I’m no prude but I’m shocked by the above. Shame on you Marks & Spencer and your ‘Angel Non-Wired Moulded First Bras’. First bras? So designed for, say, 10-13 year olds?

In what way is ‘love u’ [shudders at txt spk] an appropriate slogan to slap on a garment to support young girls’ breasts? And when it says ‘moulded’ what it means is ‘lightly padded’. Young girls do NOT need padded bras and, more to the point, they do not need to be plugged in to the marketing machine which encourages the belief that bigger breasts are better/more desirable.

Still seething from the above I picked up a local magazine about activities for children. I found an advert by a local beauty salon advertising ‘Pamper Parties’ suitable for girls ’5 and upwards’. I know all little girls like to put on make up be like mummy, but how can it be appropriate to market ‘Pamper Parties’ to such young children?

Clearly it’s the day for it because not 5 minutes after I read that advert I got chatting to a girl waiting to go in her dance class, as I was waiting for Bertie to come out. We chatted about dancing and she told me, very seriously, that ‘music and dance are my LIFE! I love it more than anything in the whole world’. I was so charmed by her enthusiasm and tried not to smile at the ‘my LIFE’ bit since it’s the kind of thing I said as a child. I asked her how old she was, “I’m 12″ she replied. In the next breath she said, “I wish it wasn’t raining. I’ve just had my hair highlighted at the hairdressers.”. GULP. Highlights? At 12? I peered at her and, sure, enough, her beautiful honey coloured hair was highlighted within an inch of its life.

Hands off our children! But wait…do I mean hands off our children…or hands off our girls? Because I can’t think of any examples where I feel boys are growing up too fast because of the pressure of advertising/magazines/TV etc etc. Or am I just lucky not to have experienced it yet, or blind to it?

This much I know…5 year old girls don’t need Pamper Parties…adolescent breasts don’t need ‘love u’ slapped on them…12 year old girls don’t need highlights. Or am I old fashioned? Or the mother of boys and therefore out of the loop of how it is with girls these days?

Photo credit: Marks & Spencer

My granny square blanket is taking shape and, frankly, I’m having a moment of NAKED pride at my achievements. Of course one shouldn’t really blow one’s own horn etc etc, but what’s the point of having a blog if you can’t shamelessly show off whenever it pleases you?

Ideally there would be a photo of the Work In Progress but it’s late, it’s dark, I’m tired and frankly I can’t really be bothered. So instead I have snitched a photo from my Photo A Day project on Flickr, of lovely pins. Too pretty to use of course but they look nice and, as we all know, that’s what counts. Style over substance, that’s my motto and I’m sticking to it.

Actually I had a bit of a false start, ahem. The first week of Grannies was good, but the second round of each Granny was quite hard going. Also they looked very ugly in terms of colour scheme. And I was using the wrong size hook (basic schoolgirl error). So I’ve relegated the first dozen Grannies the Home for Old Biddies (AKA donated to Megaboys for their current crochet obsession…which mostly consists of unravelling…shudders).

I’ve learnt a few lessons and these are they:

1. Always read the pattern. This will save a few tears and tantrums along the way.

2. If it feels wrong, it probably is.

3. A bad workman always blames his tools. And a good crochetwoman always uses the right size hook and doesn’t just ‘wing it’.

4. Many people have a natural ability to blend colour and tones effortlessly. I am not one of them. My attempts looked like dog vomit. A planned colour scheme works much better for me.

5. Yarn is really really pricey if you get all fancy and insist on cashmere/merino mix.

6. Cheap yarn is really horrible and scratchy.

7. It’s going to take a while until I can crochet and talk at the same time.

8. Or crochet without my tongue hanging out in concentration…

Some day soon I’ll show you how it’s going. But, be assured, the dog vomit grannies will never see the light of day. Mostly because the Megaboys will have unravelled them and thank the Lord for that….

No, I’m not about to bring forth progeny once again. Or ever in fact. Although I did say that after Megaboy 1 was born and look how that turned out (hello Megaboy 2!). But, then, that wasn’t my fault, that was the work of some naughty imps forcing me to consume my own bodyweight in the Devil’s Own Potion (that’s Pimms No 1 to you).

So this isn’t a cutesy twee ‘we’re pregnant’ post. Which, since I’m in a ranting mode, is possibly one of the teeth grindingly awful expressions on the planet. ‘We’re’ pregnant? There is no ‘we’ in pregnant (apart from wee which is something entirely different and is ominprescent in pregnany, from the moment you have to wee on a stick/your hand to confirm the happy news, through the seemingly endless demands for samples of the stuff right up until you sign a direct debit for bulk deliveries of Tena Lady incontinence products to quieten the tremulous groans of your pelvic floor). I say again, there is no ‘we’ in pregnant…it’s not a team sport. The woman is pregnant, and the man is grateful that he is not.

End of Rant 1. Although I’m kind of warming to my theme and may go off on one about my other ‘twee twat’ hates which are right up there with ‘we’re pregnant’ which include the word ‘hubby’, ‘snuggles’ and ‘luv’. But I’ll save that for another day.

Rant 2….’Baby on board’ signs on cars. ‘Baby on board’…who gives a shit? Let’s knock the possible  arguments for them on the head, shall we?  I present my case:

(1) the emergency services are trained to look for ALL passengers large and small in the event of an accident. And, I’m thinking, that the presence of 25 tonnes of baby clobber in the car will probably be a give away?

(2) ‘baby on board’ signs have no effect on the standard of driving from other people DARING to use the road whilst you transport your ickle bubbas around. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest they are more likely to enrage The Sensibles amongst us who are more and not less likely to crash in to you as the red mist descends.

Erm, that’s it. I can’t think of any other reasonable argument as to why you would slap a ‘baby on board’ sign on your car other than sheer smuggery? And don’t even get me started on the ‘fun’ variations…’Princess on board’, ‘Small dude on board’, ‘Cheeky monkey on board’ etc etc. Actually that reminds me of yet another pet hate, appalling slogans on T Shirts for children (‘Lock up your daughters’ etc etc). But I will save that rant for another day too.

End of rant 2.

What has REALLY got my goat recently is the vision of a perfectly pleasant woman on the London underground, wearing her ‘Baby on board’ badge (pictured above) on her lapel. These aren’t new, London Underground introduced them a few years ago but it’s only recently that they have suddenly provoked The Rage from me.

The theory is that pregnant women often need to sit down when travelling on the tube (which is often horrendously busy, hot, slow etc etc). I completely agree with this point. However, it’s not always obvious that a woman is pregnant and thus might be in need of a seat. I agree with this point too. Also, some people are hesitant to offer a seat to a pregnant woman in case they are not pregnant, and just plump. Yet again, I agree with this point. Therefore, pregnant women should wear a badge announcing the fact that they are gestating so that the good folk of London can do their good turn for the day and give up their seat. I completely disagree with this point.

Pregnant women may well often need someone to give up their seat for them, along with many other groups of people….disabled people, old people, people carrying small children, people not feeling well, people who have consumed their own bodyweight in Pimms No 1 etc etc.

But, here’s my idea. Instead of wearing those crap badges (which are RIGHT UP there in terms of twee twattishness in my book)…why not just ask for a seat?  You know, just open you mouth and politely ask for a seat like we did in the old days before we had badges. It takes a certain degree of confidence, I will admit, but if you need a seat then just say so.  Frankly asking for a seat on the tube is a walk in the park compared with some of the battles you will inevitably have to get in to on behalf of your child, so you might as well start toughening up early on.

I traveled by tube when pregnant with both my boys. Very occasionally I needed a seat. When I did, I politely asked the people around me if I could sit down as I was pregnant and not feeling well. Pretty much everyone jumped to their feet every time I asked. It’s no big shakes, you just smile and sit down, say thank you and feel smug for not poncing around wearing a badge announcing your moronic status.

End of rant 3.

I might make myself a badge. Hell, I might CROCHET myself a badge. ‘Rage on board’. What do you think?

…etc etc etc. I’m writing my Christmas cards. A task so mind numbingly boring that scooping out my own eyeball with a spoon and eating it would be more fun. I’m alleviating the worst of the tedium and the taste of the envelopes (MOO are you listening? Yuck to your gum…pity the fool who has 100 cards to write) with wine. What else?

I’m feeling the love though and would like to add some of you lovely bloggy pals to the list. So leave a comment and tell me your WORST Christmas chore and what you do to make it more tolerable.  The first 10 to leave a comment will get a Christmas card from me (email me your addy!) and, bonus, a little Christmas present for the funniest response (doesn’t have to be in the first 10).

Come on, make me laugh. I hate this chore. Only one thing for it…down the hatch and bottoms up, chin chin.

Firstly, thank you to all of you for your kind comments, prayers and emails over the last few days. I’m so sorry, I’ve been hopeless and not responded to any of them but I have read all of them and your thoughts mean a lot to me. Got to love the Blogging Tribe xxx

So, Leaf Fall Season starts on Monday … did you know? This was news to me, I’ve never heard of it before. Probably because I’ve not been a regular user of trains for many years. For the uninitiated Leaf Fall Season in the UK is when the train time table shifts for 3 months, with many trains departing 5 minutes early because the trains can’t go as fast when there are lots of leaves on the track.

Back in the early 1990s British Rail was pilloried in the media for its inability to run trains on time due to ‘leaves on the track’ or the ‘wrong sort of snow of the track’. Naturally, being a nationalised industry, BR couldn’t have cared less, did nothing, shrugged its dandruff ridden shoulders and just ran the trains late anyway. But then the railway was privatised and the train operating companies had no option but to care because it hurts them where it hurts the most (their pocket) if they run late trains. So they invented ‘leaf fall season’, which is possibly one of the most twee expressions I have ever heard.

So now the operating companies have wised up to those pesky leaves and their falling propensities, and they adjust the timetable each year to allow their trains to run slower but still arrive at their destination ‘on time’ according to the original timetable…which means they don’t incur financial penalties for late running trains. GENIUS!! So, let’s get everyone out of bed earlier and get the train going earlier so we can get to where we want to go by the time we wanted to in the first place and not get fined in the process. Still with me?

Being the utter nerdy geek that I am (I blame MrSpud…his geek ‘spores’ are slowly infiltrated my being…and don’t think I haven’t spotted your secret statsh of railway ‘porn’ because I have…I”m on to you MrSpud!) I decided to find out WHY the trains need to go slower because of the leaves. Because, yes, those 5 more minutes in bed are that important to me. It turns out that the reason is [takes a moment to sneer] modern technology and [double sneers] progress. [Shakes head at the unfathomable complexities of modern living].

In simple terms, the nice new(ish) rolling stock used by the operating companies are lovely for us passengers because we don’t get thrown about the way we used to. However, they have disc brakes which don’t clean the crap off the tracks unlike their clasp brake predecessors. And crap on the tracks, like leaf mulch, leads to trains sliding not rolling and something ominously called ‘wheel flats’ which takes a train out of action until the wheel has been unflatted. Or something.

So it turns out that it’s not the leaves that are the issue, it’s the brakes. I’m considering a campaign to revert to the Days of Yore in train brake terms, and the immediate abolition of the term ‘leaf fall season’ and, most of all, I want my extra 5 minutes in bed back. Anyone with me?

Chant along with me…”What do we want? CLASP BRAKES! When do we want them? NOW”…repeat until the Daily Mail backs my campaign. Thank you.

I’ve already mentioned that I can’t catch or throw. Neither can I run – regardless of how fit I am, I just…can’t… run, I flake out after an embarrassingly short distance and have to lie down, gasping and panting. I also lack any kind of hand-eye coordination, I can’t jump and am very clumsy. Also, I’m quite a scared kind of person and I don’t like any kind of physical tackling type stuff – and I cry if I get hit with a ball, bat, racquet etc. Plus I’m a bad sport. If ‘Crap At Games’ was an Olympic sport, I’d be up there on the podium that’s for sure.

By the time I reached the upper sixth at school (age 18), it was widely known and accepted that I was hopeless at sport and that it was kinder not to make me do it anymore. So, on a Tuesday and Thursday afternoon while everyone else was out playing hockey/netball/tennis etc, I was allowed to go swimming. I wasn’t allowed to go unsupervised, so Mr Jackson (a very kindly maths teacher), came swimming with me. Up and down the pool we’d glide, well he was gliding, I was thrashing about of course. It was all very civilised and I was mighty relieved to be excused the hell of games for the rest of my life.

But, then, Sports Day rolled around and I was told in no uncertain terms that I ‘must’ represent my house. I was quite surprised about this given that my entire house hated me – I’d cheated in the cross country event earlier in the year and the whole house was disqualified as a result. Whoops – but in all honesty I wasn’t capable of finishing the cross country ‘amble’ (naturally I didn’t attempt to run it) without cutting out a good few miles of it. I will concede that it was unfortunate to be caught cheating but let’s gloss over that.

So back to Sports Day. A quick look at the events made it clear I was in trouble. All track events were out as I can’t run, I’d never once managed to finish the 800m never mind more, sprinting was a joke, hurdles too hurty etc etc.  Field events weren’t looking too promising either though…high jump was out (can’t jump and too hurty), long jump too sandy, javelin too pointy. Hmm. So after much thought it was decided that the shot put was where I could do the least damage, either to myself or spectators.

Thankfully it was held in a quiet corner of the school grounds, and there wasn’t much a crowd. I was quite relieved about this as I actually had no idea how to shot put but, RESULT, Mr Jackson was in charge of the event and he gave me a quick lesson. Looked easy enough; nuzzle shot under jaw, wheel around a few times and then hurl it while grunting like a pig. Sorted. My first throw was 9cm. Hmm. At this point Mr Jackson started guffawing and this quickly developed in to helpless giggles. This attracted attention as it’s rare for maths teachers to start ‘losing it’ like this. A crowd gathered, oh great.  My second shot was 15cm (queue more helpless giggles from everyone) and my third and ‘best’ shot was 21cm.

21cm…let’s just stop and think about that shall we…get a ruler if you can be bothered…but take it from me, 21cm is basically just right in front of your foot. Despite all the wheeling  around and pig like grunting, all I’d managed to do was effectively drop the shot on the ground in front of me. I could have rolled the damn thing further.

The world record for women’s shot put is 22.63m. My personal best is 21cm. You do the maths…it’s not pretty. Let’s face it, I’m no threat to her…but I bet I’m prettier than her and, as we all know, that’s what counts.

But, no, worse…the thing I really hate is that it involves going in to [sharp intake of breath] The Cupboard of Doom. I have to be feeling very cheery to be ready to tackle it, often I leave things waiting to be put away in TCOD on the work surface – ready for when I’m feeling stronger.

So I unload the dishes in a strict order, which is dictated by which cupboard items are stored in. Firstly, ‘the Good’:

The 'Good' Cupboard

Mmmm, lovely…all white/cream and neat ‘n’ tidy. That’s good. That pleases me. Next, gathering some strength and inner resolve, I move on to ‘the Bad’:

The 'Bad' Cupboard - very naughty

Ick. It doesn’t please me at all, all that plastic tat. But it’s a necessary evil with little children, a cupboard like that is a sign that you’re a ‘real’ mummy now. And check out that ubiquitous Ikea stuff, you know those weird plates that everything slips off and the knives that don’t cut.

Finally, with a heavy heart, I edge towards The Cupboard of Doom (AKA ‘the ugly’). This cupboard pains me, and it doesn’t matter how much I tidy it, put extra shelves in, put yet MORE stuff in storage…it always looks like this. Actually it’s looking quite tidy here, normally all that Tupperware is in a vast mountain and threatening topple any second.

The Cupboard of Doom...enter at your peril!

I feel so cleansed sharing that dirty little secret…but surely I’m not alone …so tell me, ideally SHOW me, your Cupboards of Doom. And any tips for clearing up that mess. Or, better again, come round and tidy it up for me. See that vast teapot in the bottom right hand corner? Holds 12 cups of tea. You bring the cake.

I thank you.