Saturday, 27 September 2008

I'd like to pretend this show gets on my Tittifers...


Bear with me on this one - I love In The Night Garden. Controversial? Perhaps. Because as a general rule, all children's shows really get on my goat. And don't even get me started on children's TV presenters. I mean, I understand that they're talking to toddlers and young children, but are kids really that stupid!? They should bear in mind that the parents of these children are in ear shot of their 'zany' antics and their stage-school induced joie de vivre, and should therefore tone it down a notch. How do these people act in normal society? Do they have dinner parties and place the hors d'ouvres in the shape of a smiley face? Do they shout in the faces of their guests and play children's rhymes as lounge music?




Well, I wasn't going to get in to children's TV presenters, but there you have a snap shot of my feelings on that subject.




So - back to In The Night Garden. I LOVE it. It's made by the same folk that brought us those heinous characters, the Teletubbies. That's the only downfall to ITNG. The teletubbies I'm quite sure, are evil. I find them sinister and disturbing.




But ITNG is great - it's a show comprising of a whole load of freaky looking creatures that loll about a garden making squeaks and repeating their names over and over again. But the narrator has the most soothing voice. He may be talking a load of tripe ("round and round, a little boat, no bigger than your hand...") but he has an hypnotic element to his voice that lulls you in to a trance. And the music that accompanies the programme... well. I've since thrown out my 'Whales in Mating Season' relaxation cd in favour of this. Yes - there IS a cd to accompany the ITNG series. And I have it. This is the kind of cd that people need to listen to when in labour, when trying to relax, when the kids have gone to bed and you're needing to unwind, when you just need to feel like all's right with the world.


I think my love for In The Night Garden may be classed as a guilty pleasure, because there's no way that I'd openly admit to this nugget of information at a social event with my peers. But I feel relieved of the burden by bearing my soul on here instead. Probably because I can't see you screwing your faces up thinking... what the...?! But... is there anybody feeling the same way?! Do you folks across the pond even have this show? Tell me I'm not alone in my thinking that the only way to world peace is through the narrator, Derek Jacobi?


Come - join with me as we pack the kids off the bed and listen uninterrupted to the gentle squeaks of Iggle Piggle, appreciate the cleanliness (if not OCD) of Makka Pakka, and be cheered by the chirping of the Tittifers. You know you want to...

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

The Clan of Campbell

I was reading a friend's blog and it really brought home to me all the important things in life - namely my little family. I feel bad for taking for granted the things I have and the people in my life that mean a lot to me and whom I love and who love me. So, no rants - just an entry of appreciation.

Robbie and Hannah.


Eilidh.

And baby Esther :)

Monday, 22 September 2008

University (mentally) challenge(d)




I'm sitting here being subjected to (because it's certainly not MY choice) one of the worst shows ever. University Challenge. A game show of two teams from different universities, being asked general knowledge questions. Sounds inoffensive enough. But not to me. Two teams of socially awkward freaks that think it's cool to have a team mascot in the form of a child's teddy bear. Like the teddy bear is going to bring these social ne'er do wells some kind of luck. Clearly not. No luck in answering some of the simplest questions correctly. No luck in looking in the slightest bit attractive, or even presentable. No luck in looking hygienic. No luck in thinking that their appearance on University Challenge is going to make them somehow irresistible to the opposite sex (or same for that matter). No luck in winning the show only to realise you get hee haw in the form of prizes. And no luck in thinking that meeting the host Jeremy Paxman, is going to be an interesting anecdote at your next student party.




Aaahhhhh..... Now I feel better. I think I just needed to vent my disdain for these ghoulish game shows. But really - who (apart from Rob) is the target audience for this show? They should be judged for watching it, And judged harshly.

Wednesday, 17 September 2008

Excuse me while I trip over my spaniel ears.


I've just weaned Esther off of the home brew and she is now hitting the bottle. Of course. I'm happy that I get to regain some kind of independence, and I feel liberated in the knowledge that if I go out, I don't need to be at the beck and call of a 6 month old child that doesn't know what it is to be full up.


But there's also the downside. Goodbye to the emotional attachment, goodbye to the realisation that she doesn't depend on me and me alone to survive. And hello to the fact that I now have my independence... where do I go? What do I do?! And hello to a couple of mobile door stops. A couple of draught excluders. A couple of spaniel ears. A couple of kneewarmers. you get the idea.


Maybe with my new found independence I'll go in to town to look for a miracle over the shoulder boulder holder. I'm thinking of one with some sort of pulley system attached to my back. It'll have to be one feat of engineering to get these puppies under control..

Saturday, 13 September 2008

Toupee Shakur


No - this isn't Rowan Atkinson... this is me - and my new hair cut. Except in this picture, his fringe is ever so slightly longer than mine.
I would post a picture, but my camera doesn't seem to pick up tiny rat toupees sat upon a beach ball head.

Thursday, 11 September 2008

Have I missed the latest trend?

I don't pretend to be the first and last word in the latest fashion. Even though I look blinkin' magic in whatever I wear... But there seems to be some new craze that is hitting the streets. And I do mean the streets.

For some reason, it has become OK to walk about the streets in your pyjamas. Folk go up to Asda and do their shopping in their pyjamas. Hell - some even walk home with the bleeding shopping trolley...in their pyjamas. Some mums drop their kids off at school in their pyjamas. In fact, there's one woman who drops her child off at school with a mug of coffee in her hands. Some go to the petrol station and fill up... in their pyjamas.


And these incidents happen at different times of the day. All women. All fleecy pyjama bottoms. And most of them are dolled up with their hair and makeup done. So - if they had time to sort their faces out, why couldn't they sling on a pair of jeans?!
I think it's become some sort of trend - some sort of fashion statement. But what exactly is that statement?! "I'm a lazy sod and just can't be bothered" or "I want to conform and pretend to be a lazy sod even though I'm not" or "Primark have a sale on their fleecy pyjama bottoms and I simply want the world to know".
So - own up. Who does this?! Is this a purely British thing? (I know it's not just a Scottish thing cos when we were on holiday, the streets of Newquay were filled with hen parties lolling around in their pj's.)
Well, I for one, will not conform. Not least cos this style, to me is the very essence of utter laziness, but because... I have no cute fleecy pj's... :(


Tuesday, 9 September 2008

My fan base..


We have a fan in our bedroom that we bought not long after we were married. We bought it because it was sooooooooooo hot (for about a week - but it really was insufferable) one summer that we decided to 'hot' foot it to Costco (you know you love the Kirkland Signature). I was so hot and bothered, that I had my eye on a huge industrial sized fan that would've blown your eyelids off your face. But, reason prevailed, and we got a very lovely chrome effect oscillating fan, that could be changed from a desk fan to a floor standing one. Very nice.


At first, it took a bit of getting used to - the whirring noise was quite a distraction. But we put up with it, in the name of coolness. (Temperature wise...)


And then we moved it in to the bedroom because I don't know about you - even when I'm hot at night, I still need the duvet over me, with my ear tucked underneath it. Like a security thing or something. (I also have my bedtime rituals, like cracking my toes off of Robbie's feet... nice... and I have to first of all lie on my left side, then commit to sleep by lying on my right side. Always.) So with the fan in there, I could be swamped by my duvet, and still be cool.


And again, it took some getting used to - the whirring of the fan really got on my goat, but I did enjoy not being sweaty and bogging.


Fast forward to today, eight years on. Every single night when I go to bed, that fan is turned on. Even when it is absolutely freezing. That fan gets turned on. Even when we brought all of our babies home from the hospital, and they had to sleep in our room for the first 6 months of their lives. That was fan was turned on. (To be fair, in case there's a random health visitor reading this... their crib was in a part of the room that couldn't be reached by the fan's ever-blowing gale.)


The whirring of that fan indicates that it's bed time, and it's gentle breeze lulls you off to noddy land tout de suite. It also drowns out any noise outside, which is great if you have sociable neighbours who like to enjoy the odd party and then sing sectarian songs to those of other 'faiths' in the street.


When we went on holiday this year, we left the fan at home. BIG mistake. We were lost. We were without our sixth member of the family. We struggled to get to sleep. We struggled to drown out the racket of the nocturnal karaoke machine. We missed that fan.


So - I'm off to bed. Because all this talk of Fanny the FanFan is making me realise that I'm missing out on valuable sleeping time.

Sunday, 7 September 2008

Excuse me while I hack up a lung..




The girls and I went to cheer on my sister, Gemma and my Mum as they ran in couple of races today. (The above pic shows my sister Rachael, Mum, brother in law Garry, sister Gemma, sister Rebecca and brother in law Lee.) My Mum was running 10k and Gemma was running 22k. My contribution to the cause, was to stand at the finish line and wave a couple of flags and cheer. OK - and scoff at those runners that looked like they were literally on their last legs. Yes, I do enjoy a spot of cheering and jeering.




They did really well, and did both of their runs in record time. Very proud - cos there's no way I'd be able to do it!




And the reason I know this?




Because I had to walk from the car to Glasgow Green, while pushing a double buggy and dragging a 5 year old. And when I say I was walking, I was speed walking.




And yes, I AM going to make this about me. Yes - my mum and sister did extremely well - I can't deny that. But where was my space blanket? Where was my medal? Where were my cheers? Why couldn't I get access to the Holistic tent for a massage to ease my aching muscles? Because quite frankly, I felt like I had completed a marathon myself.




Clearly I need to get fit. But in the meantime, I shall moan about how far I've walked and how heavy that blinkin' buggy is.




I'm walking Eilidh to school tomorrow. I'm starting an online sponsorship. You can donate to my donut fund at http://www.iamachubberandcannotwalkthelengthofmyself.com




Friday, 5 September 2008

Social graces?

So - I'm still pretty new to this bloggy thing. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just typing away, venting my inane thoughts and if anyone wants to have a wee read, that's great!

But is there some kind of social etiquette that needs to be adhered to when reading other people's blogs, or leaving comments, or replying to comments...?

Do I return the favour and come and visit your blog in return, if you come by mine?

All I'm saying is, I'm quite a polite girl really, and I wouldn't like to think I'm being obtuse and ignorant to people. Unless you're deserving of it ;)

So - any help would be much appreciated :)

Thursday, 4 September 2008

I'll order three sets of dentures please..

We all went on a lovely family outing yesterday. To the dentist. Cos that's what we do. The park? No. The zoo? No. If the kids have been good - the doctor's.


It turned out to be an eye-opening (as well as a mouth opening) experience. While i was in the chair, I was asking about my baby tooth that's still intact. Yes - my freakishness knows no bounds. Apparently I didn't have an adult tooth behind this baby tooth and so my ickle bitty molar is still there. It's weathered many a meal, many a sweet, many a brush. Mr Dentistman said that I ought to look out for it occurring in the girls, because it can be a genetic thing.


"Yes - have a look out for it occurring in your daughters, because it can run in families." He says behind that mask.. which incidentally, if I were a dentist, I'd have to rub VapoRub on the inside, so that I wouldn't have to smell anybody's manky breath.

"But" he goes on, "teeth are more likely to run from the father's side".


Now. If there's one thing that's certain in this world, it's that Robbie's teeth are plentiful and sizable. I've seen pictures of him when he was young, and the boy could chew an apple through a letterbox. Once I saw pictures of him, I had to seriously consider marriage... because there was a chance that he could pass on those tombstones to any future children that I may bear. But now I've been told that the 'chance' is almost a definite.


OK. So - I've come to terms with the fact that my kids are probably going to have teeth like a piano keyboard. They'll probably have to wear headgear for the best part of their teens. Stonemasons will try and carve epitaphs on them if they stand still for long enough.




It kind of puts my baby tooth foible in to perspective. I mean - what would you rather inflict on your kids? A little baby tooth, or a set of gnashers that are so plentiful that they'd have to get most of them removed, just so they'd fit in their wee heads?



Once again, it proves that only the good genes come from me, and all weird quirky traits will come from the boy.



My poor babies...













By the way - these are just Billy Bob teeth, and were taken ages ago. Little did I know these pictures would serve as a type of crystal ball, by revealing the future for my princesses! :(

Monday, 1 September 2008

Breast pads..LITERALLY all over the shop.


I've just come back from Asda. You see, I can't do a huge shop during the day because, quite frankly, it's a nosebleed. (It's also come to my attention - because my friend told me - that I call all nightmare scenarios "nosebleeds". Shopping - nosebleed. Eating dinner with kids - nosebleed. Walking to school in the rain so that my hair frizzes - nosebleed.) To try and get round Asda with kids is a nosebleed. And I don't understand why it's always so bad. I always go prepared. I have a bag of sweets for each child (even if it's 9am! I can put up with the judgemental stares of beige-clad old folk if it means i can get a bit of p&q going round the store) and i usually have a mind full of games that we can play while going round. Eye spy.. who can spot the haemorrhoid cream etc etc.. But despite my best efforts, the sweets are devoured while still in the fruit and veg section, and the eye spy games are met with looks of disdain. And then it usually kicks off and we leave with a couple of bananas and a packet of garlic bread.


So - I've just come back from Asda (now 10.15pm), where only about half an hour ago, i was in the drinks section (nearly at the end of the shop) when I happen to notice something sticking out of my top. Only a rogue breast pad. A day old breast pad. A sodden crumpled manky old pad sticking out of my flaming top. How long has it been there? Is that why that guy in the cleaning aisle looking at me? I thought he may have been judging my out of control fooz (the rain is incessant right now, and there aren't enough hair products in the world that can control this beast) or my smudged mascara (Esther had clawed my face - all in the name of fun of course) or the fact that I was wearing a pair of flip flops despite the fact I have no big toe nails. (as in two big toes - no nails on either. And if you're good, I'll tell you all about that another day...)


No - this guy must have been looking at the breast pad. Looking and judging. For I would have done the same.


What is it with these blinkin' things?! Why do they never stay put!? The number of times I've had to hunt around for it... only to find it's hidden in my pit, or fallen on the floor (nice in company). I can breastfeed quite discreetly, you wouldn't even know I was doing it. But I tend to give the game away when I end up rooting around looking for this pesky bit of absorbent cotton pad..


Luckily, I have no dignity left, what with the aforementioned hair, no toenails, and sliding make up. I really am a picture. I should've used my wandering pad to slap him in the face before shoving it back down in to the dark recesses from whence it came.