Flying high

Women’s magazines have a cyclical stock article pool and one that has always bemused me is the one on travel tips for stylish yet comfortable flights.  I’ve read it in many guises for as many years and essentially the advice remains the same.  Suggestions of ‘luxe’ leisurewear.  Travel pack essentials to include cashmere scarves to double as blankets, coconut water and raisins, organic lavender oil spritzes to ‘freshen up’ before you change into the arrival friendly outfit you’ve stashed into your Louis Vuitton hold-all.  The aim seems to be to swan through the airport with nary a queue in sight, effortlessly sporting your hold-all over one arm (magic luggage inside that is in no way heavy), sleep on the flight or read inspiring holiday literature and then emerge into your tropical destination with perfect hair and skin sporting a crumple free maxi dress as you waltz into the sunset.

Nobody in the history of fucking time travels like that.  With the exception of maybe Kate Middleton.  And she’s a bloody princess and travels on a private plane with a butler, nanny and assorted royal back scratchers.  Even then I bet she loses her shit with the kids when they announce they need a piss just when the plane has started its final descent.

We all know that magazines pedal impossible dreams but seriously?! I’m writing this on a plane travelling from New Orleans to Boston and let me just break down the flight for you.

To catch this flight we had a 7 hour drive the day before, by English standards that’s a “bloody long way” #technicalterm but not so much by the vastness of America standards.  Driving in America is, to be fair, pretty sodding easy.  Most of the roads don’t even have bends in them.  Point the car in the direction of your travel and just keep on keeping on.  You don’t even have to change gear.  Watch the repeating vista of McDonald’s, Cracker Barrel, Sonic, Starbucks, Waffle House, IHOP and gas stations which signal each junction of the interstate unfold.  Pick one when you need sustenance or a piss and then back to the drive. Oh look another Waffle House…….

Add to the mix a very overloaded car and two small children.  Then just to make it that bit more fun let’s just say one of the kids has a rotavirus from hell.  It’s a lovely and enriching travel experience for everyone to stop at Starbucks for much needed caffeinated fuel only to have your 8 year old magnificently projectile vomit over the floor, rest room, another bit of the floor.  I mean who wouldn’t want to run towards the toilets with a child under your arm, fountains of vomit splattering onto the floor, shouting ‘oh my goodness I’m so so sorry we’ve ruined your coffee’ to the customers by the worst pools as you fling handfuls of starbucks napkins in your wake in a vain attempt to cover the worst of the devastation.

If you’re reading Starbucks then it would make a totally effective marketing campaign.  Your staff were super lovely with mop duties AND no fucking coffee EVER tasted that good or was that NEEDED as the cappuccino I had after that incident.  Amy Schumer could play me.  I’d let her.

A lovely relaxing night though in an airport hotel was just the tonic and left us perky and flight ready.  Woah there tiger. Did I really just use a sentence containing  both the words ‘relaxing’ and ‘airport hotel’ in? Sorry, my bad.  Airport hotels are ALWAYS shit.  Even the good ones.  They’re noisy with plane noise (strange that given that they’re AIRPORT hotels), there’s guests coming and going to catch flights at all times of the day and night.  The decor is an 80s time warp and the rooms are always ridiculously hot.

All that’s a given.

But that’s not all.  Add spending the whole night tending to a puking child who also now has the runs. Making a nest for him on the floor by the bathroom of towels and pillows, emptying out wastebins to use as buckets, trying to keep the other sleeping healthy child both in quarantine and asleep, trying to doze in between bouts of puking whilst keeping one ear open for any murmer of impending bum geyser to ensure Usain Bolt speed sprint/tackle to toilet location manoeuvres.

So, all in all I think we all arrived at the airport a little ‘jaded’.  By ‘jaded’ I mean ‘wanting to curl up into a little ball and hibernate’.  But even when you’re in peak physical condition airports are a complete endurance test.

I’ve already failed the first magazine article ‘essential’ – I’m not wearing luxe leisurewear, I’m not carrying a handy cashmere blanket and I haven’t applied extra moisturisers to combat the perilous drying conditions on flights.

I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes with the exception of knickers (clean.  One has some standards, albeit low) and my hair scragged up into a bun on the top of my head.  No makeup or any other beauty product but I’m quite impressed that I have at least showered and brushed my teeth.  Breakfast is a peanut granola bar purchased in the airport because strangely enough after a night of vom I’m in no mood to tackle the breakfast buffet in the hotel.  We have 5 suitcases, a huge rucksack, 2 boostapack car seats, coats, handbags and a Moana popcorn bucket which has been repurposed into our portable bucket of doom.

For the first time in our trip all 5 of the cases are under the weight limit and if my husband and I weren’t at the ‘I bloody hate you, I hate everyone but I realllllllly hate you this morning please god make this stop and get me a coffee you twat’ stage of child sickness/travel stress we would totally have high fived at the avoidance of the Miami airport jigsaw puzzle of packing and repacking the cases on the floor in front of check-in, holding up the line and getting massive scowls from the American Airlines bitch incident.

Going through security is always stressful.  With kids even more so.  There’s nothing you can do to make it easier.  The line is long and you have the constant ‘I’m hot mummy.  My rucksack is heavy can you carry it?’ ‘Why is this queue so long?’ ‘Mummy so why can’t you take GUNS through security?’ ‘Shhhhhh’ ‘Do people make BOMBS?? I MAKE BOMBS on minrcraft’ ‘shut up right now’ ‘I do I BLEW UP A TOWN’ ‘anyone know who this kid is because he’s not mine’.  Then you’re at the front of the queue and it’s even more flustering than the Aldi checkout.

At speed you have to take shoes, belts, bracelets off you and 2 small people and empty iPads/kindles/phones/assorted teddies into the grey trays.  At New Orleans our stuff took up 10 trays.  Not even joking. Then the 8 year olds ADSD tendencies kick in and he won’t walk through the gate on his own.  The underwriting on my massive boulder holder bras sets the alarm off and we’ve forgotten to take the bottle of water out of the bag so get a naughty telling off.  (Although hey, at least we aren’t subject to the disgusting race bias of stopping and searching anyone brown we’ve seen in US airports).

You just know your gate will be the furthest one from security.  Getting snacks from the airport shops costs as much as a full meal in a gourmet restaurant.

But you can relax on the flight right?  Snuggle into your cashmere blanket slash muddy cagoule whilst applying a generous layer of creme de la mer slash nothing because your toileteries are in your case and reading your edifying literature slash oh shit I forgot to charge my kindle.

We are getting to be old hands at flying with the kids now.  Do I have any pearls of wisdom for you? Do I bollocks.  It’s an endurance test of epic proportions.  iPads for the kids, gin from cabin service for you. That’s all I’ve got.  The following incidents  will most likely happen on the flight:

1. Someone will drop something and cry until you’ve contorted yourself into a position no 41 year old can manage without needing a subsequent chiropractic session to retrieve it.
2. They will demand chewing gum the minute you board to avoid ear popping then announce they don’t like it and stash the chewed gooey mess in your hand.  Nice.
3. My 8 year old reads the safety card in full on each and every flight then starts a half hour q&a session on disaster management strategies ‘so mummy would you go down the slide first into the sea or would I? I don’t really want the sea to go in my eyes’ ‘don’t think we’d give a shit about water in our eyes if the plane had just crashed in the sea’ ‘well I have got my goggles in my case so maybe we could swim to our case and get them’ ‘good luck with that, we stayed in Florida a week before we located them in our mountain of luggage and that was on dry land and not in a disaster scenario’
4. At least one person will spill a drink (i will admit that’s often me)
5. There will be a loud ‘I need a poo’ announcement and then a queue situation in which a discussion about ‘that lady must have needed a MASSIVE POO because she’s taking FOREVER’ will occur.
6. The refreshments will have run out of the 3 things they’ll consent to eat. Then they’ll moan about being hungry and eat all your snacks they’ve previously dismissed and then you’re hungry.
7. iPad headphones will mean they SHOUT everything to you.
8. Forget the fuck about napping/reading/even thinking without constant interruptions (I wrote earlier I was writing this on a plane. I was in 3 minute intervals.  I’m now finishing it a day later in Boston)
9. They’ll need a wee or poo the minute the seatbelt light goes on.

iPads for them and gin for you.  They both help a bit.

Thankfully the gods of travel were smiling on us and the flight passed with only the usual annoyances and the Moana bucket of doom wasn’t used.

Nobody changes their clothes to get off a plane.  I put on some flip flops instead of trainers once just before we landed and was incredibly smug at my packing foresight.  A whole outfit though? Airplane toilets are very small.  Even first class ones (which I’ve discovered are the one perk to travelling with kids, cabin crew are more than keen to let you sneak up front to avoid a kid piss on the floor scenario and I’ve enough cabin crew mates to know they hate the posh twats in first class anyway).  And somewhere in the queue behind you as you wriggle into your beautiful maxi dress, trying to avoid dragging it over the piss soaked floor, there’s a kid in the queue announcing to the whole plane that you have the shits because you’ve been in there so freaking long.

My pre-disembarking beauty regime is to re-do my scraggy bun, brush the worst of the crumbs off my trousers and maybe applying a bit of lip balm if I can locate it in that stupid plastic bag of liquid things bag.  That annoys me.  How is it a security measure? Do terrorists think, gah my fiendish plan is foiled now my lipstick must go in a plastic bag and I can’t take a bottle of water with me? Unlikely.  Once I went mad and applied actual lipstick but an ill advised selfie revealed it made me look like a crazed clown.

We always have an argument with the 6 year old at the baggage reclaim due to his insistence that he’s strong enough to heft every suitcase off the carousel.  He isn’t. Then another one about why he isn’t allowed to ride on said carousel.
I’m willing to accept that it wouldn’t sell as many magazines to write articles reflecting true to life travel experiences.  Advertisers aren’t going to queue up to provide glossy spreads of portable buckets of doom.  But actual TRAVEL is the necessary evil of TRAVELLING.  Getting from A to B is a massive ball ache.  The adventure is not in the journey.  The prize is in arriving in one piece and then making the most of your destination.

Heat wave – Italian shepherd’s pie – slow cooker

Well, I most definitely picked the right summer to stop office work and go back to being a SAHM. It’s just been beautiful weather and what a difference it makes to everyone’s mood eh?! If I was sat at work right now – writing yet another tedious legal letter to yet another idiot with nothing better to do than make complaints to all and sundry and I had to just gaze forlornly out of the window at blue skies I think I’d be very very miserable indeed. I do feel truly blessed this last couple of weeks to be back home with my boys and enjoying this lovely weather with them. We’ve basically lived outside for a couple of weeks now. Meals outside (love the fact that mess on floor outside is fine – in fact it’s bird food. That’s like nature conservation innit. Educational and all that. Not a sign of mummy being slovenly), painting outside, paddling pool outside, huge rows between brothers and pushing each other down the slide outside. I’m pretty sure my neighbours are getting a bit sick of me bollocking the boys very loudly several times a day (who am I kidding – several times an hour more like) but we’ve got high fences so out of sight out of mind!

I made this Italian shepherd’s pie a couple of weeks ago and it was really yummy. I made it again this week – I’d frozen a portion of the meat mixture and this time I topped it with sweet potato, carrot and potato mash. I served it to 5 toddlers aged between 2 and 4 – one of which is notoriously fussy and vegetable shy – and they all ate it up. I did use the promise of ice cream for pudding as a bargaining chip, but that my friends is the way of the toddler feeding negotiation world.

I used the slow cooker for the mince as I think it’s great on a hot day to whack it on and forget about it. I then made mash later on in the day and assembled the pie for tea time. But it can all be done in stages. The mince could be out in fridge overnight and mash done the next day and I use due below to make pies for 4 of us and then froze a portion of meat and defrosted it and made a pie for a load more kids. It stretches well so is really a cheap meal despite lamb mince being quite pricey.

Italian shepherd’s pie

250g lamb mince
Shallot or onion
2 cloves garlic minced/grated
2 carrots chopped
Courgette chopped
1/2 green pepper
Large handful puy or green lentils
Tin chopped tomatoes
Tbsp tomato purée
75ml white wine or vermouth
Teaspoon oregano
Tiny pinch dried chili flakes
Bay leaf

Fry off in a non stick frying pan the shallot for 3 minutes then add lamb mince and brown for another 3 minutes – then add wine, tomatoes and stir

While that’s all frying chop veg and throw into slow cooker (on high setting). Add the lamb, tomato mixture and refill tomato can half way with water. Add herbs and spices and give a quick stir.

Keep slow cooker on high for 30 mins then turn down low for the rest of the day.

Toppings – this makes a lovely take on a shepherd’s pie. (Although it’s also good with pasta)

I mashed potato with butter beans and Parmesan to go on top. I boiled potatoes (sorry but I forgot to weigh how much!) and them 3 mins from end of cooking I added a drained can of butter beans. Drained the potatoes and beans and then returned to pan with a knob of butter and a couple of tablespoons of grated Parmesan cheese. Mash up. (Not in a glee club mix of Aerosmith and Rhianna way. In a use a masher and squidge kind of way)

Put sauce in an oven proof dish, top with mash, add more grated cheese if you want them bake in oven around 185c for around 25 mins.

Enjoy!

Crunch time – recipe for nigella’s sweet and salty crunch bars

So, some more big changes ahead……after 9 months back in the workplace I’m going back to the world of SAHM. Lots of reasons too long to go into here but essentially I miss the boys, the boys miss me, the job is OK but massively underpaid and understimulating and the thought of not being the one at the school gate when Corey starts in September makes me want to weep. It is definitely the best course of action for our family at this time. The boys need me even more now hubby is working away all the time again. I think that I need to be the constant in their lives. I’m not looking at the life of a SAHM with rose-tinted spectacles. I know that it will be equally fun and frustrating, more flexible yet more constrained, busy yet sometime lonely. In fact it’s the loneliness that I’m most concerned about. Especially when husband is away – I used to find that on weeks where I’d only seen small people because for whatever reason friends were about I was more than a bit mental by the weekend. You know those weeks? The one where the window cleaner calls for money and you bend his ear off for half an hour because you haven’t spoken to anyone over the age of 4 for days? Actually, my window cleaner is a bad example – I do try and speak to him but a) I think his verbal skills are limited to that of a 4 year old and b) he finds it hard to look me in the eye since the time he cleaned the windows when I was 9 months pregnant and was in my bedroom (with the curtains open) wearing only maternity pants. He nearly fell off his fecking ladder. I kind of miss those big knickers. Fact. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Also a fact.

I’m looking forward to doing more baking – although I need to make sure that I don’t do more eating! I am looking forward to being able to spend time with just Mitch once Corey goes to school and have already started making lists of fun days out and nice things for us to do together. I think we’ve managed to sort the childcare so that I should still have 1 day a week with no children so I’m looking forward to using that time to be crafty and pursue some new things maybe. Folks keep mentioning to me about writing a book – I might look into that a bit more. Who knows, I might even keep the house cleaner? Or do some hocus pocus magic to get more money so I can pay a cleaner? I hate cleaning.

In the run up to making this decision there’s been some angst and soul-searching – I’ve been worried about losing the sense of ‘me’ as a person independent to the kids, worried about the future impacts of spending so long out of the job market, worried about starting to feel ground down by the relentless nature of being a SAHM. But on a list of pros and cons – without a doubt the pros definitely outweigh the cons. I think that today there is so much pressure on women to have it all – work in a fantastic well paid professional job, look amazing and slim, have fantastic well rounded kids with educational hobbies and bake, sew, clean. It’s just not possible. I hate the fact that I used to feel like I had to justify my decision to stay at home with the kids. ‘Just a SAHM’ is bandied around. It’s not right – it’s so much more than that. It’s a lifestyle decision and has a validity in its own right. It IS work and it IS valuable and this time round I hope that I feel more confident in answering so will you EVER go back to work again/aren’t you bored/do you just meet up with friends for coffee all the time/how lucky you are to be a lady who lunches questions with a better quip and answer about putting my children’s needs first and that yes I am lucky we are in this financial position but actually it’s very hard work.

Several things have helped me make my decision. A nice trip to the park with the kids and my friend and her kids in the sunshine – well I found it nice. She was a tad alarmed by her innocuous ‘how was your week?’ enquiry being met with wails and sobs by the swings! I vented, I felt better. Think she went away feeling more drained! *note to self – make her a cake to say thanks* Actually one thing I need to really learn to do as I get older, and I think I am getting a bit better, is to actually reach out to people for help and advice when I am finding things tough. All my life really I think I have given an air of ‘I can do it on my own and I know best and don’t need any help from anyone thank you very much’ vibe. And a lot of the time that’s true – I am really independent, I have proved myself to be capable and adaptable and rise to new challenges. But I also am guilty of taking on too much and feeling like I have to be the best at everything I do and juggle everything on my own. When I was at home with the boys before I was feeling increasingly tired and brow-beaten by it all and unwell but I never really reached out to my friends or family for help until it was too late and I was bedridden with pneumonia. Since then I have tried to be a bit more honest with people – I’ve asked friends to come and keep me company, admitted to people how lonely and upset it makes me when husband is away so much, accepted offers of meals and help from family. When my folks came to stay the other week I got takeaway pizza for everyone instead of my usual busying around cooking a massive meal for everyone and I really enjoyed it. Sometimes it’s best to keep it simple. I am not super-woman, I can’t do it all. I’d rather spend an hour playing with my boys or learning to knit than scrubbing the bathroom floor. And do you know what? I can and that’s what I choose to do. I am finally coming to the realisation that I don’t need to apologise for it, I’m an adult and can choose how to live my life without justifying it. I have to put my little family’s needs first and as long as I do that it doesn’t matter if I am living up to the expectations of others and there is no value in spending time worrying about things that are out of my control. Although at some point, admittedly, that floor will need cleaning. I am hoping it’s like dreadlocks and if I leave it long enough it will eventually start self-cleaning.

The second thing that helped was making Nigella’s sweet and salty crunch bars. They were like little food orgasms. As it says on the tin – they’re sweet AND salty (and crunchy). Even husband liked them and he has a long-standing pretence of not liking sweet things. I say pretence as he can eat a whole bowl of crumble and custard without even swallowing and never refuses a dessert. But no, he’s not got a sweet tooth. Well at least it prevents me from eating it ALL.

Recipe – Sweet and salty crunch bars
Ingredients

300g chocolate – I went for milk chocolate because that’s what Nigella says but you could use dark and milk
125g unsalted butter
3 tablespoons golden syrup
200g salted peanuts
4 normal size crunchie bars
Melt chocolate, syrup and butter together – either in a pan or in a pyrex jug in the microwave.

Tip the peanuts into a bowl, and crush up the crunchies with your hands, letting the golden-glinting rubble (Nigella’s words) fall into the nuts. I defy you not to lick your fingers!

Add melted chocolate stuff to the peanuts and crushed honeycomb candy, then tip straight into a baking tray – I like to line mine with foil. Smooth the top of the mixture as much as you can, pressing down with a silicon spatula. Put into the refrigerator for about 4 hours, and once set, cut into slices as desired.

Make Ahead Note: The bars can be made 1 day ahead. Transfer slices to airtight container, layered with parchment paper, and store in refrigerator. Keeps for 3 to 4 days.

The third thing was a night blowing off some steam with my lovely friends. These ladies are relatively new friends who I’ve met online. Flipping heck we have some laughs. You know when you meet people and you just ‘click’. We clicked. We clicked a lot over an even larger amount of wine and laughs. Wine, pie, cake and dancing like lunatics to MTV accompanied with a lot of swearing. I really really needed that. Thanks ladies. Although I’m not sure I thank you for the cricked neck from said crazy dancing and the fact that I still felt vaguely hungover a day and a half later!

So, a few more days of work work and then back to home work. I’m excited. I love my boys. I love my home. It’s right. It’s time. And if I get stressed I’ll make a batch of the crunch bars and then invite the girls round for some more raucous dancing!

You spin me right round, baby, right round

When I moved up to Manchester 6 years ago it was meant to be a big single woman adventure. Clearly that adventure quite quickly turned into a different less ‘single’ and more ‘pregnant and married’ adventure – but for a couple of months I was THAT single professional woman. I had a personal trainer, my own posh flat in Didsbury, a great job and the freedom to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. Not that I miss those days of course. Well not much anyway. on days ending in a y

My reason for this trip down memory lane is that I think the last time I was sweating heavily to dance music and being slightly concerned about an overexuberant manic Mancunian shouting “fuckin’ ‘ave it” was probably within those two months of freedom. I may or may not have just snogged a guy 10 years my junior at the time and I may or may not have been indeed waving my hands (and various other parts) in the air like I just didn’t care. It may have also been in the period that I lost my mobile twice within a month. Ah happy days.

Now, as a middle class middle England mummy my thrills are somewhat limited. Some may call them non-existent. Not I. So tell me your thrills you say? Well, those ‘groovy moves’ segments on Show me – Show me are right floor fillers in our house (anyone else dance like they’re on aciiiiiiiiiid to this whilst their bemused kids look on looking worried? Oh. Just me then) and only the other day the Ocado delivery was a full 20 minutes before its allotted time – and I got super excited because that meant I could put the shopping away AND have an early night (as meanie austerity grump husband had made me book the cheapy late delivery slot).

Oh. My. Good. Lord. My life is somewhat tragic. I need some thrills. And not of the ‘Boden have sent me a gift voucher – free shopping. FREE SHOPPING PEOPLE *excited squeals*’ variety. (And as an aside – when the hell did I get quite so middle class?!)

So last night I went to my first ever spin class. To say I was a tad on the worried side would be an understatement. I have been doing pretty well on the losing weight front but my exercise regime has been patchy to put it politely. For some insane reason I thought that spin could be the way to go. Sold on the fact that it only takes half an hour and it seems to appeal to sporty types I decided to give it a go. It fits in with my plan to get fit for 2013 and I wanted to push myself a bit out of my comfort zone. Well as far out of my comfort zone as my Sweaty Betty Cheshire gym uniform would carry my wobbly bottom.

From my detailed research on IG it would appear that spin divides us. Even some of the fitties I follow (and am a bit jealous of!) on there wished me luck and some even said that they didn’t like it. Other of the less fitties (I love them) were aghast at the prospect. I was BRICKING IT.

My main concerns were as follows:
1. Falling off bike in front of room of people (I am renowned for my clumsiness)
2. Falling off bike in a sweaty asthmatic mess
3. Hobbling off bike crying that I couldn’t continue
4. Being shouted at by a fitness-nazi-leader

Well none of the first 3 happened. But there was a LOT of SHOUTING (I shouted in capital letters there, just in case you missed it.) And SWEARING (again, in a shouty way).

I’m quite a fan of swearing. A big fan actually. It’s not big and it’s not clever, but it makes me laugh and feel, therefore, both big and clever! So feckin’ there. I think it’s a reaction to being brought up in a basically non-swearing household. My mum NEVER swears. Well, apart from a brief period in about 1990 when she thought that ‘tw*t’ and ‘twit’ were essentially the same word. My sister and I used to fall on the floor laughing whenever she called someone a ‘tw*t’ and she soon got wind of the true meaning. I don’t think she’s sworn since (apart from the time I took her to see the Vagina Monologues and she shouted that word at the top of her voice in accordance with the audience participation requirements. It was one of the most cringeworthy moments of my life – and that’s saying something as there have been many many embarrassing moments in my life) and my dad only swears when my mum is out. Because like all good husbands, he’s a bit scared of her.

When I got to the spinning class I introduced myself to the class leader and he seemed a mild-mannered bespectacled bald man in his 40s. Onto my bike I got. Mild trauma when I realised it was so high that I couldn’t reach the pedals. Or get down very well to adjust the saddle height. And then when I vaulted down to adjust them it was so bleeding dark in the room that I couldn’t see to adjust the sodding bike. I was also a tad concerned that the saddle hurt my arse before I’d even started pedalling. You’d think that a well padded derriere would make cycling more comfortable wouldn’t you? Apparently not the case.

The class started – the music was ramped up. And up. Very loud, very clubby dance music. Which I quite like. There was even disco balls and lights in the room. Then ‘Mr speccy mild manners’ turned into ‘Mr early 90s Hacienda lunatic’. The kind that clutched a bottle of water chewing frenetically and bellowing in people’s ears randomly.

The first time he shouting ‘fuckin’ go for it gang’ I thought I’d misheard him. The second time I got the giggles so badly that I nearly fell off my bike. He was a proper loon. I’d just got used to the sweary motivational shouting when the mental got off his bike and started running round the room shouting, swearing, dancing and turning people’s bikes up to high. By this point I was mildly hysterical. As I was also more than mildly sweaty and concentrating on not falling off the bike and wondering how the feck I was supposed to do push ups and cycle standing up I was able to control the giggles. Luckily they didn’t quite descend into the full-on-giggles-in-church/assembly/interview/court level of breathless, shoulder shaking, uncontrollable laughter.

Then it was all over. And you know what? It was the sweatiest, loudest, funniest, sweariest half hour that I’ve had in Christ knows how many years. I loved it! Definitely going again next week to see if it can be matched.

Today I do actually ache in places that I didn’t know were involved in the exercise. My thumbs ache. How the heck does cycling give you sore thumbs? And don’t even get me started on the episiotomy scar versus small hard saddle battle. Suffice to say, the saddle won that round.

But in a life that is undoubtedly lovely, comfortable, loving and has its fair share of laughs my thrills are few. And being shouted at by a baldy Mancunian ex-clubber whilst getting fitter and doing something challenging at the same time has increased my thrill factor by a significant ratio.

If you’re thinking of trying spinning and are put off by my tale then I am assured by my gym going colleagues that their spin classes are nothing like this. I’m just lucky I guess. So let’s feckin’ ‘ave it large and show that Chris and Poi what really groovy moves are.

Elf on the shelf (the power of Instagram)

We all know I loves me my Instagram. Partly because I get to see what all my lovely friends are buying and what their lovely children are playing with. (Everything is lovely in IG land – it’s the law). This Christmas along with the obligatory photos of unearthed cherished decorations and handmade wonky glitter spattered Christmas decorations lovingly crafted by the sprogs a new (to me at least) Christmas tradition caught my eye and I immediately became alarmingly obsessed with it and piqued my interest.

The “Elf on the Shelf”. That’s right. It’s an elf and it sits on a shelf. But it’s a flipping genius idea – not least for the authors who quite frankly must be laughing all the way to their elfing bank.

Premise is very simple – the elf (which your child names) sits somewhere in your house (location to be changed each day) and watches your sproglets to see if they are naughty or nice. At night the elf flies on back to the North Pole to tell Santa what’s been occurring. If he dobs you in to Santa for being a little shite then nada pressies are coming your way. There’s also a rule about not touching the elf as it wears the magic off apparently and you might get done under the Elf Inaporopriate Touching in the Workplace Act 2012.

The absolute confidence tricksters authors have been very clever as you cannot buy just the book and then get a cheap elf. Or buy the elf and make up the story. Oh no. The book and toy elf come as a package. Admittedly, it was nicely packaged and the book is lovely. But the RRP is thirty quid. Total rip off. But I found one for £21.99 which although is still astronomical I stumped up for.

The reason it was £21.99 was that it was – and I’m not making this part up – a “boy dark skinned” elf. Now, we are an equal opportunities elf household so elves of all colours, sexual persuasion and gender are welcome here. Unless they eat my Christmas biscuit stash. In that case they’re going to be straight back to the North Pole.

On the first day we got him Corey named him “Reddy Snow Morris” (‘cos the elf is red. Genius) and after much discussion the ground rules were set. “So can I touch him a little bit mummy?” “No, not at all” “not even like this *prods mummy in eye* with my little finger” “I think that would hurt him” “what about like this? *prod prod prod*” “do you want any sodding Christmas presents or not? Leave the poor elf and poor mummy alone”

So where has Reddy ended up?

The first morning he was on Corey’s lampshade flying the plane.

Then he was finishing off the Christmas decorations we made.

And this morning he had made himself a megabloks chair.

Corey is so thrilled with the whole idea I think they are worth the money. Just about. Mitch is a bit little still but seems to be enjoying the antics nonetheless even though he has no clue what it all means.

I hope he also reports back to Santa on mummy behaviour, as I’ve been very very good and most definitely deserve an iPad for Christmas!!