It had to happen. Six years, three kids, a gazillion Lego pieces. Sooner or later, one of those bits was going to go up someone’s nose. I’m only surprised it took so long. So, what do you do, if hooking it out with your little finger ain’t happening? How do you get a bit of Lego out of a kid’s nose? Disclaimer: If you’re reading this because your child actually has got a piece of Lego up their nose right now, and you’re concerned about their breathing or anything else, please call your doctor / go to A&E depending on your level of concern. I’m not a doctor, this is an anecdote (though it does feature the medical advice we were given – which obviously worked!). Oh, the irony: Lego figures don’t even have noses. As with most child injuries and incidents, I didn’t see what happened. One minute my middle child was happily playing, the next he’s poking at his nose as he sits on the loo. “Do you need a tissue?” I asked. “No.” A few minutes later I notice he is still prodding at the outside of his nose. ‘Unusual’, I thought. ‘What’s occurring?’ I wondered. At the time, middlie was 2 3/4, on the cusp of middle-toddlerdom: an age where they begin to have some self-awareness. I think he thought that I’d be cross if he blurted out what had happened, bless his little Lego-filled nostrils. Eventually he said, “There’s something up my nose.” “What?” I said. “A bit of Lego.” “What?!” I took a look – sure enough, there was a single-nub dark grey bit of Lego at the top of the poor lad’s left nostril. “How did it get there?” “I put it up.” Goggling at him and also, trying not to panic, I had a little assessment. He was breathing fine, I didn’t think it could go any further up and he was not distressed. One of the hundreds of very cute things about kids is the teeniness of their ‘trils. Picking a baby’s bogey is one of the most satisfying, if gross, parts of motherhood. But this bit was not for the picking. There was no way my finger would fit up there, and my son’s own had obviously been ineffective, so I moved to step 2. I called NHS Direct; they said call the doctor; my doctor said bring him in, then, when I said how old (young) he was, they said I had to go to the Urgent Care Clinic (like a mini A&E in our local mini-hospital). So I went, with both boys and my seven-month bump squirming as my nerves fed into the amniotic fluid. After a reassuringly long wait (so we weren’t urgent, then), we got called in. “Ah yes,” said the lovely triage nurse. “This is an easy one. Pop him up on the bed.” I did so, looking around for the magic suck-y machine to be wheeled in. “You’re going to do this one, dear,” she said. “Yes. We just need to close the nostril without the Lego in, cover his mouth completely with your mouth, then blow quite hard and it’ll just pop out. It’s much better if you do it rather than one of us, dear.” “Ah, great!” I said. “Got it!” Step 3: Resolution – and a Tip So, of course, I did what they said. The poor poppet looked slightly alarmed, but I reassured him and promised him lots more sweets. I’m surprised he didn’t get the giggles at my looming face – as I always do when I’m getting my eyes tested and the optician comes at me with his retina-seeking torchlight. I held the empty nostril shut, covered his mouth with mine and blew. Quite hard. Nothing. A bit more reassurance, then another swoop, this time with a sharper blow. It was out! I was jubilant! Next stop Grey’s Anatomy! Should you ever have to perform this act, I would strongly advise keeping the confectionary bribe till after the operation – if you want to avoid a mouthful of chocolatey washback. Everything Happens for A Reason, and Everything Is Awesome They say that everything happens for a reason. A pretty facile phrase, I thought. Until a couple of weeks later, literally, I got a call from the school. My friend’s son needed to be brought home and his mum was delayed, could I come? I went. “He’s a bit distressed,” said the school nurse. “He’s got a stone stuck up his nose.” You should have seen me! It was like on University Challenge, where there’s always one on the team that hasn’t said a word all programme, but then finally their subject comes up. “I know this! I know this one!” I almost shrieked. I carried the poor pup home, explaining all the way what I was going to do, and how it wouldn’t hurt, just a quick ‘puff!’ and it would be gone. All the while he was getting more and more distressed, as you can imagine, when a lady he barely knew was proposing to kiss him on the lips. In fact, his body must have revolted so much at the idea that his nasal membranes bridled, because the next thing I knew, he was saying happily, “Look! It fell out!” I don’t know which of us was more relieved. So there you have it. A double win. Everything was awesome.* *This is a quote from The Lego Movie. In case you didn’t know. Nominations for the BritMums Brilliance in Blogging awards open today! If you liked this, you could pop me in for the Laugh, Fresh Voice or Writer category – just click on one of the badges below.

Related Post: The Mummy Accident Form. Our kids come home with an accident form for the slightest scrape, but what about us? Where’s our George Clooney plaster and hug in a kindly nurse’s bosom? 

My son has just turned 10, and since then I’ve been on a weird high, like I’ve got some sort of promotion or something. I feel there should be a cash prize, or telegram from the Queen:

Congratulations: you have reared an offspring to double figures!

I feel proud. Proud of him: the fine child he has grown up to be – my happy, energetic (!), kind, imaginative and hilarious boy. And also, daringly, bashfully – I feel quite proud of me. I have not been broken by terrible nights, poo and sick eruptions, homework arguments, fearful, head-clenching worry and heart-bursting love. Or: I have been broken, and been remade stronger.

I’m not smug though. Boy, am I not smug! Every day is a new struggle, a fresh fail and a lesson learnt. I know some basic childcare stuff, yes, and I know my child very well. But they change, and you change. Parenting is not a test I’ve taken and passed.

Of course, it’s a meaningless milestone to him – as I tried to hug him sentimentally for the tenth time that day, he ducked free for the ninth time (he allowed me one birthday cuddle), “Gerroff, I want to build my Garmadon Mech!” My misty eyes were wasted on his present tunnel vision: both the wrapped “present” and the moment in time. No reminiscing about the first time he smiled –  not just a wind-smile, or dread about A-Levels and girls for him. I kept it all in – along with the Sex Talk I’d been drafting in my head. A child’s 10th birthday breakfast is not the time or place for the full birds and bees.

He hasn’t changed overnight, but I can’t ignore the looming presence of Teenagedom. I am not ready for it. Whatever It is like. I daren’t read or listen to too many accounts, but I know it till be “‘challenging”. More so than the last ten years? I’d like to think not – or at least that the massive learning curve I’ve been surfing for the last decade will have at least given me something to draw on when his voice breaks. Right?

Another thing about your kid entering his second decade: you feel ANCIENT! Or at least, I do. Ancient, yet still pretty much as clueless as when he was born and I was a relatively young woman. We now have a new stage – a new decade – to navigate. The feeling of awe and bewilderment as I look at my son, now standing up to my chin, (and I’m fairly tall!) is not that dissimilar from staring at him as a tiny new baby. What now, my darling?

That can wait. I want him to prepare him for the physical and emotional changes his hormones will bring; I want to cure his acne before he even gets it; I want him to know what emoji sequence to send his first girlfriend for Valentine’s Day. But not yet.

He may be 10, but he’s still my baby.

Happy birthday, darling.

xxx

I’m told this a lot. Usually when I’m being pulled by each arm in opposite directions while the third quietly wees down my leg. Always by someone with two children. But is it true? Are three kids really easier than two?

I can see why people say it. It’s usually people who’ve just had a second child, and can’t believe how hard it is. They look at you, who are not actively crying at that precise moment, with a kind of wide-eyed optimism. They want you to concede that three is, indeed, easier than two: otherwise, how are you still alive?

And they want some light at the end of the tunnel. If coping with three is OK, then two must, surely, eventually, be OK too. Right? I get it – I was that person, one child ago.

Let me say right now: having kids is hard, however many you have. The golden rule of parenting is: Don’t Compare.

But for the sake of argument, here are some reasons why I think having three kids is easier than two.

• You are 50% more likely to wee when you sneeze. This makes you incredibly sneeze-averse. You can dodge pollen like a ninja. You would make a superb Wimbledon line judge.
• You are legitimately allowed to exclaim in defence, “I only have two hands!”.
• Your liver will be well clean. You have had three nine-month abstinences, plus more if you breastfed. *Therefore* you can drink more. This makes everything easier.
• The bikini debate will be moot. You will wear a tankini. End of.
• People won’t invite you anywhere any more. Therefore you don’t have to invite them back. Therefore you experience 98% less “leaving-the-house” hassle and “tidying-the-house” stress.
• Three is a powerful number. The Holy Trinity, the Three Wise Men, Tweet, RuffRuff and Dave: you have all the luck of history, holiness and CBeebies behind your family size.
• You can’t afford holidays any more so you never have to pack a suitcase or endure coach transfers.
• You can’t give any of them enough attention, so you become slightly resigned to guilt.
• You get to wake up 50% more often. You are squeezing the very juice out of life in all its fullness!
• One child will always feel left out. This means you get some love from them while they are telling tales.
• Your laundry mountain is so high, you can use it as a storage solution. You can hide confiscated toys in its folds and pop a vase of faux flowers on top.
• The receptionist at the doctor’s will know your voice on the phone so well you feel like mates.
• The older two look after the youngest one. They never pretend he is a dragon and run away from him until he cries.
• There is always a scapegoat.
• The middle one is totally sure of his place in the world. He’s not the baby and he’s not the big boy.
• The oldest never feels sidelined by the baby, cast as the “big boy” when he still feels little and uncertain inside. Still needs his mummy’s cuddles.
• If your older children are bickering, you barely care. Your toddler has just pooed in his pants.

Of course, I am utterly blessed and ecstatic to have three children. Is it easier than having two? No. But I didn’t find having two easy either. Nothing is easy in parenting: except loving them.

What do you think? Is “three are easier than two” an urban myth or grounded in truth?

PS If you have four or more children, YOU ARE AMAZING! And if you have two or fewer, YOU ARE AMAZING TOO!

If you’d like to receive similar stuff by the medium of Facebook, please feel free to:

Day 9 of self-isolation. I don’t know what day of the week it is, I can’t remember if I’ve had a shower and my Fitbit thinks I’m unconscious. Welcome to lockdown.

We’re over halfway through quarantine and I’ve picked up a couple of things about this new coronavirus way of living:

The milk of human kindness overfloweth. We had isolation thrust upon us on March 17th, so were one of the first to shut our doors here. Our oldest son coughed through class at 11am, I’d picked up all three boys by 11.30am and by noon everyone  was offering help and supplies. I was – and am – overwhelmed by this and all the other lovely acts by and towards friends and strangers I’ve been seeing on social media.

Was that a cough? It’s an atmosphere of heightened awareness – and suspicion. The cough that got Child 1 sent home mysteriously disappeared once he was safely in front of the Xbox. It resurfaced sporadically for the next five days with no temperature and no unwellness and the rest of us were and are fine, happily. On one hand, I was taking his temperature regularly and actually keeping a written coughometer; on the other hand I was deeply sceptical. Was it Covid-19? We have no way of knowing. But this is not the time to take chances and since we’re all in lockdown now, the fact we’ve done it for a few extra days is neither here nor there.

Isolators can’t be choosers. When you’re relying on kind friends or neighbours to bring you supplies, it’s fine to ask for milk and bread, but you’d feel like a dick asking for star anise. Even if this goes on for two years, we will be OK if we run out of pomegranate molasses. The kids keep throwing open the food cupboard then slamming it shut again in disappointment, but I’m too embarrassed to ask for the amount of chocolate and biscuits we normally eat. We’re down to one Freddo! Those Lindt bunnies I bought for my sisters for Easter back in January (because the white ones always seem to sell out, even in normal times) are in serious danger…

“Is star anise classed as essential?”

Your days are numbered, rabbits!

You need a timetable – but be flexible! I had great intentions on Day One. I ended up crying into the fridge with no one an ounce more educated. If your children are school age, and especially if you have more than one, it really helps to write down, preferably on a large bit of paper that everyone can see, what each one needs to do that day. We all benefit from structure, but build in breaks so you can get your WhatsApping done. Competitive home-schooling is a thing already – but you know you’re doing your best and anyway, who’s going to find out if you spent “literacy hour” today trying to get your little one to put some pants on? And in the scale of things, does it really matter if the wheels fell off your home school bus today?

Day 1 of Quarantine

The oven timer is now a school clock. Time flies when you’re self-isolating. I’m setting the timer to keep on top of the day and to make sure we take regular breaks – and, now, for PE with Joe Wicks, even if it was just me doing it this morning.

Walk in zig zags! This is my brilliant plan to up your steps – it takes longer and you look daft, but where have you got to go and who’s going to see you? It’s easy for the day to slip by when you’re out of routine, but trying to fit some exercise in every day, even pacing round your kitchen a few times, really helps with physical and mental health.

It’s like Groundhog Sunday Afternoon. I don’t know about you but before these times, we used to spend Sunday afternoons chasing round the house, hounding the children to complete their various homework tasks, not being able to go out because it was raining and all our friends were doing the same thing. This is like that – every day! But (sometimes) without the hangover.

You need a swear spot. Being with the children all the time is a wonderful chance to enjoy them to the full – and bloody annoying. Add in trying to make all the tech work (ramming HouseParty and all the educational apps I’m being recommended every five seconds onto my already full phone and fixing the printer to run off more Twinkl sheets) and mummy has been caught uttering the odd expletive. I have taken to going outside the back door to get the swears out now and then to keep it clean.

Yes I know they can still hear me…

It doesn’t matter what you wear…or if you run out of deodorant. Usually, I take pride in my appearance, but I’ve already had a couple of days when I can’t remember if it was today I had a shower or yesterday. I’m running low on deodorant, and I consider it a victory that I’ve changed out of PJs every day. Saying that though, for a sense of normality and pride, I’ve decided to sometimes wear my nicest clothes, because I may as well – I’ve got plenty of time to wash them and who knows when I’ll wear them out again.

You’ll live in a ‘quarant-igan’. Whatever you wear, you’ll end up putting the same old cardigan or fleece over the top because it’s blimmin’ cold when you’re inside and not moving around, and you don’t want to put the heating on. I’m worried about our energy use rocketing – I don’t think the toaster is ever cold at the moment.

You’ll run out of something unexpected. However prepared you may have been – and I wasn’t prepared at all – you’ll probably run out of something random. In our case it was sellotape. My youngest developed a sudden mania for sticking as soon as we were locked down and my supplies were inadequate to his needs. It’s not exactly essential so I wouldn’t want someone to make a special trip for it, especially with the new rules, but vexing all the same and hard to predict. Printer paper and ink is the next thing to go, I fear, with all these Twinkl sheets.

Who knew three rolls wouldn’t be enough?

Don’t feed the children at Boris briefing time*. I’m not making a political point here about them being put off their food, but I’ve had enough  “spooning beans absently into a child’s lap while transfixed by the TV” moments to realise it’s better to just admit I have to watch it properly and they can wait (or have it earlier) – with the news firmly off. Also, I nearly always cry at the briefings. It’s all so bloody real and terrifying, even though I’ve been updating the news all day. *I don’t know if the 5pm updates are going to continue – hopefully not as it really messes up teatime!

Try not to show your fear to the kids. Ordinarily, I believe that your children should know when you’re upset to see you are human too, but last night my 7-year-old asked if his friend was going to die, “because he has asthma”. I don’t want to make his fears worse so I’m trying to keep my own inside the fridge door. I watch Newsround with them and answer questions honestly, but I think they need a bit of shielding if possible.

My youngest is convinced I’m going to be affected – as far as he’s concerned, over 40 is the same as being over 70…

You have time for pampering…but what’s the point? Now would be a great time to poke through my ‘special’ basket in the bathroom and use some of the ends of deep conditioners and face crap I’ve bought over the years (some for my wedding. That was in 2006.). I’ve got a cute little bag full of nail varnishes. But I just can’t be arsed. And it feels so irrelevant in this current time.

Drink ain’t doing what it should*. The first night of isolation, I was in shock, so naturally I drank. The second night I drank to de-stress after my first full day in lockdown. The third night to calm my nerves…But if you’re over forty like me, the booze notches up the anxiety – already at fever pitch. If you’re also a “give her a glass and she’ll take the bottle” kind of drinker, like me, drinking every night is not going to help. Especially when 14 days has now turned into indefinitely. *Name that quote and show your age!

The kids weren’t the problem. I’ve realised that, in our family anyway, it’s getting the kids places that causes 90% of the grief, because you’re always interrupting them from doing something they’d much rather do. Getting them to sit down and work has now replaced ‘getting them out of the house’ angst, but at least it doesn’t matter if they forget their book bag – or their trousers. Don’t get me wrong, I would bite your hand off for the world to be back to normal and we could go back to me yelling at them to get out the door to school. But a bit less to-ing and fro-ing makes everything a bit calmer. And that is a good thing for everyone.

I hope you are healthy, coping with lockdown, and have enough loo roll.

They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs. I bite the heads off mine. No, no, I’m not talking about potential princes; it’s Freddo Frog who keeps me satisfied. I’m on my way to pick up my Year 1 son. Sons 2 and 3 are in the back, and I am feeling a little fraught. To paraphrase the mum from Mary Poppins, “though I adore them individualleeee, as a group, you must agree, they’re rather, er, LIVELY”. Let’s just say, I’m preparing for an onslaught. And into every battle one must take rations. My hand slips down to the car door pocket and retrieves the magic pill, the thing that will equip me to deal with the mayhem ahead: a Freddo Frog. Many, I think, will concur: chocolate has a restorative and calming effect on your mood. If you have not already partaken of his pleasures, may I recommend Freddo, or Freddie as I affectionately call him: Can be swallowed in one: essential for hiding it from children, who will, obviously, demand one. Disguise the unwrapping noise by simultaneously rustling something else, like a tissue packet. Or unwrap him before putting the kids in the car. The fact these bars are aimed at children is irrelevant. (The optimum number of bites, if you can get away with it, is three, in my view.) Pleasing girth: Compare it to its poor cousin the long, thin Little Bar, and you will see why I plump for Freddo every time. Cheap and cheerful: 6 for £1.15! And look at that huge grin! It’s like he wants to be your friend as well as your fancy. Guilt-free: Well, pretty much, anyway. At 95 calories, you could eat 35 of them and only put on one pound. A pretty good deal, if you ask me. Even I would struggle to eat 35 in one sitting. Although if someone were willing to sponsor me (say, a Freddo for every Freddo eaten), I’d happily give it a go. Not for me plain old Snickers, Your Crunchies, your Twixes, Your Buttons, Flake, Mars, your Dimes or your Reese’s, There’s only one guy that makes my heart go, He’s small but he’s girthsome, he’s the good frog Freddo. This is not a sponsored post; the opposite, if anything: I’m pretty sure I keep Cadbury’s in business.   If you liked that, try this:

The Shouting Bra, and Other Mummy Essentials

There are few things more frightening than having something unexpected in your mouth. 

So imagine my horror when I gleefully popped in a segment of Terry’s Chocolate Orange, only to discover it was the Popping Candy abomination. It was an outrage! It started as an Alka Seltzer-esque fizz, then ramped up to a shaken Coke, before culminating in a fireworks display in my fissures. It lasted for about three terrifying minutes – it felt like the galvanised sugar was literally exploding its way into my molars. 

Through my foaming mouth I castigated my husband for his poor choice. We’d been in WHSmith and he’d grabbed a Chocolate Orange, of which, unseasonal though it was, I fully approved in principle but saw he’d inadvertently picked up the dark, so made him put it back, only for him to – in his panic, I saw now – grab this new version. I only had myself to blame, but this was a punishment beyond compare. My fizz threshold begins and ends with Refreshers; I can go no more hard core than that. My face must have been like my baby’s when I tried to feed him the pumpkin that I carved out for Halloween last night. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE chocolate. I eat the squished bits off the back of the car seat. And I’m not against novelty chocolate. Trying it anyway. Halloween is, after all, one of the key times for a reworked chococlassic. I’ll buy anything once, but it takes a lot for a new innovation to earn its way into my stable of accepted chocfare. The last one that made it in was Cadbury’s Freddo Faces, but before that it was Galaxy Minstrels. As you can see, I like to remain current in my chocolate knowledge, but I will not be made a fool of. Terry’s, I will eat your Milk Chocolate Oranges till my last Christmas on this earth, but when it comes to your popping candy, you might trick me once, but I won’t let you trick me twice.

You might also like:

The Mummy and the Frog – A Love Story

Are children children or do boys and girls have discerning characteristics? Take this simple quiz to find out whether your child is a boy or…

Read More

Some mums know exactly what they’re doing. Then there’s the rest of us.

Read More

“I know, why don’t we put all our money together? Like a team? And I’ll look after it.”  Do you have a Jedi Master in…

Read More

Wall-to-wall catering, a roaring fire, comfy sofas – the perfect way to relax after hitting the slopes on a family ski holiday.

Read More

Do you swear by your moisturiser? Or is it just a hope and a prayer?

Read More

No one should have to diet alone. But is a virtual fitness pal the answer?

Read More

A subtle yet striking way to play the asymmetric earring trend, by ALEXI London. Entry form below!

Read More

Mum’s banging on about giving up chocolate for Lent – like that’s a big deal! We could give up way better things than that….

Read More

It’s great that my kids love me. But I want them to like me too! Is that too much to ask?

Read More

I’m about to turn 40. So why won’t I dress like it?

Read More

“Not tonight, love, I’m folding my laundry.” This was on the tip of my tongue the other night, when a friend asked me to the pub. I kid you not. Do you ever feel you have to choose between seeing your friends and getting on top of the housework? Enter the Chore Date.

Our children get playdates; we get to squeeze in a coffee while ticking through in our worried little minds the unfolded laundry, the unmopped floor, the unsewn nametapes waiting for us at home. OK, maybe sewing nametapes is going a bit far (laundry pens people!), but the point is: there’s crochet groups, book groups, quilt-making groups, Zumba groups – so why not a housework group?

Obviously this only applies to fairly close friends: I wouldn’t invite a new acquaintance round to watch me scrub the loo. And it requires a mutual despair at the state of your house, to the point where taking your laundry mountain to a friend’s to fold seems like a sane thing to do.

I have three young children: I am never on top of my housework. I am already at the stage of life where I compare notes with my friends on things like the pros and cons of the various mop-heads on the market, and how best to clear up couscous (answer: leave to dry and then hoover up – otherwise the little devils stick to your brush.)

So why should the twain not meet?

It’s not exactly washing clothes together on the stones of a fast-flowing river, but as far as solidarity goes, a group ironing session would be pretty awesome. We could even have wine!

In case you’re wondering / worrying – I did go to the pub that night. But the spectre of my laundry mountain haunted me all night.

The Romantic Chore Date

Your husband needn’t miss out! What could be more pleasing than an evening spent mutually doing chores? The day we spent clearing out (half of) the garage was the best time we’ve had together in ages. Who knows where a chore date could lead?

Do you manage to make time for everything, or could you do with a chore date?

If you liked this, why not like me on Facebook?

Renting Skiwear = Better Kit, Better for the Planet – and It’s Covid-safe Too   EcoSki offers sterile, premium skiwear to rent If you’re hoping to…

Read More

It’s 3am. That’s it now. You won’t go back to sleep till twenty minutes before you have to get up.

Read More

Day 9 of self-isolation. I don’t know what day of the week it is, I can’t remember if I’ve had a shower and my Fitbit thinks I’m…

Read More

It’s best to let rip, because kids pick up on suppressed rage (unlike my husband). I read this brilliant article today in the supermarket…

Read More

My son has just turned 10, and since then I’ve been on a weird high, like I’ve got some sort of promotion or something. I…

Read More

Supermum. Best Mum Ever. Fantastic Mum. Who, me?

Read More

Love them or hate them, you feel guilty if you don’t do them. Take the pain out of playdates with my handy guide. Choose…

Read More

Presents. The only thing that stands between your children and a shit Christmas. And it’s all up to you. You can talk about baby…

Read More

Farewell, poor carseat, I knew you so well. I must throw you away; you’re too mouldy to sell. No more baby-sick shall I scrape…

Read More

So you made it through the first week with a wing and a prayer, but what do you need to get through the rest…

Read More

If you don’t know what my title is referencing, then you’re missing a treat – go and watch the Friends boxsets immediately! But you…

Read More

‘7 Years’ makes me cry. It’s the whole of life wrapped up in one beautiful song but I just want to press pause.

Read More

  What do you say to a new mum without giving it all away? After “congratulations!” and “she’s gorgeous!”, how do you not launch…

Read More

With parenting, does one size fit all? 

Read More

When you can’t keep the naughty cupboard a secret, is it time to just give it up altogether?

Read More

  Thou shalt not kill. Even at 3am when the baby’s crying and your partner says “your turn”. Even when your spouse suggests, “we…

Read More

The one where I fall back in love with ironing. Plus an amazing 50% discount offer for Beldray products!

Read More

Thinking of a third baby? Read this first.

Read More

The one where I fall back in love with ironing. Plus an amazing 50% discount offer for Beldray products!

Wall-to-wall catering, a roaring fire, comfy sofas – the perfect way to relax after hitting the slopes on a family ski holiday.

Do you swear by your moisturiser? Or is it just a hope and a prayer?

No one should have to diet alone. But is a virtual fitness pal the answer?

A subtle yet striking way to play the asymmetric earring trend, by ALEXI London. Entry form below!

Snowy fun for all the family – together or separately!

Kirsty’s Handmade Christmas meets Michel Roux. A recipe made in heaven – that even I couldn’t mess up.

Kids do judge a book by its cover – so this lovely bookcase is the perfect choice.

Being organised is boring. Is what I’ve always felt. But with two children at school and one now at pre-school, organization is not an…

Leggings – the unsung wardrobe hero. A pregnancy staple, saviour of the post-natal woman, and style sidekick before and beyond the baby years too….

  The gift of flowers – without having to bother the neighbours! Bloom & Wild deliver beautiful bouquets that – lovingly packaged – fit…

  I love buying new baby gifts. It’s an utter joy to think of a new little person in the world – that I don’t…

Car stuff = witchcraft. Right? Driving I can do, but anything else – no idea.  Until I went to a Ladies’ Night with a difference: free…

The world’s gone juice crazy! At first I scoffed, then I got curious, then I received a NutriBullet for my birthday. Now I post juice…

Deciding what you want to eat isn’t always easy when you’ve already cooked for your children several times that day and are starving and…