Slip into something more comfortable

This morning I looked in my cupboard and came to the distressing realisation that I now own more pyjamas than jeans. This is one of the many creeping changes into my life that I didn’t realise was actually happening until shocked into accepting it – it’s a bit like when you only realising your children are growing older every time they get their haircut. This prompted me to take stock of my night time comfort wear situation and the results concern me. There are now three dressing gowns hanging on the back of my bedroom door – a heavy winter towelling one, a summer weight wrap and a short velour number that was very handy when breastfeeding in the middle of the night to keep your arms and shoulders toasty warm. Oh yes – I am now the kind of person who owns three dressing gowns and doesn’t even shudder at the term velour.

For my last birthday I received the best present I have ever been given – an electric blanket. They are fucking awesome – dual control, fleecy top, six – yes you read me right six! separate heat settings and a 12 hour mode in which you can gently simmer in your own juices all night should you choose.  Oh yeah baby – this bad boy can keep going aaaalll night. Sorry I must pause now and watch a Ryan Gosling film for a bit just to calm down. The only problem is that a bit like a heroin addiction it can spiral out of control. You find yourself lying to your partner ‘what darling – no, it’s only on level three’ and hiding the electricity bills.

What happened to the footloose and fancy free naked sleeper that I used to be – oh yes that’ll be it – age and children.  Obviously going to bed every night with an 80% chance that at some point one of them will wake up with a temperature, vomiting, leaking nappy, nightmare, wet bed, toy has dropped out of bed, toy is in bed they don’t want, just coz they fucking feel like it…. makes being naked a lot less appealing. And if you are going to step in a puddle of vomit, poo or piece of lego as well it is much more pleasant in slippers than bare feet.

Then in the morning both the children are hauled into our bed at whatever inhuman hour they decide to wake up and the glorious, sundrenched, technicolour, LSD trip that is Milkshake is switched on in order to try and keep them quiet for just a little longer. Milkshake by the way is a mystery to me. If Cbeebies is a walking holiday in the Chilterns then Milkshake is the all-inclusive in Gran Canaria. All the presenters look like girl/boyband rejects (one of the new ones looks like they’ve just rolled up the wipe down sheeting and stuck a t-shirt on her from all night Babestation), but the programming is heavy hitter after heavy hitter: Peppa Pig – boom! Ben & Holly – out of the park! Mr Men – stop it, stop it,  oh ok don’t! This stuff is crack for toddlers. But once the novelty of TV wears off, clothing is essential as they find my and my husband’s bodies both fascinating and hysterical in equal measure. I’m all for helping my children have a healthy body image by being a bit relaxed about nudity and my body but this gets harder when they try and nipple cripple your ‘doodies’ and pull at your pubic hair whilst saying ‘oooh – bouncy’. I know it looks like Art Garfunkel down there all right.

But I won’t lie to you – to be honest it’s not just about the kids. These days I tend to get into my pyjamas about the same time they do. I remember the time when jeans were my comfort wear – now I can’t wait to peel these tight little fuckers off (Kate Moss I blame you and your tiny little legs for skinny jeans and for that whole snorting cocaine off naked dwarves trend – what? she did that at her wedding didn’t she?), ping my bra across the room and slip into something ‘a little more comfortable’ (oh don’t worry my husband stopped getting excited when I say that quite some time ago).

The only thing I’ll stop short on is a onesie. This is not just because they are ridiculous (but they are -stop wearing them people – they are the shellsuit of our time) it is also because you have to basically get naked to do a wee. This is the reason that I will never wear a jumpsuit or playsuit. I was about 6 when playsuits were in the first time round and I can still remember the toilet based panic of trying to get out of the fucking thing in a tight toilet cubicle. And to be honest after having two kids this bladder needs no further challenges. But other than that I have no shame – and it’s all downhill from here people.

My husband and I came across this beauty in a motorway services – just imagine the excitement of the creative type pulling together this packaging when he could include the line ‘As seen on TV (in some countries)’, and isn’t that Michelle Keegan wearing it?

Hmmm… tempting. But where’s the pocket for the remote control?

Evil in Pet’s Clothing..

I’m allergic to cats. Quite badly allergic to cats. So obviously they fucking love me.  After  years of scientific study I have come to the conclusion that cats can read minds, affect the space time continuum and I am even fairly sure that they have opposable thumbs. The moment I’m in a room with a cat they sense my unease and stick themselves to my leg sniggering gently. They have even come to sit outside my house to die as one last punishment forcing me to travel round the neighbourhood searching for grieving cat owners to come and collect their own personal fluffy tragedy.

I like animals in general and  can almost see why people like cats. They are fluffy soft and practical pets that require no walking. It’s such a shame that they are trying to take over the world. This is not melodramatic – what other animal can coordinate a group team strategy where they shit repeatedly in the garden of any person without a cat for years until eventually with cheeks covered with tears of frustration they give up and decide the only way to stop it happening is to get their own cat. This is not normal territorial behaviour – this is shock and awe my friends.

A couple of weeks ago we took down a tree (don’t judge me too harshly it was looking really ropey) – this tree had been dropping a deep bed of foliage onto our 1930s garage in the back garden for years – creating the perfect cat toilet in the sky for the local moggies. With the tree gone we cleaned off the deep layers of shit in the hope that this summer our garden won’t smell like faeces.

The cats are not happy.

Over the last week a cat has done a shit in our front driveway TWICE. The last one I stepped in whilst getting the kids strapped into the double buggy and I didn’t notice until I’d tracked it over the doormat and through the hallway, also in the process managing to get it on a radiator. This was a big shit. As we were leaving the house I didn’t have time to do anything other than steriwipe (God bless Milton and all who wipe with her) the worst up and shove the boots in the garden. Obviously I then forgot about the boots until the next morning when they had been rained on for about 14 hours solid. I had to go to work so just shoved them in a plastic bag to deal with later. A couple of busy days and evenings out later I came across the bag sitting in a puddle of poopy rain water. I could have just thrown them out but they were expensive and sheepskin type numbers so some serious cleaning was required. They have still not dried out. I am fairly certain the cats planned every… single… thing.

I’m not saying that all cats are evil. Just that I’m fairly certain that when they have finally killed off all humanity they will drive over our graves in celebration in little carriages made of human skulls pulled by strings of cockroaches.

Don’t blame me when this happens – I have tried to warn you..

the end of the world … (maybe)

How to Look Good Knackered

A true fact – between the ages of 16 and 3 years and four months ago I don’t think there was one day that I left the house without mascara. I’m not a particularly high maintenance woman. I am far too lazy for body brushing, exfoliation or to be honest any kind of skincare regime. It’s all in the title really – ‘regime’ – it sounds a little too authoritarian for me.  I have the same thing with the La Leche League – I vaguely studied history in University (in small gaps between drinking, snogging and watching Cruel Intentions and/or Heat depending who controlled the remote) and I know enough to be concerned about any organisation that calls itself a ‘League’. I bet Paolo di Cannio has beautifully clear skin and judges people if they don’t breastfeed their kids until they go to University. I do however also have teensy, tinsy, stubby little pale eye lashes – and personal vanity used to beat my lazy nature.

But since the birth of my first baby it is just a small victory to be out of the house. The application of make-up is now a luxury that I generally don’t have time for. I put a bit of slap on maybe three days a week, basically the days I go to work, and I do this on the bus. This is not fun make up application either. This isn’t quirky eye shadow or sparkly fingernails. This is 15 layers of touché éclat to hide the bags that come down to my jowls.  This is make-up to make you feel human not pretty.

If I am clean that is a bonus. By clean I basically mean clothes that I have been able to remove dirt from either by scratching or wiping with a baby wipe. The children these days simply wander up to me and wipe whatever shite is on their hands or under their nose off onto my jeans.  They basically view me less as a mother and more a piece of kitchen roll. My first dude had reflux and so I spent about 30% of my time covered in vomit. Previous to babies you sniff clothes armpits to see if they are dirty – after babies you sniff the shoulders.

I have also had a fringe cut since number two – this is not a fashion statement, it simply means I don’t really need to pluck my eyebrows. This foolproof plan is only scuppered when faced with a stiff breeze. Then I realise I look a little like this.

Loooking good!

There are mums out there who make more of an effort than me obviously, my neighbour used to get up at five to have time to sort herself out before the kids woke up. This is commitment to the cause that I just don’t have. Particularly as I know that basically now no one looks at me when I have the kids with me. I am merely an extension of my children.  I end up in conversations where people know the ages, names and medical history of my two children and nothing about me. In a way it’s quite handy sometimes as you can use them as shields a bit to deflect attention away from you. But in the long run it’s not a good idea to enjoy being invisible.

This is one of the many reasons why I still love a fucking rollicking good night out. It’s good to be selfish again for just one night. To take a bit of time to look as good and impractical as you can. Take the entire wardrobe out and leave it on the bed. Look at me- I’m in white/ I have dangly earrings on/spangly heels! I realise I sound like a member of TOWIE with that description by the way. I actually think I probably have more fun with my clothes than I used to. I seem to have lost the desire to be particularly attractive and just enjoy getting dressed up – if the result is attractive too then that’s sort of a bonus. I recently wore footless leopard print tights out. They were given to me as a bit of a joke 6 years ago and fuck it why not. I have limited budget so don’t buy much but when I do get anything new it tends to be loud. A brocade red jacket – sweeet, an extraordinary cardigan – yes please! a short neon dress – maybe.. after a few warmer uppers. When I bought the dress the hot 16 year old assistant told me she had it in navy but didn’t think she could carry off the pink. The world is massively arse over tit when out of the two of us it’s the slightly tubby 30 (and some additional years) mother of two that chooses to wear that outfit.

But if a night out is not your bag – do whatever turns you on as long as it’s about you and only you. A bit of time for yourself is not something you should feel guilty about. It’ll make you a better mother/father in the long run (as long as what makes you happy is not gambling the kids Christmas present money and or taking heroin). And I am fairly sure that a good way to not look too shit, is to look happy.

Entering Stage Left

It had to be done at some point. Any parenting blog worth its low salt toddler meal will have to talk about it. The first feeling of a planned pregnancy (we’ll approach unplanned another time) when you check your blue stick and see the cross, or two lines, or ‘pregnant 2-3 weeks’ from those superposh digital ones is – ‘Woo hoo! I’m pregnant’ closely followed by, ‘bollocks I’ve got to squeeze something the size of a daschund out of my vagina’. The birth becomes in so many ways the focus of everything you are doing, the culmination of nine months (if you are lucky and on time) of concerted growing that the weight of expectation on yourself and the small bundle that will arrive at the end can feel a bit crushing.

And the thing is, that the moment you tell people you are pregnant everyone will want to talk to you about it. From the horror stories ‘Oh I was 3 days in and screaming, with shit and vomit flying around the room when the midwife actually climbed inside my vagina and pulled the baby out with her teeth’. To the magical ‘my home birth was wondrous and I shared it with all my family and friends and she popped out after a small cough, just in time for us all to head out for a celebratory meal’. And even the official information varies wildly between the detached – a graph depicting contraction level and rate, to the terrifying – birth videos (all of them). Despite all these sources of information, my overwhelming feeling after giving birth the first time was shock and awe. It felt nothing like I thought it would, and I was a prepared and organised NCT attending lady. So I thought I would describe how it actually feels.

When labour starts you sort of spend a couple of hours wondering whether this is actually it. It really can be pretty gentle like a fist clenching around the cervix area. This can last for ages so stick your feet up if you can as it’s probably the last time you’ll do this for.. oh I don’t know.. 15 or 16 years. This’ll carry on going for probably a long time getting generally more and more painful, but it all feels very ‘Vagina-ey.’ I know that’s not a word but most of us have period pains and this to be honest is kind of how you expect labour to feel. As it gets more intense your stomach kind of cramps and tightens with the contractions. This is your cervix coming apart.

Are you still with me? Need to sit down?

At some point you’ll need to go to hospital (if that’s what you’ve arranged). How in hells teeth you are supposed to know when this point is in the first labour is a little beyond me. Even the second birth was still a bit tricky. They say to wait until the contractions are five minutes apart and last about a minute and then come. But when I did this they basically sniggered, told me I was 2 cm and sent me home. I asked the midwife when I should go back and she said ‘ see how you are talking now? Well you won’t be doing that.’ Telling this to a girl who once lasted 2 minutes in her school sponsored silence when she was 11 is dangerous. Yes apparently not even the late stages of labour can shut me up as by the time I was dragged in mute – I was ten cm. I think you should probably head in whenever you really start to struggle. When you start hearing things and wondering what made that mooing sound and then realise it was you, well that’s probably five minutes after the time you should go in.

Once the cervix has stretched enough you move into stage two of labour which is when the baby goes down into the birth canal. This in my experience is when shit gets freaky. You are used to contraction pains by now and though they do hurt – it is a predictable pain. The feeling when it drops into the birth canal is genuinely shocking and does not – I repeat – does not(!) feel natural. How it felt to me was a bit like all of my internal organs were about to drop out of my bumhole. The physical reaction to this is to clench your bum cheeks together tighter than Ant & Dec and panic. Giving birth genuinely feels like you are doing the biggest most painful poo in the world. So please don’t be too scared if it feels like this – I think that I wasted a lot of effort pushing in the totally the wrong way the first time. This carries on for a bit and then the last hurdle to get over is the crowning. This is when the baby actually emerges and is the most intense and sharp pain of the whole process. At this point I genuinely turned round to the midwife with a ‘no honestly we’re all grand – I’ll just keep it up there thanks. I’ll just home school it and stuff, we’ll be fine’. This is when tearing etc can occur and it’s not fun but all I can say is that it really won’t last long. So try not to panic as this means it is nearly over – eyes on the prize and all that.

Then you’ll have a baby! This is a good thing. You may feel little other than ‘what the fuck!’ but trust me it was worth it (mostly).

But unfortunately you are not finished yet. You need to deliver the placenta out of the same ravaged place a baby came out of. This varies wildly in experience, some people barely notice, for others it’s more contractions and pain. My placenta was so big it barely fit into the kidney bowl and provoked an ‘ooooh look at that’ from the (presumably rarely shocked) midwife as she gave it a jolly little wobble. I take this as being confirmation that the cake a day diet is imperative for foetal health. The placenta looks like liver wrapped in cling film by the way and I have rarely seen anything less appetising – step away from the frying pan Tom Cruise.

You then have to have some checks to assess how you have fared. This involves them poking around a bit, and trust me it takes a huge amount of self-control not to punch them in the fact at this point. They will hopefully fix you up, tell you how clever you are, give you a cup of tea and toast. And leave you to stare with wonderment and fear at the thing that caused all this trouble in the first place.

The above is my description of a straightforward fanny delivery. There are a huge amount of variations to this as people are all different and things that can happen at any stage in the process (they write whole books about it). But everyone needs to be aware of what a fairly normal one feels like, the mums and even more importantly the dads. So that when things go proper shits up they can stand up and shout ‘help’ get a consultant in here pronto thanks, as we’d rather not hang around for another 8 hours with a non-progressing labour to then have an emergency c- section thanks, why don’t we just crack on with that right now.

If anyone mentions ‘back to back position’ around you, if you have rolling contractions with little progression, if you have been projectile vomiting for ages – get on the drugs right now. If a midwife starts to make you feel guilty for lack of progression shove her out of the room and demand a less evil person to come and mop your head. There is a weird bias towards ‘natural’ labour as if as we’ve all got the equipment we should be able to use it. But has anyone looked at what’s actually involved. Trust me it’s the least natural thing I’ve ever felt. And we are just lucky that we live in times where birth mortality rates are as low as they are and that’s because we have these magical things like c-sections.

It’s very easy under all this pressure to feel like you have failed if you end up having a c-section. Or even if you do manage it but get badly damaged in the process, to feel that your body has betrayed you. Please try not to feel like this though as it’s total bollocks! The birth is generally only the messy exit of a wonder that’s already happened and that was making it inside of you. And if you have been through all the shitty bits of a labour and then have to struggle through all the tricky aftermath and healing of terrible tearing or a c-section (the only major operation that anyone expects you to be awake for), then you are a legend! You get two badges and many kisses. You should be incredibly proud of yourself. And just think of all the newly pregnant ladies you can terrify with your own birth story.

Sausage Wars and Cheesy Stuffed Artery Dippers

Pizza Hut Hot Dog stuffed crust pizza (Photo credit: ivanpope)

I have to apologise muchly to anyone who reads my ramblings occasionally. All has been quiet on the blunderbuss front lately and I’m very sorry. Basically I’ve been offered more work which I really need to take being freelance and have been trying to work three day weeks with only two days childcare. So any nap time, evenings and spare time at weekends has been spent kick bollock scrambling to get hours in. Fingers crossed though – I think we’ve got it sorted. I was going to write a long and worthy tome about childcare and work/life balance and the like. But to be honest I’ve been distracted by what can only be described as an escalation in the ongoing pizza arms race.

Last week a little bit of sick came into my mouth when through my door dropped a flyer for the new Pizza Hut hot dog stuffed crust option. And today lo and behold Dominos have mailed me something very similar. The only discernible difference being the structural hoo haa of actually attaching the sausage to the pizza. Pizza Hut have gone for the dismembered fingers sticking out from the pizza approach whereas Dominos have gone for  a long flaccid ring of pink surrounding the pizza – it looks a little like that anti-smoking advert where all that gunk was squeezed out of the vein.

Now I’m not sure who came up with the idea first – or what form of industrial espionage resulted in them both coming to market at exactly the same time. But this episode of sausage wars (that has to be a porn name somewhere surely) just has to be completely out of step with current horse meat fallout Britain. Now I’d like to say now that I am no Dr (ha!) Gillian Mckeith. I like a takeaway. I have been known to eat a KFC Zinger Tower Burger when only mildly drunk and shhh! even enjoy it. But I have always had a bit of a thing about eating meat that at least vaguely looks like meat. Those massive logs of flesh that spin forever around dripping tears of flabby pain in a Kebab house are not meat. And frankfurters are surely border line. It’s the way that they sort of wobble around when you waggle them.

I love pizza too. Cheese, bread and complete control of toppings is not something that I would turn down willingly. But I am not under any misapprehension that I am having a healthy or indeed balanced meal. At no point have I, when eating a pizza, looked at it and thought that it just doesn’t look unhealthy enough. What is all this wasted space around the edge. Send it back – fill it with something, anything! I don’t care what – garlic sauce, a cheesy something-or-other and now finally a sausage like substance. You can even buy a pizza with a second base underneath the first base where guess what..  they’ve stuck in even more cheese.  It’s the consumer version of the Alan Sugar approach to advertising (If you watch the Apprentice you know Sir Alan does not like paying for white space)’ I’ve paid for it, fill it with something’. But where does this end – do they have to create a phallic volcano of picnic meat in the centre pouring out molten cheesy, piri piri sauce chicken giblets before pizza consumers together state this is enough. Step away from my pizza and stop ruining a basically good product with your random foulness.

Putters and Leavers

DC – appalling human being but fellow baby leaver. Also looks a lot like a bum cheek with two raisins for eyes. David Cameron’s picture on the 10 Downing Street website (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Jon Richardson does a very funny sketch about putters and leavers. He does it much better than I ever could – so if you haven’t seen it I would like you to all watch the video below.

Jon Richardson Video

See there you go – yes very amusing – and so now we are all on the same page, we’ll crack on. Oh okay for those of you who are at work and can’t have any volume on (naughty, naughty – though if you are already being workshy then why you can’t put your earphones in and thread it up your sleeve and hold it in your hand like any normal 13 year old I don’t know) here is a quick potted history. Basically there are two types of people in this world putters and leavers. The definition of a ‘putter’ is that they will ‘put’ things down in a designated place. Whereas ‘leavers’ just shed their belongings around the place like dandruff from a flaky old dog.

I would hope at this point that you are nodding along in agreement and deciding which pot you fall into. By nature I am a leaver – I am genetically predisposed to this and can’t fight it. Both my parents are leavers and as such it is a miracle that they managed to bring five children (yes I did say five, more about this in later blogs) up in the world and that we have all survived. My parents managed to leave all seven passports hanging in a jacket on the end of the bannister once when driving off to the airport, only realising after paying for long term parking. This was impressive but beaten by the effort of leaving the front door wide open whilst disappearing off on another holiday.

So my genes are against me and on my own holidays in Canada I managed to lose my passport on a night bus crossing the border to the States. This is not a good border to turn up to at 3 am without your passport I wouldn’t recommend it – apparently not even charm or tears work with these people! The information was received by my parents with obviously a fair amount of panic but also a sigh of understanding. The fact is though, that my friend had held my passport for four months for me without incident at my parent’s request. But we were dividing company and so I received my passport in the queue for the bus and had had it in my possession for only 2 hours before it managed to go missing. I am aware this is a very poor show.

So I am a leaver but my husband is most definitely a putter. This can be a successful balance in a couple as the putter can help the leaver steer through life avoiding most major disasters whilst the leaver by gentle and constant niggling can save the putter from significant anal retention. But it’s when this balance is upset by say – a tiny new lifeform in your lives that suddenly the differences become magnified. Part of this is down to the fact that the differences between you that seemed like charming quirks when you had great tits, a social life, a disposable income, the potential to have sex whenever you fancy and a reasonable quantity of sleep – seem fucking irritating when you have none of these things.

Then there’s the baby itself. Putters particularly can tend to struggle with the fact that babies are basically self-motivated anarchists in a tiny little package. They don’t care about your plans, they take your plans and shit all over them, quite literally. The new parents that you see who look really shocked – you know the pale faced, shaking hand ones that sort of look straight through you whilst saying things like – ‘they just won’t get off my tits – not ever, surely this can’t be normal’, or ‘but how do you leave the house?’ or ‘how do you get anything done’ – tend to be the putters. Because not only have they been physically and emotionally new baby steamrollered as everyone is to some extent but also the fact that their brain is constantly thinking of ‘the list’. This is the mental list that all putters have – which is basically all the things they really want to get done – not just today, but for the rest of their life.

Leavers on the other hand may find it easier to cope emotionally with the moment to moment survival of new baby life. But generally the problem with leaving stuff is that it doesn’t really matter that much before you have babies. But the consequences of say.. forgetting nappies and wipes the one time your child decides to literally fountain crap all over a Costa coffee changing table, off the end and on to the floor – are quite significant. You could also potentially lose your phone for a couple of weeks before eventually finding it in the dirty nappy section of your changing bag. This one particularly concerns the putter other halves as you basically have no means of calling them in emergencies. And basically what they are most concerned about in the world – is you leaving the baby. For me literally the only thing I can forgive David Cameron for is the whole baby leaving thing.

The thing to hold onto is that things do get more normal over time. Your tits may never be quite the same but life does start to even out. And with such alternative parenting viewpoints there’s even a cat’s chance in hell that you might end up with a fairly balanced child. So if there are two things I want you to take from this blog, They are that if you get through this without killing each other you will get through anything, and to never, never trust anyone in my family with travel arrangements.

Romancing Austen

Jane Austen, (purveyor of filth) Watercolour and pencil portrait by her sister Cassandra, 1810 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In celebration of 200 years of Pride and Prejudice – I thought I’d mark it with a classy game of  ’snog, marry or push of a cliff’ of Jane Austen heroes. Now before I start I’d just like to state that I am a legend at this game and can play it for many, many hours in pubs or on long car journeys. As a game it is up there with top 3 cartoon characters you would definitely ‘do’ (obviously 1. The human version of Shrek 2) Wolverine in the Xmen cartoon and 3. Panthro from Thundercats). But I don’t just play it straight. That’s too easy. I like to bend it to my will. My favourite version of the game is ’1) snog 2) quick shag but everyone would know about it, or 3) long sweaty shag but no one would know about it’. You then pick three of the most vile people from wherever you work, study etc and force people to have a really good think about it. Today – as this is ostensibly a parenting blog – we’ll do ‘snog, shag or father of your child’.

We are obviously leaving reality at the door here, which is just as well as I’m asthmatic, allergic to most things and to be quite frank would have been one of those ‘sickly victorian children’ and probably not made it past my teens. I also have the kind of english rose (i.e. red and sweaty) complexion that a couple of dances in a heated ballroom would have most sensible gentlemen running to their carriages. But obviously in my Austen fantasy they are all panting for me and I have the liberty of choosing.

Right first – Snog. This for me is Mr Darcy. I know most of you would have plumped for him to be the father of your children or for some hardcore soggy breeches action (BBC   programme reference there not an incontinence issue). Mr Darcy is after all the most ‘Mills and Boon‘ of any Austen hero – all rich powerful arsehole gets redeemed by a poverty stricken woman whilst she gets to have a blowdry a week for the rest of her life. But he’s not for me. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure Lizzie would have eventually warmed him up over years of married bliss but we don’t have the time here. It’s one shag! Just the one! and he is far too straightlaced and sensible to have any fun in the sack for ages. And though he is obviously working to shake off the shackles of his traditiontastic upbringing it would still be tricky to break the mould of seeing his children for only one hour after dinner and then sending them off to school before they can walk. So he’s my snogee and I will admit( just to you) that I would probably enjoy it.

Second – Shag. Mr Crawford from Mansfield Park. This may leave some of you mystified who are not quite as all over Austen as I am. Mansfield Park is by far Jane Austen’s most po faced book and as such is not as widely read, but I quite like it. And for anyone who hasn’t seen it I highly recommend you watch the ‘Mansfield Park’ film with Frances O’Connor and *sigh!* Alessandro Nivola. Quite how it manages to get lesbian overtones in, I’m not sure – but it is a hot bed of Austen sin. Anyway Mr Crawford has most definitely ‘been around’, he’s funny and charming and apart from picking up a nasty case of syphilis I reckon a good time would be had by all.

Finally father of my children (lucky bugger) is Mr Knightley. The reason for this is that he really loves Emma a lot and she, to be quite frank, is a real pain in the arse quite a lot of the time. This kind of poor judgement is essential in a long term partner of mine. He doesn’t really care about how he looks or comes across to people and likes people mostly for who they are. And most importantly he spends lots of time with his nephews and does a fair bit of wrestling and throwing around. This is pretty much the epitomy of good fathering to me – the ability to have a decent wrestle at any time.

I would like to make a formal apology to Jane Austen.