Tackfest Tuesday- Lovers Around 11

DOES YOUR local radio station have a cheesy hour of love songs they play around 11pm to get "all those loving couples out there in the mood?"

Mine does. Our local station is Q102 and it brings you Lovers Around 11 each night. Cool FM in Belfast does a very similar Lights Out thing each night and when I was in sixth form and at university (and was loved by no one) I was an addict.

Generally the rules for lovers around 11 is that you choose any number of tacky love ballads, preferably from the 80s and share them with the listeners. There's a helluva lot of Foreigner played on Lovers Around 11.

Now I'm a fan of 80s power ballads. They might be really tacky. The lyrics might make absolutely no sense at all, but my goodness they are fun to sing along with.

Now setting aside your Celine Dion and Mariah Carey nonsense for another day, the two songs I would like to feature this week are the wonderfully bad 'Gonna write a Classic'

This should be enough to tell of the standard

Gonna write a classic

Gonna write it in an attic

Ooh babe, I'm an addict, now

An addict for your love.

If anyone can find the full lyrics, I'll love you forever.

Next in line is 'All Out Of Love' by Air Supply (I think).

I just love the imagery of the head on the phone.

I'm lying alone with my head on the phone

Thinking of you till it hurts

I know you hurt too but what else can we do

Tormented and torn apart

I wish I could carry your smile and my heart

For times when my life feels so low

It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring

When today doesn't really know, doesn't really know

Chorus: I 'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you

I know you were right believing for so long

I 'm all out of love, what am I without you

I can't be too late to say that I was so wrong

My sister could even sing the harmonies to that one. Tearjerkingly briliant!

Baggy trousers

Today as I nipped out to Sainsburys (or Sainsbries as I prefer to call it) for lunch, my trousers slipped down from my waist and rested on my heretofore gargantuan hips.

The hems of said trousers got soaked and I spent most of the afternoon with cold ankles wondering when exactly the Seven Dwarves of Apocalypse would next make me a visit.

But the other side of it is that I felt utterly smug and delighted with myself because dear reader, I have managed to lose 12.5lbs over the last eight weeks.

Now, those who have cast their eyes over my person will know that is drop in the ocean compared to what I do have to lose but it is a start and tonight I was able to try on clothes a whole size smaller and see them zip up with a little room to spare.

The main reason behind all is that I'm going to be a bridesmaid for my sister next June and I want to look respectable as I tootle down the aisle in front of her. The other reason is that I want to look and feel better. Yes, at the moment with my baggy trousers I look a little like MC Hammer but I feel so much more confident.

SCD Week 6- Give Carol a break!

She may not be the best dancer in the world, but the woman has guts.

Yes, her hands did look a little like she was a little girl who was doing ballet but her lifts were impeccable and graceful.

The judges really need to start giving Smiley Smiley Carol Smilie a break!

I'm not a fan of Craig Revel-Horwood anyway- I think he personifies smug but there was no need for him to tear her apart the way he did on Saturday night.

The judges weren't half as nasty to Peter Schmeichal and quite frankly- he was pants. He may have been good at football once but his Samba left me cringing. Please, please can I never, ever be subjected to that again?

Louisa as always was strong and I LOVED her song- it was one of my favourites in my dancing days. Emma was good, I suppose, but surely I'm not the only person in the world to find her smug and leeeetle tedious? I can't warm to the girl no matter how good her shoulder shimmies.

And that leads me to two things.

First of all Ray and Camilla. What the feck was that about? How did they get voted out? Saturday night's will be a sorrier place because now I only have one man to drool over.

Mark's American Smooth didn't set me on fire the way his salsa did, but it was elegant and I long for my very own man in a tux to spin me around the dance floor.

A world gone mad?

THE WORLD is in a pretty sad state if one of the lead stories on the lunchtime news is that a four year old in England is suffering from depression.

I clicked on the link to the story with the trepidation only a mother can feel at reading sad and moving stories about children. I wondered what her story would be.

Was the poor wee thing getting bullied? Was she ill? Was she the product of a broken home?

No. Mollie Murphy from Sunderland didn't get into the primary school she wanted.

So that begged the inevitable questions- was this because of some sort of prejudice or bigotry? Is that why the poor wee lamb is contemplating Prozac at such an young age?

My maternal heart strings were twanging like never before until I found out, that Mollie didn't get into the primary school she wanted because her mother didn't submit the form in time. Instead of encouraging her daughter to settle into her new primary school, make friends and get on with her young life, Mollie's mother has taken it upon herself to go to the national media and tell them how her daughter is suffering because she is going to a different school than her wee nursery pals.

She has even taken poor Mollie, talked her into pulling a very sad and depressed looking face with a petted lip that would put even my own wee man to shame, and allowed umpteen photographers to take her picture.

This has encouraged people throughout the country to feel sorry for the wee love while at the same time feel utterly horrified that any child could suffer from such a 'grown up' condition as depression.In my opinion what this mother has done is disgusting beyond words.

I've no doubt the girl was a little sad that she didn't get to the same school as her nursery school chums. My own niece was a little sad that she wasn't placed in the same P1 class as her best friend Aoibheann.But was she depressed?

To use a popular Derry expression- Was she feck?

With encouragement from her family my niece managed to get all excited about the new friends she would make in her new class and, at the same time, we helped her stay in touch with her old best friend from nursery.Her mammy didn't phone down to the 'Journal' and demand we run a story about it, because she, like most sane and rational people, realises that sometimes life doesn't go exactly to plan and you have to make the most of what you have.

To brand a child 'depressed' over this most basic of things sets that child up for a victim mentality the rest of her life.

Depression is a very real, very horrible and all encompassing illness that can paralyse a person mentally and emotionally. It's a far cry from a wain who has a head on her because she didn't get into the class she wanted for primary one.

Shout loud enoughThis episode simply serves to teach the world that if you shout loud enough, and use scary words like 'depression' you will get what you want. In other words- huffing gets results. What a fabulous life lesson to teach your child.

As regular readers of this column will know I have a two-year-old son. Being of that certain age he has, in recent weeks, developed the ability to be a stroppy wee monkey and thinks nothing of throwing a full scale tantrum if he doesn't get what he wants.

Much as I don't like to see any child unhappy (especially not my own, after all it will be me who has to listen to the whinging and crying) children have to learn the lesson that the world does not owe them a living and they just have to get on with that.Trust me, it's perhaps easier to give into a huffing child. It would certainly be easier to buy yet another Thomas the Tank Engine toy than put up with embarrassment of an off the scale tantrum as I drag him, legs flailing, out of Smyths.But if I buy that toy, I won't have taught him anything and I think Mollie Murphy most certainly won't be learning anything from this sorry episode either.

What happens when she starts secondary school, or university, or work? Will there be the same outcry of depression if she doesn't get what she wants then?Being a bona-fide card carrying member of the press, I don't often slag the profession off- but I am amazed this story made the headlines in the first place.

There are hundreds if not thousands of children out there who have real problems, who live with abuse, violence, neglect and illness.

They don't get their voices heard in the same way this family have and I'm genuinely baffled as to the reasoning behind the whole thing.If Mollie Murphy were my own child, I would sit her down and give a firm but kind talking too. I would walk down to school with her, sit in on a class if necessary and perhaps invite some of her new classmates round for tea.In short, I would get over myself and help my child move on.

But as I am not Mollie Murphy's mother, I'll just sit with my head in my hands and wonder what on earth the world is coming too.

Shameless self publicity

Be sure to check out my Trashionista review of The Rise and Fall of a Yummy Mummy

AND

If you get the chance pick up the December issue of Practical Parenting and read Keris' article 'It Wasn't Meant to be Like This'. You might just see my ugly mug staring back out at you.

How gorgeous are you?

I found this very interesting indeed.




Many thanks to my lovely friend Vicki for sharing it with me.
I've commented before on how much of a good idea I think the Dove Self Esteem fund is.

Let's teach the next generation of women just how bloody gorgeous they are.

2006- the year I wrote a book?

IN JANUARY 2002, myself and my then best friend (long story, save it for the next book) decided to start taking Salsa classes.

(Honestly, this is not another SCD post!). I loved dancing and you know what, I was damn good at it. My friend- well she struggled a little- but she loved it too.

We became somewhat obsessed and went to two classes a week as well as a social night. It became my life. I spent hours practising and while I've never been able to do a floor spin, I could move my hips bloody nicely- thank you.

I even had the chance to dance with a world champion at a salsa festival in Donegal (of all unlikely places).

Anyway, in the midst of our obsession I remember turning to my friend and saying: "Let's make sure we never look back on this and say 'Remember that year we did the salsa?'"

We laughed at the time, because it seemed so unlikely it would or could ever be the case that we just wouldn't want to dance anymore.

In that September, when I was getting really good, I took a fall. That fall happened just days before the salsa fest in Derry and even though I attended my confidence was knocked. My front tooth was broken, my face was battered and I was teamed up with a truly awful dancer. I just didn't have the confidence from that moment on and over the next six months I slid out of the dance scene.

My friend on the other hand went on to become a fantabulous dancer and teacher.

Fast forward to the present day. This year my passion has been writing, but all it takes is one little, seemingly insignificant thing to knock my confidence and convince me I've been fooling myself all along.

I'm waiting for that event and I'm hoping it won't come. Please let it not be the case that in four years from now I reminisce about how I could have been a writer once...

Tackfest Tuesday- Bryan Adams

In August 2001 I, along with 10,000 other people, crowded into a playing field in Prehen to watch a Bryan Adams concert.

It was memorable for a number of reasons- the first being that I live in Derry and we never, ever get anyone famous come to play a concert.

The second was that I got my tickets for free on the basis that I would review the concert for the paper afterwards.

The third reason is that much as I kind of thought Bryan was okay in a secret guilty pleasure way before the concert, afterwards I thought he - well- rocked.

The thing about Bryan Adams is that he writes songs that we women love. He tries to be all manly and rock-starrish but his ballads are every woman's dream.

I was reminded of that as I watched 'Strictly Come Dancing' on Saturday night and saw Peter and Erin dance to "Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman" from the sound track of the film Don Juan De Marco.

Now the thing Don Juan De Marco did was combine the swoony lyrics of Bryan Adams with the total sex-goddishness of Johnny Depp. What more could a woman want?

So in honour of this week's tacky Tuesday, I bring you the Lyrics to 'Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman' by Bryan Adams.

To really love a woman

To understand her - you gotta know her deep inside

Hear every thought - see every dream

Give her wings - when she wants to fly

Then when you find yourself lyin' helpless in her arms

You know you really love a woman

When you love a woman you tell her that she's really wanted When you love a woman you tell her that she's the one

She needs somebody to tell herthat it's gonna last forever

So tell me have you ever really - really really ever loved a woman?

To really love a woman Let her hold you - til younow how she needs to be touched

You've gotta breathe her - really taste her

Til you can feel her in your blood

And when you can see your unborn children in her eyes

You know you really love a woman

I was about 19 when that song came out and I thought it was possible the most romantic thing I'd ever heard in my life. Of course now, if a man told me he could see his unborn children in my eyes I would run a mile screaming- but it was a nice thought at the time.

For my notions on love and passion, Mr. Bryan Adams, I thank you.

Looky what I found!

Sexy- everything about me's so sex-eeeee

Behold that thing of beauty in this picture- for she looks much the same as I do today.

Yes, I have a cold and am a delightful shade of green. I've been sneezing and wheezing since sun up and even now that it's dark I'm still coughing and spluttering.

Let me paint you a picture. It is 8.40pm. I am wearing my oversized pink pyjama bottoms with a tunic style top which looks akin to maternity wear. I am not pregnant- I am just fat.
On my feet are two of the meanest looking fluffy pink slippers you will ever see and I am wearing an oversized lilac fleece dressing gown from my pregnancy days which has long lost its belt. My hair looks as though I have stuck my finger in an electrical outlet and I've taken off my make up so that my nose glows brightly- guiding lost Derry wans up the Foyle and safely home.
I have lathered on some green hemp cream from the Body Shop to ease the dry skin around my face and there are approximately 655 used tissues lying across my desk.

In addition, I keep making snorting, sneezing phlegmy noises.

Sexy? I'm a fecking babe!

SCD week 5- We have a favourite

IT'S NO secret that I have a love of salsa and thanks to my boss kindly letting me away from work an hour early on Saturday night, I was able to get home in time to see Saturday's unmissable SCD.

Now, let me state from the start that I utterly and totally agreed with nasty Craig about Claire and Brendan- who I did quite like- their dancing was naff. I could have done better and it's a good three years since I donned my salsa shoes.

Carol was okay- her dancing was at the level I used to dance. It didn't blow me away.

But Mark and Karen- wow. It was hot, hot, hot and the man can move. Having been on the receiving end of several really dodgy partners in my salsa time, it was clear that Mark can lead and boy can he shake those hips.

I needed a cold shower afterwards.

How anyone thinks SCD is inferior to watching that eejit Ashley ponce about on X Factor is beyond me.

So, as far as I'm concerned now it's Mark and Karen to win- closely followed by Luisa and whatever her man is called.

Month 33- Must stop swearing

Dear Joseph,

I am terribly sorry for corrupting your innocent wee mind.

Let's discuss language and it's appropriate uses. I am a new driver- that means that much like you, I am still learning the finer points of interaction. You are learning to interact with the world around you, I am learning not to kill other drivers or indeed be killed myself.

There are times, I admit, when swear words spout forth from my usually quite eloquent tongue. This does not permit you to copy them, least of all because much as I try to be quite stern about it, I generally find myself lapsing into fits of embarrassed and childish giggles.

Yesterday, as I drove over a speed bump a little too fast, you interjected with: "That was a f*ck sake bump, wasn't it mammy?"

You can imagine my shock! I nearly crashed the f*cking car.

So I suppose what I'm saying is that this month while you've still not wanted to use your potty, you are coming on in leaps and bounds in your verbal skills. Your Auntie Emma has commented that she now has proper little conversations with you and I agree, you do like to talk.

I'm frequently woken at 3am now to hear about your adventures and I swear, if you weren't so damned cute you would have been put up for adoption now.

But you have a way, in almost everything you do, of making me smile and making me proud. Even if it does involve expletives.

Love you always,

Mammy

x

Strictly pants

I've just realised I'm working til 6 on Saturday and SCD starts at 5.50....

AND IT'S SALSA WEEK.

The Gods are laughing at me. I can hear them chuckle. B*stards.

One night in October

I SHARED a wonderful experience with my son this week. On Tuesday night, long past his bedtime, we walked down the street to Riverview Terrace and watched the fireworks light up the night sky.

My sleepy boy, dressed in the trousers from his Dracula costume, an orange sweater and his winter coat cuddled into my arms and watched the sky light up with greens, reds, gold and silver.I

'm not sure which of us shouting "Wow" the loudest or which one of us was most impressed but for those twenty minutes on Tuesday night we both saw a little magic in the air. Joseph was convinced the fireworks were exploding stars and treated all those around him to a resounding rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle" before we padded back up the hill.

As we put him to bed, he fought to keep his eyes open just in case there was one stray firework still waiting to go off.

I'm sure it was a scene played out in many homes in the city on Tuesday night and I'll admit it brought a tear of pride to my eye. Of course, it's a far cry from my day.

While we took Joseph out in his (shop bought) costume, after his Halloween themed party (complete with frightening green cake), we all got to talking about how different it was when we were wee.No one was bought a costume. (Well, no one that I knew anyway). We made do with what was found around the house and I have fond memories of my mother pulling out a huge bag of old curtains for us to choose from.

A purple curtain could transform you into a vampire or a witch. A net curtain would transform you into a bride or a fairy. If you were really lucky you or one of your siblings would have made their First Holy Communion that year and there would be a dress to wear. In the worst case you got a 30p mask from Wellworths and strapped it over your face and buttoned your duffle coat up as far as it could go.

As far as I'm concerned those blasted masks (or false faces as some called them) were responsible for rearing a generation of Derry claustrophobics who struggled to breathe through the tiny air holes while the inside of the mask steamed up with the heat of your breath.

God forbid you insisted on wearing your mask before the big day and you nipped the elastic. You would either then have to walk about just holding your mask to your face or settle for the back of a Cornflakes box cut into a spooky shape and tied on with a stray piece of wool from your mammy's knitting bag.

As my friend put it, you inevitably took on the look of yer man from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

We didn't know about trick or treating and we never expected sweets with our loot. We jusbanged on doors shouting: "Any 'hing fer Hallowe'en?" or "Any nuts and apples?" If we got a Rice Krispie bun in our (Wellworths) bag we thought we had won the lottery- even if it would have disintegrated into a thousand pieces by the time we got home.

When we made it back to the safety of the house, we poured out our bag of treats on the floor. After discarding the bruised apples and the Rice Krispie debris, we set about dividing our nuts into their respective piles.

Monkey nuts were a breeze. Anyone could open them. Hazelnuts were a little tougher to handle. We only had one set of nutcrackers in our house and it was a battle to see who got them first. Those who 'lost', set about either trying smash doors closed on the blasted things, get a hammer out, the end of the poker or- if you were feeling really brave- trying to crush them between your teeth.

Anything bigger than a hazelnut and we knew we were in bother- and there was always at least one mammoth king of the nuts that no one actually knew the name of which would take a sustained effort with the hammer AND poker to get open.

It was all different on Tuesday night. Joseph's costume had been bought weeks ago in Tesco. My sister had stocked up on little pumpkin buckets for him and his cousin to carry and bought pumpkin lights to hang from the window. She was the person responsible for the green cake (which even Joseph turned his nose up at- and he would eat cake over any other food stuff) and she even managed to print out a selection of scary Hallowe'en colouring-in pictures for them to be creative with."
There wasn't a scary king of nuts, a poker or a Wellworths bag to be seen. That said, I suppose Hallowe'en has had to change and move on.

You couldn't possibly send your wains out into the street on a dark night with only a bag of nuts and apples to protect themselves any more- so it's natural, if a little sad, that parties have moved in-doors.

Sure we could do without the sweets and the expensive costumes, but at the same time it's nice to have occasions when the whole family can get together and share a magic moment.For me, I'll be putting the look of wonder on Joseph's face as the fireworks exploded around him in my mental memory book along with the dodgy masks and fun we had swathed in metres of purple 70s style curtains. Both are equally as memorable.

Tackfest Tuesday

I was going to call this Melancholy Monday but I realised that the moment of Monday had already passed and I would have been making a complete and utter buck eejit of myself.

Instead therefore I've decided to dedicate Tuesdays- probably one of the most overrated days of the week in my humble opinion- to those guilty pleasures which make life more meaningful to us women.

This week, let's talk about cheesy songs that you put on when you want a good cry and need something to stimulate the tears...

Let me share my blub songs of the moment. 'Last Request' by Paolo Nutini just makes me think of those times in a relationship when you know it's over or think it's over and all you want to do is hold on to it so very tightly...

*sigh* I'm welling up just thinking about it.

Slow down, lie down

Remember it's just you and me

Don't sell out, bow out

Remember how this used to be

I just want you to know something, is that alright?

Baby let's get closer, tonight

Grant my last request and just let me hold you,

don't shrug your shoulders

Lay down beside me

Sure I can accept that we're going nowhere

But one last time let's go there

Lay down beside me

The only problem with Paolo Nutini is that he is 19 and as such probably knows feck all about love. I mean when I was 19, love was an unrequited affair which involved me sobbing over Mariah Carey records and 'Lights Out' on Cool FM. What the feck would I have known about holding people and laying down beside them?

That said in all the history of sad and emotional songs, there is only one guaranteed to make me cry harder- and it's fecking George Michael

Turn down the lights

Turn down the bed

Turn down these voices inside my head
Lay down with me

Tell me no liesJ

ust hold me close, don't patronize
Don't patronize me
Cause I can't make you love me

if you don't

You can't make your heart feel

something it won't

Here in the dark

in these final hours

I will lay down my heart

And I'll feel the power

but you won't

No, you won't

Cause I can't make you love me

if you don't.

It's all enough to prompt an ugly cry and an over indulgence in the Galaxy stakes.

SCD- Week 4...no need for comment

It was an okay show....the Fox Trot doesn't really do it for me...

but, *sigh* Ray...

Ray makes it all worthwhile . His Paso Doble was so very masterful.

The Seven Dwarves of the Apocalypse

In the spirit of trying to jazz up this blog, I should in fact post a picture of me and how truly awful I look today.

I have spent the last three days in bed with the flu (which initially I thought was a hangover thanks to a v. good night on the town with Erin) but which soon revealed itself to be the flu from hell.

I've been achey, sweaty, shivery, snotty, wheezy, queasy and weepy all weekend (How's that for an alternative seven dwarves? The Seven Dwarves of the Apocalypse...yep, that is what I shall call them)

However in the spirit of trying not to scare any readers I have off for ever more I will instead just post a picture of the non apocalyptic Sneezy.

Now, I don't like being sick. I'm not a good patient. I get even more whiney than usual and I demand sympathy from everyone- even those I've only parked next too or seen from across the street. I've also been unable to make it to work, which is unfortunate, as I know have guilt to add my list of symptoms.

The one good thing to come from this whole misadventure is that I dreamt the start of book number three (Provisionally titled 'Jumping in Puddles') the other night....but I have to make sure that doesn't put me off finishing book number 2.

My right to sit on the sofa

It's week three of Strictly Come Dancing and the battle lines have been drawn.

Himself, who watches relatively no TV, has developed an obsession with the X Factor, while I'm still entranced by the glitter and shoes of everyone's favourite dancing programme.

Sadly he claimed ownership of the sofa first last Sarturday night and I was left to stand in the kitchen to watch SCD- while cooking the dinner, washing the dishes, sorting out the washing etc etc (A woman's work is never done).

I saw mere glimpses of the tangos (or is it tangoes?) and jives. I saw that Jan was awful. I saw that Louisa was indeed wonderful, butI'm not sure about her over-made up look.

I was shocked, nay horrified, to see Spoony kicked out especially when Georgina and Jan both made complete arses of themselves.

That said I didn't really like Ola, she was too stretchy and made me feel wholly inadequate.

This week I will endeavour to get my bum on the sofa first to see thefull thing in comfort. I must try explaining to himself that I need to watch it.

After all if I don't get to see it regularly, how on earth am I going to be ready in time to compete in 2009?

That's what little girls are made of

I have a confession to make.

I'm broody, very broody.

I never thought it would be possible to be broody after already having one very active, very loving and very wonderful little boy but if anything I'm more broody now than I ever was before I had the boy one.

However, my broodiness has a specific edge now. I want a pink one. I want a daughter who plays with dolls and tea sets. Much as I enjoy playing with the boy-face, there is only so much enthusiasm I can muster for Scoop, Muck and Dizzy etc.

To be honest Joseph's favourite toy of the moment, Thomas the Tank Engine, leaves me cold. He isn't fun. You can't pretend to feed him, or dress him or sing him lullabies.

I think most women feel similarly, that while we love our boys, there is a need to share so much of our own existance with a darling little girl.

I think the broodiness, the desire for a pink one, has been spurred by my writing 'Signed, Sealed, Delivered' in which my Main Character Aoife, gives birth to the edible Maggie (a name I now like, even though I've always hated it). The female dynamics between the four main characters in the book (Aoife, Anna, Beth and Maggie) is so warm that I want that myself.

I wonder if Santa will bring me a pink one for Christmas?

Bros are the boogie

I must admit to having an addiction to the Blog of Keris Stainton (who I consider a kind of friend as we email occasionally, which means when she is famous I will point and her books and say: "I've emailed her AND she emailed me back")
Anyway, while reading over her past entries I came across her hilariously funny 100 things about me section.
Way deep down, near the bottom, she references the fact she *kind of* stalked Matt Goss from Bros during her teenage years. This has elevated her to some kind of goddess stature in my estimation because she actually got to meet the man I lusted after throughout my teenage years.
How I longed to run my fingers through his blonde buzz-cutted hair and across his waxed and smooth chest.
On occasion I would adopt a London accent because, you know, I could (sort of) and pretend I was from Lewisham whence from he hails.
It was a truly naff London accent and I'm not very proud of my geeky teenage behaviour.
That said, if I were to meet Matt Goss today on the street and if he asked me back to his for a bit of dirty lovin', I so would. (For oldtimes' sake, of course).Anyway, many thanks to Kezza for this blast from the past.

Oooh, do you think if in 2009, he might be on Strictly Come Dancing too???

Mammy Dearest

THIS TIME last week I was off work for a week's holiday and
experiencing just exactly how the other half live.

By the other half, I am of course referring to those mammies who don't have to drag themselves and their wains out of bed at 7.30 each morning to ensure they arrive in work somewhere in the vague vicinity of 9am.
To use the lingo, they are Stay At Home Mums (SAHMs) and by my reckoning they've got a pretty good deal going.
Yes, I'm all for work (not least because without it I would be
destitute and living out of a doorway in Ferryquay Street), but there is something quite enjoyable about being a full-time bonafide mammy.
Usually I'm a pretty stressed out mother, having that moment of guilt each morning when I leave Joseph off with the childminder and feeling that mixture of joy and dread when I see him again in the evening.
(I'm delighted to see him, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I'm so tired, so caught up in what needs to be done around the house that I can't fully enjoy him).
To have the time to be there for him is a novelty I still quite enjoy and our week together was like something out of a "How to be a Happy Family" guide book. The wee man and myself used the time to get creative in the kitchen. First of all we decided to bake cookies. However, having quickly ascertained that every ingredient in my baking cupboard was past it's sell by date, we opted to make salt dough instead.
Sure, my kitchen looked like an explosion in a cocaine factory by the time we were done but we had such a giggle mixing the flour, salt and water and cutting moon shapes out of the rolled out dough.
By the next day I'd been organised enough to go to Tesco and restock the cupboard so we got to make cookies for real. Yes, I'm pretty sure Joseph ate most of the chocolate chips before they went in the cookie mix, but again as we iced our decorations I felt deeply contented.
The same feelings flooded over me when we played together at Parent and Toddler Group and Jo Jingles. When the Jo Jingles lady (the lovely Doreen) commented on Joseph's impeccable manners, I was proud as punch- even though I know his manners are probably more down to my aunt Stella who minds him for me rather than my own sense of decorum.
Outside of such quality time with my son, being a Stay At Home Mammy for a week meant that another unheard of phenomenon occurred Chez Moi.
Our house was both clean AND tidy. At the same time. And there wasn't even a blue moon in the sky nor sight of a flying pig overhead.

Spit spot
I had the time, and energy to keep everything spit spot and ship shape and I did feel exceptionally smug about the whole thing. As I stood, hands in the sink washing the dishes, watching 'Loose Women' I decided this was indeed was life was all about. Yep, you could keep your tailored work wear and business lunches- this was miles better.
Of course, I was living in a blissed out bubble. It wasn't all perfect. My attempts at potty training bordered on the disastrous. (I'll not go into detail, suffice to say at one stage every cushion cover on my two sofas was whirring around in the machine while I Febreezed anything that sat still for more than two seconds).
Our trip for a walk along the beach ended in near disaster when Joseph decided that, forget about the sub zero temperatures, a dip in the water (fully clothed) would be a great idea.
And I found that come the evenings I was too tired to apply any mental energy to anything. Where usually I come home from work needing some writing or reading time to wind down, I found that last week when Joseph finally succumbed in to sleep (after a new bedtime routine
involving three readings of a Fimble Book, some lullaby singing, and a who's who of children's TV as part of our 'God Blesses') I wanted to follow suit immediately. I became totally incapable of forming a coherent sentence after 8pm.
Despite these minor hiccups it was a fabulous week and despite my tiredness and the general melting of my brain, I was rewarded with more cuddles than you can shake a stick at it and a million declarations of 'I love you mammy'.
So it was with a slightly heavy heart that I returned to the world of work on Monday morning. Thankfully Joseph seemed none the wiser and skipped into Stella's house with a smile on his face. In fact as we sat to play on the floor he turned to me with a cheeky grin and said:
"Mammy, you go to the Derry Journal now." It was more an order than a statement of fact and I of course did what I was told.
But I'll admit I've already started thinking about my next week off and what adventures the two of us can get up too. Papier Mache Christmas decorations anyone?

And the judges scores are...

Do you think if I ask someone, really, really, really nicely they will let me go on Strictly Come Dancing in a coupla years?(You know, when I'm skinny and fit and don't sweat quite so much.)

My dream has now evolved from that of being the nation's favourite writer to being the nation's favourite writer AND Strictly Come Dancing Champion 2009. I can just about see me getting to grips with the quick step and as for the mambo, I've got that baby down pat already.
I fantasize about the costumes, the hair, the make up, the shoes (My God, the shoes, they whip me into a frenzy- especially the gold ones.) I have imagined my inspirational chat to camera already."Yes, who would have thought it? Me? Dance champion of the world, when just three short years ago I was sat at my desk in work dreaming about this very moment and now," *pause for sniff* "it's a reality."

Whaddya think?

Getting abreast of the matter

C'MON LADIES, don't be shy. Let's get it all out in the open and talk about our boobs.

Of course there are 101 things you can call them. Technically, I suppose they are breasts. Most often in Derry (if we are being polite) we call them boobs, but whether you refer to yours as whazzers, bazoongas, doobies or fun-bags, the truth is all of ladies have them and it's about time we started treating them with a little respect.
From our early teens (give or take depending on Mother Nature) our boobs become lifelong companions and define many of us as women.
Every teenage girl or woman will be able to recall her own rite of passage experience where she was taken up the town by her mother or other suitable female relative to buy her first bra.
I still remember my own as if it were yesterday. I was 12 when my mammy took me to Dunnes and bought a very practical and respectable looking white bra. There were no lacy starter teen bras in my day. Nope, my first bra was itchy as hell which served only to make my more self conscious of my journey into womanhood.
However that was nothing compared to the moment of cringing embarrassment when we ran into my aunt and her friend after leaving Dunnes and my mother announced they could now call me Dolly Parton.
As I journeyed through my teenage years I became fond of my boobs, and my bras and managed to get a couple of nice lacy numbers from time to time.
Developing the attitude of 'If you've got it flaunt it', I liked to dress to low cut tops on nights out because let's face it, no one was going to be overly impressed with my thunder thighs and boulder butt. These bad boys were as good as it was going to get.
Into adulthood, well the relationship has at times been fraught. Pregnancy was not a pleasant experience for my bossoms. First they grew, and then they grew, and then they grew some more. By the end of the nine months I was wearing an E cup and feeling the strain. As I made the choice to bottle feed and not breast feed I had endure the added 'joy' of stuffing my bra with cabbage fresh from the fridge until the swelling went away. (The smell was delightful).
And, of course, when the swelling did go away I was left with breasts which require a degree of industrial support to keep them from hitting my knees. Of course, I'm still fond of them. My son indeed loves them and uses them as his personal comforter sticking his hand down my top whenever he is tired.
By this stage I realise you are probably reading this and thinking to yourself "Yer wan at the 'Journal' has finally lost the plot. Imagine talking about your boobs in a family paper." or screaming "Too much information" at the page- but it's about time we got our boobs out in the open (metaphorically speaking).
This month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. According to the Cancer Research 1000 women in Northern Ireland will be diagnosed with breast cancer.
Think about that for a while. That could be your mammy, your sister, your auntie, the wee woman who sold you your 'Journal' this morning or indeed, to coin a phrase, it could be you.
The good news is that more and more women are surviving breast cancer. The Women of Hope, who released their calendar this week are prime examples of this, but as with all cancers early detection is vital.
So we need to stop being embarrassed by our boobs and realise that as well as filling our bras, attracting the opposite sex and feeding our babies they are a part of us which require a certain degree of care and attention. We can't just ignore them and hope they behave themselves.
Yes, we might feel a little stupid standing groping ourselves to carry out the monthly checks. Some of us might even be scared in case we find a lump- and let's face it, boobs can be lumpy things- most of us will have had a scare at some stage. In the majority of cases abnormalities turn out to be nothing to worry about, however it's not worth taking a risk with your boobs or your life.
So when you are done reading this column this week get your boobs out and give them a good feel. It might just save your life.
(I would however recommend you go home first. A breast check in the work tearoom might not go down the best, not matter how liberal your employer.)

A simple check
Follow the five point code:

* know what is normal for you
* look at and feel your breasts
* know what changes to look for
* report any changes without delay
* go for breast screening if you are 50 or over

Check your breasts in a way that's comfortable for you, perhaps in the bath or shower.
Changes to look out for:
* changes in the size, shape or feel of your breasts
* a new lump or thickening in one breast or armpit
* puckering, dimpling or redness of the skin
* changes in the position of the nipple or nipple discharge
* new pain or discomfort that is only on one side.

There may be many reasons for the change other than breast cancer. But report anything unusual to your doctor straight away.

Tag, you are it!

Thanks to Keris I bring you another me me

LAYER ONE:

Name: Claire
Birthdate: June 21
Birthplace: Derry, N. Ireland
Current Location:Our family room in self same house
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Newly blonde thanks to luffly hairdressers today
Height: 5'9"
Righty or Lefty: Righty
Zodiac Sign: Gemini (which Keris describes as bubbly, bright, witty, intelligent and charming - all true!)

LAYER TWO:

Your heritage: There's a wee bit o' Scotland in my blood.
The shoes you wore today: Black heeled boots, tres uncomfortable
Your weakness: Chocolate in all it's forms (except the white stuff...Devil's shite)
Your fears: That anything would happen to the J-man, that I'll never feel good enough
Your perfect pizza: ham and mushroom with zero calories
Goal you would like to achieve: To be a published author

LAYER THREE:

Your most overused phrase: "Feck that for a game of soldiers"
Your first waking thoughts: Please- more sleep- please
Your best physical feature: My eyes, so they say...or the freckle on my foot. I'm fond of it.
Your most missed memory: Time spent with loved ones who are no longer here

LAYER FOUR:

Pepsi or Coke: Neither. Diet Coke
McDonald's or Burger King: McDonalds, esp when pregnant. Then I'm fecking mad for it.
Single or group dates: Date? What's a date?
Adidas or Nike: Adidas. Nicks actually. Three for a pound, or something equally cheap.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Neither. Tetley's does me fine.
Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate. Duh.
Cappuccino or coffee: I am the only person in the world who does not drink coffee in any form.

LAYER FIVE:

Smoke: Never.
Cuss: A lot. Too much in fact.
Sing: Badly, very badly.
Take a shower everyday: Nope, every two days is my average
Do you think you have been in love: Definitely
Want to go to college: Been there
Want to get married: Done that.
Believe in yourself: Not one bit/
Get motion sickness: My god yes, prone to random vomits.
Think you are attractive: No.
Think you are a health freak: Freak? Yes. Health- not so much.
Get along with your parent(s): Very much so, yes. Love them entirely.
Like thunderstorms: Yes, they are thrilling.
Play an instrument: No, apart from a mean triangle at Jo Jingles.
LAYER SIX:

In the past month have you...
Drank alcohol: Yes.
Smoked: No.
Done a drug: No.
Made Out: Only with my husband
Gone on a date: No.
Gone to the mall?: No.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos?: No
Eaten sushi:no.
Been on stage: No.
Been dumped: No.
Gone skating: No.
Made homemade cookies: Yup, Halloween ones.
Gone skinny-dipping: Never done that. Probably never will.
Dyed your hair: Yep, this very morning.
Stolen anything: No.

LAYER SEVEN:

Have you ever...
Played a game that required removal of clothing: No.
If so, was it mixed company: -
Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Yes, had the broken bone to prove it.
Been caught doing something: Yes but let's not go there.
Been called a tease: Don't think so ..
Gotten beaten up: By my sister (not lately)
Shoplifted:Nope.
Changed who you were to fit in: God, who hasn't done that?

LAYER EIGHT:

Age you hope to be married: I was 24
Numbers and Names of Children: Joseph aged 2
Describe your Dream Wedding: i had it.
How do you want to die: In my sleep. aged 123
What do you want to be when you grow up: An adult, preferably.
What country would you most like to visit: The Seychelles

LAYER NINE:

Number of drugs taken illegally: Took a drag of a spliff (man) once.
Number of people I could trust with my life: One, I think.
Number of CDs that I own: Not very many.
Number of piercings: Just my ears, the once.
Number of tattoos: None. But one day ...
Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?:Every week for the last seven years.
Number of scars on my body: Three- cut knee as a child, long scar on my heel from bike accident, episiotomy scar.
Number of things in my past that I regret: God loads, but no point dwelling on the past.

Month 32- God Bless Slugsy

Dear Joseph,

We have reached a critical point in our relationship. While you continue to delight me I'm starting to find this parenthood melarky hard work.

By 32 months we would have hoped to have sorted the whole "pooping in your pants" thing (not one of your finest social habits) and persuaded you to give up your nappies for proper big boy pants.

Alas, it's not to be. You seem to resist the potty training whole heartedly and while it's really up to you if you want to walk around smelling like pee the rest of your life, it is frustrating for me as your mother because I know you know how to use the potty. You do it when we least expect- you just like to tease me.

We are also trying to break your addiction to your dummy. We've managed for the most part to hide them from you during the day and keep them only for bed time but we are being thwarted at every turn by people who perhaps don't have as much patience for your whingey phases as we do.

Part of me of course thinks you look so much the baby with your dummy in your mouth and your nappy on that I myself am resistant to change. I don't know when I'll get round to adding to our family, and it pains me to think that I don't have a little baby anymore.

Which brings me on to my next topic- this is kind of inspired by Dooce's ramblings this month and also a thread on Damsels about new babies.

When you were ickle I loved you and I cared for you, but I wasn't in love with you. I was caught up in my own world where I was unwell, tired, depressed and I wished away so many of your early weeks and months. I'd love to hold you now, as a newborn, and shower you with kisses for hours instead of forcing us into a routine.

I hope that I've made it up to you now. That you know I love you with all my heart and soul and would die for you in an instant (although preferably it won't ever come to that). They say a woman discovers the true meaning of guilt when she becomes a mother and its probably not far from the truth. Just know I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you and I promise there won't be one moment, ever again, when you will feel anything but cherished entirely.

And to end on a more positive note, as we say our prayers each evening we've added in a God Bless section this month. I was delighted when after naming all our family members you added 'God Bless Slugsy' at the end.

Love you loads,

Mammy

Signed, Sealed, Delivered- a snippet

Okay, here's a select snippet from the new book.
Copyright me and all that.

I love you too honey. Five words. Six syllables. I can’t remember the last time someone told me they loved me and meant it.
Jake said it a couple of times. Quite often he would say it in a whiney voice when he wanted something- like a blow job. “But baby, I love you,” he would say, puppy dog eyes, pouting lips, big fat erection. They say men don’t love girls that ‘put out’ but I figured if I did enough of what he wanted he would say the words some day without that whiny voice.
I heard him talking one night after a gig. God it had been an amazing night. He was on fire. The place was electric. He’d sung all my favourite songs and even dedicated my all time favourite ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’ to me.
I was drunk on life- on Bacardi Breezers and love and Beth and I had long since kicked off our shoes to throw some funky moves on the dance floor. By Christ we thought we were hilarious. At the end of every dance we did our ‘jazz hands’ and fell into each other’s arms laughing so hard I worried I would pee my pants. How I wish now for the bladder control I had then. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a night as much.
When the gig ended and Jake had bounded over to me- his over inflated ego adding a certain spring to his step. We had snogged- a full on tongues and everything drunken fumble right there in front over everyone as if we didn’t give a damn who was watching or who might shout ‘Get a room’.
We sat together drinking, Beth, Daniel, Jake and me. The rest of the band were there too of course and the usual smattering of groupies but I had nothing to fear from them. We were draped over each other- wearing each other and our passion like a badge of honour and it felt amazing.
A short time later, stumbling back from the toilets I saw him locked in a conversation with a tall blonde supermodel type. Creeping up behind him, longing to wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close to me in another full on embrace I heard what he was saying.
“Eefs is just a mate, seriously. Yeah, we mess about but she’s a mate. Just like you’re a mate, and Beth’s a mate. Seriously.”
I didn’t want to make a scene. Jake didn’t like it when I acted mean and moody, so I took his hand, kissed his cheek and pretended I hadn’t heard. After all, love grew from friendships. And he did say he loved me, sometimes. In fact he said it later that night- when he wanted that blow job.

Ding dong merrily on high

AS IF the arrival of October wasn't depressing enough, here's a thought to make you choke on your turnover this fine Autumn morning- it's only 83 fun-filled days until Christmas.

The shops have already started to fill their shelves with festive treats and I dare say it won't be too long until they are festooned in all their dazzling decorations to tempt the throngs of shoppers through their doors.
The reason I mention the approach of the big day is that this year, despite my disdain for the early arrival of the festive season in our shops, is the year I have promised myself I'm going to be super organised about the whole affair.
I have promised that come December I won't be staring at my meagre pay packet and trying to eek out the money for presents for everyone because I've not bothered my behind to plan things properly.
As a parent on Santa duty, I realise that stretching my December wages between the usual house-hold expenses, presents for everyone in the family and my Santa responsibilities could well be impossible.
The wee man is fast approaching three years of age and has an increasing awareness that Christmas equals toys and that he gets to make up a wish list all of his own. (So far his list consists of a real life Helicopter- you know, like the one that airlifted Richard Hammond to Hospital- and a freaky walking Barbie Horse.)
We are not intending to spoil him- and I'm pretty sure he won't be getting the helicopter or indeed the Barbie horse- but I want to make this a year to remember especially as I'm guessing it will the be the first time he really gets the concept of Santa.
I'm rather embarrassed to admit we have footage from the wee man's first Christmas of this doe-eyed baby staring at the lights of the Christmas tree while we, as sad first time parents, acted out our 'Has Santa been?' routine. Joseph was of course oblivious and the real magic of Christmas wasn't really there.
Regular readers of this column will know that last year, just as Joseph was starting to get the whole Santa thing, we decided to do our familial duty and spent the holidays with the in-laws in England.

Festive magic
It was lovely, but it wasn't the same as waking up in your own bed on Christmas morning and switching on the lights of your very own Christmas tree. So this year, with a toddler who is already getting ridiculously excited at the prospect of all the toys that will be heaped upon him, I'm relishing the thought of spending the big at home and injecting some of the magic into it that all nearly three year olds deserve.
But that is going to take some planning. I'm desperate to make sure I don't become one of those parents who batters the life out of another poor sod as we fight over the last 'must have' of the year in Smiths as the shutters roll down on Christmas Eve.
I'm sourcing the best books, toys and art material for this year already. I was even tempted to buy in a selection box or two at the weekend. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that I would no doubt get an attack of the munchies between now and December and the selection boxes would get raided. (Yes, it has happened in the past.)
Of course there is a serious note to all this too. Each year the less organised of us find ourselves relying on credit cards and the Credit Union to make it through the month of December.
The credit hangover inevitably lasts on until January and February which is never pleasant. After all the first couple of months of the year are tough enough, all dark and cold with no Christmas to look forward to, add to that a fat credit card bill and you have a recipe for Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Much as I hate the early arrival of Christmas in the shops it does at least remind me to start budgeting for the big day now and not later. I find I can no longer ignore it and even find myself singing along with the cheesy played out Christmas classics of yesteryear. Christmas shopping this early can actually be quite a calming experience. You can saunter around at your leisure breathing in the Cinnamon scent of candles and cooing over the delicate decorations for sale.
I don't get those people who purposely leave it all to the last minute and fight for the last tatty Poinsettia on a market stall or a lavender soap set with those evil bath cubes which never dissolve so that you end up with a bruised rear upon climbing into the bath.
Likewise, I can't be doing with those souls who are so financially astute they do all their Christmas shopping in the January sales and have it all wrapped from Valentine's Day. These are the folks who delight in spending the Autumn months boasting about their achievements and buying fancy shoes while your hard earned cash is being doled out on toy prams, sock sets and bottles of over-priced perfume.
Yes, I think it is time to give in to the inevitable and get shopping. Just keep me away from the selection boxes.

Shameless plug for BAFAB!

As requested by the lovely and exceptionally talented (and agented) Keris here is a plug for Buy a Friend a Book month!

This week on Trashionista: BAFAB will be fab!

Diane Shipley and Keris Stainton, co-editors of Trashionista, the book news and reviews site whose motto proclaims, “We read books like they’re going out of fashion!” are excited to announce Trashionista’s participation in this October’s Buy a Friend a Book Week (BAFAB).
From October 1-5 2006 on www.trashionista.com, you’ll find exclusive guest blogs from best-selling chick-lit authors (stop by to find out who!), interviews, and seven (and counting…) book giveaways. Plus, find out what books we’d buy for our friends, and why!
It goes without saying (doesn’t it?!) that of course you’ll also find all of the usual great Trashionista content: book reviews (focusing on women’s fiction, chick-lit and memoir) and book news (focusing on anything hot or controversial in the book world in general) all delivered with intelligence and a sense of fun. Please stop by from October 1-5 for BAFAB week, Trashionista style- and help make it a week to remember!

More about Trashionista:
Trashionista gets to grips with the wonderful world of female fiction. We take an unbiased look at beach reads, bestsellers, new releases and old favourites -and we actually read the books before writing about them. At Trashionista we don't believe that 'chick lit' is a dirty word - but if a book is trash, we'll let you know!

To contact the editors email editor@trashionista.comM

I am a domestic goddess

Behold....my creations...

(And yes, they were from a packet. But I added the egg AND a teaspoon of water).




And my handsome assistant...

Lois Lane seeks Clark Kent

BE STILL my beating heart. Superman is coming to Derry and I have become as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Anyone who knew the geeky teenage me will have known that when it came to teenage crushes and unrequited love affairs, my affections were reserved for the one and only Dean Cain.
As I spoke to local film director Danny Patrick this week, who is the man responsible for bringing Dean Cain to Derry, I let my professionalism slip a little and revealed my teenage crush.
When Danny told me that most girls he had spoken to had pictures of Superman on their posters or pencil cases, I admitted excitedly that I had him on my file in school. I may have thrown in a girlish giggle and a batting of the eyelids just for effect. It was not my finest hour.
Dean (as I liked to call him) was my first proper grown up crush. He replaced both Matt Goss and Dana Ashbrook (who was a man, honest, despite the girly name) in my affections and it's fair to say his portrayal of Clark Kent played somewhat of a role in my decision to become a bona fide journalist. (Who would have known the Derry Journal was not a hot bed of sizzling sexual tension? There was me hoping for a Clark Kent to investigate the burning issues of the day with and instead I ended up on my jack jones at a Council meeting discussing waste management.)
My mother used to refer to Dean Cain as 'the babe in tights', while I found myself singing the lesser known song 'Whatta man' every time I saw his picture.
We had a Saturday night tradition in our house that could never be messed with. I would finish work, come home, stick my aching feet in a basin of warm water and my mum would cook the tea. Then the pair of us would sit down, insist every other member of the household keep deathly silent and get our Superman fix.
Monday mornings in school also had their own traditions. They would inevitably include a discussion not only of what Teri Hatcher had worn in her role as Lois Lane but also a certain amount of swooning and sighing over Clark Kent and his tights.

Pulse racing
You see Dean Cain has it all. He has an amazing body, a strong jawline, muscular arms and eyes as dark as the night, but it is his portrayal of the man of steel, and his alter ego Clark Kent, that really sets my pulse racing.
Because lets face it ladies, what we all want is a superman in our lives- he could can leap tall buildings in a single bound or, if necessary, fly around the world so fast that he turns back time and saves our life.
I've always had a soft spot for this particular super hero which probably stems from my childhood and many a Christmas afternoon spent watching Christopher Reeve fly around the earth to that famous John Williams theme tune.
Who as a youngster didn't fall for the love story between Clark Kent and Lois Lane and long to one day visit that hotel room at Niagara Falls with the fancy fireplace?
Who didn't hope to one day find her own superman to share her life with- a strong man who fought for the greater good and could lift us without grimacing even the teeniest bit- no matter how much weight we piled on?
My attraction to the man in tights (or babe in tights, if you prefer) only deepened with the arrival of 'Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman' on our TV screens. At the time I was 16, just deciding to follow a career in journalism and I was caught up in the hype that surrounded the programme.
Yes, I had my hair cut in that famous Teri Hatcher bob and bought shoes which I thought were just 'so Lois Lane'. She was a wonderful role model; a strong, confident, successful and beautiful woman.
I could pretend I was watching the programme because of those very reasons, but no matter how successful Lois became or how good she was at her job, the main draw of the show was seeing how long it would take for her to fall for Clark Kent and for them to get their happy ever after. (And of course I watched to see Dean Cain in Lycra- that had a certain appeal).
You see the relationship between Lois and Clark is among the most romantic of all time and I am essentially a soppy eejit who likes to believe that love can be everlasting and overcome any obstacle.
Couple that belief with a handsome and strong male lead and you have a potent combination, especially in the eyes of a gawky teenager just learning about life and love.
That was, of course, before I learned the harsh truth that Lois Lane probably got hacked off picking Superman's discarded pants up off the bedroom floor just like the rest of us mere mortals. But nonetheless a girl can dream.
Speaking of which, I wonder if it would be at all possible to convince Dean Cain to visit the 'Journal' offices during his visit to the city? And if so, could I persuade him to sit opposite me for a day so I can at least pretend all my teenage dreams came true?

Desperate for a Housewife

ON A number of occasions in the past I have written in this very column about how I have a secret yearning to be a 1950s housewife.

As much as I'm aware that I'm suffering from 'grass is always greener on the other side' syndrome, the thought of having no expectations on me other than keeping my home tidy and minding my son is, at times, remarkably appealing.
But I've changed my mind.
After reading an email doing the rounds at the moment from Housekeeping Monthly magazine in 1955, I have decided I don't want to be a 1950s housewife so much as have one at home to look after me.
You see the way I've worked it out is that if I had a housewife at home I would come home after a hard day at the office to a clean house, lit fire, quiet child and lovingly prepared meal on the table.
My housewife would be cheerful and chatty and allow me to vent about my day. She would pour me a cold drink and help me take my shoes off. She would perform a modern day miracle by making sure my son was first of all clean at 6pm and, second of all, quiet. If I so desired she would fetch me a pillow to rest upon.
Yep, it sounds good to me. I could get quite used to the idea of having someone who saw it as their only duty to make me comfortable and relaxed in my own home.
I've even tried to talk the husband into hanging up his suit, donning a pinny and becoming a househusband- but his levels of housekeeping are simply not to the standards of your average woman. (To put it mildly, we would be needing Kim and Aggie in within a month.)
'The Good Wife's Guide' as published by 'Housekeeping Monthly' on May 13, 1955 has created quite a stir on our office. All the modern wives have been having a jolly good laugh at the advice dolled out to the 1950s wife.
The guide includes some classic gems of information such as "Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember his topics of conversation are more important than yours."
My favourite line however is "Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will within fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him."
I can only dream of this being true in my house where my 1950s housewife would replace my husband's judgmental glares when I arrive through the door laden with shopping bags or reach for a second chocolate mousse after dinner.
My 1950s housewife would never be so bold as to question my judgement in such matters. She would know that my shopping is always for necessary items to relax me after all, I live "in a world of strain and pressure".

My comfort
And when I returned from work, weary from fielding calls about graduation photographs, she would let me off-load before launching into her list of problems. In fact, I'm almost sure she would be, to quote Housekeeping Monthly, concerned with "catering for my comfort" she might not even whinge at all.
It sounds like bliss. I think every modern woman should have a housewife at her disposal.
Of course behind our laughter is the truth that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers really were expected to behave in this fashion. This was an era were children were seen and not heard and were a wife dared not question her husband's actions even if, as 'Housekeeping Monthly' states, he came home or even stayed out all night.
The reason I want a housewife all of my own is because I would generally love someone to act as my dedicated servant. It seems that in the 1950s that was very much a woman's role- to serve her man and raise her daughters to believe that they were not worthy of careers or independence simply due to their sex.
Modern relationships do not (or at least should not) work that way. In theory at least my husband is my equal in the house and we share the household chores. (I know, I'm snorting myself at that one- my husband, God love him, thinks sharing means him emptying the bins and washing an occasional cup and me doing everything else).
But we both know that when we finally get five minutes together at the end of the day we both have an equal right to chat, let off steam and put the world to rights.
While the noise from the wee man can induce a grade three migraine on your average Wednesday evening, neither of us expects him to be silent to keep us content. In fact we cherish his childish chatter and hearty belly laughs. Much as I would like to come home to clean and tidy child, I at least know if my son is covered in mud, water, juice and yoghurt at the end of the day, he has had fun.
So yes, give me a housewife, someone to clean and tidy and fix me a drink. But leave me my husband to sound off too and my son to carry on with at the end of the day. That in itself would achieve the 1950s housewife's goal of making sure my home is a "place of peace, order and tranquility where I can renew myself in body and spirit".

Month 31- Chatter, chatter,chatter

My darling boy.
You have not shut up all month. It amazes me to have the most grown up conversations with you when you freak me out with your knowledge of the world.
Okay, you aren't ready for your slot on BBC 24 just yet, but you know all about emergency vehicles and their uses. You also have developed a very keen interest in theology, debating at length and at great volume about whether or not a church in is fact a house of God or a castle. Your Auntie Emma is exceptionally proud of your aetheist leanings.
You also seemed to have developed a keen interest in popular culture. I cannot tell you how close I came to crashing the car as your encouraged me to "shake my rudebox". Damn that Robbie Williams for corrupting your innocent mind.
Last month I wondered would it be possible for me to love you any more. The answer is yes, God yes, I love you now more than ever. It is, I think, that as you grow more independent you still keep that special place in your heart for your mammy and when you call my name, beg me to play with you or hug me close and tell me you love me, I feel the most content I ever have in my life.
With love for always,
Mammy
xxx

The long and winding road

IT'S NO secret that I have a reputation for being a poor travelling. In fact all 86 guests at my wedding were told exactly how much of a poor traveller I am by my darling daddy during his father of the bride speech.

As some of you may be reading this over your morning turnover, I'll not go into details, suffice to say that between the ages of 5 and 15 I was not a welcome passenger in anyone's car.
Like a good wine however, I have improved with age and as things go I'm not all that bad these days. I can manage most short to medium length journeys without feeling queasy and it's been a fair few years since I found myself taking some Quells, just in case.
I guess I've learned my limitations. Boats are a big no-no, especially after a particularly horrible experience while on honeymoon in Tunisia. (The boat was fine, by the way, and I doubt we got above three miles an hour, but did that stop me crying and wanting to clamber over the side to escape? Not a chance!)
Airplanes are generally speaking okay. I'm not a fan of turbulence- but then again, who is? I'm all right when driving or taking short journeys through the town on the bus, but there is one journey which always fills my heart with dread and it's one that I absolutely have to complete within the next week.
The Derry to Dublin journey (and indeed the return leg) is my least favourite travel experience bar none. I don't say that lightly. I have spent eight hours on a crowded bus in the Sahara in degrees in excess of 40 Degrees Celsius and it was still more fun than those miserable four hours spent traipsing down the road to the big smoke.
My first experience of the delight that is Bus Eireann was in 1992 when I travelled to Dublin with my best friend for the weekend. We were both 16 and were off to stay with her big sister who was at college in Maynooth. (How were we to know the only single young men would be those destined for the priesthood?) We thought we were the proverbial bees knees as we loaded our rucksacks into the Derry bus and set off.
Four hours later, dizzy from being thrown from one end of the bus to the other on the bumpy roads and melting as the driver had the air conditioning set to 'Tropical Heatwave' we reached our destination (the salubrious surroundings of Bus Aras) and I was almost tempted to kiss the tarmac and thank God we were still one piece. (However kissing the tarmac would have left me too open to attack from the pick pockets the loud speakers in the bus centre constantly warn you about).

First taste of a hangover
Of course, what goes down must come up and sure as eggs are eggs, we had to get back on the bus and travel the winding, pot-holed roles back North two days later. Although I didn't drink back then, I'm sure the lurching of the bus gave me first taste of what a hangover felt like.
It was then I decided, as I queued for the toilets in the equally glamorous Monaghan bus stop, that I would never, ever, as long as I lived travel to Dublin again.
Life has a funny way of changing your mind however and when I started to date himself, who at the time was living in Wales, I found myself back on that bus on a regular basis- with the added bonus of a boat journey from Dun Laoghaire at either end.
I can't say I ever really had a positive experience. You either got a driver who was trying to set the world land speed record, or someone who was so laid back you could almost hear him snoring.
The bus was inevitably over crowded and stuffy and there was always a child who inevitably lost their patience just outside of Omagh and starting to screech, only letting up at Slane.
For the approach to the capital city, the roads were of dire quality and the only entertainment to be had was spotting the big houses on the hills and wondering if Bono lived in any of them.
Having taken a Quells to calm my stomach I also managed to spend most of these journeys horribly drowsy but afraid to nod off in case I snored.
Once I'd managed to persuade himself to give up live in Wales and move to Derry I made myself yet another vow that I would make my best efforts never to make the journey again. Once a month for 24 was enough of that journey for any sane person to take.
I've managed seven years, something I'm exceptionally proud of- but next week I have to travel to Bray for a meeting and it already fills my heart with dread.
I'm told the roads have improved greatly with the passing of the years. I'm promised that the journey now takes a mere three hours and some as opposed to the four hour trek of old. My mammy, God love her, has offered to drive. I'll probably stop by Boots for some Quells to be on the safe side and I still can't say I'm looking forward to it.
I wonder how much it would cost to charter a private jet?

Music me me me me

Five songs that remind you of being a small child:

1) Grandma's Feather Bed- especially "I even kissed aunt lu! whoo!"
2) Stupid Cupid or Paper Roses by Connie Francis- my mum's ironing music.
3) Smile though your heart is breaking- my granda used to sing that all the
time.
4) Get into the Groove- the first pop song I really remember.
5) Dancing on a Rainbow- by that famous Derry group 2x2



Five Songs That Remind You of Your Best Friends

1. Shocked- Mandi
2. Praise You- the Vickster
3. Flashdance- Lisa
4. I Will Survive- the Thornhill girlies
5. The Cha Cha Slide- you should see Vicki do that one when drunk

Five Songs that remind you of when you first started going to bars/clubs.
1. Boom Shake the Room- The Fresh Prince
2. U2- Even better than the real thing.
3. All that she wants (is another baby)- memories of painful nights in the Embassy. I HATE that song.
4. Superstition by Stevie Wonder- the Foy Vance years.
5. Come Baby Come- K7 (Bounce, c'mon now, Bounce, c'mon on now)


Five Songs Guarenteed to Make You Cry or, if you're too manly to cry, mist
up

1. Songbird, Eva Cassidy, reminds me of my very gorgeous boy and how I fell
in love with him.
2. Angel- Sarah McLachlan- for when I'm feeling low.
3. Goodbye my Lover- James Blunt. It just is berluddy sad.
4. Sometimes I feel like a sad song- John Denver.
5. When the River Meets the Sea- John Denver again- because of my father
telling me I was to play it as his funeral.


Five Songs Guaranteed to Make You Smile
1. Flashdance
2. Got to Turn Around- Phats and Small
3. Praise You- Fat Boy Slim
4. Now That I Know What I Want- Brian Kennedy
5. that damned heart, soul song...I Got Life, Nina Simone. My boy loves it.

Five Current Most Played Songs
1. Nina Simone- see above about the boy.
2. I wish I was a punk rocker (or prawn cracker as my niece calls it)
3. The Island- Brian Kennedy and Juliet Turner
4. Signed, Sealed, Delivered- in a Stevie Wonder phase.
5. I Don't Feel Like Dancing by The Scissor Sisters.

Detached from reality

I LIKE to consider myself a fairly modern and with-it mammy. I've read enough parenting books to know how to get through the next couple of years hopefully without scarring my child emotionally or physically for life.

I know about quality time and I love the hour between finishing work and packing my wee man up to bed for our sleepy-time cuddles. I love how he comes toddling into our bedroom in the middle of the night, pulls the covers off, climbs in, and asks me to "close the bed" over him.
For the most part, when I'm not trying to get 101 odd jobs done around the house, I love my days off and spending time doing all those things mammies and sons should do. (Like wandering around Tesco avoiding the toy aisle, and hurtling myself down slides at Bananas.)
I think I can say with a degree of confidence that I'm a good parent. My boy often tells me I'm the best (sometimes, he even does it unprompted) and that he loves me.
However, according to a certain parenting movement gaining increasing popularity in America and the UK, I'm a terrible, terrible mammy who does not deserve the child I love so much.
For those who didn't see the Channel 5 documentary 'Honey, I Suckle the Kids', let me explain to you about the philosophy of 'Attached Parenting'.
According to followers of this movement a child should be a parent's be all and end all from the moment of conception until adulthood. They don't hold court with any of that nasty pain relieving medication during labour malarkey, arguing that if you don't feel the pain you won't appreciate the end product as much - or some other such nonsense.
Once baby has arrived, the attached parent should spend 24 hours a day, seven days a wee devoting themselves to raising their children. This includes 'Baby-wearing', which means they shun buggies, bouncy chairs and cribs in favour of slings to carry their children (some as old as five) everywhere. This 24 hour attachment to junior extends to bed time when baby becomes the third person in the bed until they are old enough to want choose to sleep in their own bed.
Attached parents believe in extended breast-feeding, again choosing to feed their children until the age of five or beyond. To add to this they don't believe in dummies and will happily allow their children to spend as much time as possible on the breast if it keeps them calm.

Elimination communication
The most bizarre thing that attached parents practice however is 'Elimination Communication' which, in layman's terms, is allowing your baby to roam about without a nappy and teaching them to pee upon hearing a cue sound from their parents.
This starts with new-borns until the baby eventually toilet trains him or herself at around two years of age.
One mother admitted encouraging her child to go 'pee pee' or 'poo poo' up to forty times a day and she frequently whipped down his pants exposing his poor wee bum to the outside world whenever the need arose.
Now call me close minded if you will, but I could not help but feel these parents were three scoops short of a box of formula powder.
When it came to labour, I have to say effective pain relief would probably have helped me bond with my son rather than damage our relationship. As it stood when he finally arrived I was so sore and tired that I had no inclination to jump straight into the super mammy role. I wanted to sleep and not, as the Attached Parents in the programme did, invite my friends over for chips and dips to watch my perineum tearing on a home video.
As regards 'wearing your baby'- well I have to admit that I loved skin to skin contact with my son. That said, I had a life to lead, washing to be done, floors to be hoovered etc and not all of that was easy carrying a baby around strapped to my person continually. I carried him for nine months- I think I paid my dues. Carrying him about now would no doubt give me a hernia, as it would necessitate bringing Scoop, Muck and Dizzy and Rolly too along.
When it came to breast-feeding I'll maintain to this day that breast is undoubtedly best (and I say this as a bottle-feeder) there is something disturbing about a four year old whipping out her mammy's boob looking for a drink. That's why God made taps.
And so we come to the concept of 'Elimination Communication'. Personally, I see few merits in allowing your new-born to poop and pee freely in public and from what I could tell from the programme it doesn't necessarily mean your child will be independently potty trained any earlier.
As a mother who is trying (and failing) to potty train a particularly independent minded two-years-old and who has already spent several days cleaning up pee and changing Thomas the Tank Engine Pants, I can think of nothing less appealing that trying the same process on a younger child knowing that they have neither the physical or mental know how to learn from the experience.
I'm pretty sure these parents love their children, just as much as I'm pretty sure I love my son. If giving up your life to be there as a servant and general dogsbody for your children floats your boat then by all means go for it- but please don't tell the rest of us we are doing a lousy job.

Debt and Danger

IT'S BEEN more years than I care to remember since I left school and started my university career.

I remember my first day very well. I packed up my newly purchased kettle and hairdryer, threw them in the back of my parents' car and we set off for Jordanstown where I moved into the small, freezing cold cell that would become my home for the next nine months.
My surroundings at the Halls of Residence where far from luxurious, but I suppose I was lucky in that they were clean and cheap enough for me to be able to afford to pay for them with my meagre student grant.
Yes, I was one of the lucky ones who still got a grant. If I remember properly it wasn't an awful lot, but it covered the rent and books and left a few quid over to buy essentials like food and West Coast Coolers in the Students' Union (I was never a trendy drinker- while my cohorts sipped beer or cider I was the nerd in the corner with the fruit flavoured drink).
I got a couple of Student Loans out in my time- small amounts I used to fund end of term trips to visit my sister in London but I didn't leave university shackled with enormous debts.
I'm not showing off about that because I have no doubt that if I was just starting out I would be facing thousands of pounds in debt all in the name of gaining an education.
I read on the BBC website yesterday that students packing up and heading off to the likes Magee, Coleraine, Queens or Jordanstown can realistically expect to end up more than £22,000 in debt at the end of your average three year course. And if the people doing the sums are right, your average student may not even have had a single West Coast Cooler to show for it.
Fees for entry to most university courses are £3,000 per year, add to that the cost of living at what will still be a subsistence level and you don't need to be a mathematical genius to work out that the graduates of 2009 will be starting work knowing that a large portion of their pitiful graduate wages will be going directly back to the Student Loans Company.
I have to say that in the same position I would be questioning whether or not a university education was worth the inevitable financial burden.
Being out the other side I know how enjoyable it can be. My three years at Jordanstown where not only years in which I learned bucketloads about ethics, philosophy and- weirdly- what the lyrics to 'American Pie' really meant, but I also had a genuinely enjoyable time outside of the classroom.
Everyone should have the chance- if they want it- to sink a few drinks (cool or not) in the Students' Union. We should all have the chance to live in substandard accommodation with poor heating to 'toughen us up' and everyone should spend at least one night in said house with 20 other students drinking to the wee hours and using a space hopper up and down the street.
We should all have the right to fight with another student for the last edition of that much coveted text book in the library and we should all have the chance to sit nursing a fry in the cafeteria on the morning after the night before.

Letting loose
Having settled down all too soon into adult life I can look back on my uni years and realise they were the nearest I ever got to be being wild and letting loose. I studied hard and played harder and I can honestly look back on those years (with the exception of the freezing cold of our house which was decorated primarily in brown and my finals) with fondness. They really were among the best of my life.
A university education is about much more than book-learning and getting good grades. Of course that is a major part of it and the ultimate reason for going, but your three years should be about finding yourself, becoming an adult and- if we are being honest here- having a degree (geddit?) of fun before you settle down to the nine to five of the rest of your working life. (Even saying that depresses me).
Students should not have worry about the debts they will face or work their fingers to the bone in menial jobs to try and prevent them accumulating in the first place. Time spent mopping floors in McDonalds should be spent studying, relaxing and enjoying life.
Without starting to sound too much like a new age leftie here, an education should be a right and not a privilege and I think it is a damned disgrace that people are starting out in their working lives with a massive debt hanging over their head.
I dread to think what it might all cost by the time my wee man (just two-and-a half and so obviously a child prodigy already) reaches university age. I have friends who are already saving huge amounts to ensure they have enough in the pot to put their toddlers and babies through college.
Not everyone can afford to have that much forward planning however and I think we will have a generation of young people who miss out on education simply due to the prohibitive expense.
It's about time those in power re-examined their priorities and stopped making a good education simply available to the wealthy.

I can sing a rainbow

Month 30- How could I love you more?

Dear Joseph,
If this were an ordinary relationship and you were just some random little creature I let crawl out of my uterus two and a half years ago I would be thinking the appeal should be wearing off by now.
I can't imagine I'd have put off with tantrums so loud and public as I do with you and I imagine had you just been "some guy" I would be kicking you to the curb right now.
But you aren't just some guy. You are my boy and tantrums and all aside I love you now more than I ever have done. Each days brings a new joy, a new thing to laugh at, a new smile, a new word and new moment of heart-stopping pride.
Month 30 will go down in the history books as the month you asked "Why do my have to go to sleep?"- Daddy was amazed, and so was I but then we've always known you were by far the most clever boy in the history of the world.
From the moment I see you each day- when you bark hello- I want to spend so much time just drinking in your babyness, revelling in your innocence. It blows my mind that just 3o months ago you were as much a part of me as my own heart. It feels now as if you are my heart and I love you so fiercely.
Stay precious my gorgeous big and beautiful boy.
Mammy loves you.
xx

Operation Bridesmaid

In precisely 47 weeks and one day my sister will be traipsing down the aisle to marry the man she loves. I am very worried.

You see I'm going to be a bridesmaid- a chief one if you must know- and unless I take some drastic action in the very near future it's just not going to be pretty.
For the last two and half years- indeed since my son made his grand appearance into this world- I have been vowing to lose some weight and gain some self esteem.
To be fair to me I have lost about three stone- sadly it has been in half stone bursts and I've managed to put the same half stone back on between each attempt.
I've tried Rosemary Conley, Weight Watchers, Paul McKenna, going it alone and a half hearted attempt at Slimming World.
I improved my fitness levels so that I could swim 50 lengths without getting dramatically out of breath but then the winter hit and I'm afraid climbing into the paddling pool leaves me out of puff these days.
And of course in this time I've also managed to pass my driving test and much as that has changed my life in 101 positive ways it certainly has done nothing to improve the girth of my rear end or my cardiovascular fitness. (I'm not quite as bad as my husband who has been known to drive to the corner shop- but I'm not far off).
So I'm faced with a dilemma. I want and need to slim down and get fit but no matter how hard and fast I have looked for my willpower I have been unable to find the blighter. (Admittedly if I looked in the right places and not in the vending machine at work or through the pizza takeaway menu I might get a bit further with things).
On Saturday I accompanied my sister (aka Bridezilla) to Direct Dresses in Springtown to have a lookie at bridesmaid dresses for myself and my two fellow maids. Somehow it all seems to have become a lot more complicated in the years between my own wedding and Bridezilla's forthcoming nuptials.
First we had to design on straps (wide, spaghetti or not at all) length (long, ballet or Tea- which was new to me) and material (Satin, silk or taffeta). Once that was sorted and we spotted a dress (strapless, satin and tea-length so you know) that we liked, the assistant muttered the dreaded words "Would you like to try it on?".

Size matters
I knew from looking at it that it wasn't in my size. When she handed it to me and I straddled my wide hips into the skirt I knew for definite it wasn't my size and it was only made worse as I struggled (in vain) to try and zip it up at the back.
My sister, God love her, did her best not to look overly alarmed but I can assure you that the sight of me in a dress three sizes too small with legs that had not seen a razor in a week and back fat spilling between the seems is not for the faint hearted. No amount of breathing in was going to make this a pretty sight- it would take liposuction and a bout of gastric banding.
That said, I knew the dress could look stunning in the proper size but I made a resolution that I don't want my current size to be that right size.
So I'm joining the hordes of women who each day/ week/ year/ month decide they are going to do something about their appearance in advance of a big occasion.
The only problem is, I'm not quite sure what that something is going to be. I don't do so well at calorie counting and my current work pattern means it is difficult to fit in exercise or indeed keep to a healthy eating regime. When I get through the door at 7pm, and once I've deposited the wee man in his bed and cleaned up Thomas, Percy and James from the floor the last thing I crave is salad and grilled chicken.
The strange thing I know I feel better when I do eat salad and grilled chicken. I have more energy, feel less bloated and my skin takes on the glowing hue of a baby's bottom and yet I still can't seem to get that message into my thick head in anything other than three week bursts.
I know I don't want to look like a green Mr. Blobby in my sister's wedding photographs. I want to be able to walk down the aisle with my son (who will be page boy) by my side and not trailing three foot behind me because my rump takes up too much space.
But I'm open to suggestions. I'm willing to try almost anything- from Weight Watchers (again) to dysentery, I'm not fussy. All I know is that I have reached the point of no return.
So if you see me heading for the sweetie machine, or giving into temptation in Thorntons- then I'm pleading with you to hit me a quick skite across the head and remind me that in 47 weeks and one day I'll be a bridesmaid for the first time ever- and it would be nice if I managed to fit into one dress and not two sewn together.

On a lighter note, (no pun intended) I'm off on my holidays for two weeks so this column will be taking a short break.