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.

You can't tell me that all of the good books have been written....

This morning I was reading over my friends' Facebook updates and saw one friend reference 'Saving Grace' by Ciara Geraghty - which I've not read yet, but which I really want to.
Or should that be wanted to.
I read the blurb - woman in relationship sleeps with another man, things go tits up - and my heart sank. Because 'It's to Be Perfect' features a very strong "woman in relationship sleeps with another man and things go tits up" storyline.
Of course the subject of infidelity is not new to fiction and certainly not new to women's fiction but I did feel like banging my head, repeatedly, off the desk.
I loved writing IGTBP. I had so much fun with it. It was perhaps one of the most joyous, words flowing onto the pages writing experience of my career so far.

This is something we writers come up against time and time again - the quest for originality - and while I know that both my agent (who also happens to represent Ciara Geraghty) and my publishers are VERY excited about the new book (as am I) I do feel a little deflated.

I suppose I am going to have accept that there are no real new ideas out there and hope that Frank Carson was right when he said "It's the way I tell 'em".

Do you like it?

Isn't it just lovely? (if we ignore the wee 'Bestelling' error as this was hot from the designers)
This is the start of a whole new look for my books and I'm really looking forward to seeing what they are going to do with book four 'It's Got to be Perfect'.
Oh, and for those who wondered - the baby who does not sleep went back to her usual behaviour last night. She did however, creep around me a bit by offering loads of cuddles and saying "aaaaawww, aaaaaww" as she did so.

Monday was an uncharacteristically good day

First of all when I dressed for work, my skirt waistband felt looser. This made me feel good - not twig like or anything but good.
Second of all when I went to the dreaded weigh in in Weight Watchers I was delighted to discover I have shed 3lbs. I did have to resist the urge to a post weigh splurge - but I did. I had some toast with Low Low cheese when I got home (within my points) and it was lovely.
Thirdly of all, I wrote about 750 words which was lovely.
Fourthly I have decided on a working title for book five which until further notice will be known as 'The 30 Something Crisis Club'.
And finally....



Drum roll please....





THE BABY WHO NEVER SLEEPS SLEPT THROUGH ALL NIGHT.

I thank you.

Duhn duhn duhhhhhnnnn

It's weigh in night tonight.
I feel less panicky today than I did last week but more panicky than I did the week before. (If that makes any sense at all).
I have been good as gold. Like seriously I should get a sticker from the teacher and a big smiley face drawn on my tracker. I have not over eaten at ALL. Not even once. I have lived on non-fat yoghurt, loads of veg, lean meats, new potatoes and ham salad sandwiches. Everything I have eaten - even if just a bite of the baby's dinner to check it has cooled - has been pointed and tracked.
If I've bitten it, I've written it.

My clothes feel looser. My waistbands have a little more give.
But, a sneaky pre-weigh in stand on the scales yesterday in my mum's revealed a zero weight loss.
Seriously?

Of course I have to make sure that when I do my official weigh in I'm in the same clothes, at the same time of day and on the same scales (eg tonight at my first full meeting) but I'm preparing myself for not having a loss and trying to sort it in my head that the weight loss will come. If my clothes feel looser already - the weight loss has to come.

Now I realise I am becoming a little bit of a diet bore - this will wear off. But when I went shopping yesterday and heard the dulcet tones of  Mika's 'Big Girl You Are Beautiful' blasting around the shop's music system I wanted to scream "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!" in a very loonified way.

Yes of course larger ladies can be beautiful but me? No I don't feel it. I can't actually remember the last time I felt beautiful in anyway and while I know it won't be losing weight which makes me happy maybe it will give me more confidence in myself.

I have spent three years now promoting books and dreading getting my photo taken or going on telly. I never watch anything back that I do. I feel always self conscious. I am always waiting for someone to ask when the baby is due. I go into everything judging myself on my physical appearance even if, maybe, others are not doing so.
I have even convinced myself that being a bloater has really damaged my ability to get on the Late Late or get the same kind of coverage other skinnier, more attractive authors get. (This is nothing to do with my writing ability, of course... ;) )
I have had to accept that even as an author - someone who creates books in a very solitary way - I need to have a public image and at the moment I do not have one. I am just the fatty old dowdy mammy on the school run who sits her in jammies of an evening writing about skinny, glam women.

So I may fail again this time, or I may succeed but at least I will have tried and before I hit the big 4-0 (which is admittedly 6 years away) I will be happy with myself.

An open letter to Cheryl Cole

Dear Cheryl Cole,

I know you probably read my open letter to Iris Robinson a few weeks ago and felt a little jealous. I know that as you read your Derry Journal over your baps from Doherty’s a mug of tea, you must have thought to yourself: “That one talks sense. I wish she would impart her words of wisdom to me because, quite honestly, I’m in an awful pickle regarding this marriage of mine.”

And you know what love, you are. Much as you have the gumption to tell people to fight for their love and not give up as soon as things get tough, there has to be a time when you hang up your diamond rings, hand back the keys to the fancy car and run as fast as your skinny wee legs can carry you.

Ashley Cole may be your husband, but he is - without a doubt - a rat. He has cheated on you in the past - this much is acknowledged and you know what, you forgave him and you got back together and I kind of hoped it would work out for you. People make mistakes. Certainly I’m of the belief that most people deserve second chances even if I personally would have found it nigh on impossible to forgive my other half having a full on sexual affair with a trampy hairdresser (or anyone for that matter. I’m not tramp-ist or hairdresser-ist).

Still your wedding vows must have meant a lot to you which is something I admire, understand and fully support. More power to your elbow as we would say around here. (Has Nadine ever used that expression? Tell her we said hello by the way).

But over the last few months I’ve had rather mixed feelings about you Cheryl. I quite enjoyed that ‘Fight For This Love’ song even if it does have the ability to get stuck in your brain and never leave. I was also quite a fan of the X-Factor (although Joe McElderry shouldn’t have won in my opinion).

I have liked watching your star in ascension. The thing is, Cheryl, you have come an awful long way from being the wee lassie who auditioned alongside our Nadine for Popstars: The Rivals. You have transformed yourself into quite the looker and indeed quite the successful business person.

Forgive me for saying this, but there is a part of me (Either the part that struggles to find clothes which fit properly or the part of me with a secret crush on Simon Cowell) which kind of hates you.

I know that is a very strong word and I don’t really mean it. Maybe envy would be a better way to describe how I feel.

Except, of course, when it comes to you and Ashley. Cheryl, pet, there has to be a time when you realise that some things are not worth having and certainly not worth fighting for. This is that time.

Your man, allegedly, sent some dodgy pictures of himself in his pants to a mystery blonde woman. Allegedly, he has slept with her. Now, this is where you have to show some inner strength.

I know you may love him, and he may love you but he does not respect you. Not one ounce. In fact he treats you with utter disdain and has humiliated you in the public eye time and time again for no good reason.

Let’s face it Cheryl, Ashley has it all. A great career, wadges of money, a beautiful wife and yet it’s not enough for him. This is not down to any failing on your part - this down to him being a greedy and selfish article. End of.

But you risk losing the respect of the nation if you keep letting him treat you like that. Sure you might not be able to control what he gets up to in fancy hotels with blonde women, but what you can control is how you deal with it.

You are supposed to be a role model to hoardes of young girls who look to you as a successful young woman but what message are you giving them if you let him tramp all over you and time and time again? You are telling them he is somehow more important than you and that you don’t deserve to be treated better. Shocking, isn’t it?

Now I know all this might sound a bit harsh but he is only a man Cheryl. He is famous for nothing more than kicking a ball around a field and being a cad (being as this is a family paper I can not say what I really think of him). You, love, can do much better.

So forget about fighting for this love - fight for yourself and your own self respect. Go on, we are standing behind you every step of the way.

Much love,

Claire

Did you ever get one of those nights?

Wednesday nights are kind of precious to me. I like to get in (around 6pm usually), have a little time with the kids, having something to eat and settle down at 8pm to ogle at Mr Schuster in Glee on TV3.
What more could a girl want?

Last night though - well that was a bit different.
I got home at six and the husband had not done any housework during the day. Now I don't expect him to be Mrs Mop, but he works from home and it wouldn't have hurt to run the dishes under the tap or give the floors a quick hoover.
I went into what is commonly known as "sreaming harpee mode". The baby who never sleeps was cranky and sick. The boy was hyper. The husband was sat at his desk - a circle of papers strewn around him as if a branch of Eason had exploded on his chair. I had homework to do. I had a baby to soothe. There was washing to be hung and beds to be made, packed lunches to be prepared and after that I wanted to eat something.
Day three on Weight Watchers and while I'm coping, I find that by meal times I am ravenous to the point of wanting to faint from hunger.
I washed up, brushed the floors, cuddled the baby, made the beds, did the boy's homework with him, hung out the washing and put some new potatoes onto steam.
The husband, who was due to go out, then put the baby to bed and headed on his way as I shoved the hastily prepared repast down my throat.
The baby did not go to sleep. The baby was awake. The baby needed Calpol. So I gave her it - but she still randomly cried screamed for half an hour on and off until she decided she just wanted to play.
It was 8.15pm. Glee had started. Was I was ogling Mr Schuster? No. I was changing the baby's jammies as she had drooled all over them with the damn persistant teething that never stops.
Eventually, at 8.45pm, she went to sleep. I came down stairs and washed up again (the dishes dirty themselves in my house, I swear) and was just sitting down in front of the TV  (after doing the bedtime routine with the boy) when the baby woke again. And screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
The boy woke. I had a headache. I gave her Nurofen.
She went back to sleep.
For five minutes.
Then she woke again, and screamed, and screamed and screamed.
And thus was the pattern all night.
The husband decided to sleep in beside the boy while I nursed the baby in our bed. At 4.15am, aware that I had a 9 hour day ahead of me in work I demanded the right to at least three hours sleep.
The boy came into the bed beside me. The baby was nursed by her daddy who then proceeded to put her in Joseph's bed with him.
The bed broke.
Like properly collapsed.
It is a new bed.
It is obviously a crap bed.
A quick inspection, beneath sleepy eyelids revealed it had been held together by the smallest of pins and the flimsiest of balsa wood. I had thought this would be sufficient for a six year old - but I guess not.
The baby was plonked on top of me, where she screamed and screamed and screamed and the boy woke up.
Eventually the husband proved his worth and took the baby downstairs while I tried my best to get the boy back to sleep and managed a full two hours uninterrupted sleep.
It is entirely possible that today I may fall asleep at my desk.

I have the DTs

No caffeine in almost 48 hours.
A day and a half of healthy, loads of veg eating.
A baby who STILL WON'T SLEEP

I am a shambling wreck my desk but I will not give in to the lure of caffeine. I shall fight the urge with every part of my body and I will be strong. Even if I fall asleep over my desk - which is not beyond the realms of possibility. In fact, given the droopiness of my eyelids and the easiness in which I start to snore while still awake, I think it is entirely possible.

But I've set myself some goals should I make it through the first 6 weeks of this experience I shall get my heair highlighted and buy new glasses. I shall treat myself to a pampering session the like of which no one has ever known.
As for WeightWatchers - I finished yesterday with enough points left over to save for a glass of wine at the weekend. Now that, my friends, is progress.

'That' section from Rainy Days and Tuesdays

... where Grace goes to a weightloss class as part of a bid to have her life transformed for the glossy mag she works for 'Northern People'.

I’m going to stand on the scales and Liam is going to take a picture (without looking at the result!) and my humiliation will be done and dusted for another day. The thing is, though, that I feel sick to the pit of my stomach. I have barely eaten a bite all day as if hoping my good intentions would be enough to shift an excess couple of stone of my body before stepping on the scales.



I’m wearing light cotton trousers and a T-shirt. I have flip flops on, and I have even declined to wear an underwired bra just in case it adds to my weight. I am more hungry than I have ever been in my life- my treat size Mars Bar going untouched in my lunch box today.


When Daisy phoned to say she would be late I’m sure I grunted something indecipherable down the phone to her in return. Seems one of her charge’s parents was running late and she couldn’t exactly leave little Katie to wait outside Happy Days on her own now could she? In my pre-weigh in rage and panic I thought Daisy was being entirely unreasonable to put the needs of a four year above those of her oldest, dearest, fattest pal!


Now my panic has switched to the silent variety, whereby I am in danger of chewing my nails, complete with fingers and most of my hands off, with nerves and I have broken out in a rather unattractive sweat- which is doing absolutely nothing for the make up I have caked on for my photoshoot. I seriously contemplate getting up and walking out, but then I would be falling at the first hurdle- letting Lollipop Louise, who had never needed to diet in her whole entire life, get one of over on me. Oh no, I must be strong- I’m in this for the long haul.


The door opens and I know Charlotte has arrived. I have heard much about Charlotte in recent years. I have even interviewed her over the phone in my Health and Beauty Editor days but I have never met her. She has a certain celebrity status in Derry. She is the woman who will help you lose weight, who will stick with you through thick and thin (literally) and who knows everything there could ever be to know about dropping dress sizes.


I’ve often wondered what she looked like- imagining some Derry version of mad Lizzie from TVam (Showing my age there!)- but instead I’m intrigued when I see a young, fairly normal woman in front of me. Yes, she is thin, but she isn’t gaunt. She looks, dare I say it, healthy and she doesn’t- much to my shock- look me up and down and give me a look which makes me think I am akin to something she has dragged in on the bottom of her shoe.


“You must be Grace,” she trills, shaking my hand firmly. “Louise has told me all about you. Are you ready to change your life?”


In the words of Lofty, the blue digger thing in ‘Bob in the Builder’, I reply: “Yeah, I think so.”


“C’mon then,” she says, “Let’s get you weighed and this picture thingy done before the rest of the class arrive. We don’t want to alert them to your secret mission do we?”


“I guess not,” I mutter, mentally visualising myself as Undercover Elephant- ready to set out on a new mission to find the leaner, slimmer, happier Mrs. Adams- last seen circa 2001.


Liam follows and starts working out lighting and focus and other such things. Charlotte takes her scales out, writes down my personal details on a little purple form, then asks me to stand on the scales and assess the damage.


I think about this for a moment. I can’t remember the last time I weighed myself. I’ve been in denial about my size for so long, it’s really not worth depressing myself by forcing bad news on me. I guess, given the comfort of my waist bands, the extra room I now like in my tops that I’m going to come in about the 14 stone mark. Taking a deep breath, I step on, my nerves jangling as Liam snaps contentedly from the corner. I can’t look down. I cannot bear to see those numbers glaring up at me, so I step off the scales again and take my seat beside Charlotte.


“Well done for making the first move,” she says, congratulating me on getting (or did she say fitting?) through the door to tonight’s meeting. “Right,” she says, “here is the deal. You weigh 15 stone and 5 lbs.”


“What the fuck?” the words jump out of my mouth as quickly as I can think them and my hand flies up to mouth as if in some desperate attempt to push them back in.


“Don’t get annoyed Grace. That is that last time you see that number again. It’s downwards from here on in. I promise.”


At that stage, my face crimson, I sense Liam is still snapping away and I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole- only I’m willing to bet even the ground would get full up before I was properly consumed.


“Do you want to set a goal?” she asks and I think about what I would like. I remember being 11 stone just before the wedding and feeling fabulous so I tell her to put that down on my card- ignoring the fact that I would need to four stone and five pounds to reach that goal (61lbs if you want to think of it that way- 122 packets of sausages).

So I went ....

And the panic was there. I sat outside in my car, in the pouring rain and felt my heart thunder.
You would have thought I was headed for the green mile, not the weighing scales.
My two sisters joined me - they have been WeightWatching for a while now and doing quite well - and they knew what to do, where to go, who to talk to, what to pay, which I admit made it a little easier.
But it taking away the thundering thumping of my heart - that was there to stay.
The leader, Betty, seemed lovely. Skinny but lovely. She didn't seem like the judgemental type but then again I wasn't telling her I'd overeaten on my points or sunk a dozen bottles of wine or the like.
I stood on the scales and yes, it was bad. Very bad. But not beyond what I expected. It just felt odd seeing it there in black and white.
So I've a small goal to reach - 5% of my bodyweight. And then it is onwards and downwards hopefully.

Hubby, however, who knows me so well was less impressed. When I asked him if he was proud of me when I came home he replied: "No. Anyone can sign up for a class. Ask me again next week, or in a few weeks' time."
He nearly got a slap. (or at least a crack over the back of a head with a bag of salad).

While I see his point that anyone, technically, can sign up for a class it took a lot of courage for me to do so last night.

But anyhow, this morning I clicked into my Notes from the Universe and it told me this much...


Claire, sometimes you have to let go, to stake your claim. Be still, to move forward. Give, to receive. Cry, to feel the joy. Pretend, to make it real. Fake it, before you make it. And sometimes, oddly enough, you must first decide to feel their love, to find it was there all along.

Therefore I dub today, and the rest of this week/ month/ year "fake it til you make it" 2010

Rainy Days and Mondays...

I must dig out the passage in Rainy Days and Tuesdays when Grace first goes to Weightloss Wonders. It’s been a long time since I read it - even longer since I wrote it.
All I can say is that three years, three books, one extra baby and a couple of extra stone later I’m about to face the same thing.
I’m scared. Like proper scared. Like heart thumping non-stop, tightness in my chest feeling like I’m going to be sick scared.
I know what I weigh - given a pound or two for time of day, weight of clothes, whether or not I’ve been to the loo.
I know that is scary.
And I know that last week my son asked me was I pregnant because I was “really, really fat”.
I cried that night - because he is at an age where he notices such things and he knows that fat isn’t good. I never want him to be ashamed of me - but more than that I want to be there to see him and his sister grow up. I want to feel healthy - less ashamed to be me. I want me back - just like Grace did in Rainy Days and Tuesdays.
But the fear won’t go away and I feel as if I could sit down in the middle of the floor and cry.
So, WeightWatchers it is.

Writing, writing, writing

I wrote last nights - 500 words. And then today I took my lunchbreak at my desk and wrote again - about 700 words. And it felt lovely. The characters are starting to really form and take on their own personalities. Some even have nicknames. There is some comedy gold in there too (mostly in the form of references to fancy pants) and the writing was one of those blissful experiences when it just flows, almost effortlessly, onto the page.
Book five, which as yet has no name despite the very best and generous efforts of some of my fellow Poolbeg authors, will be the story of three friends - each in their mid 30s and each facing a unique crisis.
Ava realises that her Mr Perfect is not so perfect after all - oh, and she’s up the stick too. Talk about complicated.

While Grainne is a work-a-holic with a exercise equipment graveyard in her bedroom and a broken heart to nurse better.

Hope’s heart is a little battered too - and she wonders what the future holds for her and the very hunky Dylan McKenzie.

The three former school friends have drifted apart over the years - keeping in touch via occasional emails and comments on Facebook - but when they realise they each need someone to turn to they find themselves sharing an adventure of a life time which will make all three realise what they really want and need.
It’s sounds like just the kind of book I’d love to read.

Thank you all for your kind words

I had a bit of an off day - headache never lifted and felt as if I had been run over by a truck so I left work a little early and went home to bed.
Head still ached like billy-o when I got up but I had a promised a friend I would call round - had a text message typed out to cancel when I decided no-one was going to make me feel better but myself so I had a shower, took yet mroe paracetamol and stopped off at the offy for a bottle of wine.
I went to said friend's house and had a lovely time - laughed and, yes, cried, Talked over a lot of feelings I've been having on and off since last year and got a hug.
And I came home feeling brighter.
Now hubby is cooking me a lovely dinner and I'm going to put my feet up and be good to myself for a bit.
And oh yes, will be a bit more strict about remembering to take my prozac.

Worth remembering

A while back my lovely writerly friend Keris put me on the 'Notes from the Universe' thing - where basically you receive a life affirming message each morning.
I look forward to my notes. I always read them and feel a little bad deleting them when they are done. Inevitably they lift my spirits.
So this morning I clicked onto the email which read


Think that it's fun, Claire, that you're guided, and that all is well; that there's time, that life is easy, and that the best has yet to come.
Think that the reasons that elude you will one day catch up, that the lessons that have stumped you will one day bring joy, and that the sorrows that have crippled you will soon give you wings.
Think that you're important, that you cannot fail, and that happiness always returns.
And think that you're beautiful, Claire.
I do.

I've highlighted certain phrases because this week I have been crippled - the Mad Mammy is trying to make a return and I have felt more than a bit overwhelmed. I've felt overwhelmed by work, by the responsibilities of parenthood, by exhaustion and by cripplingly low self esteem. There is is a voice in my head on a constant loop of "fat, stupid, ugly" at the moment and that is NOT fun.
At times like this - when I can feel myself slipping again mood wise I wonder what the point is. I have been down the depression road so many times - and each time I have a major slip I slip a bit further and it takes a bit longer to climb back out.
This time may not be a major slippage but the fear that it could is heart-stopping so that sometimes a bad day feels like the start of the end of the world. When I have several bad days in a row I really start to get scared.

So the message I got this morning was very apt and I'll be reading a few more times over the coming days and hoping that in a while I will be able to breathe easier again and that I won't be so close to tears morning, noon and night.

And it's done..

This blog is also now my dotcom and vice versa.
I have a headache.
And the baby still isn't sleeping. In fact now she is teething and she is waking more than ever. I have taken on the appearance of a zombie. I scare young children - even my own. The boy has become clingy. I have developed the emotions of a hormonal teenager - vying between elation and devastation, considering everything a major drama.
And I am eating everything in sight. My spare tyres have developed spare tyres and the worst of it is - she is sleeping EVEN LESS in the day than before. In fact she naps for just 30 minutes on average.

If anyone wants to look at the psychological impact of sleep deprivation - look no further!

Sleep baby sleep

The baby who never sleeps is taking the whole never sleeps things to a whole new level.
We had a week of "lulling us into a false sense of security" and then last night she started it again.
I love my daughter. I adore her with all my heart but that same heart sinks a bit when I hear a clap of her hands, or a "ta ta" or a "Cuckoo" at 3 in the morning.
That means she is awake - properly awake and not just requiring a wee plug of her dummy. It means she will be awake for at least an hour and more likely two.
At three in the morning.
I'm pretty sure surveys have been done which state that between 3 and 4 in the morning is a very important time to get some sleep. I'm sure that without such sleep the human brain implodes or something.
Because today I am trying very, very hard to concentrate on my work and my brain just wants to implode.
A lot.

So please, pray tonight that my lovely precious little lady sleeps well.

AAAAARRGGHH Me Hearties....

The boy's birthday passed, as birthdays do, in a haze of cake, presents, tantrums (me), parties (one small tea party, one big party for his friends) and cake decorating.
I have never decorated a cake before. There is a reason Tesco make cakes and I am that reason. I do not do culinary stuff well. There is even a photo album on my facebook to show the ONE time I made a spinach lasagne. I needed half a bottle of wine and approximately £36 worth of ingredients.
It was nice, but seriously... toast is easier. All hail toast.

I wish I was one of those women who could just toss a few things in a pan and make a special wonderful treat. My sister is like that. She is always regaling me with stories of steak and ale casseroles, stuff with tofu, and Thai food and the like. Me? I don't even do mashed spuds well... they need to be lumpy and quite often runny. I'm pretty sure mashed potatoes should not be runny. Ever.

So why, in my wisdom, I decided to actually decorate a cake for Joseph's birthday rather than just buy one in Tesco is beyond me. I think it was a fit of madness. However I wasn't mad enough to actually bake the thing. I enlisted my lovely aunty for that and she produced a chocolate cake so moist and yummy than I felt sorry for it.

I was going to destroy it.
With the best will in the world, it was going to die - at my hands. But at least I could say I tried.

So I googled 'Pirate cakes' and came up with a few ideas. Then I went to Sainsbury's and bought approximately £36 worth of cake decorating ingredients (including a very large, very cold bottle of Pinot Grigio). I bought coloured ready to roll icing (2 packets). I bought two packets of chocolate fingers. I bought two bars of chocolate for melting. I bought food colouring. I bought a cake board. I bought buttercream icing stuff. Oh, and pirate candles, chocolate coins and a playmobil pirate.

And yes, I bought Apricot baking glaze - which apparantly you absolutely cannot live without if you want to decorate a cake. Realising that I could not find my rolling pin (if indeed I ever owned one) I went out and bought one of those as well. Oh and some writing icing-y stuff.

And then I set about doing what I did. I shaped the icing into a shore line. I battered the buttercream and added enough blue buttercream to sink a small ship. I boiled the baking glaze and applied it thinly to the part of the cake which would have the yellow icing moulded to it. I whacked on the buttercream. I drank some wine. I made the buttercream look like a choppy sea. I drank some wine. I stuck a few candles hither and thither and embedded a plastic pirate in the top of the cake.

I pondered whether or not it looked crap as I cleaned up the 23 bowls, 4 spatulas, three knifes, 2 wooden spoons and one wine glass.
And then I called the boy out to look at it. He smiled and told me it was "totally awesome".
So I didn't care one wee ounce- but I'll let you judge for yourself.

Look at all the fancy new bits....

Look up... see there, at the top - there's a load of new stuff. Like a biography. And a diary of events. And book extracts. And contact details and STUFF.
In a few days the banner will probably change to and it will just say "Claire Allan" or something very exciting but all those registered with diaryofamadmammy will still get directed to this page.
And all those going to claireallan.com will be delivered here also.
Cos it's lovely.

The only thing it's missing is a guest book - but hey if you want to say hello, I'm always about.

All Hail the Mammy-versary

This week my first born turned six and plans have been put in place to celebrate in style.


Tomorrow, for my sins, I will be hosting a party with approximately 16 five and six year olds hopped up on sugar and running wild through a playframe until their cheeks glow bright red and their hair becomes matted to their face with sweat.

There will be cake (which my lovely Auntie is baking as me and cake baking do not go together) and there will be party bags. No doubt the boy will be showered with presents and will be like the cat who got the cream - and all this will be on top of the birthday tea he had with his family on the actual big day.

Although my head may well ache from the screaming of the excited primary 2s - giving it lilty as they hurtle down the slide at some scary speed - I will also be filled with a great sense of joy to see the happiness on the wee man’s face as he celebrates his special day.

But - and it must be said - there is a part of me which wonders why he is getting all the attention? Was it not me, six years ago, who did all the hard work? Should I not be showered with presents and cake and told “Well done missus. He’s a cracker and you’ve done well to keep your sanity for the last six years.”?

You see I’m all for instilling a tradition of a mammy-versary. There is an old saying that whenever a child is born, so is a mother. It seems, therefore, perfectly logical to me that we mammies get a wee shout on the birthdate of our first born.

Yes, I know we have Mother’s Day, but Mother’s Day is a pain in the proverbial. We don’t get to relax - we are too busy sorting our own mammies, and our grannies, and our mother-in-laws and the wains’ godmammies. I spend the average mother’s day morning writing cards or trying to get the boy to write cards and then trying to get us all out in time for a celebration. Then we cram into an overcrowded restaurant for some mass produced dinner and are booted out three seconds after putting the last spoonful of apple pie in our mouth to make way for some other harassed mother and her brood.

A good deal of mammies will have spent her allegedly calm and lovely celebratory dinner spooning mashed mush into the mouth of a hungry toddler while trying to stop any older children from showing her up. She will probably have accompanied at least one child to the toilet and wiped their rear end or changed a nappy- which would put anyone off their banoffee.

The glass of wine she so wanted to sip casually will have been downed in a fit of overheated stress as the baby throws her spoon on the floor for the 25th time while her older child (who we shall put at around six for argument’s sake) declares his boredom and decides it’s time to go home.

As Mother’s Day inevitably falls on a Sunday, mammies the world over traipse home to start sorting out the packed lunches and school uniforms for the following day and generally fall into a heap with the sheer effort of it all.

Now, a mammy-versary would be different. Sure we would have our celebrations for our children, and sure we would still get them presents. But we would get presents too - just tokens to show our efforts are appreciated. We wouldn’t have to go for an overpriced dinner - but we would get the housework taken off our hands and actually have time to spend with our lovely children in a relatively stress free environment while reminiscing about our birth experiences and when our children were newborns. It would be a chance for a woman to celebrate her journey into motherhood and I can think of little nicer.

I do - perhaps rather sickeningly - sometimes thank my son for making me a mammy. He seems a little shocked when I tell him I wasn’t a mother before he was born - but he reacts with great pride when I tell him how he came into my life to make me a mother.

My journey into motherhood was certainly more memorable than my actual birth (and come to think of it now that I’m heading very quickly towards the mid-30s era I no longer have the same desire as before to mark the turning of the years).

So - marketing gurus take note - I’m sure I’m not the only one who would like to celebrate a mammy-versary.

This is perhaps the most disturbing thing I have ever seen...

Okay, apparantly this is a Halloween costume but seroiusly? You would let your daughter wear this? Look at the boots?
I'm really most disturbed by the still very childlike round tummy jutting out above the all too adult bare legs - and don't even get me started on the full make up.
This is Miley Cyrus' younger sister, Noah who is 9.
She is launching her own lingerie line soon.
Yes, you read that right. Lingerie. For nine year olds. Or younger.

What the hell is wrong with the world? At 9 years old little girls should at best be wearing nice vests and sensible cotton underwear and not thinking about their underthings as anything other than functional clothes.
Why would they have to worry if their pants are fancy? Why? Why? WHY????

I'm not the kind of Daily Mail reader-alike who screams "Paedophilia" at every opportunity but sweet Jesus, what do parents who let their children dress like this think they are achieving?
No young girl needs to dress like this. No young girl needs full make up. No young girl needs four inch heels.

Some parents, however, clearly need a slap.

Sorry if things go a little crazy here for a bit

I'm in the process of reassigning my domain name to this blog.
You might notice a few changes but stick with me!

As perfect as it gets

I had such a delightfully wonderful mammy experience yesterday. Now I should start this by saying the baby who never sleeps could also be described as the baby who never cuddles.
She is the polar opposite to her brother who always has been the snuggliest child in the world. She, from a very, very age took to pushing her arms away when I tried to cuddle her and wriggling out of my grasp. She certainly did not like to be rocked to sleep - preferring (a bit like her mammy) to have her own space to fall asleep. I could lie beside her, sure - but cuddle her? Not a chance.
She typically goes to sleep by rolling onto her side and drifting off in a very Miss Independent stylee.
Yesterday however we were in my mums and were playing on the floor (very exciting games of ‘Where did granny go?’ and bang the blocks together and laugh uproariously).
Then she started to get whingy in a way that only babies can so I lifted her, expecting her to wriggle away. Instead she cuddled in and closed her eyes so slowly while stroking my face. I stroked hers in return and she fell asleep. So I sat there, for half an hour, this sleeping baby in my arms - her cheeks rosy red from my body heat and also from teething and I kissed her head more times than should be allowed and relished just being a mammy.

Sometimes, it’s just perfect. Without any effort at all.