Wonderful, wonderful day

I HATE to be a tease, but I could tell you my reason for being positive for today, but then I would have to kill you.

All I can say is watch this space. I am a very happy writer lady this evening.

Add this to the news that my very dear and lovely friend Nora told me today she was expecting her first baby and my colleague Erin (you know, the one who is on the jazz a lot?) got tickets to a faberooney Arsenal match for her hubby's 40th FREE OF CHARGE, it's been a fab day all round.

All I want to say here and now is that I love my friends...every last stinking one of you!

A secret smile

WEDNESDAY WAS a pretty stressful day for me as far as stressful days go. I had been staying in Belfast the previous night with my VBF (very best friend) Vicki and despite having the luxurious surroundings of an executive suite of the Europa Hotel to ourselves, I found it almost impossible to sleep.

It was probably because there was no two year old sticking the heel of his foot into my neck or clambering over me at three in the morning declaring that it was time to play, but needless to say by the time the morning came around I had matchsticks propping open my eyes and my mood had deteriorated from happily tipsy the night before to grumpily hungover the morning after.We decided to wander around the Belfast shops to try and inject some festive spirit in my sagging heart, but when the elastic went at the top of my (new and much loved, not to mention expensive) brown suede knee length boots my humour dipped even more- and that was before I clambered on the bus for the journey home to find the heating set to 'tropical heatwave' the whole way to Derry- something which I can assure you does not rest easy with a growing hangover.

Then in my madness, accompanied by a sense of crippling maternal guilt at having dared to leave my boy over night, I decided it would be wise to take him, and his four year old cousin to the madhouse that is McDonalds, at tea time, three weeks before Christmas.The prospect of some "chicky uggies" as Joseph decided to call chicken nuggets (at the top of his voice at the top of the queue) sent both Joseph and Abby into a dizzy fit of over-excitement and as I tried to eat my (hangover cure) tea, I felt my blood pressure rise to the point where I could feel a vein throbbing in my neck.

It was then time to take the wee man home and by this stage, overfed on one of those Mix 'n' Muddles things (ice-cream, Smarties and chocolate sauce for the uninitiated) he was on the mental side of hyper so there were tears before bedtime- both for him and me- before he eventually fell into an exhausted sleep and I took to my bed early with a good book and the heating set to high.
"Don't talk to me for the rest of the night," I told himself, sashaying up the stairs in a dramatic stylee: "I want to be alone."
So I crawled under the covers, in fresh pjs, and allowed myself to sink into my soft pillows and I flicked on the TV just to see if there was anything worth watching.

It was then I stumbled across 'The Secret Millionaire' on Channel 4.
If you want feel good TV, something to lift you from the doldrums and make you forget about what a crappy day you've had then you couldn't go far wrong with this programme.

On Wednesday night's programme 25 year old multi-millionaire Ben Way spent 10 days in what has become known as London's 'Murder Mile' undercover.
He volunteered at a local youth club, got to know the community and find out the aspirations and dreams of some of the most disadvantaged young people in the area.By the end of his 10 days, he would be tasked with choosing several projects or people to give a portion of his fortune too.

At first I was a little cynical, as Ben (who looked all of about 12 and as if he had some 'chicky uggies' for tea himself) wandered about decided what he deemed to be worthy or not of receiving "his money".

However my attitude to the whole thing had changed as the programme ended, just as it seems Ben's had. He decided to invest in the youth club he had been volunteering in- a place where the youth leader had not drawn a wage in two years- and also to give money to an aspiring fashion designer. In addition, he paid for a community leader to get married to his partner of 27 years- something they could never have afforded to do themselves.

What impressed me most however was that as well as his money (£40,000 in total of it) he decided he was so impressed with the people of the 'Murder Mile' that he has decided also to donate his time.

As often as work allows, he comes back to the youth club and helps inspire and encourage the young people. As for the fashion designer, Ben himself is pounding the streets finding outlets to sell the hip new street designs.

As the money was handed out, I realised that perhaps for the first time all day I had a huge cheesy grin on my face. These acts of kindness had lifted me out of my grumpy lull and had left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

Even though I wasn't in an executive suite at the Europa on Wednesday night, and was in fact just back in my plain old non-executive bed, I slept like a lamb and when, as invariably happens, a wee foot lodged itself in the small of my back at 3am, and the owner of said foot clambered all over me declaring "My own mammy", I didn't mind one bit. I just rolled over, cuddled him closer and told him I loved him. And the cheesy grin stayed firmly on my face all night.

Tacky Tuesday- Tina Arena

(NB: I know it's only Monday, but I won't be here tomorrow so tik yer oil, as we would say in Derry)

DURING LAST week's discussion about the tacky music I have now stored in my car, Keris mentioned that Tina Arena's 'Chains' was perhaps the best song to sing whilst under the influence of alcohol.

After much thinking (in other words, I read what Keris said) I agreed that Tina Arena, the Australian songstress, really does provide value for money when it comes to singing while drunk-ability.

Now Chains rocks, which is why I've included it here. But let's not forget her lesser known classics 'Heaven Help My Heart' (there is a class story about my sister, her housemate, loud singing and huge embarassment related to this song) and I'm also loving her 'Wasn't it Good?'.

If you want to go the whole hog to real amazingly tacky and wonderful out of tune singing-ness (on my part, not Tina's, I hasten to add), there is also her rendition of 'Whistle Down the Wind'.

But for now, I leave you with 'Chains' complete with performance advice.

(Sing with hairbrush in hand and make sure your hair is down, so you can swoosh it around dramatically)

Your arms are warm but they make me feel

As if they're made of cold, cold steel

A simple kiss like a turnin' key

A little click and the lock's on me

Can't move my arms, can't lift my hands

I won't admit to where I am

But I know baby, I'm in chains

I'm in chains (Look dramatically around you)

I pretend I can always leave

Free to go whenever I please

But then the sound of my desperate calls

Echo off these dungeon walls

I've crossed the line from mad to sane (I always thought this was A-Z...now this makes more sense)

A thousand times and back again

I love you baby, I'm in chains

I'm in chains

I'm in chains

I'm in chains (swoosh your hair NOW)

Should have known passing through the gate

That once inside I could not escape

I never thought this could happen to me

Never thought this is where I'd be

But baby, baby, baby, look at me

Baby, baby, look at me, (You have to shout this bit- a grab your hairbrush really tight)

I'm in chains

Day three in the Operation Pollyanna house...

I WILL admit that for today I have struggled- generally down to be so very tired and waiting for all important news that could see me validated as a writer.

My positive things include my amazing son. I finished work today, tired and frazzled and little hormonally emotional and came home to a super smiling face.

Joseph then cuddled up on my knee and we read his 'Charlie and Lola' books together (which is worth it to hear Joseph say Wo-Wa and Soren Lorenson alone).

In the end he went to bed a very tired but very happy little boy and that in turn made me feel nice and contented.

The other Yay for Today is that I am almost ready to go to Belfast to see my bestest friend Vicki who I haven't seen since my birthday in June.

Wine may be consumed, so you will forgive me if there is no post tomorrow.

Sorry that there is no dedicated Strictly Come Dancing post this week- I was working on Saturday and only got home in time to see snippets. I'm glad Claire and Brendan are gone though. I have lost all respect for the woman who was Kim Tate- Kim Tate would never have been so bawdy! And Brendan- yep, he can dance- but I've been reading what a male slapper he is.

Next week will be tough though. The five remaining couples (does anyone else now say "couples" in a Tess Daly style Northern accent???) are all really good.

My money is still on Mark Ramprakash though.... Saturday nights have never been so good.

Operation Pollyanna- On the Jazz

(I dedicate today's post to my work colleague Erin, who is always 'on the jazz')

DID YOU that George Peppard, aka Hannibal from the A Team has a cousin who lives in Derry?

He has a fancy house up the Culmore Road, near Da Vincis- tres posh and yes, his surname is Peppard and not Doherty or something equally Derry.

My friend Erin told me that and she should know as she is the biggest A Team fan in the world- bar none.

Anyway, being such a big A Team fan, Erin has a suitable quote from the show for every occasion. Her most commonly touted expression these days is that she loves it when she is on the jazz, and no that does not refer to any illegal drug taking.

'On the Jazz' refers to those times in your life when you are top form. For me, it's usually when I'm work and the words are flying forth from my fingers and every line is journalistically sound. (You know, the days when I don't spent three quarters of an hour trying to think of a headline before I even start the story.)

Today's positive vibe is that despite it being a Sunday, I was very much on the jazz in work today. I got my head down, battered my copy through and enjoyed it muchly.

And then I got home (a little early) and made dinner for the two men in my life.

It was a lovely day- one where I have almost put all the stressy thoughts in my life at the moment regarding my creative writing to the back of my head.

Simple pleasures people- that's what it is all about.

Operation Pollyanna- A Little World of My Own

DAY ONE of Operation Pollyanna and so far, so good.

Despite himself being a generally grumpy bugger, I've managed not to lose my cool- which is pretty impressive for me.

Now to report the positives from my day

1) My sister has booked me a ticket to see Westlife in the Odyssey next April. Yes, that is my secret shame... I love Westlife and as for Shane, I so would...

I tried to find an appropriately handsome picture for this blog (you know, one with him and his wanger hanging out or something) but apparantly he really is that clean cut. More's the pity.

But pulling my mind back out of the gutter. They may not be big or clever, but Westlife are fun and this will be my second time seeing them in concert. I'm sure it's going to be fandabulous.

2) I managed to write 1,000 words of Signed, Sealed, Delivered today...taking me just over the 40,000 mark which makes me feel very exceptionally happy.

So day one down, two positives. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

I'm not crazy....

THE WONDERFUL Shirley MacLaine, while playing the equally wonderful Ouiser Bordeaux in 'Steel Magnolias', once said: "I'm not crazy, I've just been in a very bad mood for the last 40 years."

I may not be 40 (God forbid, I'm still coming to terms with 30 for now) but I know exactly where the old dear was coming from.

Do you ever catch a glimpse of yourself and wonder who on earth the grumpy baggage looking back at you is?

Or maybe you read over old emails, or forum posts or replay a phone conversation you had and realise that you may in fact be one of those toxic friends you are always warning people about.

You know what I'm talking about here, the kind of friend who brings everyone down with their constant whinging and moaning and generally feeling sorry for themselves-itis.

There are times when I think "I am what I am" (and sing the song of the same name loudly) and realise people can either like me or lump me, but there are also times when I want to change to become a more positive person.

I don't want to do a complete 180 and become a Pollyanna, but just someone who didn't automatically think or fear the worst would be good.

So I'll try a little experiment and each day on this Blog for the next seven nights I will post something positive about my day.

Let's call it Operation Pollyanna!

I don't feel like dancing

This week's colum is inspired somewhat by Tacky Tuesday.

HAVING RECENTLY become the not so proud owner of a new (read that as 10 years old) Corsa, I have been reliving my youthful horrendous taste in music due to the fact that I now rely on an olde worlde cassette player for my in-car entertainment.
I admit I was pretty spoiled with our last car (which himself has now claimed as his own). It had a fancy(ish) CD player which allowed me to listen to all the cool tunes of the day while driving to and from work.
There was nothing better than getting behind the steering wheel, switching on the engine and listening to the sexy sounds of James Morrison as I drove over the new bridge on my way home. (Admittedly more often than not, if the wee man was in the car with me, James Morrison would be replaced by 'The Wheels on the Bus'- which was not quite as relaxing).
But when the Corsa came into my ownership, things changed and I had to abandon Mr. Morrison and my other CDs including my newly purchased and much loved Paolo Nutini CD.After several weeks of relying on Radio One for company (Great in the morning with Chris Moyles, kind of rubbish in the afternoon with Scott Mills) I decided to hunt out my old tapes from the top of the wardrobe to see if there was anything actually worth listening to again.

Instead of finding the cutting edge of late 80s and early 90s tunes I uncovered a veritable music collection of shame. In my haul I found two Bros tapes, a Celine Dion album, an offering from Mariah Carey, Garth Brook's Greatest Hits (everyone had this one? Didn't they?) and Lionel Ritchie's 'Back to Front' collection.I had two choices as I saw it. I could hide the tapes back in their darkened hidey hole and hope they never saw the light of day again or I could listen to them and see if they retained any of the appeal that attracted me to them in the first place.I opted for the second option and as the strains of the Celine Dion power ballad 'Think Twice' flooded through my car I was suddenly transported back 12 years to my room in the Halls of Residence at Jordanstown where I would play this song over and over again marvelling at the power of the emotion behind it.
Yes, I suppose I always knew Celine Dion had a pretty annoying voice but it didn't matter back then. Not when I was 18 and full of weird notions about love and slow dances.
Mariah Carey's 'Music Box' brought back equally embarrassing memories- mostly about being madly in love with a class mate who then went on to break my heart, and as for Garth Brooks- it will forever be associated with four hour bus runs to Dublin to spend the weekend with my then boyfriend (now my husband). Of course 'If Tomorrow Never Comes' will always be sung the way I heard it at a street party in Rosemount as 'If My Giro Never Comes'.
No one can fail to smile when listening to Lionel Ritchie. Songs like 'Dancing on the Ceiling' and 'Still' are real guilty pleasures. I know I probably shouldn't like them, but I can't help but enjoy a wee warble along. And if I'm honest, cheesy and all as it is, 'Hello' still brings a wee tear to my cynical eyes. I mean, in the video the blind girl was able to sculpt his face from clay even though she had never seen him.
It was enough to warm the coldest heart.I have to admit that much as I'm supposed to be a sensible, grown up and sophisticated lady of the noughties, reliving my musical youth was quite enjoyable.The songs haven't improved withthe years, but it was nice to experience them again and find that I still remembered all the words.
I mean these are all songs from back in the days when you would sit by your tape player in the evenings, stopping the tape every few seconds so you could write down the words and commit the lyrics to memory. (Please, it wasn't just me, was it?)Most of the songs were of the nature that they could only really properly be enjoyed when in a house or car on your own so that you can sing as loudly and out of tune-ly as possible.
Of course having tapes when you are used to the convenience of CDs is a pain in the bum. You can't just automatically hit the back button to hear the song again or skip past the dodgier tunes like 'The Thunder Rolls' on the Garth Brooks' album.
You have guess when to hit the stop button and if you miss your spot, then you have to rewind a wee bit again. All that said, it was a nice to take a trip down musical memory lane.
But I'm glad- very, very glad- that no cars out there have record players fitted because if you think my tape selection is bad, you should see the quality of my vinyl.
If 'Ice, Ice Baby' by Vanilla Ice doesn't turn you off, then there is always 'Mona' by Craig McLochlainn, aka Henry from Neighbours. Somehow I don't think those musical classics will ever see the light of day again.

A mad mammy moment

IT'S IMPOSSIBLE to explain how this little creature on the right has enhanced and enriched my life over the last two years and 10 months.

Every day I'm proud of him. Every day he makes me laugh a real deep and heartfelt laugh that feels entirely 100% natural.

And there are moments, like tonight when I saw his face completely light up as Santa switched on the Christmas lights in Derry that the very emotion of caring for him, loving him and feeling proud of him almost takes my breath away.

The crowds were cheering around us, but my eyes were locked on this perfect little creature.

There are times were motherhood really does feel like the world's greatest blessing.

Tacky Tuesday- Celine Dion

I FULLY realise that 'Tackfest Tuesday' may actually only be serving to show the world what truly appalling taste I had in music, but nonetheless this week is dedicated to the Canadian songstress Celine Dion and specifically her 1993 (so more like 94 over here) album 'The Colour of My Love'.

I should perhaps explain further. In my late teenage years while at university there were two major things in my life which prompted me to listen to the music.

The first was the fact I was dying about this fellah in my class and I literally thought my heart would break into a jillion pieces if he didn't love me back. It got so bad that me and my mucker Gillian would drive around the area where said stalkee lived and looking fornlornly at his house hoping he would see that as a reason to fall in love with me.

It never happened.

But nonetheless what did happen is that I became hopelessly addicted to tacky power ballads the likes of Celine Dion and Mariah Carey and as I also had to spend a good three hours on a bus to and from Belfast each week I listened to them a lot and thought they were singing about me and my unrequited passion and doomed romance.

There are so many wonderfully tacky songs on the 'Colour of My Love' to choose from ('Refuse to Dance' being particularly naff') but this week I'll opt for the power ballad 'Think Twice'.

Don't think I can't feel that there's something wrong

You've been the sweetest part of my life so long

I look in your eyes, there's a distant light

And you and I know there'll be a storm tonight

This is getting serious Are you thinking 'bout you or us (chorus)

Don't say what you're about to say

Look back before you leave my life

Be sure before you close that door

Before you roll those dice

Baby think twice

Baby think twice for the sake of our love, for the memory

For the fire and the faith that was you and me

Baby I know it ain't easy when your soul cries out for a higher ground '

Coz when you're halfway up, you're always halfway down (My favourite bit by the way)

But baby this is serious

Are you thinking 'bout you or us (repeat first chorus)

Baby this is serious (this is serious)

Are you thinking 'bout you or us Baby

Don't say what you're about to say (no no no no) (Best sung when drunk)

Look back before you leave my life (don’t leave my life)

Be sure before you close that door

Before you roll those dice

Baby think twice

SCD week 7- Emma was quite good

I'VE NOT been a huge fan of Emma Bunton throughout this series. I have found her quite smug to be honest, I liked her on Saturday night.

I think the key was not listening to her blether before the dance and just enjoying the performance for what it was. Her dress was tres sparkly (always a good thing for Latin dancing) and she actually seemed to have found her mojo. Baby Spice was all grown up, so I was shocked to see her in the bottom two at the end.

Mark and Karen continued to delight. (Though has anyone noticed how Karen seems to look more and more manic each week?) Brendan continued to be hugely annoying. Louisa was technically wonderful but the tango is too grown up a dance for a 17 years old. Matt and Lilia, well yes they were good- but ballroom doesn't do it for me. Give me some spice!

And Peter and Erin. Now what I'm going to say next is very cruel, so please forgive me. But surely I'm not the only one who thinks Peter bears more than a passing resemblance to the monster from 'Young Frankenstein'? Especially when dancing? Think back to the classic Gene Wilder/ Monster 'Putting on the Ritz' scene and you've got Peter Schmeical.

Need more proof?









Yes, he was a gentleman but no he cannot dance and he had to go. But with the shock of Emma in the bottom two this week, we can only wonder who is next?

Get Real

(Apologies as this is on the theme of the Dove Self Esteem fund AGAIN)

THE DOVE Real Women campaign has stepped up a gear this month and I'm delighted to see it.

IF you have access to the Internet and to the website Youtube.com you can catch a glimpse of their latest ad (Just search for Dove Evolution- I'm so down with the kids with all this You Tube malarkey).

The ad shows how, with the magic of a little make up, a professional hairstylist a photoshop even the most normal looking of us can be transformed into supermodel material.

The girl the Dove people have chosen is pretty in her own right, but her hair is a little lank (much like mine at the end of a long hard Wednesday in an air-conditioned office) and her skin had a few blemishes (much like mine thanks to my addiction to WeightWatcher Chocolate Brownies).

But then the make up artists get to work, painting, plucking, teasing, highlighting before the hairdressers step in with their tongs and straighteners and 16 cans of hairspray. Add some mood lighting into the mix and you've got one gorgeous girlie. But do the cosmetic companies and magazine publishers stop there? Why no. They use their computer packages to lengthen her neck, widen her eyes, make her shoulders more streamline and her eyebrows more arched.

And then, this primped, preened and photoshopped image is sold to women the world over as what 'real beauty' is.

Admit it, we've all looked at a magazine cover and felt a pang of jealousy at the lack of wrinkles and blemishes on a celebrity's face or at how blue and doe-eyed their eyes look. I'm not sure if we should be angry or relieved to find out it's all one big, fat (or digitally enhanced, if you prefer) lie. We all know that Dove have set about debunking as many beauty myths as possible and I suppose their campaign to have the average woman feel good about her body has sparked off a plethora of TV shows and magazine features detailing how you don't have to be a size 10 to look absolutely fabulous.
That said, I'm not sure the message is getting through. The majority of my friends still crave to be no bigger than a 12 and perhaps a 10 if at all possible.

They consider themselves 'fat' at a size 14. (I can only dream of being a size 14, I think I was the same age or thereabouts the last time anything under a 16 slid up past my thunder thighs) and it does sadden me. On a similar note, I have the most gorgeous cousin in the world. She is 16 and puts me to shame because (and I kind of hate her for this) she has never gone through an embarrassingly gawky and awkward teenage stage. You could search all you want but you won't find a picture of her with a frizzy perm or unfortunate ra-ra style skirt combo.

She attended a formal last week and looked really stunning in a dress that would, possibly if pushed and let out a little bit, fit over my thigh and yet her mammy tells me she thinks she has a fat belly. She no more has a fat belly than I have a thin one, but her self image is distorted- just like that of my many friends who crave to fit into a certain size label.

What they don't realise is that curves, stretchmarks and wobbly bits and all they still look amazing. Sure they are never going to make it on that Channel 5 drivel 'Make me a Supermodel' but who wants to make a living walking like a constipated ostrich down a catwalk anyway?

These are real women, living real lives, doing normal everyday things. Some are watching their children from sun up to sun down (or son up to son down as one mammy of a wee boy put it), some spend their days in busy offices shoving lunch down El Desco (heard that expression this week and loved it) and others, like my 16 year old cousin, are studying their way towards important exams.

All of them have more pressing things to be concerned about and all of them have so much to be proud of and yet all of them, and even myself included, can't escape their feelings of inadequacy regarding their physical appearance.
And that is exactly why campaigns such as the Dove one, which particularly works to target younger women and teenage girls, are so important. When I watched the Evolution ad, I felt a little better about myself. It made me realise just how fake the industry portrayal of beauty is.I realised that with the help of a make up artist, hairdresser and photoshop I too could look stunning. I could forget all my efforts and WeightWatchers and simply digitally shave several inches (or feet as the case may be) off my outline and look like a real glamour puss.

Reversing that thinking, I realise that even the most famous celebrity or supermodel won't wake up each morning looking a million dollars. She probably has bed head, greasy skin and bags under her eyes too.And cellulite- I'm hoping she has bucketloads of cellulite.So well done to Dove. Long may they keep it real! Let's just hope we all start listening soon.

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