31st July - Maracas and American Footballs.

Hubbie and I were just attempting to play tennis with a pair of D's maracas and one of his soft squidgy toy balls (which happens to be american football shaped.) It wasn't the most easy of games and quite frankly, getting a rally going was hard work. Particularly as hubbie kept sending the ball sailing into my oesophagus. (was it deliberate? Should I be worried?)

Why, one may ask, were we playing this rather silly game? Well, I think the answer to that lies in our location at present. We have now returned from the safe, warm, inviting havens of the in-laws, to our detritis filled hovel of a house. And really, in all honesty, only two of the rooms are half way habitable. And one of those is D's room, which isn't really all that fun for two adults, though thankfully D seems to like it.

So we are holed up in the lounge, searching fairly vacuously for things to entertain ourselves with, and the maracas and the football was about the best we could come up with. It lasted all of about thirty seconds.

The house is looking somewhat eerie. The kitchen, now a fully fledged shell of a kitchen-diner, resembles a working garage rather than a swish cooking / socialising arena, but I suspect it'll all come right in the wash. The den is a mass of hugely inconveniently placed kitchen appliances, plates, bins, food products and badly labelled boxes, all covered in a horrid layer of thick, insipid dust. Miss Havisham's sinister, uncleaned chambers have nothing on this room. Even the spiders wouldn't dare enter the mess and chaos in there. (and yet this is the room I happily prepare our meals in. Eek!)
As for our bedroom, well, it more closely remembles a jumble sale than anything else at the moment. Heaps of dirty clothes piled up all over the furniture, footprints on the floor, rugs so laden with dirt that they've ceased to be black and are now a jaded charcoal grey.
BUT... we have a bath. And hot water. Ahhhh...the bliss of a bath this morning! Never mind that the neighbours probably copped a good eyeful of the naked Mrs B's flabby little bod as she clambered in eagerly. Never mind that the sodding pipe in the kitchen below leaked water all over the floor when I took the plug out. Never mind that I promptly got dirty again as soon as I got out, thanks to the airbourne dust. Nope. It was bliss at the time, and I shall enjoy the same again EVERY MORNING until we have a shower installed.
We're getting there.

My big sister, husband and our neice and nephew came visiting today. It was fab to see them and to play with them all in the park, it really made me desperately wish they lived closer. Boo. I suppose the only way we'd live close together again is if we moved back to the South East. Hmm. Let me consider that for a moment. Crapper scenery, more miserable, rude, ill mannered people, dour, grim little link towns that are basically just built for people to commute from into London and for no other purpose...yes. Thanks but no thanks.

I recommend Dorset very highly indeed...

29th July - Birds that have swallowed plates.

'You look like a bird that has swallowed a plate' - says Blackadder, referring to Lord Percy's ridiculous Elizabethan ruff.

Well, I may not be a ruff wearer (why not, I hear you cry? Good question, I believe firmly that the decorative neck ruff is well overdue a comeback.) but the line did come to my head this morning when I woke up and discovered that my sore throat had gone from merely 'sore' to 'flipping red raw and uncomfortable'. Less like having swallowed a mere plate, and more like having swallowed a sizable plate lined with razor blades, with salt accompaniment like a margerita, but without any of the pleasurable after effects.

In short, I feel like utter utter crap.

In fact, to return to the ruff theme of today, a ruff would indeed be of some use to me, in disguising the huge proportions that my glands have swollen to. You know those Borneo Orangutans that have very flat, disc-like faces, with huge jowels? That's what I look like. An orangutan. A sodding orangutan.

Combined to this the pervading feeling of severe nausea, the upset stomach, the exhaustion and yes, the conclusion can be that I am one sick simian indeed. (no ironic comedy comments please, soooo not in the mood.)

D is not sick. This in itself is great. I don't like it when my little boy is all snivelly and poorly and looking all sad. However, it wouldn't be too much of an undesirable thing for D to just be...how can I phrase this...a leeeeetttlle bit calmer. Just a smidge. Chasing after D while he hares from room to room is one thing. Hands always ready to grab when he reaches for remote controls, flower pots, dvd players, cups of boiling hot honey and lemon, I can just about still manage. But when D decides to have an enormous tantrum about not being able to hold the wooden spoon (which I was trying to stir his soup with at the time), which results in his shrieking loud enough for the neighbours to hear (let alone his poor gran, attempting to see another client in the neighbouring room) and then seizing a glass in a huff and throwing it to the floor...that I draw the line at. Picture if you will, a snotty, groggy me, trying to balance a screaming D on one hip, the other hand scrabbling round on the floor for bits of sharded glass, narrowly missing severing several major arteries, both in my hands and my bare feet.

So, in short, I think I may well retreat to bed soon. Ruffless and somewhat glum.

That is, if a certain someone feels like having a nap...

Hmm. Maybe not then.

27th July - Sell-by dates and nostalgic dreamings...

D and myself are having to eat absurd amounts of food at the moment, due to poor planning on behalf of this suburban mama. I bought in lots and lots of fresh fruit and veg about a week and a half ago (slightly smugly of course, parading the healthily laden trolley through Tesco with a beneficent grin on my face, an expression of 'ooh look how healthy my child must be, given all the fresh organic produce I stuff down his little neck'...which is actually a fallacy of the highest order...) and of course, forgot that a) the fridge would be turned off at intervals, due to builders needing the electrics off, and b) that I wouldn't actually BE THERE. And being the clod that I am, I of course, forgot to bring it with me the first time round, so had to wait until the weekend to retrieve it, hence the fact that D and myself are wading through ludicrous sums of fruit and veg.

I think the apple crumble went down a treat with D and the in laws though. Can't beat a bit of apple crumble. I'd give you the recipe, but it is that embarrassingly simple, that I wouldn't want to patronise you. Basically, it's peel apples, cook apples, pour crumble mix on top and cook. Sorted. (and add a bit of cinammon to give it a middle class edge, ha ha.)

As the title suggests, I have also been floating off into little dreamworlds recently. (well, I do that a lot anyway, but more so than usual at the moment.) I keep having flashbacks; back to the days when hubbie and I were young, free and boozy, and touring the world with not much else than a bundle of sweat riddled clothes and a backpack. For example, I looked out of the window this morning to see a jackdaw, sitting somewhat pompously on next door's roof (a burr, D triumphantly identified) and was suddenly transported back to walking down a street in the suburbs of Sydney, in the pouring rain, and watching a wild cockatoo perching miserably on the electric wires overhead. It was that vivid a flashback that it quite surprised me when I realised I was still sitting in a quiet room in Somerset, dutifully spooning soggy Weetabix into my son's open mouth.

Or yesterday, when a very strange vehicle drove slowly past myself and D, pulling behind it a cage with a model dinosaur and a king kong type ape thing, making a horrific tinny jungle noise through a pair of dodgy speakers attached to the back. (It was advertising the wonders of the Wookey Hole caves, in case you were wondering.) And it must have been something about that sound, because all of a sudden, I wasn't pacing the streets of Taunton, munching Haribo and desperately trying to get D off to sleep... no, for that split second, I was back in the Amazon rainforest, at 4:30 in the morning, standing in the wooden lodge and peering into the dense undergrowth, trying to spot some of the howler monkeys that were roaring like harley-davidsons.

But, would I swap this life for that one? Would I pass up being a mummy for swanning off round the world again? Not for a second.

Though, admittedly, if someone gave me a couple of grand, I'd be quite happy to do it again with D strapped to my back in a papoose... hee hee!

26th July - Dada, burrd and NARNAR!!

As the obscure title of this entry might suggest (to those with children around the 1 year mark-ish), D is starting to use words. It's very endearing. For a while now, he's been chanting 'dada' obligingly, all smiles and increasingly toothy giggles for his old papa. Any attempts at 'mama' tend to be purely coincidental, and are generally formulated due to D mashing his lips together in the pain of teething, rather than out of love for his mum. Typical.

But now, D is branching out a bit on his vocabulary. Today, for the first time, we had 'burr', whilst pointing at a chimney in the neighbouring garden that happened to have a bird on it. (this may have been a case of suburban mama getting excited and claiming words out of thin air though...it does happen.) However, there was no mistaking the next big word. When I say big, I mean it as well. D literally bellowed it out as loudly as he could, scaring said 'burr' away and probably half the neighbourhood as well. This word happened to be his favourite food. NAR NAR! (banana for those of you a bit slow on the uptake.)

I would have found this unseemly bellow amusing and fairly cute, had it not been for the fact that D timed it at the precise hour that his poor grandmother was attempting to do a counselling session in the room nearby. So, presumably, some poor sod was emptying their heart out about all their deepest problems and issues, and was rudely interrupted by the rousing, earthy cry of NAR NAR. Probably fairly distracting, I should think. D - sensitive as ever. (did I mention the time he terrified a geriatric old dear in the supermarket by screeching as loudly as possible when behind her, making her jump, then having the audacity to snigger about it when she turned round? It's obviously becoming a bit of a habit...)

We are still sojurning at the in laws - the angels for putting up with us yet again! I entered the house at the weekend, then fled again, resolving never to return. The dust! The piles and piles of dust! I actually break out in a hot sweat every time I stop to think about it.

22nd July - Suburban Mama in flight...

I fully admit it, I am a big fat coward. A massive big pansy. It wasn't even a case of not being able to take the heat, it was a case of lifting up skirts and shrieking at lukewarm temperatures. Hence the fact, that I 'got out of the kitchen' (or empty hole that used to be a kitchen, argh!) and indeed, fled the whole house.

We survived Monday ok, the day that the builders started. Despite the fact that they announced that a) the architect's plans were wrong, b) we had a pipework system about as primitive as you can get. I.e - first man made fire, then he made the one-pipe system that we've got, and c) we had a huge gas leak that could potentially have finished us all off, if it had remained undetected.

It was when they started to rip up the lounge (the lounge! The lounge! My lovely, polished, finished lounge!) that I started to get skittish. When they moved into ripping up our bedroom (my bedroom! My bedroom! My lovely, polished, finished bedroom!) I felt rather a few too many palpitations and hot sweats coming on. When they moved into ripping up D's bedroom (his bedroom! His bedroom! Yes, you get the picture...) and I felt a full blown heart attack coming on, I started to doubt my sanity at remaining in the house. After all, we were now living in a house where I actually couldn't put D down anywhere and had to carry him at all times- not an easy task with the world's wriggliest little boy, screeching to be let down so he could crawl around in the filth below.

It came to a crunch when I opened the front door on Tuesday, and was greeted by a cloud of thick, viscious dust and about 5 sweaty builders, who looked as though they'd been working down a coal mine. I was then greeted with the BFG, huge hands on hips, towering over me without his usual look of reassuring calm on his face, telling me 'not to panic about the hole in the kitchen floor.' Substitute the word 'hole' for 'crater' and you're not far off.
'Should we move out for a bit?' I meekly asked.
'Yes.' was the resounding reply.

So I turned tail and fled, complete with wriggly son and exhausted husband, to the solace of the in laws.

Dare I ever return, is the question...

19th July - Send for the straight-jackets...

I am going mad already. And they've only been building for...er...half an hour.

We've (predictably) already run into problems. Nibbler the architect not only positioned a velux window above a partition wall (not a good look, having half a window in each room) but also forgot to factor in a chimney breast. A big chimney breast. In a very small room.

Deep breaths.

This morning was spent clutching a very wriggly D (who was intent upon scaling up and down the entire length of my body whilst hanging on to my shirt and my hair) whilst listening to the two builders humming and harring over the architect plans, and basically saying they were all rubbish. They then calmly informed me that I would have no hot water until Friday. Let the weeping commence.

However, I have to say, the head honcho, the builder in charge (lets call him the BFG for now, as he's about 6ft 7") is marvellous at calming my shattered nerves. 'It'll be ok' he keeps telling me reassuringly, as I trail around the house after him, like a worried school kid. He then tells me that he'll strip our doors and strip the staircase too, hopefully revealling all the original stair spindles and banisters. I feel myself relax. Spindles and banisters. We're on familiar ground again. Keep chanting it like a mantra. Spindles and banisters. Spindles and banisters. S p i n d l e s and b a n i s t e r s......

And now, D and I are holed up in the lounge, barricaded in from the plumes of dust and the stomp of endless feet, of builders and plumbers and electricians plodding up and down the hallway. Our little peaceful haven! (If only I could just completely ignore the wallpaper in here, which is currently creeping down the walls, at the rate of about 2mm a day. We really did do a CRAP job of wallpapering in here...)

Fingers crossed that the BFG makes our house beeeyoootiful....

17th July - Riddled with paint.

Ugh.

Painting.

Not the fun type either, not the 'sitting outside in clement weather dabbing brushes gently on canvas' type painting. I like that sort. The sort I'm talking about, is the 'straining to reach the sodding ceiling with a paint-saddled roller that spatters you copiously in the eye whilst getting repetitive strain injury in your wrist from holding up the bloody paint tray' type.

Definitely not fun at all.

I am covered in little flecks of whiteness, I look like a snowman has sneezed on me. The paint spots on the lips are probably the worst, from a distance, it looks like I've been dribbling. Mind you, given that I look like a mad person at the moment anyway, with hair sticking randomly in all directions because I can't be bothered to style it anymore, it probably fits in quite well with the general image.

And still it's not finished! Not even half way finished! I now have a ceiling that, when I look at it, starts to make me feel a bit queasy! It's a half splodgy, white streaked mess, with a big ladder that I can't be bothered to move that is going to be looming sinisterly over me tonight as I sleep, and a mass of dust sheets, which actually, if I'm honest, I didn't bother using, hence the fact that all our furniture now has flecks of paint on it too, and the duvet cover actually has an enormous blob of paint about the size of a 50 pence piece on it. Same goes for my clothes, which are actually nice clothes, because yes, I was also imbecilic enough not to put on old ones.

As Homer Simpson might say, Doh, doh, and double-doh.

Anyway, enough about the ceiling. It has taken up enough of my time today already. D's mad moods continue unabated, though at the moment, he is pleasantly cheery. He has discovered the delights of climbing in and out of an upturned cardboard box. Seriously, he's just been climbing in and out of it for the last 20 minutes now, giggling uproariously as he does so. I tried to join in, but he gave me a really disgruntled and, quite frankly, pissed off look, as if to say 'go and find your own box.' I felt quite peeved actually, as it did look quite fun.

Mind you, he's been in a ratbaggy mood for the rest of the day. Especially round meal times. Oh, I am starting to dread meal times. Today, it was the breadsticks and the carrot batons that bore the brunt of D's passionate rage. The breadstick was literally smashed into smithereens and discarded as though it was something unspeakable. The poor carrot suffered worse though, D sat on it, and then voided his bowels. Fortunately he was clothed at the time, but none the less, the smell alone should have sealed the deal for the poor vegetable. It was a dirty protest of the worst kind. Even worse than puking on the Gina Ford book, which he did the other day. (For those not in the know, Gina Ford endorses controlled crying and strict routines. I think D made his feelings on that matter VERY clear, judging by the dribblings of sticky sick running all over the front cover.)

I shall sign off for the day. I'm off to get D to bed, then off to pour myself a frighteningly large glass of wine. Adieu.

16th July. Le Freak. C'est NE PAS chic.

Freak out! Has been the theme of this morning. And, as the title of this entry suggests, unlike the song, it has not been chic. Not even moderately stylish. It's been an all out shambles of freak, if we're talking fashion metaphors here, it's been like the biggest wardrobe malfunction since Timmy Mallet. The biggest hair-style no-no since Ann Widdecombe. The biggest shoe disaster since Alvin Stardust broke his ankle wearing 6 inch platforms (get in for musical knowledge, girl...)

D has gone mad! Who has stolen my happy little son? I just tried to feed him some pasta a moment ago and I'm not sure whether he thought I'd mixed cyanide into it or something, but the reaction / freak out was immensely severe. The meatballs went the same way. It's a shame, they were damned nice, but not so nice after being thrown under the washing machine and accumulating a layer of dirt and hair. The carrot didn't even get a look in, and as for the cucumber, I didn't even bother to take it out of the fridge. It was safer in there. To be dealt into D's hands would have meant instant doom.

The weather isn't helping our general frame of mind either. There is no other way of putting it - it sucks. It sucks balls. I headed out to Tesco earlier and got caught in the most mega rain shower ever; which I admit, I got really needlessly ratty about and started walking along the puddle-riddled streets muttering and swearing under my breath, which may have convinced the people of the town (all sensibly wearing macs and cagouls, grr) that I was completely off my rocker. Yes, I admit, it was a teeny tiny bit prattish to go out wearing just a thin jumper and a skirt. (pause). And flip flops. Yes, the flip flops were definitely a bit silly. Especially when all the leaves on the ground went mulchy in the rain and I ended up nearly sliding on my arse about ten times.

Nashings of teeth. Boo.

15th July - The Violent Highs and the Violent Lows...

Oh dear, the boy really is getting to be a chip off the old (maternal) block.

For those who know me, you may also be aware of my rather alarmingly capricious and, lets face it, somewhat silly personality. I can leap from the peaks of cheeriness to the depths of despair faster than you can say 'blimey, is it that time of the month'. Seriously, I just don't know how hubbie puts up with it. (Well, I do, he simply sighs and pours himself another glass of wine. Then inserts the ear plugs.)

It would appear that our beloved D is learning the tricks of the trade with the mood swings. Today, we have had no less than about 20 hugely alarming screechy tantrums. They were over the following things:

1) Having his nappy changed.
2) Having to wear clothes.
3) Us not psychically knowing that he had finished his breakfast.
4) Us not miraculously being able to release him from his highchair in a millisecond.
5) Turning off the tv before the closing credits of Waybaloo had completely finished (that one was a big one).
6) Trying to feed him couscous.
7) Not immediately having a substitute for the rejected couscous.
8) Not allowing him to eat the computer lead.
9) Not allowing him to eat hubbie's flip flops.

The list goes on. Each strop evokes a terrifying transformation in our normally chirpy little laddie. The face darkens to a worrying shade of aubergine. The mouth opens so it almost encompasses the whole head, then the most shrill wail audible to the human ear emerges from the tiny, yet thoroughly determined wind pipes.

And yet, just as quickly, like a switch has been flicked, he'll be all smiles again, looking at you all sweetly, with a hint of bemusement, as if to say 'why are you looking so harrassed and worn out, mummy? Surely it's nothing to do with me!'

I just can't keep up with him at the moment. Bless him. It's divine retribution for me being like that for 28 years... ho ho...

14th July - Terror sets in...

For the past few weeks, I've been very much living on my own little 'Planet Happy' when thinking about our building works. For those of you who are computer buffs, it was a bit like 'Little Big Planet' in my head, lots of lovely little scenes of me skipping blithely through perfect shiny kitchens and polished, gleaming bathrooms, with big friendly builders waving and saying hello.

This morning was different though. 'Little Big Planet' disappeared in a puff of noxious smoke. What replaced it was an image that actually made me whimper out loud with panic, much to D's surprise. Instead, that horrible, turgid beast, REALITY, hit me.

The reality of no kitchen for two weeks. 'It'll be alright!' I had breezily said to hubbie, only a week ago. WHAT??!! What was I thinking?? A whole fortnight with no cooker, no washing machine, no sink... in short...ARGH!! How am I going to cook meals? How am I going to wash up? How HUGE is the pile of our stinky smelly clothes going to be?
Then, the additional reality of NO BATHROOM. No means of washing. No means of giving D his bath. No running water.
I suddenly had awful visions of D crawling round, hair matted and caked in food, face as grimy as a Victorian chimney sweep, smiling cheerfully as another fly alighted on his food stained clothing.
I had visions of hubbie and me, huddled round the microwave, like desperate cavemen round a campfire, fishing out yet another revolting ready meal.
Oh, the horror, the horror.

I am probably making a little too much of this. It is, after all, only two weeks. But it is going to be two weeks of HELL.

Now, I need to pull myself together here. Eyes on the prize. Keep the visions of pristine perfect kitchen/diners, with happy sons toddling round in it. Keep the image of relaxing under a shower that doesn't involve you sitting perched on the most painful bathmat in history (seriously, I know it was only three quid, but it has these spikes like bloody nails digging into your vulnerable buttocks), holding the shower head over you, while it decides whether it's going to douse you in boiling hot or arctic water. Keep the image of TWO toilets. No more racing downstairs every morning to be the first one to have a desperate wee. (I normally win though, just for the record).

Deep breaths. I can do it.

On an entirely different note, D has been tough work these past few days. The tantrums and all out strop-attacks have continued unabated. Today's fury was leveled at the spaghetti bolognaise that I served up to him. To be honest, I'm not sure I blame him. It came from a jar (his first ever jar food!) and it looked like something a wild animal might sick up in the garden. It smelt pretty much the same. I wouldn't touch it. But...(nashings of panic) if he won't eat from jars, what on earth am I going to cook for him (without a cooker!) for the next fortnight?? Man (and baby) cannot live on Philadelphia and toast alone!

Oh darn it, I'm worrying again, aren't I. I think this might be a theme over the next few weeks...

13th July...A breakthrough?

Well, who would have adam and eve-d it? (to coin an old cockney phrase.)

It only took 40 minutes to get D to have his nap this morning! 40 minutes! That's nothing! Yes, I know, all you other smug suburban mamas out there whose sproglings simply nod off as soon as you lay them in the cot, yes, I know it's not that great really. But to me it is!

Just to fill you in, the standard practice in this household is that D starts yawning around 8:30, we go upstairs, we have a bit of quiet time, we read a book, we have a cuddle, D lies in his cot...and then the screaming starts. Then I get him up, give him a cuddle, pop him back down...more screaming. You get the picture. And so it continues for at least an hour and a half normally, all the time D still yawning and rubbing his angry eyes furiously, but refusing to give in to it.

So 40 minutes is good! And...I scarcely dare say it, but he's been asleep for 25 minutes now! This must be a record.

However, on a more negative note, 25 minutes has afforded me some dangerous time to make dreadful inroads into the pack of jelly beans that I bought the other day. (I KNEW it was a bad idea at the time, why did I do it?) The green ones are particularly succulent and juicy. Worse still, I've put them right next to the apples, in a bid to force my grabbing little fingers to seize something healthy instead, but no, the fingers creep surreptitiously into the jelly bean bag instead, every time.

We had the architect's drawings come through yesterday. The architect is really very nice, he gets so excited about everything, but he keeps suggesting these whizzy technological things that we really can't afford. Such as:
- Velux windows that open up or close according to temperature. (no.)
- A mirror in the new bathroom that lights up when you wave your hand in front of it. (er..no.)
- An extremely expensive set of bi-fold doors so we are flooded with light. (er...no. Oh, now, hang on, bugger, YES. We said YES to this one. Oh blimey. That's another couple of grand in debt then, whoops!)

He also keeps saying the word 'nibble'. It's almost like a nervous tic. Everything needs 'nibbling'. He's going to 'nibble' the step at the back door. Last week he came round to 'nibble' some exploratory holes in the ceiling. (Yeah, where loads of bloody house flies poured their way through, thanks for that particular nibble!) So we have duly renamed him Nibbler. He even looks a bit like that particular character from Futurama, so it suits him well. I like him all the more for being a Nibbler.

We have a terrible habit of nicknaming people. The plumber has been nicknamed Pippin the Second. Not even the original Pippin, poor bloke! Basically, anyone young, rosy cheeked and earnest gets called Pippin by myself and hubby. We are quite strange, aren't we.

So, what with Pippin the Second and Nibbler on the case with our house, its getting more and more like an Enid Blyton book every day. I shall start drinking Fizzy Pop and 'having larks' soon, just to fit in.

I've not done a recipe for a while, so here is a simple one that I am going to make in the near future to test it out on the supremely fussy D.

Meatballsss

You need: -

Mince (go on, make it vegetarian, you know you want to join the good guys...)
An egg of magnificent proportions.
An onion, finely finely chopped, or better still, grated within an inch of it's life.

Mix em all up.
Roll them into little ping pong balls of loveliness.
Whack em in a pre heated oven (200c) for about 20 mins.

Voila! How simple is that! And rustle up with a tomato or bolognaise sauce and you've got a winner with the little 'uns. Having said that, I bet D still spurns them and sends them imperiously to the floor, as he so often does to my lovely home cooked food. Hmmph.

132th July - I've been punished!!

I had a day without D for the first time this Saturday.

It was marvellous. My big sister (recently turned 40 and looking good, girl!) and I headed to London for a supremely satisfying mooch round the shops and for a gossip of truly epic proportions. Of course I missed D and wondered what he was getting up to, but I realy valued the time to be me again, and not just (suburban) mama.

However, the price was a heavy one (and no, I'm not talking the amount I spent on clothes here.)
When I returned home, all shopped out and weary from a 3 hour train journey, I entered the lounge to see a baleful little D, sitting up in the middle of the shaggy rug, eyes bleary through tiredness (it was an hour after his bedtime).

I duly scooped him up for a big hug. He was stiff as a board. Then the screaming started. Oh. My. Word. I have never heard screeching like it. It was like some supernatural banshee piercing directly through the old ear drums into the brain itself. Then the beat 'em up operation started, as D began to berate me physically with his fists. Hard. Whilst still screaming. All I could see was this livid little purple face with a cavernous mouth, spewing vitriolic rage into my face whilst his hands were going like the clappers in thier mission to hit as many parts of me as humanly possible.

To add insult to injury, when handed back to his father, he calmed instantly and looked all snuggly and cosy, fixing his little furious glare upon me from below his father's chin. Hubbie looked vaguely smug, though to give him credit, he tried to hide it behind a sympathetic smile. I felt like the most rejected bit of dog poo ever. If I had possessed a kennel in the garden, I would have retreated to it, tail between legs. I felt very thoroughly in the dog house.

This continued until D eventually collapsed through tiredness at 9:30pm. And into the following morning. Then eventually, he gave it up and crawled over for a cuddle. Phew! Forgiven at last! I felt emotionally completely drained, I never would have imagined such a little lad could make me feel so utterly guilty!

However, since then, we've had full on tantrumming, we've had protests about every little thing, even touching a toy that D happened to have his eyes on is enough to produce full floods of enraged tears. Oh dear...

I can feel a tiring week coming on... and hubbie away for two nights, boo!

8th July - Repugnant Infestations!!

Oh my blood is boiling.

I am seething.

Now, I'm a reasonable person. (most of the time.) I can tolerate lots of things. With regards to thge insect population, I can tolerate the ants nest that has sprung up on our 'patio'. (substitute the word 'patio' for 'concrete rubbly mess, more accurate description.) I can tolerate the large hairy spider that is currently residing fatly under our washing machine, and scuttles out every time I wash the floor. I can even tolerate the pesky little midges that seem to float into our house with gay abandon and congregate round the dustbin.

But I cannot tolerate this. This is a bridge too far.

THE ATTACK OF THE FLIES.

I'm not talking just the one or two flies here. I'm not even talking about Mr and Mrs Fly and their children, or even extended family. I'm talking about a whole cosmopolitan metropolis of the gits.

I came in yesterday from Exeter to a strange buzzing from the kitchen. I didn't think much of it - this house often makes rather unusual noises and I tend not to like to dwell too much upon them.
But my laissez faire attitude swiftly changed to abject horror when I realised what the source of the noise was...a swarm of big bristly flies all over the kitchen, sitting on the sink, hovering impudently around the window, chilling out on D's highchair...there were literally about twenty of them.

Imagine then, if you will, my further horror when I enter the bathroom (which is just behind the kitchen) to discover about 50 of the buggers. All sitting arrogantly on the bath, flitting smugly round the window pane, whisking slyly past my head as I entered.

This is when I ceased to be just plain old Mrs B. Suburban Mama disappeared for a while. Like Clark Kent, like Peter Parker, my normal persona vanished, and in its place was LUCY - FLY DESTROYER, NEMESIS OF THE FLY.

I wielded my copy of Reveal like a dangerous sword, felling flies with every enraged swoop. Pretty soon, the house had become a veritable cemetary of pathetic fly corpses, all lying on the surfaces with their little legs stuck sadly into the air. I was like a woman possessed, hurtling through the house with my magazine brandished high above my head, screaming bloody murder and threatening the remaining stragglers with the most obscenely violent demises.

D thought it was hilarious. He kept pointing at me as if to say 'look! look! Mummy's gone mad!'

And indeed I had.

And still the B*STARDS come! It's somewhere in the bathroom that they are making their entry. We thought that it was the big hole in the ceiling that the architect 'nibbled' out (his word, not ours) the other day. But nope, not there. We sealed that one. (with the back page of said Reveal magazine mentioned previously.) We can only presume the sneaky, dirty little sods are creeping up through the plug hole. I am officially mortified and repulsed. In fact, just a few seconds ago, it was an all out fight between myself and a particularly large plump raisin of a fly, who refused to die, even after being swiped with a magazine (Company this time.), flushed down the toilet, then flattened against the bowl with a piece of tissue. It really doesn't help that flies are also exceptionally tenacious.

Vile. Vile vile vile.

I am a peeved suburban mama.

6th July - Spry old birds...

I forgot to mention - (mainly because it wasn't that interesting...) Yesterday, I was strolling into town with D in the pram, puffing and panting up a hill (actually, if you are going to press me on this, yes, it was more of a gentle incline in the road rather than an actual hill...) and I was suddenly snapped out of my hot and bothered reverie by someone speedily over taking me on the inside lane.

Imagine my surprise (and embarrassment) when I realised that the overtaker was not some young, athletic male, but an old lady. Seriously, she must have been about 80 at least, a tiny little bird-like woman, clad in seriously up to date tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a tight top. She was pelting sprily along the pavement, a bounce in her step, not even the merest hint of arthritis or aching bones - she appeared to me, at that moment, joy itself personified, simply out for an energetic stroll, enjoying the morning air.

And how silly did I suddenly feel, all worn out and sweaty in the heat, my head filled with all sorts of irrelevant and moany thoughts.

I thought to myself - yep, she's got it right! That's how you live life! And I found myself hoping against hope that if I ever reached that vaulted and venerable age, that I too would be bobbing merrily along the streets and still enjoying life for all it was worth.

And then I purposely put a little bounce in my step too. So ta very much anonymous old bird. You actually made my day!

5th July - Where does the time go?

I was watching D as he yanked himself up on his walker today and I was suddenly struck by how quickly he'd changed, in a short period of time. Literally a couple of weeks ago, he was still impotently floundering around on the floor and screaming for his mama to move him. What happened? When did he turn into a one man mobility machine?

It made me feel strangely nostalgic, for those early days when he still looked like a little scrunched up red potato and didn't do much else other than feed, sleep and poo a lot. (god, yes, it was a lot. Well, perhaps I don't miss that part. Newborn baby poo really is quite nauseating.) And then I started thinking... 'wouldn't it be nice to perhaps, you know, maybe, possibly, you know, like have another one?'

Argh! What am I thinking??! Thinking of another baby whilst D is a military mission all by himself? What if the next one was as sleep-shy as D was? (oh god, the mere thought of two babies who don't sleep at all during the day...how would I cope??)

But still, the thought remains, like a little tempting glittering nugget in my brain. It would actually be...quite nice. Oh sod it. Yes, I admit it. I am broody again. Oh my word. If I carry on like this, I'll be one of those saggy, knackered women who's got 8 kids by the time she's 40.

Mind you - I'm now looking at my glass, which is currently sitting on the sofa next to me, and more to the point, is full of a healthy shot of sambuca, and thinking - am I ready to relinquish booze again, after only having just rediscovered it?

Dilemma. Booze or baby? Morning sickness or hangover? Tough one.

Ha ha!

5th July - Let the building commence!

Let us go forth and pay money to have the whole house smashed to smithereens! Let us happily live a life of filth and dust for a month or so, all in the name of renovation!

Argh!

Today we have officially given the go ahead for the builders to come in and transform our house; currently 'retro' pad circa 1953, and morph it into contemporary, yet classic haven of homeliness.

Two weeks from today it begins, oh my word!! I am hugely excited but at the same time ever so slightly terrified. Hubbie and I recently watched one of those 'Houses from Hell' programmes, you know the ones, where some builder (portrayed generally as some sort of demon from the very bowels of hell itself) makes a right royal muck up of someone's beloved house then skips off into the distance without a forwarding address. Normally, we would give these sort of programmes a miss. However, we watched this one with avid and gradually more and more horrified interest, imagining our own house literally disintegrating around our ears, until we'd pretty much convinced ourselves that was what was going to happen.

We keep trying to block it out of our minds, but it keeps creeping back in, that horrid little niggly thought of 'oh god, what if it all goes wrong...'

But I am sure it won't. I am sure it will look marvellous and I will merrily skip through my new custom made pad, blithely holding social events and coffee mornings like a true mama. (or not...)

D has decided, only a few weeks after mastering the crawl, that all fours is simply not good enough. Oh no. He is determined to be fully bipedal now. Any available ledge or firm construction is fair game to pull himself up with, and his little tentative steps as he edges around the sofa / coffee table / my legs, are really rather cute. Until he loses balance, falls heavily on his little arse and screams in outrage. That is what he is doing at the moment actually, scooching round the coffee table and trying to grab one of his toys from his basket at the same time. Recipe for disaster, me thinks!

2nd July - Nocturnal Howlings and things that go bump in the night...

Eleven til one. ELEVEN TIL ONE!

And yes, I am referring to the evil hours of 11pm and 1am, those hours when one is meant to be tucked up having sweet dreams under the duvet.

Not when one is meant to be pacing in and out of a certain young sir's room, picking him up, putting him down, listening to him start howling again, listening to him fall asleep, only to wake up five seconds later, due to some percieved insult, such as his hand being in slightly the wrong position.

At midnight he actually wanted to play. PLAY?? PLAY?? No. Just no. Absolutely not. No amount of cutsie little smiles and cuddly gestures is going to make me decide that playing is a better option than getting some valuable shut eye.

So then, it was tears, and lots of them. Dummies being hurled with enraged abandon round the room (for us to have to turn on the sodding light to find them again, thus waking him up even more), fists being slammed repeatedly against the bars like some livid ape in a zoo...

We did have to have a bit of a giggle at D being so desperate to stand up and grab our attention, that he lunged at the bars, managed to miss them entirely, and launched himself straight through. His surprised expression was a picture.

And guess what, its now 9am, and we are doing exactly the same thing, trying to settle him yet again, because he is yawning his head off. It is starting to feel like a severe case of groundhog day...

In all seriousness, I am not sure how much more of this I can take.

On a lighter note, hubbie and I were going through all the old contracts of people who'd bought this house before us, and it was so cool. I love anything like that, any chance to be a boff and do a bit of research! We discovered who the mysterious 'Joy and Brian' were (whilst picking off woodchip, we uncovered an inscription on the wall, saying 'Joy and Brian 'pappered' this room 1972) - and turns out they are plumbers and still live on this road! Mental!
I got particularly excited though, to discover that one of the previous owners was a Charles Lacey, who not only wrote a book on Thomas Hardy, but went to school with him as well. Fantastic! So Thomas Hardy himself may well have visited this house. Get in!

1st July - Sleep, child, sleep!!

Sigh.

Why is it, that all other mothers I speak to seem to have babies who simply nod off into a happy sleep as soon as their head hits the cot mattress? Why is it that these mothers also seem to enjoy hours of blissful peace before their cherubic offspring emerge from their contented naps?

And, more to the point, how have I managed to produce an equally cherubic child, who seems to survive on twenty minutes a day? And still doesn't sleep through the night. (YES! You read right! Yes, he still wakes up! And yes, horror of horrors, I STILL feed him!! Oh, the barely concealed disapproval on many a mother's face when I confess that little gem...)

Today, I attempted to pop D in his cot at 9. He was yawning and I thought, you never know. He might sleep.

He didn't.

Three hours later, and you have a rather more stressful scene. Picture one cherubic baby, now looking rather more like 'screaming baby from a diabolic parallel universe', due to extreme tiredness. Picture one suburban mama, her hair clumped together with sweet potato (thanks for that, D!), her dress also stained with sweet potato, tomato puree and wood varnish, red in the face and about to scream bloody murder.

He eventually went to sleep an hour after that, at 1pm. For about half an hour. ARGH!!!

Still, it gave me some valuable time to get on with varnishing the floor. Oh, the suburban DIY mama's day is never done at the moment...

At present, D is alarmingly trying to tug hubbie's phone charger out of one of our storage boxes in the corner of the room. He's done a very good job actually, considering I deliberately hid it in the darkest recesses of that box. He's moved on from his previous task, which was prising the buttons off our DVD player and eating the Alan Partridge DVD that he found inside. (he liked it as well, must have tasted nice...) He's already prised the shift key off our laptop...lucky it's the one key there are two of, I suppose. He could have picked one of the 'F' keys at the top though...I never use those.

Right. I'd better stop him, before he managed to strangle himself with the phone charger, which he is now wrapping around his neck. Oh god...