Wednesday 27th March – We’re keepin’ it real.


I thought I might have a bash at a bit of reviewing and have enlisted the help of my Lady-Crew to bring you the hottest, straight off the press, reviews.

I’m not going to marvel over the latest cleaner from Dyson (that I’ve been bribed with sent for free) or the super-fun baking set that Dr Oetker has launched (and sent me. For free).

No, no, no, no.

Unlike your average Mummy-Reviewer, I am gonna keep it real. I’m gonna bring it to you straight from the street.

I’m going to review stuff, wait for it; that I’ve actually spent my own hard earned cash on (what a kooky notion!!) and, in addition, have taken the time to do my research by asking Friend-Kate, Friend-Karen and Friend-Sophie what they thought of the items.

So, in short; a gripping review of a load of questionable crap, by a bunch of people you don’t know. To give my gal-pal’s reviews some context, Friend-Kate’s a normal Top Gear watching, red-wine-on-a-school-night-drinking bird. Friend-Karen’s minted (and a bit of a piss-artist). Travels the world and enjoys a steady stream of rich men-friends that adore her. Friend-Sophie’s a tree-hugging, left-wing hippy.

Sound good? Well, without further ado, and if you’re sitting comfortably; I’ll begin.

Asda butterfly pyjama bottoms – £6.00

I bought these because they looked pretty. Have no idea what they’re made of, at six quid, nothing good I shouldn’t imagine. What things are made of is about as riveting as reading instructions as far as I’m concerned. What size did I buy? Who knows? Don’t do detail. Got home at 11.30am and put them straight on. After a week of not being taken off, can confirm that they are absolutely flipping GORE-JUS. They are soft, have kept their shape, cosy, and in short well-lush. Am going to get me another pair.

Friend-Kate’s review: “Watched Deuce Bigalow in ‘em. Cool.”butterflypj
Friend-Karen’s review: “Asda? What’s Asda?”
Friend-Sophie’s review: “Really lovely but they weren’t made by those kids off Comic Relief were they?

Night Nurse Capsules – Sainsbury’s pharmacy – £3.69

Masquerading as a ‘flu remedy’ what these tablets actually are is a Class A style sleeping pill slash sedative. Take a couple when you get in from work and you’ll achieve the double-whammy of being too chilled out to care that your kids keep insisting on trying to talk to you and, when you float upstairs nightnurseto bed, you’ll have passed out in mere seconds (twin with Asda £6 pyjamas for maximum effect).

Friend-Kate’s review: “Do they do it for kids?”
Friend-Karen’s review: “I’ve had better. But that stuff’s a ball-ache to get hold of.”
Friend-Sophie’s review: “You are such a tit, I slept through an entire Sunday lunch and missed Countryfile.”

Next Panel Platform Court Shoes – £36

I have no idea what Next are making their shoes out of these days but it felt, half an hour into wearing these, like it’s probably titanium alloy. Unbelievably uncomfortable. Awful. Some woman at work asked me if they were Stella McCartney, so not only did they leave my feet looking like the torn, bloody flesh normally found at an aircraft crash site, they also managed to make me look like a total wannabe WAG when I had to admit that, no I got them in the Next three day sale.

Friend-Kate’s review: “Used to wear Next shoes but these days it’s like shoving yournextshoes feet into a waste disposal unit.”
Friend-Karen’s review: “I’ve got some that look like that but they’re from Stella McCartney. What’s Next?”
Friend-Sophie’s review: “Jesus. Holy bloody Jesus. Why didn’t you just stab me.”

Kiwi Smiling Feet Invisible Gel Pads – Sainsbury’s – £3.70

Since my budget won’t extend to setting fire to the Next Panel Platform Court Shoes (£36), I had to invest in some of these. Given the challenge they were up against, the gel pads did a pretty good job. The bottom of my feet were almost bearable, only leaving me with the bleeding toes to contend with. However, the good news was that I very quickly lost all feeling in the bleeding toes so, all in all, a win.

<Friend-Kate’s review: I don’t care if they make the shoes less painful. I am not putting my feet through it again.”
gelpadsFriend-Karens’ review: “They didn’t help with the cravings because they weren’t sticky and kept falling off my arm.”
Friend-Sophie’s review: “I tried them but my tits still fell out of the dress.”

And on that disturbing bombshell, I hope you have found our reviews informative and useful. I may well do some more reviewing in the coming weeks and months but then again, who knows.

That’s the beauty of the original, the only and the very bestest, ‘Secret Diary of a Single Mum’ – who knows what I’ll do next!

Sunday 24th March – It’s not adorable. It’s bloody annoying.

Kids are really horrible.

I’m legally obliged to ‘like’ (air-quotes very much intended) the ones that I hatched, but where the reach of statute ends, so funnily enough does my ability to tolerate everyone elses.

That’s usually okay because I’m generally either at work (no Chuckies there) or at home (have negotiated an uneasy truce with the home-grown Chuckies) but I can’t be expected to hide in my bedroom or under my desk forever.

It’s a national issue.

Having given it a great deal of thought, I’m not at all sure that the Chucklets are the whole of the problem, shouldn’t the Chucklet-Owners be expected to contain their particular little handfuls totsdoasm2 certain, prescribed geographical areas, so that the rest of us can go about our adult, daily lives without having to well, how can I put it nicely, be bothered by them?

Using the same survival instinct that prevents me from attempting to stop for a Pasta-On-The-Go in the monkey enclosure at Woburn Abbey, I avoid play-parks like the plague.

Visits to school playgrounds (even when I’ve been formally forced to turn up by the headmistress invited) are inevitably followed by a thumping headache.

An invite to a play-date at an indoor soft fun centre? Sorry, can’t, I think my house might be on fire.

Disneyland? Hell no.

Animated films? Only if there’s a restaurant near the cinema so I can get the exactly same amount of drunk that allows people to think that the swimming pool, that’s actually on the other side of the building, is close enough to their balcony for them to be able to dive into from their twelfth-floor hotel room.

You know the level of drunk I’m talkin’ bout.

MacDonald’s, National Trust gardens, Alton Towers and Lego Land.

No. No. And Christ No.

So, my point is this; if I can allow the Chucklets and the Owners inhabit these environments with a free and happy heart, why can I not expect the same courtesy in return?

Is it so unreasonable for me to expect to walk into a coffee shop without having to force my way through a field of buggies, lactating fat-birds (Oh yeah. In a coffee shop. Baps out. I’ve seen it with my own eyes) and the very real danger that some out-of-control-Chuckie is going to barge into my knees while I’m carry a tray with four steaming hot lattes and a Tuna Melt on it.


No, please don’t try and catch my eye. It really isn’t ‘just precious’ when your kid is using his soup spoon as a Spaghetti-Raquet. I think its behaviour worthy of a padded cell and if it points that thing in my direction, I tell you now, one of us will be sleeping in a cell tonight.


Get out, get out, get out.

Pubs are for pulling fit blokes. Talking about sex, sometimes (if you’re lucky) actually having sex, (that’s a whole ‘nother diary entry) gossiping, bitching, perching on bar-stools looking fabulous and even if you don’t always do any or all of the above, most importantly, they’re for indulging in the consumption of liquor, behaving a bit worse than you normally would, and having over 18 type fun.

So please, Chucklet-Owners everywhere, heed my words.

Please keep Chuckie on his side of the monkey enclosure.

Our patience for the worshiping of your Child-King is wearing thin.

There, I said it.

Saturday 23rd March – It’s (not) all happening over here.

You know how people say that nothing ever changes, (or to be more accurate, what they actually say is ‘Same old, same old’ and then grimace a sort-of smile at you. And sometimes they say ‘Same shit, different day’ and then grimace a sort-of smile at you). Admittedly, most of these people were usually asked for their opinions, which clearly differs from my example in the obvious fact that nobody has actually asked for mine.

Still, I’m going to give it to you anyway.

Nothing ever changes.

The Teenager is still sloping between his bedroom and the kitchen.

There has been a tsdoasmpiccertain amount of variation in his technique in the fact that he now waits until he hears my bedroom door, my bedroom floor, the landing floor and the shower-head vibrating from my super-gentle snoring before he sneakily commits a Muffin-Raid.  It also has to be said, this new, improved tactic has experienced some considerable success since, as he well knows, I suffer from Can’t-Unglue-My-Eyes-Till-10am-Sickness, so the odds of my identifying the kitchen as a crime scene the following morning are pretty limited.

No real change there then.

Annabelle has become a Tween-Ager and, like serial-killers, it is perfectly true that the female variety of the species is much, much worse than its male counterpart.

My evenings are spent listening to the Tween-Ager variously Face-Timing, receiving and sending texts and answering calls from her social set.

Her ringtone (One Direction) sets my teeth on edge. The content of her spoken communication (No way, Shuddddup and Reeeerrrlllyyyy) makes me wonder if Dexter Morgan’s ‘Code’ could be adapted to include Tween-Management and, most irritatingly, the fact that she paces up and down the hall and then around and around in front of ‘The One Show’ while she’s conducting this gripping repartee, makes me want to rip the phone out of her hands, disguise it as a mini-muffin and let The Teenager deal with it.

Having said that, she’s lost three lunch-boxes, a pair of trainers and two entire school bags this term. I’ve replaced her locker key on a semi-weekly basis and, when she’s not running the Mobile-Phone-Wind-Up, she still has the singing, dancing, running and the jumping to fall back on.tsdoasm2

Again, granted, it’s different packaging, but ultimately, same problem.

The dog, cunningly realising that my wellies had very little ‘Christ-This-Snow’s-Deep’ gripping traction, pulled me into a ditch this morning and my satellite dish still point-blank refuses to even attempt to go out and try to track down a signal any time it sniffs a raindrop or snowflake.

So, in short, whilst time keeps ticking by, I’m still very much living the B&Q lifestyle of my nightmares.

No Way.



Fraid so my friends. Fraid so.