Thu, 22 Feb 2018 15:20:07 +0000 en-GB hourly 1 32 32 120012935 Review Of The Globenfeld Super Sport 2.0 Men’s Watch Tue, 20 Feb 2018 23:43:30 +0000

I have been in need of a decent everyday watch for ages now, to use at work and when working

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I have been in need of a decent everyday watch for ages now, to use at work and when working out in walking past the gym. So when I was given the chance to review a Globenfeld Super Sport 2.0 Men’s Watch it seemed serendipitous, especially given that my playing 5-a-side football for 40 minutes each week almost definitely qualifies me as being ‘super sporty’.

The shiny blue version, to which my blue-thing-loving eyes were instantly drawn towards retails at £79.99 but is currently on Amazon for £59.99, which feels pretty reasonable for a decent watch.

When I whipped it out of it’s really quite pleasant silvery box the first thing I noticed was the weight of the watch coming in at 230g – there’s some serious metal going on in there so it’s probably best suited to someone with a decent frame. Assuming you want to be able to lift your arm when wearing it!

When it’s on your wrist it feels like a really good quality watch, especially for the price, and I would imagine it standing up to pretty much anything you could throw at it.

The strap is a glossy black metal that feels smooth against your skin and the watch itself does everything you would expect from a decent watch – it has an alarm, a stopwatch, a dual analogue / digital display, is water resistant to 30m and has a backlight for night time activities, so whatever you’re up to you’re pretty much covered. It’s also an automatic watch, so as long as you keep up some kind of regular movement whilst wearing it, you shouldn’t need to wind it often.

And yes, they are my pyjama bottoms. It is post-8pm after all.

Personally I love the blue face against the black casing and strap, and I think the silver and red detailing on the face make it look modern and sporty too. I’d happily wear it to work and out and about for pretty much any occasion, so for just under £60 it’s a really decent purchase. You even stop noticing the weight after a while…

The watch also comes in a black version and a white version – the only variation with these appears to be the colour of the face itself and the colour of the accent on the winder. Have a see for yourself below!

It’s a lovely looking watch, at a decent price and even comes with a 5 year warranty, so it’s well worth a look.

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Making Hide And Seek Work For You Wed, 14 Feb 2018 16:19:36 +0000

I am increasingly convinced that the inventor of Hide and Seek was an enterprising parent of small children. It is

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I am increasingly convinced that the inventor of Hide and Seek was an enterprising parent of small children. It is a game that is played in near silence, requires no mess to be created and most of all offers unique opportunities for respite from the habitual grind of childcare.

To maximise me-time the traditional wisdom states the parent should nominate themselves as the seeker and send their children out to source suitable hiding-places. This should allow them a short time at leisure, which in my case would involve just sitting and scratching.

But I have found that my sons don’t have the necessary patience. They deem it unnatural to remain in one place for any longer than a few seconds. Either that or they haven’t grasped the basics of the game because inevitably they’ve reported back to me before I’ve counted to ten.

Even if I go through the motions of looking for them, both boys are awful at hiding. Normally I’m presented with a pair of feet extending from under the coffee table or a sniggering bulge in the living room curtains.

I did hear of one child whose commitment to the game was so absolute he managed to stay hidden for an hour. He ignored his parents’ frantic pleas to turn himself in, presumably believing they were just a ruse to flush him out. Eventually, the couple came to the conclusion that he’d somehow escaped the house and was roaming the world at large. It was only once they’d called the police that he stepped out from a tiny space behind the television.

I believe that the best strategy is to hide. My hiding-place of choice is between the folded back halves of the duvet on our bed: making myself the filling in a sort of duvet calzone. The structure forms a cloud in which it is possible to secrete myself without any revealing dad-shaped lumps. It also provides a snuggly almost-foetal comfort, ample chances for scratching and perhaps even a snooze.

The position of our bedroom means that it’s possible to remove myself from the calzone and slip downstairs back to the spot where the boys set off from. There I can brew a pot of coffee, read the paper and pretend that my children’s frantic pleas are just a ruse to flush me out.

This post was first published here. For more from Bad Dadu click here, or there or everywhere. Please note: Not all posts are about hide and seek.

bad dadu raising a child. by a child.

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Why Wear A Coat? It’s Only Winter With Freezing Temperatures! Fri, 09 Feb 2018 19:26:06 +0000

Why wear a coat? It’s only Winter with freezing temperatures! REPORTS are coming in: Local teenager Dippy, 15, is now

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Why wear a coat? It’s only Winter with freezing temperatures!

REPORTS are coming in: Local teenager Dippy, 15, is now home and recovering well from freezing his arse off over the weekend.  According to eyewitnesses, he was seen out and about without his coat as temperatures plummeted.

His mother, former 80’s chick, Mummy Buck told reporters:

‘he’s on the road to recovery and is about 95% thawed out; the colour has started to return to his cheeks’.

‘It’s been a bloody nightmare’, she said. His knees were knocking and his teeth were chattering when he came home.  I think he even mumbled something about how I was right.  I can’t be sure.  You see, I, despite being his mother, was right.  It’s proving really difficult to stop myself saying ‘told you so’.



Recalling events, she said ‘It started off like any other weekend. I went into his bedroom where he was sitting playing his computer and told him about the cold weather ahead and how he WILL need his coat when he goes out’.

‘In between packing his sleepover stuff, he chipped in with mumbles of how I better be packing his decent stuff and could I just hurry up and get out’.

He doesn’t need to be constantly nagged about wearing a BLOODY COAT.

Later, as I stood waving him off, I reflected on three things I discovered from the font of all knowledge – Dippy, 15:

  • The weather report was wrong. It wasn’t cold.  There would be no need for a coat.
  • No one wears a coat, like, literally no one. They’re for pus-ssssssss-ays!.
  • The teenage version of no-one means most people. Like everyone means one or less.

Sources close to the family revealed that Dippy, 15, purposely left his coat at his mates, as it would have meant cross branding.  The coat didn’t suit his choice of trousers for that night.

A frozen, but recovering Dippy (15) explained why he went coat-commando.  He told reporters how his mother’s expectations are way too much, ‘she’s always so dramatic’ he said; ‘her constant nagging about having to wear your coat, otherwise you’ll end up extremely ill is complete rubbish’.

‘I’m only ill because the temperatures plummeted to freezing, it has nothing to do with not wearing a coat’.


Dippy, 15, who has a history of losing things further explained how he took his coat to his mates under the pretence he was going to wear it, just to keep his Mum happy.

‘Mum doesn’t realise the hassle of having to carry it around everywhere.  It’s a real arse-ache.  Not only does she nag about me wearing it, she’s constantly moaning how I better not lose it’.

She doesn’t understand it’s a big deal.  It’s not just about wearing the coat, it’s about whether it suits what I’m wearing?  Even more so, potential cross-branding.

She’s always nagging on about things.  At one time it was always about making sure you ‘eat your carrots otherwise you won’t see in the dark’.

I remember Pippy putting Mum’s theory to the test.  She turned all the lights out, it was pitch black yet she was able to see perfectly well.  She’d never eaten a carrot in her life.

Mum never mentioned it after that she moved on to her all-time favourite if you’re lying I will know by the black spot on your tongue, the black spot only ‘Mummies’ could see…apparently!

She caught me every time with that one.  I’m surprised she hasn’t said Father Christmas isn’t real just to upset us!’


Speaking to the Daily Grief Paediatrician Dr. Winter told our reporter: ‘It’s Winter and parents all over the land are bracing themselves for the seasonal battle of coat wearing.  Unlike Mummy Buck, most parents don’t buy coats just to hang them on coat stands.

However, there are some kids who are deemed to have sensory issues and don’t like the feel of being enclosed in warm clothing.’

We put this to Mummy Buck.  She told reporters, ‘the only sensory issue Dippy has is sensitivity to listening to parental requests.

He’s particularly sensitive to being asked to get off his arse find his coat.   His time is precious, he doesn’t want to spend it looking for his things.  Apparently, as his mother, that’s my role’.


Local GP Dr. Do-Nothing confirmed a teenage boy had been to see him with frozen extremities ‘I advised him to stay home, wrap up warm and just chill in front of the TV.  I reminded him of the importance of keeping well hydrated with hot fluids and to eat snacks to keep his strength up’.

Responding to this, Mummy Buck said ‘a wasted trip to the Doctor’s.  What about the importance of listening to his mother?  Why would you tell a permanently well-rested teenager to rest and drink plenty of fluids?

Who does he think will be the muggins run ragged now?


Now I’m faced with Dippy pulling a fast one in the morning.  He won’t want to go to school as he’ll be way too ‘unwell’.  We will argue the toss and when we’ve exhausted all points, I will have to contend with the other three kids chewing my ear off about the unfairness of it all.’


The renowned Dr. Duffel author of Fifty Shades of Coats – Wearer of None, told the Daily Grief: ‘It’s a sticky wicket coat wearing.  Cross-branding is a no-no.  Failure to heed this will result in looking a right twat’.

‘An obvious fashion faux pas like this will result in ridicule from all eagled-eyed teenagers.  They would rather suffer from hyperthermia then risk looking a total twat.  I explain this in detail in Chapter 4 Pitfalls of Cross Branding‘.

On hearing this Mummy Buck, former 80’s chick responded, ‘what a crock of shite.  Let’s be honest, how many teenagers has he studied? Probably just his own teenage son.  Since when did teenagers actually take notice of anything?

I bet Chapter 4’s a cracking read!  It just shows you can write a book about any old shite, add Dr to the author’s name and voila.  Is it a free kindle download?  Or is it somewhere in Smith’s gathering dust?

Meanwhile, Mummy Buck is looking on the positive side, it could have been far worse ‘at least he hasn’t lost his coat’.  Maybe next time he will listen.

……or maybe not!


This post was first published here. For more from Everyone’s Buck Stops Here click here or on any links that may or may not appear below depending on your choice of platform!


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Holiday Village Cyprus: A Week In The Sun With A Toddler Fri, 02 Feb 2018 21:40:52 +0000

Holidays in the sun always used to be something to look forward to. Lazy mornings, occasionally dragging ourselves out of

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Holidays in the sun always used to be something to look forward to. Lazy mornings, occasionally dragging ourselves out of bed in time for breakfast, then drinking cocktails by the pool or on the beach, stupid amounts of buffet food and wine, more drinks in the evening with a bit of dancing, and the occasional day trip thrown in for good measure.

With a toddler, there’s still lots to look forward to. But there’s also the abject terror of how much they are going to kick off on the flight there and back, the constant fear of losing them in the blink of an eye, the worry that they won’t sleep / eat whilst they’re there and the high potential of them falling into a body of water.

We went for the First Choice Holiday Village option again this year. Two years ago we did Kos with them and that was great, but this time we went for Cyprus for a bit of variation. In Kos, Joshua was just coming up to his first birthday so he was crawling around the place but never quite fast enough to actually lose him. He was still in a buggy, so that made things easier as we could wheel him round when he got tired / grumpy. He also still did naps, so we could put him down in his buggy / bed and relax for an hour or two here and there. He was also young enough for the creche so we managed to pop him in there a few times so he had something fun to do with other little ones and we could explore a bit of the site. We even managed to have some drinks in the bar with some friendly Northerners we’d met on holiday!

This time around Joshua was nearly three and required a whole different level of eagle-eyed monitoring to prevent him from escaping / falling off things!

The flight out was actually not too awful – Joshua watched some Netflix on the laptop and played with a few of his toys for a while. He did do his normal escapologist act a few times by crawling under the seats in an attempt to explore the aisle but all in all it was pretty smooth, aside from the hour delay and therefore midnight arrival time at the hotel! Fortunately we had booked a separate room for him within our room (don’t worry, mum – he wasn’t in a different part of the hotel!) so he went straight to sleep when we arrived, whilst we did a bit of settling in. Win.

The introductory talk the next morning was a complete waste of space as they generally always are. Joshua was desperate to do anything that didn’t involve sitting listening to some barely audible northerners in flourescent t-shirts talk about stuff. We also discovered that given he was 2 weeks under 3 he wasn’t actually allowed to sign up for the kids’ club so therefore wouldn’t be able to take part in any activities during the week. Shame really as he is too old and lively to be entertained by a small creche so it meant the whole of the activities scene generally passed us by and that’s half the point of those types of holidays. However, given that the price goes up by £800 by the time he turns 3 it made sense to go when we did, despite the kids’ club rejection!

What it did mean was that we spent A LOT of time in the kids’ fun pool, which actually turned out to be really good fun for all of us! It had a pirate ship, and lots of falling water things and a plethora of slides to race around on. Given Joshua has bizarrely infinite levels of energy the pool days were LONG and ACTIVE! My assumption that there must be only so many times you can go up some steps and down a slide on a pirate ship was completely unfounded – I never counted the number of slides slid down during the week but it must have been in the billions. It was like a very long and very wet game of snakes and ladders, only interrupted by the lifeguard’s whistle and intermittent shouts of ‘You! Boy! Go now / Get down / Get off!’ shouted at various small people.


Despite initially appearing to be a pretty grumpy Eastern European child-hating gangster, the lifeguard actually turned out to be a really nice bloke and taught Joshua some valuable lessons about pool safety and queue participation!

The food was awesome throughout the week – lots of buffet options with something different each day and a special children’s section with lots of vegetables on it. You’d be hard pressed to find a 2 year old that gets quite so excited about vegetables as Joshua does – no idea where he gets it from, but long may it continue!

The only downside of the eating part of the holiday was Joshua’s obsession with legging it within a millisecond of him finishing his food. This generally involved one of us trying to explain why it’s not a good idea to run off, being completely ignored, and then dashing off after him. To be fair he did improve by the end of the week, but there’s nothing that makes you inhale your dinner quite as fast as knowing that your toddler is one bite of cucumber away from sprinting away into the sunset, never to be seen again!

There was also a decent range of local cocktails, poured with the kind of generosity that implied the contents of the various glass bottles of booze must have been REALLY cheap! Still tasted the same though and still turned out blue so I was happy.


The complex itself was gorgeous, with loads of ‘proper Greek-looking buildings’ and structures dotted everywhere and loads of pretty flowery things. It’s probably one of the nicest looking all-inclusive places we’ve ever been to and it was kept constantly clean and well-presented.


We couldn’t really fault the place. The only downside was probably the local beach across the road as the sand was like walking on gravel and the sea was more rocky than a 1980s Reading Festival lineup. Who needs a beach though when you have water slides to hurl yourself down ad infinitum in the pool?!

The beach trip was further ‘enhanced’ by the fact that Joshua managed to piss down Sarah’s side as she carried him down there – swim nappies are great for some things – holding piss is not one of those things! We did get some lovely beach-based photos though and Joshua had a great time digging in the sand, so that was the important part!


One evening was a bit of a pain when the fire alarm in every room in our whole block went off for a full 30 minutes at 9pm before someone from the hotel could be arsed to sort it out.

I could drone on about it all for another few thousand words, but no one wants that – especially me, as I’ve still got to tart around beautifying this post with more photos than you could throw a stick at. Suffice to say it was an awesome holiday, Joshua was actually really well-behaved and had a brilliant time and we’d all happily go back there next week if we could afford it!

Apart from one absolute knob playful child who kept bumping into / shoving / kicking everyone else every day in the pool despite the complete apathy attempts to reason with him by his absolutely fucking useless intermittently interested parents, the bizarre decision to drop us back at Pathos airport 3 whole hours before our return flight and irritating fire alarm there aren’t really any negatives worth mentioning. Just a great holiday and thoroughly recommended!

PS – I didn’t even get paid to write this post – the holiday was just THAT GOOD!

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Buying A Car: With & Without A Family Sat, 27 Jan 2018 09:19:08 +0000

Sponsored Post The things I look for when buying a car have changed a little bit since we started a

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Sponsored Post

The things I look for when buying a car have changed a little bit since we started a family. Here are a few key car features and how my views on them have changed over the years:

Boot Space

Pre-family: Just big enough to fit a couple of small suitcases for those frequent spontaneous getaways and short breaks.

With family: Big enough to fit a pram, bike, scooter, 3 suitcases, every plastic toy ever owned, high chair, travel cot, mattress, 72 stuffed animals and kitchen sink.

Interior Space

Pre-family: Enough room in the back to accommodate a couple of friends for meals out and trips to cinema

With family: Big enough so Joshua cannot continually kick the back of my seat from his car seat. Enough headroom so my other half can sit comfortably in the back for long journeys when Joshua decides ‘Mummy!!! Sit next to me!!!’


Pre-family: Sleek, stylish, sophisticated and sporty.

With family: Wipe clean and dark coloured to disguise stains. Definitely no fancy suede bits. Or anything with deep pile. Or anything breakable.


Pre-family: Not too fussed as long as it looked nice and went fast!

With family: Must NEVER break down as standing at side of motorway with a restless, wailing toddler is not something I ever want to experience!

Make & Model

Pre-family: Not French.

With family: Not French.


Pre-family: Most important possession so all about the quality and the ‘look’. Worth the investment.

With family: Put it on a credit plan like everything else and hope that lottery win comes in soon…

If you fancy doing some vital research of your own before buying a car hit the internet and head for to see what’s out there – and then buy a lush new Honda Civic like I’ve just done! 😍😍😍

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The 7 Phases of a Sleepless Night With Your Teething Toddler Tue, 23 Jan 2018 07:57:02 +0000

F.A.S.A.C. It’s my first post of the New Year and I, like everyone else, have emerged in 2018 a 60:20:20

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It’s my first post of the New Year and I, like everyone else, have emerged in 2018 a 60:20:20 mix of chocolate, mince pies and prosecco.

For most of you, basking in the afterglow of two weeks of drinking, eating, and slobbing out watching Christmas movies, is only barely muted by the effects of a fortnight’s hangover. That, and the sense of remorse for scoffing all those Ferrero Rocher, which washes over you when you try and squeeze back into your skinny jeans.

For me, these regrets are just the tip of the iceberg, for I am a survivor of F.A.S.A.C.

F.A.S.A.C. (otherwise known as Fuck All Sleep At Christmas) is a condition that affects a significant proportion of mothers to the under 5’s during the festive season.

It is a particularly cruel condition because, owing to circumstance, the sufferer has conflicting needs:-

On the one hand, they may well already be sufferers of F.A.S. (a similar affliction which can occur at any time, as detailed here), and understand that this means they should probably get an early night and grab a few ZZZs while they can.

But on the other hand it’s bloody Christmas, and they’re going to bloody well enjoy it even if they’ve got a teething toddler waking them up at all hours. Because otherwise it’s a bit of a thankless task slogging their guts out for weeks getting everything organised just to sleep through the best bits, thanks very much.

So here I am in January. F.A.S.A.C. survivor, and mere shadow of my former self. Still feeling a bit delicate after all the booze, rather squidgier and hoping that my clothes have just shrunk in the wash a bit, and tireder than a tired thing should be.


The 7 Phases of a Sleepless Night With Your Teething Toddler

Some time around 3.30am on 27th December, I was lying half dead sitting on the sofa in our darkened lounge, with only the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights and the dubious delights of Nick Jnr on the telly to light the room.

As my grizzling 15 month old clambered around over my exhausted and ever-so-slightly hungover carcass it occurred to me that, much as I experienced with her two older siblings, there are several distinct phases through these long and arduous sleep deprived nights with a teething toddler.

The process and inner dialogue of these phases runs as follows…


Phase 1: Blind Determination


Right, this is it. Tonight’s the night she sleeps through. We’ve got this. She’s had a decent dinner and a big bottle of milk.

She’s been bathed, changed and read to. We’ve given her Calpol, Dentinox, and Nelson’s teething granules, her dummy, and loads of cuddles. She’s got just the right amount of clothes on, the room temperature is ideal, the nightlight is on.

I’ve popped her in her cot and walked out of the room… It’s Quiet. She’s settling… Baby monitor on? Check!

All quiet on the western front. THIS IS IT GUYS. SHE’S SLEEPING!


Crack open that bottle of wine open and stick Netflix on, we’re onto a winner!


Phase 2 – Optimism


Shit. Is that the baby monitor? Oh bollocks she’s woken up… “Pause Netflix a sec.” I’ll just quickly settle her.

Easy does it – don’t open the door too wide and let the light in. Where’s her dummy? A-ha, gotcha. Quick smidge of Dentinox on the dummy, pop it in her mouth, lie her down gently, brief stroke of the hair, tiptoe backwards towards the door….

…Aaaand I’m out of the room. *Quick pause outside her door*:- Silence. *Tiptoe back downstairs avoiding the creaky step*. Hey, check me out with my stealth manouevres – I am literally Indiana Jones right now.

Back in the lounge *quick look at the monitor*…? She’s sleeping. Yesssss!!!

I’m a frigging pro!


Phase 3 – The Practical Approach


-Shit, she’s up again. Ok, fine. That’s fine. We’ve still got this. Let’s just eliminate her reasons for waking. *Nappy change*. Is it time for more Calpol, hmm? *Jiggle the nightlight back a bit in case the angle was making it a bit too bright*. Dentinox on the dummy should do it… Or not.


Ok I’ll just cuddle her for a bit until she settles….

…20 minutes later *repeat Indiana Jones routine, only this time retreating into own bedroom*.

*Slide, silently ninja-like into bed. Turn off light in slow motion in case tiniest sound wakes her again. Lie tensely in bed for approximately 20 more minutes in anticipation of further disruption before eventually drifting off to sleep*


Phase 4 – Say Goodbye to Your Sleep-Training Ethics


Oh dear God the screaming horror!

*Spring out of bed on autopilot and fumble through the dark to her bedroom*

Oh Christ she’s actually standing up in the cot. She’s properly awake. And really fucking loud! Quick, scoop her up (please please don’t wake your brother and sister – I SO can’t do double / triple re-settling at this time…)

Maybe if I just find her dummy and lay her back down she’ll…. No of course not, who am I kidding, she’s wailing before her head reaches the cot mattress. Fuck.

Fuck it, I’m getting her a bottle.

*Carry baby downstairs and one-handedly make up a bottle with now placated baby on hip. Return back to her bedroom*

Now if I juuuust lie you down calmly and quickly stick the teat of the bottle in front of your face…. Ace. She’s taken the bait. *repeat Indiana Jones and tense non-sleeping routine before drifting off again*.


Phase 5 – Abject Desperation


No, no NOOOOOOO!!! Why won’t you just let me sleeeeeep???!!!

*fumble dejectedly into her bedroom once again*

She’s standing up again. Oh Bollocks. That’s it, I give up. I’m taking her into the spare room bed with me.

*Pick up baby, climb into unpleasantly cold spare bed and try unsuccessfully to coerce resistant toddler into lying down calmly in the bed beside me*

*Endure approximately 20 minutes of toddler clambering over my weary form. Get kicked in throat. Toddler tries various new manouevres including headbutting my kidneys and sitting on my actual face*

*Toddler ramps up the mischief, culminating in the inexplicable pulling of my hair and poking me in the eye until I can feign sleep no longer*

Ok. Fine. You win. *fumbles around for phone*. Bloody hell where’s the Cbeebies app again? Ah, Ok. “There you go you little monkey. Knock yourself out. Mummy is just going to close her eyes for a few minutes”….


Phase 6 – Capitulation and Defeat


*Toddler wakes herself up faceplanting my boobs. Wails in my face and throws discarded smartphone at my head*

JESUS FUCKING BASTARDS WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS HAPPENING?!?!!!! Oh Christ she’s awake. AGAIN!!! I just. Can’t. Even.

Right, that’s it, she’ll have to go back into her cot. Can you die from sleep deprivation? I mean, surely eventually your body just gives up, right? How close am I to that? I definitely feel a bit woozy right now, is that a sign?…

“Ok little bear, it’s sleepy time”...

Bloody hell she’s still wailing. Dummy? Nope, no chance. I am too tired for this shit.

Why don’t you want to sleep like a normal person?!? Surely you’re knackered too? *Sigh*

*Scoop up toddler and trundle grumpily downstairs, muttering under my breath about sleep deprivation being a form of torture, whilst simultaneously feeling guilty and cuddling the now quiet and snuggly toddler closer*.

Where’s the bloody remote contr… Oh, there it is. Come on then Peppa, you bastard, do your worst.

*Retrieve blanket from behind the sofa*.

*Lie down, positioning rapt toddler in the crook of my arm so that she can lie down whilst retaining the ability to watch the world’s most annoying cartoon*.

*Fiddle with volume so that it’s at it’s lowest possible volume for toddler to still hear it whilst reducing my urge to tear my own ears off in protest. Rest eyes for a bit.* God I truly do despise that voice. They should do an episode where someone roundhouse kicks Peppa in the face for being an obnoxious twat…

4.15am *Actual sleep… For both of us* (Surely a true Christmas miracle at this juncture…)


Phase 7 – Disbelief and Incomprehension aka: The Morning









Jesus H Christ why is everyone shouting?!? Oh God no, not already, surely? *Crane neck to see wall clock*. Shit, it is as well.

*Rub eyes in a vague attempt to focus bleary eyes*

*Lift up corner of blanket and signal for my older kids to slide in next to us*.

*Lie limply underneath mass of wriggly children for as long as possible, hoping that the husband comes downstairs soon and can organise the Weetabix / juice / TV demands before the clamouring becomes too much*

~ ~ ~Thus Concludes the 7 Phases of a Sleepless Night With Your Teething Toddler ~ ~ ~


Did you like this post? Why not check out some of my other blog posts. (Especially this one, because it’s a review of the best free online resources for helping your kid get to sleep.

You’ll also (probably) love The Mum Conundrum facebook group. I try and post funny / interesting / useful stuff every day. You can also show me love on The Mum Conundrum Facebook Page if you fancy it, it’s always much appreciated.

I’m also on twitter (a lot) and Instagram (a bit) too…

This post was first published here.

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10 Perils Of The Play Centre Sat, 13 Jan 2018 00:17:25 +0000

Today Mummy reached new levels of desperation and despair. After ten days of childcare within four walls, the novelty of

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Today Mummy reached new levels of desperation and despair. After ten days of childcare within four walls, the novelty of pyjama, movie & popcorn days had ultimately worn off. It was only fair that The Terror Tots be released in to the fresh air – from the front door to the car door, and then allowed to unleash some of that feral energy that was manifesting in their strangely caged-animalistic behaviour of late. So Mummy did the unthinkable. She caved in to their cries and yielded to their yells. Mummy abandoned house and took the children to a Play Centre. 

Now under normal circumstances, Mummy can just about tolerate a day out at The Play Centre. In fact, with the added bonus of a freshly toasted cinnamon tea-cake, a mug of steaming hot tea and a friend to bitch with, one could almost call the experience “pleasurable”. However, today could not be classed as “normal circumstances”. Today was a weekend first and foremost. And secondly, today it was bloody raining. Two horrors together with which, one must NEVER cross Mummy and Play Centre. Can you just imagine? “What better place to spend a rainy, weekend day?” Thought everyone in the world, ever.

But today was different. Today, the Grim Reaper (GR) had dry-cleaned her cloak and polished her scythe and at this point, in a fit of fury, could have been held responsible for anything. So today, it was with the safety and best interests of everyone in mind, that Mummy decided to risk The Play Centre on a rainy weekend. And of course to avoid a jail sentence for the crime she did not mean to commit.

But Mummy had clearly been blinded by the pursuit of fun, frolics and freedom (even if only for a measly hour) and in her naivety, she had forgotten the 10 Perils that inevitably come with visiting The Play Centre on a rainy weekend. These 10 Perils, whose message is as fearful and resounding as that of The Ten Commandments, should have been warning enough. But Mummy took no heed today. This particular Play Centre may well have served fresh milk in her tea and real butter alongside her tea-cake, but was it really worth it? I shall let you be the judge of that.

For at The Play Centre, you will almost certainly face the following 10 Perils:

  1. You will spend all of your hard-earned cash before you have even set foot in the place. Once inside, you will then be blackmailed into forking out further, for over-priced snacks, slushies, slot machines and pieces of tat in plastic balls, from machines strategically placed around the room, at just the right height for little hands. Consequently you will hate yourself eternally for being “The Mother Who Succumbed To Her Children”. Again.
  2. You will curse the fact that your Terrors are no longer eligible for free entry and pretend that at least one of them is, by squashing and muting him/her momentarily, whilst entering the premises.
  3. You will be met with a hot gush of air, pleasant and warming at first, until you are hit with the distinctive Play Centre smell, borne alongside it. Namely a pungent combination of deep fried fat, smelly feet, sweaty pits and a spatter of piss, if you’re most unlucky.
  4. You will enter with white socks. Leave with black socks. Or even worse, you will leave with no socks at all: bare sodding feet.
  5. You will end up stuck at the top of the non-slippy slide, knocked out by giant boulders or sandwiched between jumbo foam blocks at some point during the day. Whatever your level of fitness, you must resign yourself to the fact that will need to get physical. Allow yourself to be wedged inside a tunnel however, and whilst you might enjoy the peace and quiet for a moment, you may never escape.
  6. You will lay claim to the only “disapproving” child in the place, who knows better than to be interested in fun tunnels and multi-coloured plastic balls and who instead, is absorbed only by watching LOL dolls and Kinder Surprises being unravelled on YouTube. It’s just your luck that this dive doesn’t have a WiFi code and you will inevitably leave with no data, on top of all those shattered hopes and dreams.
  7. You will be envious of the smug sodding parent who is sitting comfortably with his/her laptop, drinking a still hot skinny decaf latte and enjoying a still hot toasted tea-cake. What parenting skills do they have anyway.
  8. You will be forced to use the toilets. There is a very real reason why we all beg our children to empty their bladders before they leave the house. Sticky, smelly, stained toilet seats plus little hands. Say. No. More.
  9. You will lose your child beneath the balls, fishing out instead a smelly old sock or a half-sucked lolly. The Play Centre offers a multitude of options for misplacing a child. Use this piece of information at your own discretion. But be warned, The Play Centre is simply teaming with judgmental parents, nannies, grandparents, caregivers and potential paedophiles. Now is not the time or the place to accidentally on purpose leave your child behind.
  10. Finally, you will be at the centre of a punch up between an evil, predatory child’s parents and their prey – who, more often than not, belongs to your perfect, angelic, blame-free brood. Forget play zone. At this point, you are seriously done here and it is time to get the hell of the War Zone.

It will come of no surprise then, that having spent what felt like twelve hours trapped inside the dark, smelly hell-pit of play, and having been saturated of all resources mental, physical and financial, Mummy remembered why she doesn’t frequent The Play Centre full stop, never mind on rainy weekends.

Needless to say, Mummy had never been more excited to return home to These Four Walls and the mess and mayhem contained within them. At least she could be sure of one thing: the cleanliness of her own home. There were no suspect smells, no wee on the walls and no faeces on the floor. But then again, with Three Terror Tots ruling the roost, who the hell can be sure of anything…?

This post has previously been published here. For more from Apparently This Is Normal click here or on any of the images below! You can also find more on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

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Football Fun Day – NOT! Fri, 12 Jan 2018 00:47:53 +0000

Youngest son’s football team had a ‘Fun Day’ last weekend, so we loyally went along. As predicted the only fun

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Youngest son’s football team had a ‘Fun Day’ last weekend, so we loyally went along. As predicted the only fun was had by our son; trying to see how much money he could get out of us – for him and his friend to waste spend on ‘fun’.

The tiniest burgers inside the hugest buns were forced down by the four of us, extortionately expensive (and not that pleasant) cupcakes were purchased by me and a completely ridiculous amount of tombola tickets were bought by the boys. The lure of possibly winning a bottle of shampoo, a tiny bar of chocolate, a crocheted toilet roll cover, a plastic mug with a picture of flowers on it or a toddler’s colouring book was obviously too great.

They didn’t win any of them.

Both boys thoroughly enjoyed a game of bubble football: child is strapped into a massive inflatable bubble and then rolls around the pitch. Aim is to push a football between each other and ultimately score. From what I could see the kids didn’t give a toss about the football – they just enjoyed rolling around the pitch.

The one bit of ‘fun’ (for us) came when son’s bubble rolled over too far, got stuck and left him dangling completely upside down. I eventually managed to stop laughing enough to go over and roll him upright – but on husband’s video of the whole thing I can clearly be heard saying , “Don’t help him up until you’ve taken a picture.” Dear me, not a model mother then…

(I’d like to point out that no sons or bubbles were harmed in this incident)

The two of them hooked ducks in a barrel, tossed hoops onto sticks, kept returning to the over-priced second-hand tat stall, drank copious amounts of fizzy pop, ate vast quantities of cheap sweets and played tug-of-war…with themselves. When it started to cloud over we sent up a silent prayer to the weather gods, then tried to sound sincere as we said, “Oh no! What a shame…we’re going to have to go.”

Trying not to smile too much we dragged them out of the queue for the under 8s bouncy castle (they’re 13!), quickly marched them past the ‘Name the (******* huge) Teddy’, swerved deftly away from the chocolate fountain that several snotty-nosed kids had shoved their fingers into – and left.

Phew! We’d done our bit for another year. Large gins here we come!

This post was first published here. For more from the ever eloquent Midlife Dramas In Pyjamas click here, or below. You may regret many things you’ve done today, but this will not be one of them!


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Passive Aggression Now The Top Form Of Aggression For ‘Really Clever’ People Thu, 11 Jan 2018 00:22:29 +0000

Stunning A ‘stunningly well researched’ study has thrillingly shown that passive aggressiveness is now the ‘go to’ form of aggression

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A ‘stunningly well researched’ study has thrillingly shown that passive aggressiveness is now the ‘go to’ form of aggression for brainy Brits.


Traditionally famous for punching each other in the street after a few pints and shouting insults at strangers whilst puffing out chests and scratching their testicles, Brits apparently now prefer to abuse strangers on social media using thinly veiled insults – whilst puffing out chests and scratching their testicles.


The team of really clever and well thought of researchers, led by my personal heros Nobby ‘The Knob’ Knobberson and Shirley ‘No Shit’ Sherlock spent 5 months working really hard on this ground-breaking, very well-written piece.

To ensure their research was super accurate they confined it purely to Twitter. Because obviously that’s a really sensible thing to do.

Bell End

They studied the tweets of 72 (because 75 would have been too much work, clearly) bloggers over a 3 month period. The tweet breakdown by theme was found to be as follows:

Links to own blog posts – 75%

Slagging people off using insults poorly disguised as compliments – 9%

Slagging people off without actually using their names but done in such an obvious way that it’s virtually impossible to miss – 8%

Genuine conversation – 3%

Traditionally aggressive comments (e.g. you’re a twat / idiot / I hope your bollocks get eaten by a rabid donkey you bell end) – 3%

Other – 3%

(Lists that actually total 100% are soooooo 1990s it would seem 🤔)


So where does this brilliant research leave us? Has it cured cancer? Has it obliterated world hunger?


But we do now have conclusive proof that some people on Twitter are a bit Twattish. Who’d have thought it?!

Mind = blown. 💣💥

Now that their world class study is complete Nobby and Shirley can return to designing rockets or repairing brains or whatever other super important things really, really clever people do.

Well done, guys.

No. Really. Clap, clap, clap. 👏👏👏

Cheap Plug

If you’re bored of real news and fancy a few more fake things in your life why not check out some of our other fake news stories.


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The Day The Rains Came… Down My Legs Tue, 09 Jan 2018 19:16:36 +0000

This story has come from reading the lovely Whinge Whinge Wine’s latest post about pelvic floor dramas(you can read it

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This story has come from reading the lovely Whinge Whinge Wine’s latest post about pelvic floor dramas(you can read it here) which reminded me about a traumatic experience on a trampoline post-baby.

This post contains a lot of TMI – you have been warned. Pre-childbirth I never paid attention to ladies pissing themselves; and when I gave birth to nine pounds of baby via the sunroof I thought I’d been lucky (said no c-section mum, ever).

As far as I was aware I’d never wet myself; my vajojo was intact and I could be (and was) smug about the fact my pelvic floor was intact.

I first noticed things weren’t right when I pushed the boy in a pram up a steep hill; when I made it to the top I broke out into a cold sweat and I had to check no wee had indeed fallen out.

It was a strange sensation – like a warm, numb feeling somewhere amongst my mashed-up insides.

Around eighteen months post-Caesarean I was invited to a local fitness class with a friend – she had told me it was set to music, great fun and an amazing workout.  As much as I’d rather exercise my hands lifting pizza to my mouth I thought I’d better show willing.

So one miserable Winter evening I hauled my fat carcass along to a local ladies-only gym.

The lady checked us in at the front desk; she told me not to be nervous and that I would find facilities in the bathroom if I needed them and not to worry if I had an accident.

Eh?  I thought nothing of it, maybe I’d misheard her.

So when the doors opened and I walked in and saw twenty mini trampolines in front of me I died a little bit inside.  Every other person was a maximum of 8 stone and in peak physical condition.

I escaped for a pre-class wee.  There was a little display of Tena Lady and Vaj freshener.  What the actual fuck.

Holy fuck.  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea; I’m all for breaking the fat girl stereotype and proving that I’m actually not bad fitness wise but this looked like torture.

In walked the instructor, barely out of her teens and wearing the tiniest shorts and crop top I’ve ever seen.

Instantly I disliked her, with her solid abs and non-existent arse.  Bitch.

And she called everyone ‘guys’.  She was way too happy for my liking.

The music started.  A happy hardcore version of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 blared out and off she went like some weightless fairy on acid.

It was HARD.  I couldn’t keep up, my fat feet couldn’t match her pace and I was just busting out some half arsed moves reminiscent of an elephant on speed.

And then it happened.

We were (supposed to be) doing fast jumps and then really big side kick jumps, I felt the familiar cold sweat feeling coming back and a funny sensation in my vajojo.

I should have stopped.  Why didn’t I stop.

My trousers felt funny.  A sort of weird warmth.  A damp warmth.

What the fuck?  What is that?

Oh, sweet Baby Jesus.

It’s piss. My own piss, running down my legs.

I looked down at the trampoline. I could see drips of wee escaping from my leggings.  There was a pool forming.  A tiny little pool of piss.

Time stood still.  I quickly evaluated my (limited) options:

  1. Carry on bouncing in my own piss, and try to style it out.  But I couldn’t feel my bladder and I had no idea how much fluid had the potential to fall out of my lady parts.  It could be a few splashes, a stream or a lake.
  2. Stick my hand up and admit to Miss Tight Abs that I’d pissed myself.  Suffer the humiliation of admitting my pissy knickers to a roomful of ladies with an average of 0.01% body fat.
  3. Run.  Run like the wind.  Bolt for the doors and never look back.  And hope no one notices the little pool of piss I left behind.

And just like that, I decided to leg it.  I leapt off the trampoline, grabbed my crotch MJ style (to hide the damp patch, not busting a move) and bolted for the door.

“See you next week” said the lady at the front desk.

Not fucking likely, flower.  I never went back.

From speaking to lots of ladies and medical professionals I’m assured that statistically most ladies experience this postpartum.  Anything from the odd dribble to a full-on flood, perfectly normal.

Ladies – there is no shame in never trusting a sneeze or a laugh ever again; go forth and buy some Tena Lady, and consult a doctor if things don’t feel right.

I fully admit that I will probably never bounce again; unless there is Prosecco and I’m so pissed I don’t give a shit.

But don’t feel alone, and don’t feel ashamed – I wish I’d known how common it was, and I hate the British-taboo attitude to afflictions of the lady parts.

And never EVER attempt a fitness class on a trampoline without a nappy on.

You’re welcome.

This particularly piss-prompted post was first published here! For more from the super duper tip top funny Lisa from Pass The Prosecco Please click here or on one of the links below!

Pass the Prosecco Please fighting flab, anxiety & chronic illness one bad joke at a time

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