Tomorrow I am moving house.

In twelve hours time I will actually be picking up an actual van and having to fill it with all of the things in the house. All of them. Not just a few of them.

And then, to add insult to injury, I have to drive them half a mile around the corner and take them all out again.

Crazy times.

I thought, looking around the house when we first decided to move, that we didn’t have that much stuff. We’ve got rid of lots of furniture, as we’re moving somewhere smaller, and in my mind it was really just a sofa, a couple of beds and a few boxes of books. Oh deary, deary me, how wrong I was. We may not have masses of furniture, no wardrobes or big bookcases to speak of, but my God we have a lot of shite.

There are so many things that you just wouldn’t think of, that seem to blend into the house, so that you don’t notice them until you pile them all up in one room and stand back, aghast.

I’ve done a quick stock take of some of the things you might not normally consider, and we have:

  • 17 house plants
  • 12 outdoor plants in tubs
  • 43 framed pictures, including 4 large canvas prints
  • 3 bikes and 2 scooters
  • 3 printers. Who on earth needs 3 printers? We only have one desktop computer. It is quite ridiculous.

This is just a teeny tiny part of the list.

As we speak, my downstairs is piled floor to ceiling with the detritus that I have collected over the years and I am hiding upstairs in a now empty bedroom, afraid to look.

Wish me luck…

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“Have you got any tissues?” Bee asks me. “I need to blow my nose.”

“No, sorry,” I reply.

She looks like she doesn’t believe me, like I might be deliberately withholding my secret supply of tissues just for jokes. “Have you not got any anywhere?”

I’m driving and we’re on the motorway, so I’m not exactly sure where she’s expecting me to find some.

“There’s an old bit of kitchen roll on the floor in the back with oil on it?” I offer.

She doesn’t look keen.

“Belle,” she barks into the back, “look in Mummy’s handbag and find me a tissue.”

Belle does as she’s told, but the best she can come up with is a piece of A4 paper with a map of Bristol on it.

“You can’t use that,” I say, “it won’t have any absorbency. You’ll have to use a pair of pants or something.”

(We are on the motorway driving Bee down to stay with some friends, so she does have an overnight bag with her. I wasn’t suggesting she take off the pants she was wearing or anything.)

“No way,” she says, clearly disgusted, “that’s gross. Can’t you stop at some services?”

“No!”

“Well then, I’m going to use the map.”

I should probably explain at this point that Bee has quite a bad cold. Needing to blow her nose isn’t just a casual whim; it’s a matter of urgency. I’m sceptical about the usefulness of a paper map when it comes to blowing noses, but Bee is adamant.

It does not go well. I hear a muffled ‘ergh!’ through the mix of mucus and paper. The map it seems is not terribly effective as a tissue. As I predicted, the lack of absorbency is a bit of a problem.

“It’s all over my face!” Bee wails. “What shall I do?”

“I told you to use pants!” I say, trying to keep a straight face and half an eye on the road. She rummages in her bag, but not for pants.

“This is going to be gross,” she says, pulling out a pack of Always Ultra (with wings), “but don’t judge me.” I am speechless. I give her a look, raising my eyebrows. “What?” she says, trying to look nonchalant, as though it’s perfectly normal to have snot on your chin and to be about to wipe your face with sanitary protection, “they’re absorbent!”

Anyone looking into our car at that moment may have been rather taken aback. “You look like you’re sniffing a sanitary towel,” I pointed out, as she struggled to blow her nose, Always Ultra sticking to her fingers.*

Always Ultra, we soon learn, are not designed for blowing noses, (although they are an improvement on the paper.) Despite working her way through two pads, she still has to clear up afterwards with her spare pants.

We arrive in Bridgwater, trying desperately to block the last hour from our memories, and as we get out of the car, Bee stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Oh no!” she cries, and pulls out a wad of tissue…

*Why she took the backing off I do not know…

 

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I have been to visit three potential secondary schools for Belle in the last eight days and I am fed up with it. I am fed up with having to spend an hour and a half doing something that should be over in half an hour because of all the parents who insist on asking so many boring, stupid questions.

I appreciate that choosing a secondary school for your child is a big decision, but with that in mind, do some research beforehand if you must. You visit a school to get a feel for its atmosphere, to see the building and grounds, and to watch children taking part in lessons. You surely do not visit a school to waste everybody’s time asking the headteacher what proportion of children take part in after school clubs?

And not just roughly either. One dad this morning really wanted to know. “I’m not sure of the exact proportion,” the head said, “but I can tell you that last summer when we had a fie drill at 4pm that there were about 150 children out at the fire assembly point.”

“And how many children at the school in total?” asked the dad, clearly not satisfied.

“About 950,” said the head.

“So about one in six then?”

“I guess about that,” said the head, looking perplexed.

“OK, one in six.”

Good grief.

Does it matter? Who cares how long lunch break is? It will be a sensible length for a lunch break. Do you really have to wait until you are in a group of 50 people to ask about GCSE results and options? Can you not just look up things like that on the internet like a normal person?

The best question though, which made me want to smash my head against a wall, came from one very keen dad, who had already asked half a dozen equally stupid questions.

“This is a bit of a circular question,” he said, chuckling indulgently to himself, (I’m doing a Will from the Inbetweeners voice here if you can’t tell). “My question is, will there be any more time at the end to ask more questions?”

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I have been asked to speak at a conference.

*pause for ‘ooohs!’*

On the 10th of November I will be getting up disgustingly early to go to London for Mumsnet Blogfest to be part of their keynote panel. The theme of the discussion is ‘finding you voice’ – something I don’t normally struggle with – and with me on the panel will be real actual writers like Zoe Williams and Jeanette Winterson.

Real Actual Writers.

*anxious sideways look*

Rather than thinking though about what I might say to appear witty, charming and intelligent, my first thought was ‘what on earth will I wear?’ An elegant, well-tailored outfit, as any woman will tell you, is the key to any occasion. Unfortunately, I am not any woman.

To illustrate my point, I look for Bee. I find her on the sofa, watching TV, sniffing, surrounded by lockets and used tissues.* “If you had to describe my fashion sense in three words,” I ask, “what would you say?”

She looks me up and down and raises her eyebrows.

“Too jazzy,” she starts, but then, realising that means she will have already used up two-thirds of her insults, she begins again. “Jazzy, infantile,” she pauses, struggling to find a word that suitably sums me up, “and uncoordinated.”

Point duly illustrated.

The trouble is that I hate shopping for clothes. I am rubbish at it. Apart from the horror of catching sight of my bottom reflected in four different mirrors simultaneously, I just don’t know what goes with what, and what is appropriate for any given occasion. I thought then that perhaps I could have a little browse online, and you could tell me which outfit would be best for my conference appearance. I want to appear clever and funny, quirky yet stylish.

Dresses are usually a good option, as they eliminate the risk of clashing top and bottom halves. I really like this, (I’m sure I read somewhere that ‘floral’ is a thing), but wonder if it might be a little on the ‘jazzy’ side for a day time conference?

"floral dress"

This could be me, turning up a little late – “Oh, I’m so sorry! My train was delayed! It’s such a hilarious story! Mwahahaha!”

Or I could go for a suit? Perhaps too formal – I’m not sure it screams ‘witty, creative writer.’

Suit

Can you even imagine my thighs in such light coloured trousers? Oh my goodness me no.

Or I could just do the classic jeans and sparkly top combo, but perhaps that’s not quite jazzy enough?

"Jeans"

The jeans are fine, but how on earth do I get my hair to look like that?

Or I could just wear something I own already and rely on my sparkly personality to carry me through?

I’ll get my credit card…

…

*She has a cold, not some sort of fetish.

All images courtesy of Next.

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When Lands End offered to send me a dress from their autumn/winter collection to jazz up the school run, I wasn’t sure at first whether or not I should be offended. You know how sometimes friends will look at you and smile in a slightly pitying way and offer to lend you a hairbrush or some make-up?

No?

That could just be me then.

I decided to assume though that they were approaching me not because I need the help, but because I am an incredibly stylish woman, and the perfect person to act as an aspirational fashion figure for all the other mums.

*snort*

A girl can dream.

I chose this dress, because I love bright, bold colours, and because it had a whole section on ‘slimming details’ and everyone loves a flattering empire waistline and a ‘fluid ponte knit that drapes softly over your curves’:

"Lands End red dress"

Me admiring my new dress

When it arrived, I was really impressed with the weight and the quality of the fabric, and it really did feel like it draped softly over my curves. I even got a surprised ‘it looks quite nice actually’ from Boyfriend, which is a big compliment.

The one thing I wasn’t sure about though was the colour, as it looked much pinker on the website than it did in the flesh. This could just be me though. I have a grey bag that everyone else swears is green, so I’m possibly not the best judge.

"Lands End dress"

Bee goes for a ‘look thoughtfully into the distance Mummy’ shot.

What I love about this dress though is that it’s so versatile – you can wear it really casually with some flip-flops and a ponytail, or dress it right up with a nice belt, heels and some fancy jewellery.

"Lands End dress"

Add a belt and some heels and tada!

And I do often find myself having to go straight from a day out on the beach to a jazzy cocktail party. OK, not often maybe, but if I did have to do that, I would certainly be well prepared now.

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I don’t often buy new shoes. To be honest I hate shopping for shoes. It’s a good job that no one has (as yet) offered me a part in a Sex And The City remake, because I really would suck at it. I spend most of my time in a pair of black flats from Clarks, that Bee calls my ‘Topsy shoes’ as she reckons they would look good on Topsy of ‘Topsy and Tim’ fame. I think Topsy is about four years old.

I also have very unsexy wide feet, with comedy lightbulb toes, so it’s hard to find shoes that are comfy. My feet are really not my best feature.

When I do get a new pair of shoes then, it is a big deal and I have to genuinely love them. My new shoes are red and beautiful and make me feel happy. My family agrees that they are ‘very me’, which I think is an insult, but I’m trying to ignore that. They are by Clarks, but I got mine through Zalando. Before I even put them on I loved them. Before they even arrived I loved them.

Watch this short clip and imagine this is me talking about my shoes:

 

Now you get the idea. Aren’t they lovely though?

"red clarks shoes"

 

And here they are on the end of my legs. I think they look very happy.

"my new shoes"

 

They are very me and I like that.

*smiles and skips away like fictional four-year-old character*

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I want you just to take a minute.

Close your eyes and picture this scene. (Except don’t close your eyes, because then you won’t be able to read.)

You’re lying face down in a warm and sweet-smelling room. The children are miles away (in safe hands, not just abandoned at a motorway service station), and you’ve spent the day relaxing, reading your favourite book, taking the odd dip in the hydrotherapy pool and being brought cups of tea. Later on you’ll be enjoying a wonderful meal, and right now you are being massaged by a man with the looks of David Beckham, the wit of Stephen Fry and the credit card limit of Bill Gates.

All this could be yours.*

"win a spa break"If you’re in desperate need of a time out, then you need to pop along right now and enter the Four Pillars Hotels competition to win a weekend spa break for two – a whole two days and two nights of pampering, including dinner, treatments and, in my opinion the best bit of staying in a hotel – breakfast. I don’t know what it is about the breakfast, but somehow it feels really special. I think it’s the toast racks and the tiny jars of jam.

Enter now for your chance to indulge in the delights of miniature jams. And the spa obviously. Don’t forget that.

*Apart from the quality of the masseur. I absolutely cannot promise that.

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As Belle has moved into year six this September, over the next few weeks we have to go through the process of applying for her place at secondary school.

You might think I’d be an old hand at choosing schools, but actually I’ve never really thought about it much before. My choice of primary school has mainly been driven by things like a nice smell, or a particularly attractive male teacher, and when it came to choosing a big school for Bee, we were living in Bridgwater, less than a mile from the school that pretty much everyone in my family has been to, so not a lot of comparing of league tables went on there.

Now we’re in Bristol though, it’s a bit different. I know nothing about the schools, and although other parents seem to have known since birth where they want their little darlings to be educated, I’ve found it difficult to drum up any enthusiasm for the subject until recently. Even now ‘enthusiasm’ would be a strong word. ‘Obligation’ is probably more like it.

This week then, we went to our very first open evening at a local all girls school that has recently gone from being fee-paying to an academy.

“Do you think there will be drinks?” Bee asked Belle as we walked down the hill.

“Yes,” she answered decisively.

“How about cakes?”

“Probably…”

“No,” I interrupted.

“…not.” finished Belle, seamlessly.

If  ‘finding the entrance’ is part of the selection process, I fear we may have reduced our chances already, as it took us ten minutes and three attempts to even get in. When we did, we were greeted and shown around by a carefully chosen selection of wonderfully smiley and polite young girls in blazers. Rather too smiley in my opinion. A little bit Stepford Wives.

The school seemed fine. It had desks and chairs and everything, and far more computers than we had in my day obviously. Cue jokes from my children and Boyfriend about writing on slates and counting spearheads.

How do you know though whether a school is right for your child? It was the evening, meaning I couldn’t do my usual trick of judging the smell of the school dinners, so I was at a bit of a loss. It had everything a school should have facilities wise, but how do I know if it has that something that will ensure the right balance for Belle of fun, discipline, ambition and independence?

To add to the frustration, it’s doubtful that we’ll get much choice even if I should have a preference, as Bristol is well-known for being difficult when it comes to admissions. In that case, perhaps I should be focussing on the argument that says it’s support at home that’s what’s really important when it comes to achievement?

That sounds a bit too much like hard work for me though. Homework? Projects? Educational days out? I’d rather not. I quite like the idea that school is responsible for stimulating and educating her, and that I’m in charge of chillaxing. I always feel less guilty about her watching TV if she has been at school during the day.

Looks like boarding school it is.

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So I thought I’d tell you about it. It’s not very interesting, but it’s been a while since I told a proper story, without so much as a mention of a product of any kind, so here you go. What a treat!*

Yesterday I took Bee to the dentist for some fillings. (That’s not the funny thing. In fact it’s funny that I’ve not had to take her sooner, given that she has clearly inherited my horrible rotten teeth.)

As she is now practically a grown-up, she went upstairs on her own for her appointment. I also get a little bit funny around dentists, and have to count things to stop feeling panicky, and I didn’t want to have to sit on the one chair in the room with Belle on my lap, wriggling about and blocking my view of the phone cord by the door that I like to count the loops of.**

So anyway, waiting downstairs away from the drill I felt much calmer, and didn’t need to count anything at all. In fact, I spent a good ten minutes instead horrifying myself with Men’s Health magazine. Honestly, it was dreadful. Pages and pages of different exercises for your abs, interspersed with pictures of women in their pants and articles telling you how size really does matter. It’s no wonder men are insecure is it? No-one actually cares about abs, and most women I know would take an offer to do the washing up over an abnormally large penis any day.

Where was I?

Oh yes, the dentist.

So, I’d been sat there, fretting about the state of the media, for about ten minutes, when a man walks in with a large camera. (Not a euphemism). He has arrived, it transpires, to take pictures of the surgery for the company’s website, and for the Business of Dentistry Magazine, which looked actually rather stylish for such a dull sounding publication, and probably has far less ab exercises in it.

"dental x-ray"

My teeth pose for a picture

One of the receptionists, a red-head, immediately turned the colour of her hair, and the other patients in the waiting room looked like they’d rather have teeth pulled than get involved, which was fortunate really, given our location. The second receptionist though, an older woman in the brightest blue eyeshadow you have ever seen, was well up for it, and was cracking jokes about contacting her agent and winning an oscar.

Belle and I of course played it cool. I waited at least two seconds to volunteer us to play the roles of ‘interested looking customers’. You know I don’t like being the centre of attention after all. (Oh no, hang on a minute, that’s a lie). Anyway, I’d actually brushed my hair before I went out, which doesn’t happen often, so I thought I should make the most of it.

So while Bee was upstairs, having adrenalin accidentally injected into one of her blood vessels, (which I did feel afterwards that perhaps I should have been there for), Belle and I pretended to look fascinated by some floss, while the photographer snapped away. It was quite fun really, and meant we could casually say to Bee when she came down that we’d ‘just done a quick dental photo shoot’, which sounded funny, and is ironic, given the state of my teeth.

Who knows where this could lead? This year it’s the Business of Dentistry Magazine, next year I might be in my pants for Men’s Health…

*Heavy sarcasm implied here, as it really isn’t a very interesting story.

**In case you ever want to try it, I should warn you that counting the loops on a phone cord is very hard to do without hurting your eyes. Every time I blink I have to start again.

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Bee is a bit of a dab hand in the kitchen when she wants to be, and after giving her recipe books as Christmas and birthday presents for the last two or three years, she has recently finally got the hint and started making me some cakes.

“Hooray!” I cheered.

“Is that why you’ve been buying me cake books all this time?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

Well dur.

For ages now I’ve been wanting her to try out the giant silicone beehive cake mould we got from Betterware. I thought it would be cute, a Bee baking bees, so this week she gave it a go.

This is the mould, and this is what you’re aiming for in the end:

"beehive cake mould"

"beehive cake"

She used this recipe, taken from the Betterware blog, created especially for the mould:

You will need

  • 170g Clear Honey
  • 140g Unsalted Butter
  • 85g Light Muscovado Sugar
  • 2 Medium eggs
  • 200g Self Raising Flour
  • Bee Hive Silicone Mould

Inside the cake

  • 55g Icing Sugar
  • 1 tablespoon Clear Honey
  • Hot Water

To decorate

  • 75g Icing Sugar
  • Water


Here’s what you do

  1. First up pre heat the oven to 180c/350f/Gas 3
  2. Grease the inside of your mould lightly with butter or cake release. Make sure you grease every crease and fold to ensure your cake is easily removed once baked. This is a really crucial bit, so I stood and watched over Bee’s shoulder as she greased, saying really unhelpful and annoying things like ‘make sure you grease everywhere really well’.
  3. Add the honey, muscovado sugar, butter and a tablespoon of water into a large pan. Gently heat until the mixture is melted
  4. Beat eggs and sieve flour Everything seemed to be going well at this point, so I retired to the lounge for a little sit down.
  5. Remove from the heat and mix in the eggs and flour
  6. Spoon mixture evenly into both sides of the mould and bake for 40 to 45 minutes. Your cake should be springy to touch. Poke a sharp knife through the cake, if it comes out clean your cake is ready. I’d been sitting down for some time, and was getting concerned that the spooning stage was lasting quite a long time. I went into the kitchen, where I found Bee looking grumpy. “It’s rubbish,” she said, “you can’t put it in the oven because it just flops all over the place.” I gave her one of the looks I always mean to be sympathetic but which tend to come out as patronising, got out a baking tray to put it on, and we were back on track.
  7. Leave to cool on a wire rack before gently removing the cake from the mould

It was at the ‘bake for 40-45mins’ bit that things went a bit wrong. 40 -45mins is a long time, and after 30 minutes, our beehive was already blackening around the edges. Whether it was user or designer error I don’t know, but the mould had bent out of shape, weighed down with cake mixture, meaning it didn’t rise evenly. I think we’d need to practise this a bit.

"beehive in the mould"

On the plus side,  the pattern looked really good when you turned it out, but the way it had risen just wasn’t conducive to constructing a beehive. We tried trimming it, to create flat surfaces that we could stick together, but the amount we had to trim meant we were really just left with a 2D drawing of a beehive.

"beehive cake"

I asked Bee to sum up her beehive baking experience, and here’s what she said:

Pros

  • Recipe was easy to do
  • Mould was easy to grease
  • Pattern came out nicely

Cons

  • Mould was a bit flimsy
  • Rose weirdly
  • Wasn’t the tastiest cake ever
  • Couldn’t stick together
  • Got annoyed with it a lot

So there you go, that sums it up pretty nicely I think.

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Recently, I asked you how much pocket money you thought I should give Belle.

We’d been trying out Roosterbank, a new online saving and shopping site for children, and not content with spending her birthday money, Belle was, unsurprisingly, keen on the idea of securing herself a regular income.

Now, in my post I said that I would take everyone’s comments, and try to come up with an average amount that would then become Belle’s weekly allowance. What I didn’t bank on however, (Get it? Bank? I’m so funny…), was you all being so darn flash with your cash. Seriously, five pounds pocket money a week?? What do you think I am, made of money??

Still, a promise is a promise.

Although technically I’m not sure I did actually promise…

However, I have decided to offer Belle a basic rate of two pounds a week. For this, I expect her to do some basic things around the house, such as keeping her bedroom tidy, taking her plate out to the kitchen, not intentionally grinding food into the carpet, that sort of thing. So that’s it right?

Wrong.

Now I have another problem that I need your help with.

Once the money has officially left my purse and entered Belle sweaty palm, how much control can I maintain over what she does with it? Now obviously I’m not going to condone her saving up and splashing out on ten Benson and Hedges, but exactly how free a rein should she be allowed? If she decides for instance that she wants to spend two whole pounds every week or sherbet, am I allowed to step in, for the sake of everyone’s sanity, or should I leave her to make her own decisions?

Using Roosterbank does to some extent alleviate this problem, as their site stocks lots of lovely, wholesome age-appropriate toys. It also requires me as the parent part of the account to approve every purchase, so we’ll never find ourselves in the position where a replica gun or a live guinea pig turns up on the doorstep without my prior knowledge.*

Roosterbank is designed though to give you the flexibility to spend your savings when you’re out and about too, not just through the site, so if we’re in Primark on a Saturday afternoon** and she insists she wants to blow everything on a pair of gem-encrusted denim hotpants, do I retain the right to say ‘no child of mine is being seen in those’ and drag her off to Waterstones instead?

Where do the boundaries lie? Please help me decide…

*I don’t think Roosterbank stock these anyway.

**Heaven forbid.

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Do you know how much it costs to kit out your kids for school? Well, according to a recent survey by Staples, 12 years of schooling for my two children would cost £5,033! And that’s just back to school costs like school uniform, sports kit and stationery. I’m a bit of a stationery geek, so most of this is probably spent actually in Staples in my case.

This total equates to £209.72 per child at the start of each school year.

Bloody hell.

And that’s not all. Think of all the costs throughout the year too – school trips, raffle tickets, the extortionate amount you have to spend on ‘smencils’, just so your daughter isn’t cast out of her friendship group for not having handwriting that smells of root beer. The list is endless. I thought I’d put together a few top tips for you, to save money on your children’s clothes, pencils, and other back to school essentials:

  • "school bag"Forget OFSTED reports, send your child to the school that is closest. It seems obvious, but not everyone does it. According to experts at What Car? the school run adds £52 to the annual fuel bill of the average family. £52 could buy you at least two bottles of decent gin. You do the maths.
  • Shop around for the best deals on uniform, and don’t buy things at obvious times of the year. Clearly Clarks are not going to have a sale on in late August, but do you really need to buy shoes then? Spread the costs over the year instead, taking advantage of offers when you see them. (Like the 20% off the new 6-12 years range of kids clothes at Polarn O. Pyret at the moment.)
  • Better yet, send them to a school with no school uniform. Like I do.
  • Want to save money on stationery? Don’t bother forking out on yet another set of pencils, instead, just have a look under the sofa cushions and behind bookcases. Seriously, every time I lift up a sofa cushion I find a pencil. I swear there must be about 369 pencils in the average family house. All you have to do is find them.

And if that doesn’t save you enough, take them out of school to ‘home educate’ them and send them up chimneys instead. I’m pretty sure that’s allowed.

Happy saving!

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