ Deme said, doing up his zip. I couldn’t speak. My shoes were ruined, a large stain already marking each one.

I’d owned them for less than a couple of hours. Now they were only good for the bin. ‘I’m sure they’ll be OK when they dry,’ Deme said, embarrassed.

I kissed the top of his head. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I reassured him. ‘It was an accident.’ I blamed myself. Silly ballet shoes at my age? They were a wee mistake.

Do you think there’s a stain remover for wee? Or do you know another way to save my shoes? Please let me know…  

Hands off Jordan - Simon Cowell's mine!

STARING AT the photo of them smiling into the camera, arms wound around each other, jealousy twisted through me.

‘So Katie Price fancies Simon Cowell does she?’ I muttered. ‘Well she’ll have to get past me first.’

The ink was barely dry on her divorce from the gorgeous Peter Andre and here she was declaring her lust for Mr X Factor himself.

Tough luck, Jordan, I thought. I spotted him before you.

Five-and-a-half years ago, to be exact, when I auditioned for the pop show just after having my son, Deme.

Fresh from changing nappies, weaning and sleep-deprived from his teething, I decided I’d been hiding my real talents all along.

I was better than Britney, could out-warble Whitney, and knew I could teach Mariah Carey a thing or two.

A tone-deaf husband and eager-to-please toddler only added to my self-belief.

I chose to sing Blondie’s Heart of Glass at the London round of auditions and bombed. But I didn’t care.

Throughout my disastrous rendition, I was just inches away from Simon, Louis and Sharon Osbourne – and was shocked at how sexy Mr Cowell was in the flesh.

On screen, I’d laughed along as Ant & Dec teased him about his high-waisted trousers, terrible haircut and megawatt smile.

Now, up close, he was sexy in a raw multi-millionaire way.  

Raw Passion

He was the sort of man I – and Katie Price – could imagine throwing you over his shoulder in a primitive but oh-so passionate manner.

What a shame I was married, a mum and he thought I was the worse singer he’d heard that day - which was only marginally better than Louis telling me I had absolutely no star quality!

Now I’ve forgiven him for not seeing my star potential.

'Can I be Simon?’ my little boy, Deme, now six, asked when we settled down to watch the X Factor at the weekend.

We were as eager as the rest of Britain to find out the final 12 going through to the live show.

‘Of course,’ I said, handing him his Cowell Costume – a pair of high-waisted jeans and grey V-neck T shirt.

I smiled at my baby, Anais. ‘Do you fancy being Cheryl or Dannii?’ I said.

She was wearing a flared mini-skirt from Gap. More Mrs Cole than Ms Minogue, I decided, cradling her next to me on the sofa.

That just left my husband to play our Saturday night talent game of rate the singer. ‘You’ll have to be Louis,’ I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Alexio was furious. ‘That means I have to choose those awful Irish twins, John and Edward,’ he sulked.

Britain’s Got the X-Factor

The music began and we leant closer to the TV, all imitating our chosen judge.

‘Uuggh aaggh,’ my son went, pretending to press a buzzer. ‘Where’s Piers, Mamma?’

I laughed. ‘No this is X Factor, darling,’ I explained. ‘Not Britain’s Got Talent.’

But I could understand the confusion. With the live audience and heightened emotion, the two programmes have merged.

Deme ignored me and carried on buzzing anyway. Anais screamed for her milk as the groups performed, and Alexio screamed in frustration at big-haired as well as bigheaded duo John and Edward.

Me? I just waited for the glimpses of Simon in his (shock) white V-neck T-shirt at home in Hollywood.

And I bet Katie Price was doing the same. She has been arguing with her cage-fighter boyfriend Alex Reid over her lust for Simon.

But I don’t blame her. He might have a weak top lip, a limited wardrobe and loo-brush style hair but Simon’s up there with Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and Keanu Reeves.

Now Simon, who’s 50 tomorrow, is launching his own X Factor aftershave and I’m really excited. I’ll be able to spray my husband with it and sniff him all day long.

Jordan’s right to fancy Simon but she’ll have to get in line. I’m proud of my Cowell crush – to me it makes perfect scents! 

Do you fancy Simon or are me and Jordan mad? Tell me what you think by leaving a comment below…