Embrace your inner geekdom

My niece is a fan of Miley Cyrus. Personally when I see her on TV I get the urge to stick pins in my eyes.


I can’t be coping with over-confident teenagers, especially over confident American teenagers. This is probably because they are the antithesis to everything I was a teenager.

I lacked confidence, grace and the ability to wear figure hugging clothes. I lacked (and still do lack) a decent singing over, glossy hair and the ability to apply make up without looking like a drag queen.

Picture the scene if you will. Derry - the early 90s. I have a bad perm, bad skin and braces on my teeth. Our family budget didn’t really stretch to Levi jeans and Nike trainers, so it was apparel from Dunnes Stores and trainers emblazoned with the logo Nicks which filled my wardrobe.

I had one funky, purple hooded top from Supertramp which I thought was the bee’s knees. The rest of my wardrobe was, frankly, disturbing. For someone of 14 or 15 I seemed to have had a deep desire to dress like a 45 year old. There is shocking photographic evidence out of chinos and polyester blouses all accessorized with a healthy dose of cheap yet ugly plastic jewellery.

My one attempt at coolness was wearing a baseball cap similar the one Matt Goss from Bros wore but with my I-can’t-believe-they’re-not-Levis and my Truform ‘can’t-believe-they’re-not- DMs’ I never quite managed to pull off the look.

As for the school Formal - if I could go back in time to my 17 year old self and impart any words of wisdom I would most definitely extol the virtues of a good eyebrow wax.

I was, quite honestly, a complete and utter nerd. I never went to the cool places. The Venue was not for me - instead me and my friends would try and argue our way into the Embassy where I would drink my blackcurrant and white lemonade while giving it lilty to some dodgy Ace of Base track.

I’d be home for one, sober as a judge and ready for work (in my polyester uniform) at the local supermarket the following day.

My make up kit consisted of a few broken bits and pieces from the Bodyshop and when I think of my record collection, I cringe when I think of some the tracks which I bought and held in great esteem. Three words people “Ice, Ice Baby”.

So when I look at teenagers today I do feel a hint of jealous rage build up inside me. They all just seem to have it together. Girls these days seem to leave primary school with an indepth knowledge of hair tinting and straightening. Even the smallest of first years seems to know how to apply a covering of foundation without looking as if they trowelled it on. (I am wondering, perhaps, if some of them might want to give me a lesson in make up application one day?).

Dressing to impress starts at an early age. My niece (the Miley Cyrus fan) has no qualms at all about turning her nose up at anything she considers to be “dootsie”. I took her out to buy her an outfit recently and when I lifted anything that looked, to my eye, as if it would just be absolutely perfect for an eight year girl she rolled her eyes and lifted something that looks as it was designed for someone two or three times her age. “But I like thisssssss” she would hiss and in the end we had to agree to disagree.

I bought a T-shirt for the boy and some tights for the baby and headed home to practise straightening my hair again in the hope that one day I’ll have shiny straight locks worthy of a L’Oreal ad.

There is a part of me, however, who feels sorry for the Miley Cyrus-alikes of this world - the girls who don’t have to go through that awkward, geeky pubescent stage and emerge like swans after.

The geeky stage - yes even up to the age of 16 or 17 - was when I was able to let go of the last vestiges of childhood in my own time.

I didn’t have to worry if I looked a mess because all around me there were teenage girls going through the same bad hair/ bad skin/ bad dress sense dilemma.

We didn’t feel the pressure to look and act like grown ups when we were 14 or 15 and still feeling that little bit bewildered with the world. There was little chance of our elders branding us as cheeky wee upstarts because we knew the line between adult and child perfectly and no one ever crossed between the two.

Miley Cyrus is a child (albeit hurtling into her adult years) in an adult world. She has to try that little bit harder to fit in. She has to market herself as if she is on a level with grown ups with proper jobs and grown up responsibilities.

She can’t ever achieve this - and nor can our young girls who seem to be forced to grow up at a faster and faster rate.

What will we have next? Padded bras for five years olds? Ah - wait a minute, we’re already there.

I make a call to all young girls now, embrace your inner geekdom. Be a child if you feel like a child. Straightening your hair can wait until tomorrow - get out and have some innocent fun instead.

No, no, NO - I'm the OTHER Claire Allan

I got an email this morning from a very well known creative writing organisation asking me if I would mind awfully lecturing for them for a week next summer.
It paid well. Accommodation and travel was thrown in. It would be a chance to work with 16 budding writers and help them build their craft. It sounded absolutely blissful and the kind of thing I would adore doing.

But I knew as I read down the email that something was not right.You see chick lit authors rarely (if ever) get invited to lecture at courses run by very well known (and relatively expensive) creative writing organisations.
We aren't really considered proper authors - what we do, our hours sat grafting at the computer, researching storylines (like depression, domestic violence, eating disorders and other things which affect many women), the edits, the rewrites, the tears that it's not working, the late nights trying and trying and trying to get just once sentence to work, the book tours, the opening your heart to your readers, the plugging, the blogging, the being a WRITER.. well in some eyes it's not enough.

So I knew as soon as I saw the invite that it wasn't meant for me. It was meant for that other Clare (no i) Allan who wrote 'Poppy Shakespeare' which is considered a pivotal book about depression. I know it so well because it was released at the same time as 'Rainy Days and Tuesdays' - a book essentially about a woman's emergence from depression.
The difference was mine had a brightly coloured cover and a dash of warm hearted humour. I imagine it also had fewer big words and more use of the word "feck".

In addition I have just clicked onto the programme list for the Dublin Writers' Festival taking place in the capital this June. The line up is impressive - but elitist. Where is Marian Keyes - arguably one of this country's largest literary exports? Where is Cathy Kelly, or Patricia Scanlan, or Maeve Binchy, Sheila O'Flannagan, Anna McPartlin, Melissa Hill, or even Claire Allan (the one with the 'i' in her name)?

This might sound a little bitter and ranty and it's not really meant to me.
The mistake this morning was a genuine one and that is fair enough but the Dublin line up makes me realise it goes a little deeper than that. It remains a great shame - a HUGE shame in fact - that writers in this genre are so often overlooked and dismissed and it is about time that course programmers and festival programmers woke up and realised that we have much to offer.

Now, there's a challenge to anyone willing to take it on.

The Plateau

I joked on Facebook last night that it was ironic that I have hit a plateau in my weightloss given that I am still the size of a mountain.
Last night the scales declared a big fat stay the same.
I almost cried. In fact I think I might have stomped my feet and declared "S'not fair" and the advice given to me was to track everything this week and report back next.
Well I have been tracking (almost) everything and it hasn't helped...
So it's time for desperate measures.

Serious tracking - even the 3 mini smarties I ate this morning.
No drinking - this makes me want to kill myself, but ya know, needs must.
Cutting down on bread - and I've got that Crusts Away stuff and some Low Low Spread.
Not eating anything which cannot be pointed to within an inch of its life (no shop bought salads or sarnies).
The Pink and White obsession must end.
And I must walk more - not sure when I will find the time, but I will.


Oh, I've plateaued with book 5 as well... so it's time for desperate measures there too.
I've booked a week off work in which to write (no mammy duties allowed) - so I must resist the allure of Loose Women and other such nonsense.
How I wish I could squirrel myself away in a hotel for a week with just my laptop for company.

Claire says: OMG what a FAB read!

Okay, so I don't do teen cool very well but it has been an extraordinarly long time since I was 17 - the age of Della, the main character, in Keris Stainton's debut novel 'Della says OMG!'.
In fact it has been 17 years since I was 17 and even when I was, I wasn't as cool as Della and her friends - who actually made me want to be a teenager again.
I should say I've 'known' Keris for about four years, since my early days writing Rainy Days and Tuesdays when she was the esteemed leader of an online writing group I used.
We have a few things in common - a slight obsessions with Matt Goss, two children of roughly the same age (Her baby boy Joe was born about 6 weeks before Cara so we shared much pregnancy chatter), a love of Marian Keyes and the need to blog alot.
What Keris has that I don't though is the ability to get inside the teenage mind and create YA books that people will actually want to read and not laugh at.
Here's the blurby bit: Della’s over the moon when she kisses her long-standing crush at a party – but then she discovers her diary has disappeared...
When scans of embarrassing pages are sent to her mobile and appear on Facebook, Della’s distraught – how can she enjoy her first proper romance when someone, somewhere, knows all her deepest, darkest secrets?

Della Says OMG! is a fast paced, laugh out loud read which made me feel like a young thing again. It's fresh, sharp and on the money from start to finish. It doesn't patronise the reader - and it has enough mystery to keep you wanting more.
It even made me form a crush on a 17 year old boy (Della's long-standing crush) which I'm pretty sure is immoral if not illegal.
 
But I'm glad to say I heartily recommend to teenagers of all ages... yes, even you - which is a relief but you always do kind of worry when you read a book by a friend that you might think it sucks and you'll have to lie. I can assure you, I'm not lying.

Monday monday

Weigh in day.
I'm almost ashamed to admit that in the last four weeks I've lost a paltry 1.5lbs. I lost a pound, a half a pound, gained half a pound and lost it again.
This depresses me because, in honesty, I've not been *that* bad.
Okay, so I've not been squeaky clean either but I've hardly been on a binge fest and being the weight that I am (which is mahoosive) it should still be coming off.
This week and last I've been good - well, 6 days out of seven. Saturday was a bit of a trainwreck but that aside I have been suitable depriving myself and eating healthy.
And yet the scales still hold a degree of fear for me tonight because I just feel stuck. I feel as if I did so well for the first two months but then it all ground to a staggering halt and no amount of walking, or pointing, or turning my back on sweets and chocolate is making a damn ounce of difference.

It's hard to force myself out to meetings now, knowing that the glow of a good weight loss isn't happening.

So keep your fingers crossed... and offer any and all tips you have for finding that enthusiasm when it feels all your best efforts are for nowt.

Thought for a Thursday

The transformation continues

I did a brave thing today. I booked a consultation with an orthodontist.
This is brave because dentists are the one thing in this world that I fear more than fish. And that is saying something.

The thing is, I hate my smile. It's crooked and horrible and I do a mad gurning thing in photos. I had braces when I was a teenager but well, they didn't work. I have my suspicions about why they didn't work but even the work they did do hasn't lasted.
Two pregnancies and gum softening has caused more damage so I look crap.

I do get the proper, proper jealousy when I see people with nice smiles so after discarding some pictures of me and Joseph in which I'm wonky of smile, I made the consultation appointment - which is in three weeks time. (I'm like WHY CAN'T I HAVE IT NOW?...but anyway)

I may not be able to afford the treatment. They may not be able to offer me treatment. I'm a pansy and if they mention drilling, extraction or anything of that nature then I'll be out of the chair and out of the door quicker than you can say "Smile!" - but at least come June 2, I'll know, one way or the other.

So I'm hoping that this could be the year I transform myself entirely - my weight is reducing, my hair is dyed blonde, I'm doing more exercise and maybe I can sort out the wonky smile.

Won't I be gutted if I'm still ugly after??

My family

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

I was asked to talk about something today

... which I didn't want to talk about.
I got a call from a very lovely and supportive journalist who was writing a piece about diet pills and whether or not they messed with your head.
She wanted to know had I ever taken them (yes - ones from health food shops and ones from the doc), had they worked (evidently not) and if they drove me a bit mad (hard to tell when the bar is set at mildly pyschotic in the first instance).

It would have been great publicity but although I can blether on to your lovely people about all sorts of personal weight and image and mentalness related issues I just couldn't face the thought of my big fat face in a newspaper yabbering about diet pills.

Surely it would highly inappropriate for me to sell my soul to sell a few books? Besides, it's bad enough being known as the mad one. The mad, fat one would be an image I could do without.

I hope the journo in question finds someone to chat to as she is genuinely exceptionally lovely, but not for me. Not this time.

I have a dream

Perhaps one of my strongest role models in my teenage years was Martin Luther King - because he had a dream.
Okay, his dream was different to mine. He didn't want to write a bestselling chick lit novel, I'm sure, but nonetheless he had faith in what he was doing and he kept at it.
I used to quote his speech to anyone who would listen - that dream, that faith, that determination was and still is inspiring.

So my dreams are on a smaller scale but they are important to me. Although I have come so far in this writing journey I still feel hopelessly frustrated at times. My books have not sold internationally. I still have no UK deal. I am three books down (which is frig all) and I feel a little stagnated.

I'm still writing, and writing the best books I can, but I do get a touch of "what's the point" from time to time. It's awfully self indulgent and definitely over dramatic but if an author can add a lump of drama now again then who can?

Anyway, my Note from the Universe arrived in my inbox this morning and said

Never compromise a dream, Claire.
Always compromise on how it will come true.
 
Maybe that is exactly what I have to do - to realise my limitations as a writer, the limitations of the publishing industry at the moment and accept the success I have had without always looking to step up to the next level.
My dream is still there... I'll just mess around with it a bit.

Two out of three ain't bad

The other two posts today have been very positive - this one, not so much.
I put on half a pound last night. In the grand scheme of things it's not much (a medium sized poo some would suggest) but it marked the first week I didn't lose weight on my journey this time.
I knew it was going to happen. I had been a very bold girl indeed but it give still annoy me in a strange way,

The something happened which put it all into perspective. I went home, feeling sorry for myself and switched on my computer to write. Initially I was going to write some more of my new work in progress but I figured publication is looming for  'It's Got to Be Perfect' and I had the winning bid from the auction to write in along with a few other changes.
So I opened the file and started writing. Now, the remarkable thing is that the lady who won the auction, Tor Pickles, has just overcome cancer herself. She nominated that Camille's mother Hayley be the cameo star of the book and I emailed Hayley to ask if she would mind me adding Camille and her sister Lucia too.
I started writing, a scene with three gorgeous little flowergirls dancing around without a care in the world and I felt overwhelmed with emotion.

It was then I flicked onto Facebook to see a message from Hayley. Camille has gone into septic shock. Doctors are battling to save her life.

I cried - huge, body shaking sobs of tears for two hours. Every time I composed myself I thought of the hell Hayley and her husband were in and of the battle this gorgeous three year old girl was currently waging.
I googled septic shock - this prompted a fresh flurry of tears as the seriousness of the situation kicked in.

I struggled to sleep last night, waking periodically to creep down the stairs and check Facebook for further updates. I felt, and still feel, completely helpless. There is nothing I can do, but hope and pray.

Earlier this morning Hayley posted that Camille's stats are now good and she is now in ICU. She is still battling for her life.

Half a pound of weight on? Doesn't matter a ha'penny damn now, does it?

I'll still keep going - not least because I've vowed a £ for a lb to Camille's Appeal and because I want to be healthy but my reaction to a bad result on the scales is certainly in perspective. I'm sure Hayley would wish that was all she had to upset her last night.

So if you read this blog today, offer a prayer up for Camille but also remember that some times the things we think matter really don't.

One of the best books I've read - truly remarkable

I have wanted to read Designer Genes by fellow Poolbeg author Emma Hannigan since I first read about it last year.
It took me a brave while to get around to it - not because I lacked any enthusiasm, more because I was trying to get a couple of books established myself.
But with a long wait in the hairdressers due a few weeks ago, I treated myself and I'm glad I did.
It's almost impossible to believe this is a debut novel. Hannigan writes with such confidence, emotional empathy and humour that it feels as though she has been doing it all her life.
The premise of the book is simple - Emily Cusack, married mum of two kids, finds out she has a wonky gene which predisposes her to breast cancer. Emily decides to have a double mastectomy as a preventative measure and an oopherectomy (the removal over her ovaries).
I know what you will be thinking at this point - a book about cancer, major surgery and boob removal. Sounds like a fecking big barrel of laughs.... not. But it is.
There are genuine laugh out loud moments to sit alongside the weep into your morning cuppa moments. There is a warmth and chatty style to Hannigan's writing which draws you in and makes you care so very deeply about Emily and her family.
Her interactions between he characters - especially between her and her best friend Susie - are brilliantly drawn. The friendship feels real. In fact I finished the book in the wee small hours of this morning feeling they were real and I had been on a proper journey with them.
I want to have tea and biscuits in Dunmahon shopping centre with Emily and Susie and while my arse wouldn't fit in a pair of Victoria Beckham jeans in a blue fit, I would ooh and aah at all the right places.
At times I seethed with professional jealousy reading this book because, mark my words, Hannigan is going to be huge (in a success sense... I'm not suggesting she get fat or anything).
This book is a delight, and an addictive read from start to finish. I have to say it has been a long time since I turned the last page of a book and felt a pang of regret that it was done, but this was one such occasion.
Do yourself a favour, pick up a copy.
Her new book 'Miss Conceived' is due out in July. I'll be off to the shops at the first opportunity.

A Tuesday Triple Whammy - OMG, Brilliant book, shame about the weight gain

This is the first of three posts today... and it's an exciting one.

My friend - the gorgeously supportive, funny and generally talented Keris Stainton has a book out - like now, in the real shops and everything.

'Della says: OMG!' (which I happen to think is a fantabulous title altogether) is a young adult book which I can't wait to read (I have a copy, and I get a mention in the acknowledgements which made me feel very special and important).

But while I'm getting round to reading it  (which I intend to start asap but I'm in the middle of rewrites just now) why not just pick up a copy!

Here's the blurb
Don't miss this fantastic debut novel ~ Keris Stainton is a fabulously contemporary, witty and fresh new voice who teen girls will adore.
Della’s over the moon when she kisses her long-standing crush at a party – but then she discovers her diary has disappeared...
When scans of embarrassing pages are sent to her mobile and appear on Facebook, Della’s distraught – how can she enjoy her first proper romance when someone, somewhere, knows all her deepest, darkest secrets?

I've been reading Keris' work for four years now. She's brilliant. You'll love it. I promise.

oooh feckness... I have a book coming out!

At the end of this month! Jumping in Puddles will be released in mass market paperback on May 26.

I'm so nervous and excited - but mostly nervous - and looking forward to getting on the promo trail again.

Please God let it do well for me!!!

The wobble is gone but I face a couple of challenges...

On Saturday I found myselft staring at some new fad diet thingy in Boots. I can’t remember the name of the programme (my brain says Tony Robinson but I know that is *so* not right.. turnip soup anyone?) but it involved shakes, packet soups and diet bars.
It promises to melt the weight off ye (or similar) and I admit, I was tempted.

You see I’m 11 weeks into WeightWatchers and a journey that will no doubt take me around a year to get to goal and forever more to stay there and I know I've gained this week - not much, maybe a lb, but that puts me a lb further away from my goal.
In fairness I'll have gotten away with blue murder if I have only put a lb but when you have many, many lbs to lose well it all feels a bit much from time to time.
I'm trying to break it down into smaller goals but it is harder to think "Yay me!" when you are still in the same sized clothes and still on the warning level of the BMI scales. Slinky and svelte is a long way off.

My meeting is tonight. My usual WW companions aren't going so if I'm to go I'm to go on my own. This does not make me happy. To add that I'm going on my own in the knowledge that I've put weight on also does not make me happy.
A part of me (a big part, like my right thigh or something) doesn't want to go at all.
I do feel more in control now. I feel I've got my headspace right and I'm ready to start again with renewed vigour. I've bought new foods to try and have been out and about walking a little which has helped boost my natural endorphins. I feel I could be back in the zone for next week's meeting without having to face the scales of doom... but I can't hide from the journey - tough and all as it is. I have to take the rough with the smooth and have faith that one day, I'll make it. I've just over a year to go to the wedding dress deadline, so I have to.

Election indifference

Surely I am not the only person who feels a cool wave of indifference flow over me when I think of the forthcoming elections?


I feel as if I’m admitting to some sort of shameful secret. I’ve always been a huge advocate of our democratic system - a keen believer in civil rights and the duty we (especially us women) owe our forebearers to make the effort and get out and vote on election day.

I have, in the past, castigated friends and family for not using their vote imploring them to at least go along and spoil the darn thing rather than let it sit unused. I have quoted the life and times of Emily Pankhurst. I have referenced our very own civil rights movements. I have proudly felt as if my wee tick on a box could make a difference.

But this time? Well I’m afraid to say I really don’t care. It’s not that I think we can’t still make a difference - just that I’m tired of the same old tribalism and infighting that so seems to characterise the modern political world.

On a regional and national scale we are mired in scandal, sleaze, ineptitude and political gesturing. Meanwhile on the ground cuts are being enforced across the board on some of our core services, people are losing their jobs left, right and centre and our indigenous industries are all but destroyed.

Services to the young and services to the old have slashed with the arrogance that only the middle to upper class middle-aged can get away with. Those cutting costs seem to have forgotten that they were once young and seem to live in blissful ignorance of the fact that they will someday get old.

God love them if they get old and sick - then they are, I’m afraid to say, in real trouble.

Perhaps as my mid 30s approach at a frightening pace I am developing a healthy dose of cynicism.

My six year old has everyone’s card well marked. He travels past the posters and asks a variety of questions about who is who and what do they do. He has nick-names for them all based on their appearance. Can you guess who he refers to as Chancellor Palpatine from Star Wars?

He has tonnes of questions about the government, who they are and how they have the power to make decisions.

It’s not the easiest thing in the world to try and explain to him that we are voting for a new government and Prime Minister but no, Chancellor Palpatine, Fancy Hair or Sue Sylvester don’t have a chance of winning the top seat.

It’s been tricky to explain to him that no, Barack Obama has no plans to run in the Foyle constituency and indeed that he can’t run himself just yet.

“Why not mammy?” he asked, “Sure, I’m smart.”

And he’s right. He is smart and he has some cracking ideas. Two day working weeks and five day weekends. Bigger spends on parks and leisure facilities. Oh, and he wants people to be nicer to each other and stop joining the army to go and fight in wars. The Afghanistan issue is simple for him - no people in the army, no one gets killed.

His plans don’t just stop at Stormont - oh no - he has plans on being the first Derry born President of the United States but when he comes home (after his two victorious terms in office) he has asked me to ask if you would kindly just call him Joseph and drop the Mr President title.

Perhaps if we put a rake of children in charge we would get better results. Sure the budgets might largely be squandered on DS games in the first instance but sure that’s not worse than squandering expenses on swimming pools, moats, designer clothes and the like.

I’d like to think a host of new blood would bring new ideas. I’d like to think that we could get back to the basics. Maybe it really is time for out with the old and in with the new.

I’ll probably still vote - there will be a wee voice in my head telling me it would wrong not to - but i’m yet to be convinced on who (if anyone) deserves a tick.

Who is going to make sure that maternity services are protected and that more money is poured into mental health services? I want someone who can stand up the banks and actually bring jobs (not just make empty promises) to our doorstep. I want someone there who pays more than lip service to reversing spending cuts in care services to the disabled and elderly.

If they can wangle in a two day working week and a five day weekend then it will be a cert.

Otherwise a spoiled vote might just be the way go to... I might scrawl “Joseph “Mr President” Allan for MP”.

A Weight Watchers Wobble

It has been a BAD week.
Yes, I lost a lb on the scales this week but I can feel it - and more - back on me now just three days later.
I seemed to have careered down a very dodgy path and the binge monster is winning.
I've had half a Dominos Pizza - a big one, with chicken and mushroom and sweetcorn and that wee garlic dippy thing on the side.
And a Mars Bar.
And a sausage sandwich.
And buns.

This is no one bad day - this is a trainwreck of three days and mentally I have to say I'm struggling to get into the right frame of mind to get back on track.
I think I need to do several things. I need to remember why I'm doing this - how I felt the day Joseph asked me if I was sure I wasn't pregnant as I was so very, very fat. How I want to fit back into my wedding dress. How I want to feel attractive for the first time in my life. How I want to be fitter and healthier and not have to mentally check each room I enter to see if I'm the fattest person there...

And I think I need to find a new approach to what I eat. Maybe 10 weeks of eating the same old, same old has made the diet tired for me. Toast with Low Low in the morning, Special K bars, Thai Curry and Pasta and chicken for lunch, Potatoes and chicken or salad and chicken. Chicken features a lot as I'm a fussy meat eater and don't do fish. I have eaten my body weight in Muller Light yoghurts and if I see another packet of Velvet Crunch crisps I may actually barf.

So ideas please? For a person with exceptionally limited cooking skills?

And ideas for keeping positive when all you want to do is fall headfirst into a bucket of KFC?

Extract from book 5 - the work in progress

“I’m going to be a daddy?” Martin had looked at her through his dark eye-lashes, eyelashes she always said were wasted on a man,  and smiled.


She gestured towards the small white stick in her hand and steadied her voice as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. “It looks like it!”

“Well, that’s brilliant,” he said with an enthusiasm she so had not expected. “Wow! A daddy! And you a mammy! This is great news, Ava. I promise you. This is brilliant stuff. We’re going to do this right, you and me. I’m going to take care of you and that wee baby. I promise.”

He had moved across the room in what felt like one giant impressive manly gesture and had pulled her into his arms while she sobbed. Okay, so it wasn’t in her lifeplan. Okay so she was still young and just getting into the swing of things in her teaching job. Sure, she still lived at home and only saw Martin a couple of nights a week but this didn’t have to be a disaster - not by any stretch of the imagination.

When he had put her down he ran out and bought a box of cigars. He stood in the back garden of her mother’s house and smoked one and when he came back in the smell almost made her vomit.

“This is one of the best days of my life,” he said, with a strength of emotion she had never seen him use before. “There’s only one thing which would or could make it better...”

She had watched as he had knelt on one knee. She felt him take her hand in his and she listened to him tell her loved her and ask her to marry him.

When Ava had looked in Martin’s eyes she had seen nothing but love, joy and honesty radiating back so she had said yes and had kissed him deeply - despite the fug of stale cigar smoke and told him yes.

Two days later Martin had spent his week’s wages on a simple but beautiful yellow gold band with one small but perfectly formed diamond. She had slipped it onto her finger and felt like a proper grown up. Okay, so none of this planned, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be just perfect. Happiness comes when you least expect it.

He had teared up at their first scan. Ava had felt strangely emotional too but also more than a little freaked out. This baby – the white and black and grey little blob she could see on the screen with its very own little heartbeat- was inside her. It was growing in her stomach. It was attached to her, relying on her for everything. She felt overwhelmed with responsibility – she had to do this right. She had to make sure her baby was fine. She had to feed it all the right food and avoid all the wrong things. She had to wear flat shoes and wireless bras that made her boobs look saggy and she had to drink lots of milk but still partake in (mild) exercise. She panicked about the bottle of wine she shared with Martin before she knew she was up the stick. She panicked about the cigar scented kiss they had shared just after they knew. She panicked that she would have a miscarriage, or a premature delivery, or that the cord would be wrapped around the baby’s neck, or that she would need a c-section. Worse still she panicked that she wouldn’t need a c-section and she would actually have to push a baby out of her actual lady area. She panicked she would tear. She panicked she would make a show of herself. She panicked that she would be a rubbish mammy. She panicked that something would be wrong with the baby and she would struggle to cope. She panicked that Martin would leave her and she would be left a single parent.

As it turned out, he did. And no amount of panicking about it beforehand helped prepare her for the body blow of him walking out on her and her eight month pregnant belly.

It hadn’t been terribly dramatic. He had dropped his paint roller mid nursery transformation and grabbed his coat and said he couldn’t do this anymore. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t ready to be a daddy. She was an awful sour bag to live with these days. He was going to move away. He had a job in America. She could keep the ring – all £350 of it. £350 which would turn out to be the only money he would ever, ever pay towards his daughter’s upkeep.

Depression - again. The curse of the modern woman?

I read an article this morning by author Allison Pearson on her own experiences with depression. I recognised myself in a lot of what she said - the need to want to give the right answers, to appear perfect.


I also recognised the allure of bridges in the middle of the night and indeed the desire to just not “be” any more. No, I don’t want to cause my family the pain of losing me in gross circumstances (suicide is never pretty, don’t let anyone tell you it is) but it would nice to hit an off switch or a pause button.

Allison said depression is the curse of the middle-aged woman - well, I’m not middle-aged yet but I do recognise her Blues Sisters analogy and indeed her description of Sandwich Woman - trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea trying to keep everyone happy.

She says our theme song is ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ - for obvious reasons that made me smile. (A bit bizarre I know...that it made me smile but it felt like a piece of a jigsaw slotting into place).

She said depression is now, some would say, fashionable. Sure Marian Keyes has it, so it’s cool. And Emma Thompson. And her.

I’m not sure it’s a fashion anyone would want to follow but I’m grateful at least that people are talking about it. I’ve been battling for people to talk about it for years (and indeed the likes of La Keyes have been heartbreakingly open about their own experiences for quite some time now).

It’s still a taboo, isn’t it? I still notice the strange flashes of confusion when I extol the wonders of Prozac or mention that I need my happy pills.

I still get called “very brave” for being open about my experiences - I prefer the term very honest. There is nothing brave about getting through another day feeling like this. It’s just doing what I need to do to be there for my family.

Until it isn’t seen as “remarkable” to talk about having a mental illness we’ve not really won the battle, have we? But let’s keep trying.

Talking about Weight Watching

I was having lunch with a former colleague last week when I mentioned that I was on WeightWatchers. We were caught on the hop and with ten minutes to get something down our necks before we had to be back at our desks, the choices in the cafe were limited.
I settled for a scone the size of the my hand but congratulated myself on choosing Low Low spread and not proper real butter.

As I was munching it, thinking of all the things I could eat in place of it for less Points, I muttered to my colleague that I was on following the WeightWatchers programme and being at the relatively early stages of my diet I didn’t want to be put off my game.

She confided that she was going to WeightWatchers and thus ensued a conversation about filling or free foods, the worries and strains of getting on the scales and the reasons why we both wanted to hit goal weight.

We also commented that wasn’t it fierce when women on a diet talk about it all the time - the irony of that not being lost on me.

The interaction confirmed my belief that you cannot put two women in a room together for any length of time before the topic of conversation inevitably turns to weight, appearance, slimming or cravings.

Deep down, the vast majority of have an inner diet bore just waiting to break free and regale anyone in the vicinity with her tales of will power versus temptation.

As the old saying goes, many of us can quiet that inner diet bore down with chocolate but when she breaks free there isn’t a topic of conversation that doesn’t somehow wind its way back to what we’ve eaten, what we plan to eat, how much exercise we’ve done and what size we’d ultimately like to be.

Now personally speaking the inner diet bore has been my closest companion for the last 20 years. Even when I’ve not been on a diet (which is a lot, as the scales will show) she is there niggling away. She wonders do I really, really need that bar of chocolate. She gives me bad looks when I visit the chippy. She tuts and shakes her head at my obsession with plain bread toasted and clattered in real butter.

At the moment she is in full voice - checking nutritional value labels with her Points Tracker always, always at hand. And I apologise because I seem to have no control over her - she hunts out people who might be in a similar boat and she tells them everything - from what I’ve ate, to what size my clothes are and she has no shame about it all.

I’m not sure what it is about being on a diet that prompts us all to talk about it so much. Maybe because we want people to acknowledge the effort we are going to. Maybe we want to revel in the moments when people tell you they notice a change to the shape of your hips, the girth of your belly or the number of chins you have. Maybe we want people to know that, yes, as much as we may be on the hefty side now, we are doing something about it honest and don’t intend to be gulpens the rest of our days.

Maybe, it is just damn hard work and we feel the need to make other people suffer as much as we do. (But of course, I’m not suffering... not at all, nothing tastes as good as being slim feels - apart from a big feck off Cadbury’s Whole Nut or the aforementioned toast clattered in butter).

In seriousness I do feel better for shedding a few pounds. I do know I have a long way to go (a really, really long way) but I have a increased sense of self confidence, the desire to make more of an effort generally and a renewed interest in such frivolous things as painting my nails and applying some make up. I’ve even dyed my hair blonde and invested in new glasses.

I realised the heavier I became the more of a frumpy mammy I became. I felt frumpy so I became frumpier. I suppose if I talk about it all a lot now is that I want people to know that Mrs Frump is on her way out and that a new and improved me is on the way back in again.

Okay so it is clear I’ll have to work on the new me’s conversational skills - there is only so much court anyone will hold with tales of chocolate bars resisted and salads eaten. My husband just rolls his eyes when I bring out my wee green folder and start rambling about saturated fats - happy and all as he is to see less of from week to week.

But at least my inner diet bore knows that if all else fails she will have the chance to have her say when I’m in the company of other females. After all, we are all a little obsessed, aren’t we?

Random conversations with the boy

So, it's election time.
Joseph is trying to get his whole head around the issue of democracy, voting, republics and the like.
He is particularly interested in America and Barack Obama - can't say I blame him. I'm partial to a bit of Obama myself.

Joseph, unaware that he will never actually be President of the USA, was intrigued to find out that all former Presidents are entitled to be called Mr President for the rest of their days.

Joseph does not like this.

This morning in the car he turns to me, a slight tinge of panic in his voice and says: "Mammy, when I come back to Ireland after being President can you please not call me Mr President. I just want everyone to call me Joseph."

The quest to fit into the dress rumbles on...

... as does my stomach.
I lost half a pound this week. A little part of me was disappointed. A bigger part of me was relieved. You see I had a dodgy Easter which hadn't shown on the scales. I knew it was following me around and was going to show itself at some stage - and there it was, last night with a small loss.
Which was better than a small gain (and definitely better than a big gain).

I now have 4.5 stone to lose, on the nose, to get to goal. This will actually have me thinner than I was on my wedding day - wouldn't that be a joy to slip the dress on and have it be too big? Although with two babies since then and a tummy which resembles the wrinkly skin that forms on the top of cooling custard, it is unlikely.

I have my own personal goals - smaller ones. It will be a big deal for me to lose another 9lbs, which will bring me into a new stone bracket.

It will then be my mission to get under the next stone bracket after that -I will really feel as if I'm making progress by then.

My BMI has already dropped 2.5 points. Unfortunately I will need to lose another 30lbs to no longer be classed as obese. Isn't it a little sad that I'm looking forward to the day when I can dance around the house shouting "I'm overweight! I'm overweight! Look at me, I'm over weight!"?

It has shocked me to work that out. That, in essence, I was 47lbs (more than three stone!) into the obese category. I knew I was heavy but that heavy???

Ah well, we march on... eating healthy and shedding weight. I'll get there eventually.

And we have a bidder!

For 100 of your English pounds.
Come on folks - you can help children under five with brain tumours. You can help Camille.
This is who you are helping... this precious, beautiful little girl who deserves all our love.

Would you like to be in a bestseller?

I've been wracking my brains trying to think of someway to raise some support for the very worthwhile charity CAMILLE'S APPEAL.
On top of a few other things I've decided to give one lucky reader the chance to make a cameo appearance in my new book 'It's Got to Be Perfect' for a donation to the appeal.
This is how it is going to work.

The highest bidder by the end of this month will win the prize.

They can feature in the book themselves, or nominate a family member or friend to appear in the book.

Their name will appear in the book which will be published by Poolbeg Press at the end of September 2010.

The winner will receive a mention in the acknowledgements of the book along with a plug for Camille's Appeal. They will also received a signed copy of the book for them and/or their chosen special guest star.

This is a very worthwhile cause - and this is a great present for people who perhaps struggle to find that perfect present for the person who has everything.

To enter: Please contact me at claire.allan@gmail.com

PLEASE NOTE: It's Got to be Perfect is a romatic comedy novel for adults - and does contain some strong language and scenes of a sexual nature - please bear this is mind when you are thinking of who you would like to nominate - as perhaps your great Auntie Mable wouldn't be so keen!

So now you can read it!

The opening gambit from my forthcoming book

It's Got to be Perfect

Little old wine drinker me...

Two glasses down.
It has been a bastard of a day.
First there was a coffee morning in work and being on WeightWatchers I could but smell the lovely sausage baps and fancy buns as they wafted past. I had a measly (but delicious) slice of carrot cake and a cry in the ladies...
Then, well, I had a difficult story to write up which made me want to cry, keep my children close to me and never drive a car again.
Emails were sent and received, stresses were created. I talked a lot of shite on Facebook.
Sky sent the wrong kind of man (he didn't have a big pole) to fit our dish.
There was a *thing* in work about half a pink fancy which actually made me laugh out loud.
I went up the town with the express purpose of buying new shoes for work but did they have my coveted pair in my size? NO! *cry*
Did they have the dress I coveted in my size? NO. (Although I'm kind of between sizes right now). *cry*
Did the scales in Boots reveal a half a pound gain? Yes.
Did the summer uniform dress I bought for my niece fit? No.
Did she get all 8 year old stroppy on my arse? Yes.
Did the M&S low fat moussaka I bought for my tea taste nice? No - it tasted like someone boked on a plate.

So tea-less and with spare points to consume I made an executive decision to finish the bottle of wine in my possession. And it feels rather lovely, thank you.

The wedding dress

Next year I will have been married for 10 years. (If we don't kill each other between times).
It will also have been 10 years since I fitted into the gorgeous Ivory Duchesse Satin Ronald Joyce gown which I glided up the aisle in.
With a boned bodice, off the shoulder detail and a sweeping full skirt it was *the dress of dreams*.
I loved it. I felt gorgeous in it. Looking back on the pictures I looked gorgeous in it - of course at the time I thought I was a big fatso bride.
By the time I came back from honeymoon (having put on the honeymoon half a stone) it was snug. By the time we reached anniversary number one it didn't fit. It has never fit again.
I dream (literally) of sliding it on and pulling the zip up effortlessly. I dream of feeling like a princess again.
But I'm a long way from princess-ness. I'm (gasp) almost 4 stone heavier than when I glided up that aisle and two dresses larger. My body is also irrevocably changed due to two pregnancies and the passing of ten years in which life has often been stressful.
It dawned on me last night, as I lay down to sleep, that I want to wear that dress again. And it's a goal I've not set myself as part of my ongoing Big Fat Weightloss Challenge. I hope, please God, that by May 26 of 2011 I'll be able to fit in my frock again. That gives me 13 months to lose just under four stone...at 1lb a week that is doable.
I promise if I do I will post a picture here for you all to laugh at see.

Getting there

You see I'm not so much of a diet bore any more but believe me the diet is still happening. Easter was, it has to be said, a bit of a train wreck. I thought that I would be able to resist the lure of the chocolate eggs but I couldn't. I inhaled two... or maybe three. I kind of lost count because the truth was after the first few bites I wasn't even really tasting it any more.

I was bingeing... and it was not pleasant. My whole mood changed. I felt out of control, lethargic and not at all happy but as much as I tried to get back on track over the last week it really didn't happen too much - because the comfort eating monster came back to haunt me. The kids were sick. It was my *whispers* time of the month */whispers* and I was writing a very emotional scene or two in the new about eating disorders (ironic really).

But I must have done something good. I got my first stone on Monday. For the unitiated some WW leaders have a habit of giving their clients a stone - yes, an actual pebble - to mark that weight loss. By the time I'm done, I imagine (or hope) to have 5 of those bad boys staring at me. (Yes, 5. Yes, I am THAT fat...yes, I know...)

But I did it, in eight weeks and in addition I have lost an extra 2.5lbs making my total loss so far 16.5lbs which isn't bad really but I'll try not to be smug lest it finds its way back to my arse by next week.

I thought I had escaped the wonders of In The Night Garden

It came along just after Joseph outgrew the pre-school telly age so I thought "ha" I'll never have to watch that nonsense.

I did not bargain on the girl - she loves it. I don't know why. It is a load of nonsense. Characters with silly names falling down, washing each other and lifting their skirts.

And yet, it is strangely addictive. I have spent an inordinate amount of time this week (as the boy has been sick and we have been housebound) watching the goings on in the garden and have pondered such great things as whether or not Makka Pakka has OCD, if the people who name the Tittifers really thought that one through, whether the Haa-Hoos are obese or just big boned, what would happen if the Tombliboos wore the wrong trousers and which part of the Ninky Nonk I would sit in give the chance. (The middle bit, for the record... with the nice blue curtains - favoured by Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy).

Yes, I am 33 and yes I have just used the words Makka Pakka, Haa Hoos, Tittifers, Tombliboos, Ninky Nonk, Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy in a blog post.

I apologise for that.

An award.... how very special! *sniff*

Yes, I'm practising my gracious "didn't win" face as we speak but it seems this blog has been nominated by someone unknown to me (lovely, lovely person who I love even though I don't know you) for MAD Blog of the Year award in the Funniest Blog category.
I never win anything. Well in fairness I once won a basket of fruit in a raffle in school but someone had loaned me the 10p for the ticket so I had to give them the grapes (aka the best bit).
I don't think I'll win this either as the competition is very stiff - not least from Slightly South of Sanity which makes me roll on the floor howling with a mixture of laughter and jealousy.
But, if the notion takes you please pop along to the MAD website http://the-mads.com/nominate.htm (alternatively you can click on the link on the right sidebar) and cast a wee vote.

And if you think this blog sucks then vote for Slightly South of Sanity as it really doesn't.

The boy lies sleeping..

.. on the sofa. I can't remember the last time he slept during the day - not since he was a tot.
He has a vomiting bug (and the other) and I have literally spent my day rubbing his back and telling him it will okay while running yet another bath and loading the washing machine yet another time.
I feel for him - especially as vomiting is something I'm so experienced in thanks to the pregnancy from hell with the baby.
I did though - perhaps cruelly - have half a notion to say to him, as he threw up for the jillionth time "Joseph, this would be cool if it wasn't so uncool!"
Yes the words of  "comfort" he used when I was so sick with his baby sister were sitting right at the tip of my tongue but I imagine that would have been very unmammy-like indeed.
Instead I got him flat coke, made a bed on the sofa and didn't complain when his sick got in my hair.
Oh motherhood, how I love thee.

I will admit

I am a wuss.
My parents, who I still call Mammy and Daddy, are away on their holliers this week. They have gone to Rome to see the Pope. (I have asked them to give him a bad look and shake their heads disapprovingly - I don't think they will).
Now the thing is my parents deserve a break. And they love Rome. And for my mammy is particular this is an important trip as she is accompanying her mammy, and assorted other family members, to Mass on Easter Sunday in the Vatican and while my mother isn't a touch religious, her mammy is very much so.
Daddy - a keen photographer with a love of history ("Grandad wants all the knowledge in the world to himself" according to Joseph) just loves the ambiance of Italy.
So, fair play to them. I hope they have a lovely time.
But I miss them. And I get a little anxious when they go away. (When I say a  *little* there was this one time when I had a complete mental breakdown when my mammy went to Bundoran for the weekend but the circumstances were exceptional).
They are back on Wednesday and I'm already counting down the days.
It gives me hope that my children will always kind of need me and I won't be a discarded mammy once they reach adulthood and frig off to make their own lives.

Denial isn't just a river in Egypt (Part 2)

Just got an email from a certain parenting club to which I have subscribed.
"Your baby is 13 months old" it said.
No, said I. She isn't. You dumbasses. She only just had her first birthday.

Realised that was four weeks ago.
Realised that they are right.

May have just lost a month of my life somewhere.

A lazy posting Meme

Never in my life have I been: to me.
Oh I've been to Georgia and California
And anywhere I could run
Took the hand of a preacher man
And we made love in the sun
But I ran out of places
And friendly faces
Because I had to be free
I've been to paradise
But I've never been to me
(Actually I have been to me... and none of the other places... but those lyrics make me laugh)

The one person who can drive me nuts is: Joseph - love him to pieces but at the moment he is a little challenging. This is combination of being six, related to me and being half deaf.

High school: was a time when I had several bad perms, some very dodgy glasses, a slight obsession with Twin Peak, Bros and Martin Luther King and a desire to become a journalist.

When I'm nervous: I gotta pee a lot.

The last song I listened to was: Endless Love from the Glee Soundtrack. Yes, I did sing the Rachel bits and pretend that Mr. Schu was right there in the car with me. Yes, that does make me sad. No, I don't care.

If I were to get married right now my maid of honour would be: Victory V, without a shadow of a doubt.

My hair is: shoulder length, a wee bit highlighted and largely very unruly.

When I was 5: I had my tonsils out and got a Bionic Woman doll for my troubles. I also got a packet of jaffa cakes all to my self which I distinctly remember sharing with my brother and sister. I was wile good like that.

Last Christmas: I got slightly sozzled and was beaten at Wii bowling by the boy.

I should be: an international bestseller. No one loves me though.

The happiest recent event was: La Boo's first birthday... my babba, my wee heart, my dressing dolly.

By this time next year: I will be closer to goal weight on WeightWatchers.

There's this girl I know that: can do the Cha Cha Slide with her eyes closed and under the influence of alcohol. I have video evidence.
The world could do without: fish. Seriously, is there a need? No. They are just wee slippery feckers. No need at all.

Most recent thing I've bought myself: was a M&S Thai Chicken Curry for just 6 of your WeightWatchers points.
Most recent thing someone else bought me: Teddy bears, flowers and a No. 1 mum magnet from my babelinas.
My middle name is: Anne

The animals I would like to see flying besides birds are: pigs because maybe then all my wishes would come true.

Once, at a bar: I drank some alcohol, shared a lighter with a very hairy backed man and ended up in bed with him. It all ended pretty horrible when my current partner phoned and heard chewbacca in the background. Needless to say, he wasn't impressed. Then again - that might just be the opening plot of my new book and I may have no embarrassing bar stories.

Last night I was: cursing the TV for losing the signal half way through One Born Every Minute.
There's this guy I know who: works down the chipshop, swears he Elvis.

Tomorrow I am: working! and possible going to Belfast for a Northern Girls shindig.

Tonight I am: going home to write. Don't be jealous!

My birthday is: in June. I like flowers and wine and jewellery.

The last week in bullet points

• Baby who never sleeps is diagnosed with a chest infection on Wednesday. Is given an inhaler and antibiotics.
• Mammy (that's me) wakes up on Thursday with the mad bokes, sore throat and general lethargy. Takes day off work. Expects to be better on Friday.
• Mammy is still sick on Friday.
• And Saturday.
• And Sunday.
• On Monday the boy was diagnosed with an ear infection - with his ear drum (or drum stick as he referred to it) in danger of perforating.
• On Tuesday we all lay about the house, eating, sleeping and I did some writing.
• It has not been fun.

The mammy wars continue

I read an article on motherhood this week which made me want to stand up, punch the air with joy and whoop very loudly.


I probably would have done all that if I had not been so utterly, utterly exhausted from the 387 nights of broken sleep I have endured since my daughter arrived on this planet.

But the article said what I have been thinking all along and that is that - for many women - that innocent looking, smiling, gummy creature who fills your heart with joy is also a tyrannical oppressor.

In fairness it is not my baby’s fault - or any babby’s fault for that matter that they are oppressive little life bombs (I steal the term life bomb from American blogger Heather ‘Dooce’ Armstrong). It is our fault - as mothers - and we need to sit ourselves down and give ourselves a very stern talking to.

Several generations ago it was a woman’s sole responsibility once she married and had children to take care of her house and her family. She gave birth with no pain relief whatsover. She breastfed. She pounded dirty nappies in soapy water before running them through a mangle. She mashed home cooked food and slaved over a hot cooker to feed her brood. She didn’t really dare dream of a life outside of the house and well, at the time, we can pretty much say there wasn’t much in the line of choices for women. We were unliberated. We were carers and mammies and wives and we were not individuals.

And then the women’s lib movement came about and with it there were some pretty spectacular changes. Washing machines were invented - proper automatic ones which did not require anyone to stand breaking their back over them. Pain relief was introduced to child birth (oh pethidine, I love you). Baby formula was also invented - allowing an alternative to breast milk and freeing new mothers up from 24 hour baby duty. The disposable nappy was a God send and I’m all for the occasional jar of baby food if not only to relieve the monotony of pureeing endless amounts of strained carrots never knowing if your baby is just going to spit it back out at you.

Women got out of the house, and got on the career ladder and all was well with the world. We were told we were equal with our male counterparts and that we could achieve whatever our hearts desired. We had been liberated! (Cue great happiness and clinking of wine glasses).

But something has changed. According to French author Elizabeth Badinter in her book Le Conflit, La Femme et La Mère (The Conflict, The Woman and The Mother), women have given up the battle for equality and returned home to place themselves at the service of their children. Which, of course, is all well and good if you want to be at the service of your children. The problem arises when we are told we should be there, and that we are selfish to have children if we have no notion of not spending 24 hours a day with them.

Being a stay at home mother is the goal of many a tired working mammy trying to do it all and bitching about it on internet forums the country over. Except that stay at home mothers are no longer allowed to be just ordinary stay at home mothers. They are expected to be breastfeeding, lentil pureeing, cloth nappy scrubbing, sling wearing, baby signing eco warriers whose sole purpose in life is to nurture their children. Any mother slaving away in her office and dreaming of a life when she gets up, plonks the kids in front of the telly and scurries back to bed for an hour before partaking in some light cleaning or lunch with friends should beware.

Instead, once the pureeing and scrubbing and breastfeeding is done, mothers should be bringing their infants to music classes, gym classes, swimming classes, baby massage classes - everything focusing entirely on the development of the baby and ignoring the fact that there is a real live human individual there with that baby.

Badinter rightly points out: “We live 80 to 85 years in our industrialised countries, and children take up 20 to 25 years of that,” she says. “Staking your whole life on 20 years is a bad bet.”

Now, I hope my children take up more of my life than 20 years. I hope I will always be a major part of their lives and they of mine but I do not wish to lose my identity entirely to be their mother.

I don’t want my peers telling me how I should parent, or if I should work. I don’t want to be judged for my parenting decisions. I don’t want to cease to exist as an individual just because I am a mother as well.

Babies, even those who do not sleep, are wonderful. I wouldn’t be without mine for all the money in the world but I’m important too. That’s something we should all remember.

Is motherhood a form of oppression? - Times Online

Is motherhood a form of oppression? - Times Online

Love this article! Especially if your baby NEVER sleeps.

And the last day have gone like this...

The baby who never sleeps has exceeded her previous non-sleeping record.
She is teething and and she has a cold. This does not make for a happy baby. Nor does it make for a happy, or indeed productive, mammy. In fact how I got out the front door this morning is a little beyond me. I have vague memories of staring into the fridge trying to remember what I was doing and even vaguer memories of sort of coming too in the shower as I tried to get ready for work.
Sunday night was the most fun most traumatic yet. Madam woke, and coughed, and boked. We changed her and changed the bed sheets and she cuddled down beside me for the night. Except she didn't sleep. She woke. Sat up. Coughed. And boked. And then lay down, face first into the sick.
So we changed her, and bathed her, changed the bed sheets and she cuddled down beside me for the night. Except she didn't sleep. She woke, coughed and boked. You get the general picture.

Let me state now, there is no dose of prozac strong enough to cope with prolonged sleep deprivation. I feel as if I am losing my mind, slowly (or maybe not so slowly).

So if this is a little rambling then please forgive me. Normal service will resume - probably in about 18 years.

In other news, the WeightWatcher weightloss total has reached 11lbs.

An Open Letter to Nadine Coyle

Dear Nadine,


You were probably expecting this. I’m sure as soon as you saw those pictures appear of the weekend with you looking a wee bit too skinny you thought “I bet that Claire Allan one will be writing me a letter in the ‘Journal’ come Friday. She has an opinion on everything these days.”

Nadine, you were right.

Now I have to admit you and me are polar opposites. You are a tres glam, tres successful popstar with lovely full hair and (until recently) a figure most people would die for. You have dated one of the cast members of ‘Desperate Housewives’ and you live in the sunny climes of LA.

Me? I’m a moderately successful author (which requires a very low level of personal grooming), who isn’t a touch glam and is slightly balding after the birth of my last child. I have a figure no one would envy and I’ve not ever dated a cast member from ‘Desperate Housewives’. Nadine, my dear, I am too busy being a desperate housewife to have hunky gardeners chase after me . And the Waterside is, I hear, a far cry from Beverly Hills.

But there are two things I believe we have in common. The first is that we are both from Derry. We both speak with a certain twang in our voice and say “cyarr” instead of car. That alone should be enough to bond us. The second, if I could be so bold, is that, Nadine we both have - it would seem - quite an unhealthy relationship with food.

You see if you were thinking I was just going to write “Eat, for the love of God woman, eat!” then you were wrong. I know it is a little more complicated than that. I know, first hand, how hard it is to have an unhealthy relationship with food. We just happen to be at different ends of the spectrum. I’m a comfort eater and you, well, you don’t seem to be an eater at all at the moment.

And that worries me. First of all I have met you, several times, and yes you are naturally petite and very naturally slim. No one is arguing that, Nadine, but there is nothing natural about that person we saw walking down those steps at the weekend - with Bambi legs, skeletal hands and a head resembling a lollipop on a stick. No healthy woman, in the Western World, is naturally that thin.

Secondly my eight year old niece thinks you are the cat’s pyjamas. Seriously. She wants to be in Girls Aloud and does quite a mean rendition of ‘The Promise’ complete with dance moves.

She nearly went into orbit the day I told her you were from Derry and that I had actually met the “really, really” Nadine Coyle.

I don’t want my eight year old niece to grow up thinking that the only way she will be successful and popular is if she starves herself half to death to fit into a size zero.

That would annoy me just as much as if she followed my lead and ended up rifling through the “big girls” section in Matalan trying to find something to wear.

The fact of the matter is, she is much, much more likely to want to emulate you than her boring Auntie Claire. In fact a generation of young girls want to be you and like it or not they look to you for guidance. If you shaved all your hair off, chances are they would want to as well. If you decided that day-glo shell suits were back in fashion, you can bet your parent’s bar in LA that the high street would soon be flooded with mini replicas of same. If you decided that being dangerously thin was the only way to get noticed....

You also have to think of yourself. A dangerously low BMI is just as damaging to a person’s health as a dangerously high BMI. You could be doing all sorts of untold damage to your body - affecting your future fertility, damaging your bones and your kidneys, losing some of that famously glossy hair... and for what? To fit in?

You should know now that you already fit in. You fitted in a long time ago. You were a success and a role model when you were a healthy, yet still really very slim, weight and you don’t need to prove anything to anyone else.

I know you have a very close family Nadine - and I know they love you. So I hope, quite sincerely, that if they try and help you, you let them. No amount of protestations that “you are just built like that” are going to cut it at the moment.
Just as I can’t argue that I was built to be a larger lady.

Tell you what missus, if I try, will you?

Much love,

Claire

So anyway, in less ranty news...

The mass market paperback of Jumping in Puddles is now available for pre-order on Amazon. It's priced at a mere £6.99 and you can read a snippet by clicking on the wee 'Jumping in Puddles' toggle at the top of this page.
It is set for release on May 26 - which also happens to be my 9th wedding anniversary so I'm taking that as a good omen.

Another day, another scandal

When I was driving to work this morning I switched on the radio to hear the news - as a journalist is want to do on her way to a newsroom - and I heard the following story regarding the Bishop of Derry Seamus Hegarty and and out of court settlement to an abuse victim.
The Catholic Church is in danger of imploding under the weight of these scandals. The thought that any men of God could think it morally, spiritually or legally acceptable to offer a £12,000 pay off to a person whose life has been destroyed through eight years of abuse sickens me to the core.
For fear of being ex-communicated (not that I hold much court with the Catholic Church these days) I'll not say entirely what I feel but such scandals, which seem to be coming out of the woodwork on an almost daily basis, are as far removed from the true meaning of Christianity as they come. These men are sinners - mark my words - and their sins are mortal sins. You know, the really bad ones. Three Haily Marys and a few Our Fathers is not going to cut it and I have no faith - no faith at all - in these people to lead my children in the Faith. Jesus said 'Suffer the little children, come onto me'. How mocking those words seem now.
But the flipside of this is how on earth could any parent accept what amounts ot hush money to cover up the abuse of their child? No amount of cash would stop me from wanting to bring the full force of the law down on anyone who dared abuse my children. No written apology, no promise that it wouldn't happen again - nothing - would stop me from dragging their sorry arses through the justice system and having them shamed for who they are.
This country I live in is seriously messed up. All I can do is shake my head in disbelief.

An amazing day

If you look to the right hand side of this web page you will see a link to Camille's Appeal.
Camille's mammy is a friend of mine - through a parenting forum I use.
Last year when the baby who never sleeps had a scary meningitis scare, Camille's mummy was very supportive. Her wee lady, you see, was sick also but no one knew why.
Cara got better quickly. Camille was diagnosed with a brain tumour.
Camille's parents have fought with their daughter over the last few months to beat this horrendous illness. They have also raised a helluva lot of money for charity - which will either help Camille should she need treatment abroad or help other children battling brain tumours.

I have nothing but admiration for Camille's parents, her big sister and indeed Camille herself.

Tonight Camille's mammy posted this update on her Facebook.

Managed to get some time with Camille's consultant today, the lovely Amos. He gave me the best news ever, the chemo has had a significant effect. Reduced, weakened and moved from Camille's cerebellum and partially from her brain stem. An inoperable tumour has become operable. Her surgeon is likely to want another cycle of chemo to see if it will reduce further - but we are nearly there!!!!!!!!

Camille will be in my thoughts and prayers until she makes a full recovery and then some... but for tonight let us celebrate how very far she has come.

God bless, Camille. We love you very much. xxx

The most battered book on my shelf

Anyone want to share their most battered book?

There it is, my 1997 copy of Rachel's Holiday by Marian Keyes which I bought in Eason, Belfast - which was at that time based in the Castlecourt Centre.
I still remember the day I bought it and I still remember laughing out loud while reading it.
As you can see it has been well read - many times in fact - not only my be but most of my family circle and even my former editor at the Derry Journal Pat McArt (big burly Donegal man) who declared that Marian "writes sex scenes the way men think about them".
I also started seeing my hubby in 1997 - so I informed him last night the book was as old as our relationship... I don't think I've aged well either, to be honest.
But there is something really refreshing about thumbing through my well worn copy, the pages yellowed, my maiden name scrawled inside the front cover and thinking how this book most likely shaped my life just a little bit.
For the record, I've not read the Isabel Wolff which is sat beside it, but Kate Long's Queen Mum is another of my absolute favourites.

Go on now, share the most battered book on your shelf!

A message from Joseph to everyone in the world who has my mummy's dot com

There is one wee lady in our family that does not go to sleep.
All she does all through the night is go "Daddy, daddy" that's her song.
And she is a really funny baby and sometimes (this is not true, I just made a joke) all her enemies come down from the roof and go "bum do doody bum do doody wah wah wah"

Random Conversations with the boy

We were walking through the town today when Joseph asked

"Mummy, what's a Peh- Harmacy?"

I had to think.... but the darned phonetic spelling was to blame again.

A pharmacy, I told him, was a chemist.

The Jon Venables issue

To this day I have very vivid memories of the news coverage surrounding the abduction and murder of James Bulger.


I don’t think anyone who has heard any of the details of his brutal death could forget them - such are the things of nightmares.

Since then, that bright and chirpy two year old baby from Liverpool has often been in my thoughts - not least when I became a mammy myself and had the uneviable task of trying to keep a very active toddler close by me every time we went out of the house.

Every mother knows that fear - the heart-stopping, gut wrenching moment of terror when your child is no longer in your sight and when you have no idea where they might be or who they might be with. No mother cares, in those moments, if she makes a buck eejit of herself screaming her son or daughter’s name out as loud as she can until she finds them. My best fish-wife moments have been when the boy has wandered off in Tesco, because even if we know that such things are statistically unlikely you can’t help but remember James Bulger. I’m pretty sure his mother never imagined he would meet such an horrendous death.

His life was cut short in a brutal and violent manner and what made it all the more shocking (as if it were not shocking enough) were that those responsible for inflicting such injuries on this poor toddler were just children themselves.

Unless you happen to live under a rock, you may be aware that James Bulger’s killers - or at least one of them - has been in the news again.

Jon Venables is back in custody. According to sources close to both Jon Venables and the other killer Robert Thompson, it is thought Venables would have been the least likely to reoffend.

However he is now facing serious charges - allegedly relating to child pornography. Well, the vigilantes are out in force. A Facebook group outing a completely innocent man as being James Bulger’s killer has been set up. There are cries all over the country to name him, and shame him and publicly flog him - except that flogging wouldn’t be good enough for the likes of him etc etc.

Let me state here and now I have little sympathy for Venables. My sympathy lies directly and completely at the door of James’ family who were robbed of their gorgeous baby boy.

But I find it outrageous that these boys - above the age of criminal responsibility when they committed their crimes - served only eight years before they were released. I find that as outrageous for Venables’ and Thompson’s own safety and peace of mind as I do for the Bulger family who must have been sickened to their very core at such an early release.

Now I’m not saying that the children - as they were then - should have been hung, or locked away for their rest of their days but how can a child who has spent their formative years in prison possibly be expected to reintegrate into society normally?

How is a child who brutally murdered a baby expected to a completely reformed character by their 18th birthday?

How can the rest of the public have faith that that person - regardless of the age they were when they committed their crime - will go on to be a productive member of society? How can anyone be sure that they will not hurt another child?

I know this is a tricky situation. I know that the fact Venables and Thompson were children themselves when they abducted and murdered James Bulger complicates things. I know that there is an argument out there that no one is born evil and that these children themselves but have had a very twisted childhood themselves. A part of society argues that we should feel sorry them - maybe not as much as but close - as we do for James Bulger and his family.

I can’t make that leap. Maybe it is naive of me but I can’t understand how any human being cannot reach the age of 10 without knowing the basics of morality. Thou shalt not kill is quite a basic principle to live by, is it not?

In any case it is my opinion that James Bulger’s killers cannot suddenly live a normal life after eight years behind bars when they never lived a normal life before they went to prison. Harsh as it may sound - I don’t think they should have been released from prison - especially not at such a vulnerable age as 18.

They should be there - and indeed Venables is back there now - and they should stay there. There are crimes - regardless of who committed them - which are beyond rehabilitation. There are crimes so horrendous that only a life sentence will suffice.

I admit there are no easy answers and I have tied myself up in knots trying to see all sides of the argument but there remains a large part of me that feels just a little better knowing that one of these two killers is back behind bars.

I don't think I said...

But this week at WeightWatchers I found out I lost 4lbs.
Which brings my total weightloss in the last three weeks to 7lbs 7oz.

To put that in context I have lost an amount heavier than one of my children when they were new born (being 6lb 9oz and 6lb 9.5oz respectively).

A whole baby of fat.

Either that's a great achievement or just pretty damn gross.

So what if I'm broken?

I have reached that stage of writing book five where I fear I will never be able to finish the damn thing.
Trouble is - this wall usually hits at around 40,000 words. It has hit at 15,000 this time. Eeek!
The thing is, the book is there is my head. I am conversing with my characters all the time in a mildly schizophrenic way. I quite like them. I'm definitely very excited about the book.
I just can't write the damn thing.
My fingers, it feels, are broken. I feel as if I'm writing and writing and writing and only producing 5 words at a time. I have even already experienced a major editing crisis.
Almost every writer I know goes through these phases - I just want something to snap me right out of mine and get me on the "write track" (see what I did there?) again.

As it stands I'm more likely to spend my evenings these days fake planning my fellow Northern author Emma Heatherington's wedding to Simon Cowell than actually writing. Must. Try. Harder.

I could have posted all last week about how wonderful she is

But I spent it out and about in the sunshine with her - just enjoying her wonderfulness.

I have fallen in love - hopelessly, stupidly, crazily in love - more in love than ever before and I look at her and her brother and I wonder what did I do so right to deserve them?

We went for walks. We went shopping. We sat on the floor and had a mock tea party with her dolls and we pushed her toy pram about. We sang songs. We had our photos taken. We ate cake (well, she ate cake... I had some wine).

It was bliss.... utter bliss.

Here we go again (again)

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she realises she needs to make a change. It may be the simplest of things - a chance conversation with an old friend, an article read in a newspaper - which makes us sit up and realise that enough is enough. Things have got to get better.


My moment came three weeks ago. I was getting dressed when I noticed a pair of six year old eyes staring very intently at my stomach. His brow creased and his head turned this way and that before he started. “Mummy,” he said, unaware that he was about to deliver a killer blow to my already fragile sense of self worth. “I think you might be pregnant because your tummy is really, really fat.”

Merely writing the words does not convey how much emphasis he put on the “really, really” part. I tried to console myself it could, indeed, have been worse. I could actually be pregnant which would signal the loss of my sanity entirely - but then I realised something. I could be offended and hurt all I wanted about what he said, but he was telling the truth. He didn’t say it in a spiteful way - he simply, as Roy Walker would urge in ‘CatchPhrase’, was saying what he saw.

I do have a really big tummy. A really, really big tummy.

As the baby who never sleeps has now turned one year old I cannot use the “just had a baby” excuse any longer. And the truth is, I didn’t put on an ounce while I was pregnant with her due to throwing up thrice daily but since her arrival - and my ability to keep food down returning - I have seen a gradual increase in my girth.

So taking matters in hand I did what I always vowed I would never, ever do. I joined WeightWatchers. I can tell you now I was a wreck - an absolute quivering, shaking, crying, big fat eejit of an wreck - as I stood outside that class for the first time.

As I took my seat and waited for my time on the scales I felt like a condemned woman. The green mile could have held no more fear for me than the walk to the scales that night.

It was silly really. I knew what I weighed. I knew I have a lot to lose but there was something about someone else seeing that - and commenting on it - that made my blood run cold.

But I stood there and I thought of my son. I thought if he is starting to notice that mammy is overweight now then it is only a matter of time - due to the world we live in - that he is going to be embarrassed by that.

And then I thought of the baby who never sleeps - who also never eats - and I didn’t want her to grow up with a mammy with a warped body image and cripplingly low self esteem. I don’t want her to get mixed messages about food. I don’t want her spending her formative years thinking she is ugly if she happens to be taller, or a little larger, than her peers.

I have always been a grand big girl - tall and big boned but actually was never overweight til my late teens. However I always felt it - insisting as I did on surrounding myself with short, twiggy friends who made me look like the Jolly Green Giant in my Thornhill uniform

The class, after the initial trauma, actually turned out to be great craic. I have been really impressed by the wit of Derry women - who have me laughing out loud with their tales of diet success and failure. I don’t feel it’s a matter of being bad or good - just trying my best most of the time. If I mess up (you know, actually fall - mouth first- onto a Kit Kat Chunky) I hope to be able to brush myself off and start again.

Yes, there is a distinct danger I may become a diet bore. I feel sorry for my friends and family who will have to listen to me while I try and get my head around it for the next few weeks. I carry my wee green folder everywhere. I can be seen going googy-eyed over the nutritional information on food in Tesco. (Indeed I apologise to the impatient woman who was not impressed at me checked out how many Points there are in a Brunch bar while she was trying to get her Jammy Dodgers).

i’m also painfully aware that is the far from the first time I have written in this column about going on a diet, and really going for it and ra ra ra, aren’t I just class? The fact is, no, I’m not class. I’m just trying - like every woman, I suppose - to reach a stage where I am happy, healthy and able to buy skinny jeans.

As the wee sign on the wall beside the scary scales in WeightWatchers says “It’s not a sin to fall. It’s a sin to lie there”. Well, I’ve got up and I’m ready for the next round.

Denial isn't just a river in Egypt...

I think I am in denial. The baby turns one tomorrow. I have not bought a card, or a cake or a present.


I refuse to believe that a year has passed since she was born - since I held her soft, wee precious body in my arms and muttered words of welcome in her ear.

I refuse to believe that the baby months are gone - no more pureeing food, no more making up bottles of formula or sterilising.

I love the stage she is at now - full of craic and mischief with four teeth which form the most precious smile in the world but there is a part of me twanging at her age and wishing she would stay small forever.

Emotions-a-rama

As a small (big) aside

This picture was taken this day last year.... my last pregnant picture before my baby arrived.

She is turning one on Thursday - perhaps this is why I am uber emotional (but not at all broody... honest).

The Monday Moan

Well it is two weeks in. Weigh in is tonight. I think it will be characteristic of my Mondays that they shall forever more feel like the day of doom from now on. That is not to say I’ve been bad. I have stayed rigidly to my points, apart from on Saturday when I over did it on the Nobby’s Nuts at a family do. I had eaten frig all all day though to compensate for my inevitable munchies on that occasion which was great as my munching was relatively guilt free but not so great as drinking the guts of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach leads to me being vay drunk, vay quickly.

I am, however, now experiencing some bloating - you know fluid retention - which combined with a killer dose of PMT means I would rather eat my own head (I wonder how many points are in a human head?) than stand on the scales tonight.
I may not have lost. I may even have gained. And I know that if I have gained it is down to my elephant ankles and not proper ‘fat’ but weight is weight is weight. And I have a lot of it.
My green folder has become a lifeline. My tracker is my constant companion. I have started to eye delicious looking food suspiciously and thinking “There is no shagging way I’m wasting points on you” but I also know I’m starting week three aka The Wall and with the pmt munchies weighing heavy on my mind I know I will have battle to ensure they don’t weigh heavy on my thighs.

Now what I don't want this blog to become is a me whinging all the time about the size of my arse (too late?) so please give me positive affirmations and lovely stories about losing weight although, and I don't mean to sound mean, if you have slimmed from a size 12 to a size 10 because you were just "huge" at a size 12 then please don't leave me a message. I may have to kill you - or eat you. I'm pretty sure your entire body would have less points in it than my (fat) human head.