Kids do say the funniest things

This afternoon Eliott took himself off to the sofa with a duvet and laid himself out like a couch potato. When I asked him what he was doing he said "sleep in mummy's bed". Oh, the shame.

Indeed, I have been spending rather a few mornings laying like a big, fat vegetable on my sofa. This comes from drinking too much demon booze. Last night I found myself singing/shouting songs from Grease in a friend's car at 1.30am after an innocent sounding Usborn book party descended into white wine-fuelled chaos and singing/shouting Take That songs in the hostess's living room. It's not good, not at my age (or any age, come to think of it).

So I might impose a ban on alcohol now until at least December 7th when the Christmas parties start rolling in. Oh God I can't face it*.

Meanwhile my house is being taken over by superheroes. Usually when dads look after their kids for the day they go to the park or play football. Matt spent the afternoon painting a life-size Superman on Eliott's bedroom wall. Obviously the little man is delighted.

The comic collection is out of control and we all know the script to "Superman and Batman", the animated movie (no prizes for guessing who also knows every single action). And in addition to Eliott's ever-growing superhero model collection, Matt's 'sad shelf' is back (it caved in under the weight of all his superhero models but has been reinforced and replaced - I can't wait for the cleaners to take them to down to dust and put them back in the wrong order, wicked witch that I am). What a couple of losers.

Oh and I'm unemployed. Ok, I'm being dramatic again. I haven't got any outstanding commissions, but that's the hangovers for you. Tomorrow I will be back to full-strength and pitching like a mutha. It's all gravy**.

*I'm still hungover.

**What?

This life, that's life

BBC2 are repeating the complete series of This Life ahead of the big reunion. After I got past Egg being called Egg again on screen (he's always been Egg to me) I started feeling all dreamy and reminiscent.

It's weird to feel so nostalgic about 1997. I thought nostalgia ended after 1992, but evidently I got even older than I thought possible. When I watched This Life the first time around I wanted to be in it (the world the characters lived in that is, not the series). They were living the life that I thought I should be living at the time. I wanted to be having passionate affairs, gay friends, interesting flatmates and being the crazy bird at parties. Of course, looking back I appreciate that I had/was all those things. Shame you don't see what's right in front of you at the time.

Now I'm old and settled and watched with a sentimental tear in my eye as Egg got his dinkle out and Anna screwed her nose up a lot. I was amazed at how many dusty feelings a silly TV drama can reveal. I'm older and wiser and happier now, but that didn't stop me getting dewy-eyed. I'm celebrating my fourth wedding anniversary today, but I'm still far too proud to be known as the crazy bird at parties (when we've got a babysitter). Even hearing that theme tune, I did long, for a second, for those heady days of my twenties when there was a promise of something really dramatic and bonkers around the corner and I still got into situations that would make me cringe for a lifetime. I could have killed for five minutes back in my old shared flat with all that laughter, drama, alcohol, pent-up ambition and excitment.

I would love to be, just for a day, the girl who thought she was an adult, but was so far removed from a grown-up she couldn't even see it on the horizon. It was a good time, a wild time and a long time ago.

But, y'know, just like This Life, that life was probably overrated.

"More Barney, Mummy!"

It's true. In the space of a fortnight, Eliott is putting two and three word sentences together. He's using verbs ("what have you been doing at playgroup today, El?", "hiding, Mummy"). He's built up a vocab of around 200 words, probably more, and it's suddenly like living with a little Mynah bird. I never realised how often I say "right then", "wow wee" or "shit" (don't tell Matt) and have never been more conscious of the way I say "bye".

He can count to ten! He's been singing along to songs! His pronunciation is much improved and he's so proud and so happy. Unsurprisingly, so am I - not to mention relieved.

I still don't buy the "he never said a word until he was two and then he could speak!" myth. It hasn't happened overnight, it just feels a bit that way, but I can see how the years will condense the last two or three months into an hour or so of recollection. No doubt I'll be pedelling the same exaggerated shit (see) as everyone else in years to come.

On to other developments and Matt and I won the pitch we went for. On the way to our first "family" meeting with the client this morning, Matt took one look at my carefully printed map and hand-written contact details (in case of emergency - not every receptionist can be trusted to let you in) and after declaring that he knew exactly where we were supposed to be going he screwed up the pristine sheet of A4 and threw it in a litter bin. I felt a bit sick.

In the meeting, I brought out my neat, plastic folder filled with ordered notes pertaining to the project and a stack of stapled, dated notepaper. Matt brought a pen. He also had his toolbox in tow, allegedly full of "artist materials" (tins of paint). Our project manager asked him if he'd come to fix the photocopier.

I will develop a twitch before this job is done.

Thank God we're going to Legoland tomorrow.

Observer Woman

Anyone who is interested in my first Observer interview (hello mum) can read it online here. Must say, I'm rather proud of this one.

And not that I like to show off or anything...

All the news that's fit to print

Has it been so long? My blogging is woefully inadequate.

Eliott is saying lots of words and has a lisp - it's very "me when I was a toddler". He has also started with the childminder and I feel like a new woman. He has pooed and puked all over her already so I'd say they've bonded.

I never did put any weight back on after my illness and in fact, after a bit of careful - but healthy - eating, I lost a bit more. It's hard to convince people that 7st12 (ay carumba!) is my natural state and I'm not on a suicidal size 00 mission. I'm honestly not. While I'm in no rush to lose more, I don't want the post-pregnancy pounds back either and have bought a short & stripey sweater dress to prove it. It really is the eighties (I weighed 7st12 then too).

My first interview for Love It! was published and I should have my first in Observer Woman next Sunday (woo). Work is busy and buzzy and I'm trying hard to carve out time to get my novel-writing going again. First job is to find an agent (like that's going to be easy). Matt and I also worked on a pitch together, which was interesting. He contracted man-flu right at the crucial last minute and lay in bed groaning while I worked (and ranted) into the wee hours in a flurry of sheer panic. I wonder if we'll get it....

Having the childminder one day a week, plus Matt's day on Eliott watch, means I actually get time to relax and have watched several films to celebrate (TransAmerica, Constant Gardener...). We even went to the cinema with El today to see Hoodwinked. It was great, if a little embarrassing as El insisted on shouting things out really loudly to every character he liked. I plugged him up with popcorn, which he didn't seem to mind.

My final exciting news is that I am doing something Proper Bo with a Morrisons (the supermarket - I know!) publication. It's my destiny.

Upside down

I had promised myself a relaxing evening of leisure in front of the box this evening. I just got a text from Matt that read "I bet you £100 you are not watching telly".

Well, he's right, I'm in front of my computer; but, I'm not working. After watching the first part of Stephen Fry's The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive I have been self-diagnosing Bipolar Disorder - what a great way to relax!

It's no revelation, but it's a reminder. A family history of manic depression runs through my family like a sprinter on steroids. It still plays a huge part in the life of a close relative. I try not to dwell on it, but I know I'm at risk. It's not only family history, it's also personal experience.
I've had one serious episode of "mania" and lots of little ones when I was a teenager. At the time it seemed perfectly reasonable. It was everyone else in the world who couldn't see the danger, I was completely sound of mind and right to be petrified of the impending nuclear war that would finish us all off. Or the AIDS that would finish me off (a regular preoccupation in spite of my sensible and, dare I say it, conservative, sexual exploits during my university years).

But the big one started in early November, 1997. Looking back, I was already teetering on the verge of something. I was unhappy in my job, which hadn't turned out to be everything I thought it would be, and unhappy in my relationship, which had. I'd been getting increasingly and compulsively superstitious about everything and anything (if I don't blink before the bus comes I'll make it into work alive, etc) and reading hugely significant meaning into anything that crossed my path (including mice, read on).

We were on our way to Oxford with friends who had moved up there from London. During the drive, we saw a man (?) in a full clown costume behind the wheel of a car we'd just overtaken. I don't like clowns at the best of times, but in my fragile mental state, I took this to be a sign that something awful and devastating was about to happen.

Miraculously, we walked away from the car journey alive, but that evening at our friend's new house, a news item came up about the crisis in Iraq. Our friends, who always looked on the bright side, proceeded to tell us some bibble about Nostradamus (my late Grandma's guru) and how this latest brinkmanship would probably result in World War 3. I felt a dark cloud descend upon me (as you would) but it didn't dissipate for the rest of the evening. Or for the next three months. I literally felt like I'd just been handed a death sentence.

I wandered around during those three months in a daze. What started as a weird day full of doom and gloom (followed by the first train home to London in the morning to get out of my friend's haunted house - I wasn't well), developed into a full-blown manic episode. It's all a bit blurry, but I remember it got so bad that I hastily arranged a week off work because a mouse ran out from behind the toilet - a clear signal that the Horsemen of the Apocalypse were saddling up. (The new shower curtain we'd erected was definitely going to kick-start the End Times). I rang the doctor to make an appointment, during which I'd decided to tell him we were all going to die and beg for drugs to ease the forthcoming pain, but cancelled at the last minute to take a train back to Yorkshire, thus escaping the blast wind.

I vividly remember a trip to the Aquarium where I had to puke in the toilet because I got so upset about not being able to hear the three minute warning that far underground. There was a lot of puking.

Looking back in my diary you'd never know. I went to gigs and parties and pre-Christmas business lunches and although I was distracted and had constant anxiety attacks, I did function relatively normally, if only on the outside. I don't even know if my then-boyfriend and flatmates were suspicious (you'd have to ask Minks).

It might sound funny now, it might sound scary or ridiculous, even. I certainly sound like a nutter. But at the time it was real and it was awful and I lived on the edge for weeks. It ended abruptly when I met Matt and realised that there were more pressing matters in my life to attend to than thermo nuclear bomb shelters.

Since the big one, I've had mini episodes (September the 11th sparked a medium sized one, but I doubt I was alone there) but nothing too heavy. I do feel concern for the future, though. I worried a little bit about my vulnerability in terms of post natal depression. I believe I got away with that one (unless Eliott being a round-the-clock screamer was a figment of my exhausted and sleep-deprived imagination).

I definitely live my life in a series of mini manias. The ups kick-in with every accepted commission, every complement, every tiny triumph. I pelt around the house in a state of near hysteria (last Friday morning I'd pitched three ideas, done an interview, cleaned out a pan cupboard, fed and watered my child, gone through a set of client amends with an agency, had a bath and spoken to a National newspaper editor - all before 10am) but the downs smack me in the face weekly, sometimes daily. My mood can turn on the whiff of what I perceive to be someone else's negative opinion of me or what I've done. I frequently decide my work is rubbish (at other times I am a literary genius) or what I've said to someone was the wrong thing to say and now they hate me for it. It's a feeling, a bad feeling. A sinking of the heart, a pain in the chest - a glimpse into that other world. That dark place where I hurl in unfamiliar toilet bowls because I don't have the energy, strength or courage to face up to the real problems in my life.

I loved the Stephen Fry film because I identified with him so much. It's this (undiagnosed) bipolarity that drives me on, it controls my personality - but it also controls my creativity and my successes.

But I do worry about having another "big one". A close relative of mine had a big one when he was a teenager. Now his life has been overtaken by manic depression and I don't want to end up like that. I like to think that mine was a symptom of unhappy life circumstances and it's normal to feel like the world is about to end when there's so much conflict across the globe, yadda yadda. I can talk myself out of it, but I know deep down that I went a bit mad.

And now you do too.

Woody's round-up

*Looks up at title* I watch too many of Eliott's films.

Here's a round-up of my news.

France was wonderful. I've decided I want to live in a beautiful mansion that costs 50p and has several acres of land, including a forest, and an orchard, and a gite for the beautiful friends who will visit me. Unfortunately, I'd like this dream home to be situated in close proximity to Boots, Sainsburys, Balham Leisure Centre and a tube line into London. You could say it's a pipe dream.

Eliott's saying a few more words. Nothing really being linked-up yet, but his comprehension is zipping along and he's even pissed in the potty a few times. We're sort of egging him on, but I don't think we'll ever be the kind of parents who have a steely determination to get him reading and doing trigonometry before he's mastered the art of finger painting. There's enough pressure to come when he goes to school, so we'll concentrate on days out at Chessington (he's officially a thrillseeker) and discussions on the best tasting colour bogeys, for now.

I had some strong opinions (none of which are fit to print) about the various media features on September 11th; so strong that my mum is convinced I was radicalised by my Dad (who, in the words of Jeremy Paxman, makes Donald Rumsfeld look like a sandal-wearing hippy) when I was last in his neck of the woods. She's probably right. I'm becoming the best right-wing, capitalist, socialist in the world! Oop the workers and the oppressed (as long as I'm not paying for their frickin' housing benefit or expected to live next door to a bomb-plotter).

I also complained for several hours about Martin Amis writing a piece entitled "The final hours of Mohammed Atta" in a newspaper supplement, which was a figment of his imagination (it's the same as my Walking with Dinosaurs problem). Matt shouted at me for being a twat and after reading it I conceded that he (Amis) is a genius and I am a twat.

I've started to like Iron Maiden and Jason Lee is a Scientologist.

Finally, I have got over my fear of flying. Luton airport helped, with it's bars-lining-the-route-from-security-to-departure-gate policy, but the key appears to be 6mg of valium and seven shots of vodka per flight. I used to obsess about my last flight; the sheer terror of take-off, the mid-flight turbulence, the imaginations of a grisly death in several tons of deathly metal...now I think back to a lovely, fluffy experience where (apparently) I order salty snacks and down spirits and talk really loudly about not being scared of flying anymore.

Job done.

More than a mum

The time is fast-approaching for me to go back to work in a more serious fashion and for Eliott to (FINALLY!) spend some time without me.

I love Eliott to bits. He's funny, silly, great company. We went out for dinner together on Friday night. Just the two of us, sat at a wee table with a red rose. We had a toast, 'to us'. Then we giggled at the silly waiter who was trying everything in the book to get Eliott to talk (the non-talkage is still a concern, but one we can occasionally have a bit of a laugh with).

What I'm not loving so much are the confines of my role as a full-time mum. For the first year I really did think Eliott was a genius and got sucked into competitive mum world, but I'm glad to have my feet firmly back on terra firma and to adore a child who is normal and wonderful and troublesome and facing his issues like the rest of us. Like many of the challenges I've faced in life, it's grounded me and reminded me that the world never revolves around our family (and thank God for that).

Parenting seems to be moving into a new phase. It's one that I'm much more suited to and, as such, I don't wring my hands about when to start potty training (at this rate 2015, but, like, who cares?) or how to handle temper tantrums (time-outs work spectacularly well for us thank you very much).

I've had a lot of trouble over the years with the relationship I have with myself (it comes of being stark staring mad), but the relationships I have with those closest to me have always been pretty solid. I feel the same about my relationship with El - all the more reason for alarm bells to ring when Matt mentioned the fact we'd only spent an hour together in the last month. No point having one sussed if it's going to wreck the other.

If I really want to make a go of my career and look after my marriage, I can't afford to be immersed in full-time "mum world" any longer. Does this make me selfish? No, I don't think so. I'm not proposing that I wash my hands of my little man - just a gentle dust down with a wet wipe.

I've loved the last two years, but as September dawns and the big kids toddle off to school, I feel the time is right to make a change. I'm proud that I have been here with El full-time and still managed to achieve some of my career ambitions. It's been bloody hard and rewarding, but it will do us all good to get a bit of balance back in our lives as opposed to full-on hysteria on a daily basis (deadlines/tantrums/days out/toddler gyms/interviews - and all before lunch).

On that note, I'm off to France for an intensive week of loving my family and when I return (safe flights permitting - oh yes, that old chestnut) it will be with a new sense of purpose and direction.

I bet you can't wait.

Fantasy land

Last night I watched Legends of the Fall for the first time. Or should I say, I watched half of it until Matt started dropping strong hints for me to turn it off by burying his head under pillows and the duvet and sighing and tutting at regular intervals.

In some distress (Pitt had just sprouted his beard) I decided to get my self off to sleep (excuse the pun) with a nice Brad-flavoured fantasy. 'Brilliant,' I thought, snuggling down under the duvet and recalling images of him taming that wild horse (yee haw).

Then the fantasy machine kicked into action.

'Now, I don't want to cheat on Matt so I'll have to engineer a way that I can get off with Brad and not feel guilty. Ok, so Matt had an affair and we're on a trial separation. Eliott can't be anywhere near so I'll have to send him to my mum in France for a week or so. Matt won't like that, he wouldn't want Eliott to be out of the country for a whole week without him, especially with things the way they are between us. Ok, don't worry about that, it's not important. Now, how do I meet Brad? It'll have to be work-related. I'm unlikley to get any one-off film-related commissions so maybe I've been given a short-term contract for a film magazine. But I wouldn't really want to do that would I? Ok, Ok. So Brad's working for a charity (I'll decide which one in a bit) and I'm writing a piece for Marie Claire...no, no, a magazine I've already worked for is more likely. Red! I'm doing something for them and they loved it so much they have given me a regular spot with the freedom to interview who I want. Fantasy land! Actually though, that reminds me, I must finish up that box-out for the article I'm writing for them....no, no, no, don't think about work. Brad Brad Brad. Ok, I'm doing a piece for Red about celebrities and charity and Brangelina are in town - wait, can't have her involved. She can be out at a function in a London hotel. No, no, because then she could come back early and catch us. Better she's at home in the states, pregnant again - no, no, no. Can't do it with a man who has a pregnant wife back at home. She's left him! She's left him to be reunited with Billy Bob Thornton (now that would make a good feature - celebs who rebound to their exes...) Stoppit! I'm thinking about work again. Stay focused. Brad, Brad. So Ange has left him and he's here and I've been sent to interview him. Now what should I wear and should I carry a bag or not? Oh God, what if I'm on my period???'

At this point I got too stressed about the whole thing and passed out.

Thankfully, I had a wonderful dream about snogging Jason Lee. He was in character as Earl Hickey and I swapped a ticket to a nightclub for a delicious fumble.

The subconscious is a wonderful and simple thing.

Big bed

On Sunday I woke up with this crazy idea Eliott should be in a big bed. I don't know why. Matt promptly got his tool box out (fnar) and we set about turning the cot bed into a junior bed. Eliott watched in amazement (and bewilderment) as the bars were taken down and he eyed-up his chance for freedom.

He spent the rest of the day going up and down the stairs into his room and leaping about wildly on the bed.

We talked about how big a boy he was now and how wonderful sleeping in a big bed would be. Eliott looked a bit unsure.

At 8pm he went to bed. And then got up. And went to bed. And then got up. And went to bed...repeat, until I sat on the floor with him looking up at me from the big bed, terrified, for an hour. He finally fell asleep.

At 6.30am Monday morning (and bear in mind Eliott usually gets up at 8) I heard the creak of his bedroom door and he appeared beside me. He got into our bed and tried, unsuccessfully, to get back to sleep, falling out of our bed in the process.

On Monday afternoon, when he refused point blank to take a much-needed nap, the bars went back up.

I guess we're just not ready.

Hot topics...hop topics...hot topics

If I had to drink baby milk before boarding a plane (bear in mind I would be pumped full of vodka and valium) I would throw up. Would they still let me on?

Eliott is into Spiderman, the movie (yes, I know he's officially ten years too young but scene selection has big advantages). Is it inappropriate for me to now regularly use the line: "If you climb out of your pram, the Green Goblin will get you. He is loose in Balham. I've just seen it on the news."?

If I don't find a case study who is in her thirties and living back at home with her parents after a relationship breakdown, death or divorce soon, I am going to implode. Help me!

Who keeps digging up the cat's grave next door? It's a big mystery.

I have a wrinkle. I'm blaming weight loss. Matt blames the passage of time. Discuss.

Clothes and birthdays

Although I'm not a size 00 by any stretch of the imagination, I am feeling substantially lighter following my bout of lurgy. To celebrate, I bought a new dress to wear on Friday night for Matt's birthday celebrations.

After El's birth I realised my clothes-buying mantra had changed from "would Kate Moss be seen dead in it?" to "can I tumble dry it?" - not a good shift in terms of fashion cred. Now the focus tends to be on "can I get away with a browse around H&M before Eliott loses the will to live?"

I lost him three times on Friday. During the Debenhams incident (which happened straight after he'd spent the duration of my trying-on session looking under other women's cubicle curtains and giggling), he escaped from his pram while I was taking a mobile call. As I searched desperately between row-upon-row of John Rocha's celtic and ethnic fusions, I could hear his crazy laugh and his trainers, elusively slapping the tiled floor as he ran further and further away. I finally caught up with him hiding behind a vast Debut dress and the air was blue, I can tell you. In Zara he did another bloody Houdini and I found him minutes (that felt like hours) later, stood by the third-floor window, gazing down onto Croydon's high street and banging his fists against the glass like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. At least Woolies was easy; I just had to find the Buzz Lightyear aisle.

Eventually I resorted to desperate measures to keep him still and happy; a McDonald's Rolo milkshake (I know), which bought me enough time to pick a dream dress from TopShop (gold, mini, hand wash only - positively exotic!)

All this running away in crowded shopping malls is not good for my nerves, although, like the lurgy, it does wonders for my waistline. The concept of "Tot Grab Man" isn't sinking in and I'm buggered if I know how to stop him flitting the pushchair. Friends have suggested reigns (ha!) or a wrist link (ha ha!) - but Eliott is a stubborn boy who won't be tethered. (I also admit without reservation that he is stronger than me and would win, hands down, in a fight.)

I think our shopping days together may be numbered.

Not a well woman

Well, it was one of those weekends. A weekend that started with me innocently asking Matt the questions: "where the hell are we going to send Eliott to school?" and "how are we expected to live through another baking hot summer without a garden?" And ended with a very nice estate agent coming to value our house and telling us we've likely made a tidy sum on our (partially trampy) flat.

Aye, just when you thought it was safe to laminate your address book, we're planning yet another move. This time it could be for keeps - it appears we can afford a house! (In a slightly less convenient area with a greater chance of midnight mugging). It's not until next spring, but leave a space in your diary for the house-warming, or should I say, GARDEN PARTY!

This news has cheered me up no end - although not nearly as much as Eliott's formal speech therapy assessment. "There's nowt wrong with him" was the upshot of that experience.

Other news from the last hundred years includes the scintilating tale of my mystery illness. It started on holiday - I blame Flambards and its' classy fast-food eatery, "Gannets" (that'll learn me). Two weeks of meeting my meals again far sooner than expected and I'm a stone lighter in weight and a few commissions short of an income. Damn. I'm feeling much more human now and shall no doubt get me mojo back with regards to work. No news on the "sample" I had to provide for the doctor (why oh why is the plastic scoop so small?????) but no doubt they would have rung if I had bowel cancer.

Talking of shit, Eliott is frequently covered in it at the moment. He is determined to potty train himself, pulling his pants and shorts down this morning on the common and plonking himself on Ezra's pot, while I continue to bury my head in the sand and insist he's not ready. On Friday he took himself off to the bedroom, clearly unimpressed with my sense of smell, and reappeared nappy-less, with dump all over his hands and feet. Several hours of scrubbing and several litres of Zoflora later and Matt commented that our house stinks of dogs. Two days later and it's back to humming of human waste again.

Is it any wonder our des res is worth a small fortune?

You know when you're back from holiday when...

...you're desperately trying to concentrate on work while, in the next room, you can hear your child shouting "nooooooo - Superman!" while your husband tries to watch a show about The Beatles.

There's no place like home.

Talking! Talking!

I never believed the positive people who told me he'd suddenly start talking.

This morning, Matt sat with Eliott in the living room.
'Can you say mummy?' he asked.
'Mummy,' said Eliott.
'Can you say Daddy?'
'Daddy,' came the reply.
'What about batman?'
'Batman.'
'Ball?'
'Ball.'
'Go?'
'GO!'

This went on for some time. Before today, Eliott has never repeated words on demand. Now he's repeating his entire repertoire - and having a go at words he's never attempted before. His confidence increases with every one - he even pointed at himself and tried to say 'Eliott' this afternoon and attempted 'grandama' on the phone to my mum. It might not sound like much to those who have 25 month olds singing songs and saying sentences, but once he gets going I daresay he'll catch up with his peers and will have a few surprises in store for all of us ('Mummy, why have you been slagging off X, Y and Z for the last six months?' etc. Gulp.)

I'm so relieved it physically hurts. It's changing him - he's really coming into his own. Each day that has passed over the last week has seen bigger smiles than ever, more outgoing behaviour - the actions of a little boy, as opposed to a toddler. It's so wonderful to see him bloom like this and amazing, if unsurprising, that language is such a key to it all.

He's also decided to potty train himself. I put him upstairs for a nap this afternoon and continued bashing away at my computer as he shouted 'weeee' from on high. 'He's having a good time,' thought I, as the 'weeee'ing increased in volume and urgency. I finally decided to investigate five minutes later to find him nappy-less and pissing all over his pillow. For the rest of the day he continually removed clothes and nappies and took himself off to the pot. Although several wees were on target, many more are currently festering on the carpet, sofa and various other soft furnishings in the 32 degree heat. He might be ready, I am not.

Any road up, I'm well pleased that we can celebrate his achievements with a holiday at the end of the week. Let's just hope it doesn't rain!

Dare to dream?

I was reading a discussion about the "meaning of blogging" today. I was going to add to it that my blog's main purpose is to keep my friends and family up-to-speed with my movements, but as I haven't updated in a fortnight I thought I'd better keep my beak buttoned.

When a fortnight passes with no time to blog, the hugely important business that has kept me away is all a blur. There was a wedding, a Take That concert (the moral of that particular story is never try to edge your way into the front at a man band gig - or attempt to get home from Milton Keynes on public transport, past the witching hour), a barbecue, a drunken Thai supper, an interview with a Big Brother contestant, yet another day out at a theme park, seven hours in a beer garden, a friend's sad news, breakfasts on the common, outdoor swimming action and a commission from The Guardian (dagnamit!).

Eliott is saying the most beautifully formed "mummies" and "daddies". His word-tally is increasing, so there is light at the end of that particular tunnel. He's also into the most laddish activities these days - toy cars, watching football, Superman, toy trucks, toy trains, The Incredibles and fighting with me and Matt at every available opportunity. He thinks he is Batman. So does his dad. It's all very sad.

I'll leave you with my world cup quarter final predictions: Rooney will score in the first nanosecond and a nation's hopes will soar. Just before half time Rooney will break both his feet and Theo Walcott will come on as a sub and score an own goal (it wasn't his fault he didn't know which way to play the ball). In the second half we will make blunders and bananas and hang on by the skin of our teeth until David Beckham fouls Figo in the 80th minute and is headbutted into next week. Figo will be awarded a yellow card and a "tsk" from the ref, while David starts puking up small, golden balls and is stretchered from the pitch. Wayne Bridge comes on and a nation's hopes dwindle. John Terry spontaneously combusts. Meanwhile Ronaldo's bruised, blue thigh detatches from his body and soars across the pitch scoring the goal of the tournament. Riots break out in various bars and big screen venues across Europe. Plastic chairs hit pensioners in the head worldwide. In the last minute of play, Sol Campbell (who came on for Terry - I couldn't bring myself to mention it) accidently hits Figo with an iron bar inside the box and Portugal are awarded a penalty in the dying seconds. Ricardo takes it and Robbo (who's popped off for a cuppa) isn't anywhere near the bastard as it hits home and books Sven's men on the next Queasyjet flight back to Blighty.

And so begins another several million light years of actual physical hurt.

Enjoy!

Weddings, sunshine, words, pictures...

I'm up against four deadlines in the next fortnight so this could be the only blog I get chance to do in a while. To add to my ever-increasing workload I went on a pitching frenzy this morning with some (if I say so myself) wonderful feature ideas. Shame I picked the hottest day ever to send them (as if any commissioning ed worth his/her salt wasn't out sunning themselves at the pub all day).

Anyone who reads the Sunday Mirror might like to look out for a very special byline I've got in this week's Celebs magazine. 10 points to the first person who spots the blogging superstar!

The sunshine is wonderful and I hope it keeps on shining for Auntie B and her intended, GB, who tie the knot at Chelsea registry office tomorrow. I shall be the drunken one in the 1950's vintage dress. Matt will be the wedding singer. Eliott will be the one fighting to get out of a tie (in this weather? I know!)

What else can I tell you? I've been hob-nobbing with lots of former reality TV personalities this week, I'm rapidly losing interest in Big Brother (apart from Glyn's cooking, of course), Eliott is saying 'Batman', 'flower', 'crisp' (tsk), 'mummy' and 'flapjack', I've eaten my own bodyweight in Carte D'or (sp.) Greek yoghurt & honey ice cream and we discovered that Regent's Park has the biggest sandpit known to man.

*takes a deep breath*











'Nuff said.

Reassurance

The postcode lottery strikes again. Who would have thought we'd have a living, breathing speech therapist sat on our living room sofa just two weeks after seeing the audiologist?

Luckily, we did. And it was all courtesy of the NHS. Seems we have access to a sort of 'community speech therapist' who does informal home visits on the basis of self-referral. How good is that?

Eliott warmed to her straight away and given that our meeting was conducted in the comfort of our own home he did his full repertoire of tricks for her benefit. This was great as she got to observe his play, his social skills, his comprehension and the few words he's trying to say.

She thinks Eliott's problem is confined to his expressive language and this is the most common area for hitches and the easiest to work with. She also said that his troublesome bottom lip (the lip he sucked in so consistently when he was tiny that I was unable to breastfeed him) is likely contributing to the problem. It's not a big, physical concern - it's just a habitual thing, like thumb-sucking, that's holding him back. She suggested we buy lots of whistles and bubbles - anything he has to blow into to operate - to get his mouth muscles moving.

Based on this very early assessment, she thinks he may need a bit of speech therapy - unless his pronunciation corrects itself over the next twelve months (could happen). Her final words were that he is going to be absolutely fine - might take a while, might need some therapy, but he'll get there. My God, was I relieved.

In other news my Dad says that Deal Or No Deal is just about "human greed and boredom". Matt hates Sezer so much that he plans to pick up the phone and singlehandedly vote him out (I'm still more concerned about those knitted boots). And The Da Vinci Code is dry (surprise).

On the work-front I'm looking for coke addicts (not the drink) and former reality TV contestants. Can you help? No, really.

Big bother

Evict Sezer's boots immediately.

I am having nightmares about them.

Birthdays, giants and a diagnosis

Let's get the crap stuff out of the way first. Eliott had a hearing test today and the pediatric audiologist confirmed a lot of normal hearing activity, a bit of glue ear and a rather nasty case of language delay. So it seems my fretting was not all that irrational. I am well prepared for a long road ahead. I want my little boy to be a normal, healthy kid. I don't want him to be a rocket scientist or the prime minister - if he's a dustman, I don't even want him to be the best dustman on the block. I just want him to be happy. Potentially, this hitch in his development could affect that happiness which absolutely terrifies me.

I'll be honest; when she mentioned "glue ear" I prayed that was the cause. Common, treatable, concrete diagnosis. But the doc said it wasn't affecting his hearing and he performed the tasks she set with her wonderful wooden dolls and bleeping machine beautifully. She wants to see him again in six months to do more tests and during that time she wants him to be assessed by a speech therapist. She is "really concerned" by his lack of vocabulary and immature jargonning. She acknowledged that many doctors and health visitors will share the "he'll snap out of it!" attitude held by 99.9% of the population until he is two and a half, but she feels it's important to get him in the system and start looking into the possible causes of the problem now. And so do I.

I'm aware that it could be years before we get to the bottom of this and that's if we ever do. The best we can hope for is a straightforward language delay that will eventually recitfy itself - perhaps with a little help from a speech therapist - and pray that it's not the symptom of a wider-reaching developmental problem.

I have never before felt such overwhelming responsibility. I'm really a parent and it's my job to get El through this. I'm shitting it.

Eliott is such a big boy now that he will probably ride the waves on his own terms. And when I say big, I mean big. His two year check confirmed that his height has now crept into the 98th centile (non-parents don't panic - he's not become a Scientologist or anything, it's a scale parents use to make other parents feel bad about their children's weight and stature). I knew there was something afoot when he qualified for the Chessington World of Adventures log flume (call me irresponsible, I don't care). If he carries on at this rate he will be 6ft2 when he is 18. I'm 5ft5 (on a good day). Help me.

His birthday was wonderful. We bowled, we soft-played, we rejoiced at a talking Superman, we grimaced as he refused to eat his Natural Cafe pizza but stuffed his face full of chips at Streatham's Megabowl. He screamed at his candles (he thought we were trying to use the cake to set him alight) and delighted in ripping open his presents. It was two-tastic.

To celebrate, we thought we'd treat you to some lesser-spotted photos of our jolly in Ibiza. Oh, the memories...







Adios.

What we did on our holidays (aka the plane didn't crash)

On our holidays we stayed here.

We got on one of these to see this and another to see one of these (and a few of these babies).

We had a bash at the hippy market and a splash at Aguamar.

Eliott reckons this place rocks, but not as much as this. Thank God my sensible husband stopped me from trying to take him in here.

We were even lucky enough to be in Eivissa's old town for "Eivissa Medieval" - the most amazing street festival/market/carnival I've ever seen. Eliott liked the mock sword fights, but then he would.

We were delayed on the way home and by the time we boarded the plane I was 5 vodkas (Spanish measures), 6mg of Valium and a bottle of CK One Summer worse off. It was the best flight ever.

Eliott will be two tomorrow. And on that bombshell, I'll bid you goodnight.

Pre-holiday chaos

It's 9.23am and Eliott is still in the land of nod. A day on the (hot, sunny) common put the zap on him. I hope he adopts this policy on holiday - while he's a regular 8am man, a few lazy lie-ins in the old villa will provide a welcome treat.

So far Eliott is the only member of the family who is packed and ready to go. Although I'm owed several thousand pounds for all this hard work I've been doing, I haven't seen a sniff of it yet and am going away in last year's holiday gear as a consequence. Unfortunately, last year's holiday gear is so far unwashed, unironed, unpacked. And I have no spending money to speak of.

It reminds me of a holiday I went on with my Dad when I was a kid. I didn't save a bean (I've always been unprepared) and the £20 my mum gave me before I went, was rapidly spent on magazines and make-up in Manchester airport (I've always been uneconomical). I spent the entire holiday saving up loose change from fetching my dad beers and using various methods to con bits and bats out of him with the aid of my stepmother. By the end of the holiday I had enough cash to buy a Kappa jumper (I've always been a tart).

I'm just about up-to-date with my work now (and have the 2am eye-bags to prove it). I can go away safe in the knowledge that I will have at least 500 emails to come home to. I wish we were going for a month. The amount of preparation we've had to do, we might as well. Still, a break is what we need and my single valium for the plane has arrived (allegedly, a quarter will see me right). It's big and blue and lives in its own tiny case - it's much more dramatic than the piddly Diazepam the doctor prescribed (I've always been a sucker for packaging).

I'll leave you with the startling news that I voted Conservative for the first time in my life last night at the local election. Of course I wanted to give Tony a "bloody nose" and all that, but have also become old and right-wing enough to appreciate that we, in Wandsworth, have the lowest council tax in the country and an absolutely amazing selection of free - and affordable - activities for children. My hand shook as I made the crosses and I felt positively sullied all night.

I've always been a turncoat.

Only time will tell

I promised myself that I wouldn't take on any new work before we go on holiday next Sunday. Typically, I'm facing three new deadlines this week and the cleaners can't come on Saturday so I will have to do all the pre-holiday ironing and scouring of the house myself (or who knows what our relatives will think if the plane crashes and they have to organise a dirty flat).

Talking of plane doom, I've got a little bit more chilled out about the flight. And it's a bloody good job because the doctor's prescription Diazepam got a trial run on Friday night and did nothing. Clearly I need something more drastic to take me down. I've made several enquiries and am hoping an old friend can save the day (she has "contacts", don't you know). Failing that I'll be forced to neck all eight remaining Diazepam with a litre of vodka. If that plane goes down, I don't want to know anything about it. Matt will be pleased.

Eliott has been in fine fettle over the last few days. We've been to Chessington where he braved the log flume (there's a lot to be said for being over 0.9metres at 23 months of age). We've also commenced "Daddy Day" which takes place every Wednesday and is an attempt to ease the pressures on yours truly. I took full advantage and by 10am last Wednesday I was showered, dressed and delaying switching the computer on so I could watch the end of "Playing It Straight USA". Old habits die hard.

Eliott's been chattering for England too. Unfortunately, little that he says makes sense and there are still only a handful of recognisable words in there, none of which are fully formed (unless you count "no"). I'm trying not to worry and take it as it comes. It's a year now since the majority of Eliott's buddies started talking. Will he catch up? I have no idea. I hope so. There's no physical reason for him not to that we know about to date (he is booked in for a hearing test next month). He seems to understand everything I say but I have no idea whether he's at the same developmental point as his peers or if the problem is more deep seated. Sure, he can take a nappy bag to the bin and blow kisses on demand; he can do every action under the sun and is obsessed with Superman to the point that he runs around the playground (in full Superman costume) pretending to be him. But in the absence of chatter I'm struggling to teach him. I'm still going over basic words because I can't be sure he understands them. I keep reminding myself that he probably understands just as much as other children, but without the security of speech, I don't know how to move on and to stop treating him like a baby.

It also gets harder and harder to talk to other mums about the kids' development as they tell stories of sentences and songs and excitedly ask me to "guess what new word I've taught him/her to say???" They can't help being proud of their young 'uns and I should stop being so sensitive, but it's something me and Eliott are totally excluded from for now, and I have to sit quietly and patiently until we get on to more important matters like whose kid has crapped on the carpet this week?

Talking of toilet-matters, Eliott did a wee on his potty. It was a pure fluke, but a proud moment. Matt is in charge of potty training. I would rather wait until I'm sure he's ready ("mummy I need toilet" springs to mind) but I keep my mouth shut and let the lads get on with it.

There is still no movement here on a second child and the way I'm feeling there never will be. I just did an interview with a mum who told me the transition from one to two children completely did her in and she had to give up work completely. I don't want to give up work. Or to be so stressed I can't appreciate what I've got. Or to have logistical problems getting two bairns to Chessington on the train (let's face it, I will never learn to drive). Call me selfish (I am) but the thought of disturbing our happy set up with the return of sleepless nights and wall-to-wall screaming makes me feel more than a bit queasy. HUGE respect to the mums who have done it. I increasingly think it's just not for me.

Like so many other things, only time will tell.

Enough is Enough

Ok. I admit it. Not coping very well at all.

I've done ten magazine features so far this year, seven features for the web, 14 beauty news stories & features and re-edited an entire website. Is this a lot for a part-timer? I have no idea. I'm probably just being a big wimp, but it certainly feels like a lot.

And, in case you think I'm a queen lightweight, I still have no childcare in place.

People keep asking me 'how I do it'. The truth is, not very well. I'm flying by the seat of my pants and working like a dog, until midnight most nights, having a very limited social life (read: virtually non-existent), doing no exercise and plonking Eliott in front of his Dvds for an hour a day while I scurry into the kitchen to make surreptitious phone calls to editors and interviewees.

On Good Friday I was interviewing a real life case study while Eliott was winding the phone cord around his waist and screaming "Bowwwww!!!" at the top of his voice.

It's hardly ideal.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't expect any sympathy. This isn't a cry for help. I'm over the moon about my writing and all the opportunities that have come my way over the last six months. I mostly love what I'm doing and have a regular flow of ideas and heaps more contacts than I've ever had.

But on nights like last night, when I finally logged off and crawled into bed at 12.45am only for Eliott to uncharacteristically wake up at 1am (and, even more uncharacteristically, stay awake until 4am), I feel like taking all ten Diazepam tablets the doctor has prescribed me for my terrifying flight to Ibiza, and sleeping for a week.

Something has got to give. And that's my last cliche of the evening.

Oh, and by the way, my BIG interview was with Cynthia Lennon (and anyone who knows me or has read my blog for any length of time will know what a MAJOR deal that was ). It's out now in REAL magazine as part of my "Casualties of Fame" feature. Yay!

Plane scared

I still haven't booked our holiday. Everytime I get a step closer I can't do it. The truth is, I'm terrified of flying again.

In the past, I've forced myself to do it with a combination of "rational" thinking and booze. I've always been able to do enough of the "when your number's up..." and "more chance of winning the lottery..." mantra-ing to get me to the departure gate on time. But now I'm not just thinking about me. I'm thinking about my beautiful baby boy and the thought of anything happening to him and not being able to protect him is nothing less than blood-curdling.

Again, the rational part of my brain kicks in: he travels in the car, he travels on the tube, he walks along the road (albeit in my vice-like, hand-holding grip). I know that there is more chance of a plane landing on our house than us being involved in a fatal, mid-air collision on a Sunday afternoon over Southern France, caused by the air traffic control man's inability to do his job whilst eating cheese and watching football (there are endless scenarios - we've also survived the impact but been eaten alive by Mediterranean sharks, for example).

I don't want to give in to my fear and spend countless hours stuck on (infinitely more dangerous) cross-Europe coaches. I've been to many places in the world (and survived) and I want Eliott to share the same sense of wonder, adventure and experience that comes with international travel.

I also (desperately) need a week on the beach and if today's weather is anything to go by I'm not going to have much luck in Brighton or Bognor.

Perhaps if I don't dream about an air disaster tonight I should take it as a sign that we will make it to the Balearics and back in one piece.

And that, my friends, is irrational thinking at its very best.

Full steam ahead = chaos

It's been so long since I blogged that I had lost my password and forgotten my username. Thanks to my efficient organisational skills I managed to retrieve said information from a crumpled post-it note and here I am.

First off I'd like to say hello to the 20six exiles (how Matrix is that?) who have popped in for a virtual Hob-nob. Due to insane workload I rarely get chance to respond to comments but rest-assured I read them and am really touched that you cared enough to stop by.

Today I stood in front of the magazines in Sainsburys and two of the lovely glossy mags (namely Real and Practical Parenting) were sporting my features on their front pages. I don't quite know how this happened. I know there has been a helluva lot of hard work involved and also the current contents of my desk may provide a clue:

Several A4 pads filled with interview notes, one empty box of Cadbury Roses, one Drifter wrapper, one swish, moleskin notepad from a launch party, one fluffy elephant, one Sunday Mirror payslip, one pencil (blunt), one box of tissues, several hundred thousand post-it notes, two diaries, one journobiz beermat (sorry, mugmat), one reel pink cotton (?), seven dictaphone tapes and one broken dictaphone, one Foo Fighters badge (choking/stabbing/piercing hazard), hundreds of Sainsbury's Active Kids vouchers, one book ("wheels on the bus"), one baby monitor (broken), one Take That address book (circa 1990, falling to bits), one glasses case (empty), several original, 1970's-era photographs of Rod Stewart, a million loose paperclips, one Ibiza guidebook, one ideas book, one red nail polish (unopened), one overflowing desk tidy (don't even go there), several unopened letters (yikes), one clock (broken), one Foo Fighters CD (overused), one filthy phone (on last legs) and one ridiculously overflowing in-tray.

Am I missing Peter and Jordan by telling you this?

Fuelling the obsession

Is it any wonder I love them?

Marriage and mayhem

I'm obsessed with many things at the moment (booking this blasted holiday, work, finding the recipe for Annabel Caramel's carrot cake without forking out £12 for the book, to name but a few), but I find my thoughts are increasingly drawn to Katie Price/Jordan and Peter Andre.

What has happened to me that I think their reality TV series is the best thing I've ever seen? I'm properly enthralled by it. Her boobs! His taste in clothes! Their non-tacky wedding! Her emergency emergency caesarian! Her lack of cellulite! His cheesy songs! His obsession with espresso! Her boobs!

I absolutely love them. I'm even considering buying Katie's autobiography (including the chapter "my love for Peter"). I hope they have armies of children together and that they take over the world, forcing everyone to have ridiculous boob jobs and wear baseball caps backwards and hoodies a la 1995 - and all to the tune of Mysterious Girl.

And I'm not even joking.

It's fun when I don't post much...

...because when I do, I actually have some vaguely interesting things to talk about.

Work-wise I'm on a roll. Had my fourth pitch in a row commissioned by a new magazine I've been working for and must say I am loving writing for them. I think I've hit my absolute niche with investigative pieces for 20/30-something ladies. I finished the celeb-related feature and even my stepdad (hi D!) who couldn't give a flying fling-flang about celebrities said he enjoyed it.

Right, I've blown my own horn enough. Now I'll blow Matt's (fnar).

The band put their demo online and it's causing something of a stir. As Craig David would say "check it out": http://lolajones.3wdl.co.uk

This has caused various conversations about "what we'll do if Matt gets offered a UK tour". Call us premature. Go on, I dare you.

Just in case Matt is destined to become a rock God (but let's face it, he'll probably forget to turn up to the stadium or get lost on the way) we've been attempting to spend more time together. We've been to a pink pub with a mad opera singer who jumps on your table and an impromptu family party that provided Eliott with his latest night ever thanks to the car breaking down and the wonders of "baby-foot" (or is it babby-foot?).

We've also decided to go on holiday. This is causing all manner of headaches because, if I was anal before I had a toddler to figure into the holiday-equation, I'm now uber-anal. Everytime I find a decent looking break I am compelled to research it to within an inch of its life and the reviews I find put me right off. Said reviews, however, are providing me with a top laugh. You can hear the voice of Caroline Aherne ("what did I say, Roy?") in every one.

Some highlights for your delectation:

"As for the food it was always cold - all the meat cooked you could have glued to your shoes as rubber soles"

"The entertainment was lame and only mostly for the Germans."

"Complaints that there are too many Germans is unfounded."

"The nightshift receptionist wielded a golf club as he made his rounds at night. "

"There did not seem to be enough cutlery or crockery, many, including ourselves had to drink tea out of cereal bowls!!!"

"The only thing I could eat was the ice cream, my friend on one occasion was nearly sick at the dinner table after trying what they call chicken curry."

"We took a limited amount of spending money with us and it was only by pure luck of winning the bingo (156 Euros) that we could afford to eat!!!"

And that's just for one hotel.

It's enough to put you off ever leaving Tooting.

Music and Cuddles

Work is taking over my life. It's official. Matt has started making this new sort of groany noise every time I start a sentence with "I've had another idea for a feature..." or asking him "how many investigative pieces do you think I'd need to write before I get nominated for an award?" (I know).

It's not my fault that magazine features about death and post natal depression aren't as rock and roll as, well, rock and roll. Wearing my supportive wife hat (which is less glamourous than my old supportive girlfriend headband, but equally appreciated), I went along to the studio (man) today where Matt's band were recording. I took Eliott who loved every moment of it. It was quite something to see a toddler confronted with all those knobs and buttons! The first thing he did when we arrived was lay flat on the floor in the middle of the recording room - you might say it was overwhelming for him.

Matt's band are currently rocking (they've seen the light at last), which is great. They might even try to "do something" with these latest recordings, which should be interesting. Although given the subject matter of my latest feature (Casualties of Fame), I shouldn't really be egging him on!

My Friday deadline is looming in every sense of the word. My interview last week was amazing (I'll share more details when the piece is published), but finding more case studies is really tough.

Did I mention work has taken over?

So, Eliott! Well, Eliott is tres gorgeous. Cuddles are the new schmoo, demanded at every touch and turn. We spent most of our bus journey from Wimbledon to Tooting this morning locked in a bear hug with him shouting "no, no, no" in my ear everytime I tried to let go (not that I wanted to, but people were staring). In an attempt to wean him off repeated viewings of Back to the Future (now known as "Bo"), we've finally got him bang into books; but as with all Eliott's "likes", we have to read the same books over and over and over again, morning, noon and night. Certain pages have to be skipped, actions have to be performed EXACTLY how he dictates and tantrums can only be avoided if a prescribed amount of zest and enthusiasm for Duck and his bloody missing Key are displayed (you don't even want to know).

Oh and his swimming instructor reckons he might be swimming without armbands before the end of the summer. Crikey. He really is the Boy from Atlantis. Without the Patrick Duffy leg.

Big interview, big headache

I've got a MASSIVE interview to do tomorrow. I'm quite nervous, but tired enough that it won't affect my sleep. I sent questions ahead so that's one less thing to worry about. Still, my pants may be brown by 2.30pm.

I'm also trying to find case studies for the hardest feature ever (well, kinda). My head hurts with the effort. Have you been deserted by a celebrity? Please Lord, tell me you have.

Eliott is in full-throttle toddler mode with tantrums appearing on an hourly basis. He wants to walk everywhere now, which can be a Godsend (tired legs make for tired little boys) and can also be hellish. For example, I got a bit cocky and we walked to Tesco sans pram last week . The minute we got there he refused to walk any further. No pram, no phone, one huge bag of shopping and one 2st3lb child. I managed to get him halfway back by conning him into a round of his favourite game (chasing me down the street with a stick). My back is still feeling the remaining 1/4 of a mile.

He's also had conjunctivitus (aka "pink eye", folks - feel free to impress your friends with that tidbit), is getting his final four molars and has been banned from watching TV...forever. Oh the joys of Parenthood. We (Eliott and I) can be seen in this month's Practical Parenting, by the way. I wrote a piece about language delay. Still worrying about lack of words, but Eliott's two year check is almost upon us, so I guess we'll think about it again then.

Finally, the Oscars. Because they affect my life, obviously. I'm glad Crash won. I seem to remember I wrote at the time I saw it that it was "so good it made me feel sick". I'm standing by that analysis. I still haven't seen any photos of Jake Gyllenhaal at the "do", which is a travesty, but I'll console myself with the many pics of Reese Witherspoon's wonderful dress (clothes or men? The eternal question).

But most of all, I loved seeing BBC Breakfast's Dermot squirming on the sofa over the aggressive interviewing tactics of their roving reporter on the red carpet. "Jamie Foxx - talk to me! Never mind CNN - I'm from the BBC! Come on - you've got an album out in Britain next month!" Classic.

The enemy that is time

I never seem to have time to blog anymore.

It's a shame. I miss it. I am being a zillion times more productive without it, however - which can't be a bad thing.

The trouble with toddlers

Eliott is officially a toddler. On the positive side, this means he's getting very clever and you can have a good laugh with him. He is at the height of cuteness and uses his big eyes and cheesy grin to wonderful comic effect. He's very loving and gives delicious kisses that warm me to the bone.

On the downside, he's gone from eating everything I put in front of him to eating only peas, cereal bars, raisins, bread, cheese, yoghurt, fruit (a major bonus), chips and fish fingers. All food must be served separately to avoid cross contamination. Certain foods can only be consumed in certain rooms, i.e. raspberries will disappear at 3pm in the living room, but are treated with the same disdain as rabbit droppings at all other times. Food that is unwanted is either a) thrown on the floor, b) hidden down the side of the highchair/in his hair/down his trousers or c) force fed to me/Matt/the nearest teddy bear.

Meanwhile, Eliott's style of toddler tantrum is usually worthy of an Oscar. He throws himself to the ground, forehead to the floor, and quietly whines, every whimper breaking my heart with the subtlety of a hammer. This morning at the library's "storytime", however, he made the most of his audience (row upon row of robot children, some younger, some older, some the same age as El, but all sat still and silently, patiently listening to a story about a mucky duck while Eliott re-arranged the book shelves and yelled "choo choo" at the toy train that is banned from use during the story session). I could have died. After the fourth purple-faced, screaming session as a result of his removal from the toy train (the final time at the instigation of the story teller) we left in shame. We'll stick to the free-and-easy vibe of the toddler gym in future.

Finally, daytime naps are so last year. As I write he is ranting around in his bedroom, hitting the wall with the plastic rod he has, once again, removed from his window blind.

Can I have my baby back now, please?

Last night, this morning

Last night I went out and got well and truly hammered. I was invited to a leaving do with my friend CJ and after promising to be there at 9pm we finally arrived, drunk and disorderly at 11pm, after drinking cider in the local and sherry in the Polish club (of which we are now members, in spite of lack of Polish-ness).

I pulled in the party venue. It wasn't very exciting. A man from Chester with a missing bottom tooth told me he was 26 and I said he was 45 if he was a day. Apparently, that was a turn on and the next thing I know, he asks for my number. I replied: "I have a husband! And a child!", as though he should have seen the imaginary neon sign flashing above my head which said as much. He told me my husband was the luckiest man alive. I told him that he hadn't met my husband and that I was the luckiest woman alive. Matt enjoyed that part of the story even though I told him at 2am when I rolled in legless and woke him up by being naughty (this always happens when I am drunk).

So it was with a legendary hangover that I crawled to Pizza Express for a family lunch at 12.15pm. I think Eliott had a secondary hangover as he melted down when the rest of the family arrived. The mere sight of a Bob The Builder balloon caused an almighty tantrum that resulted in me crawling back home with him, pizza-less and on the verge of vomming in the street.

After a long nap and a viewing of Calamity Jane he cheered right up and ran around the house in his sweater and nappy shouting "Bob!" whilst joyfully wielding the previously heinous balloon. I hid on the sofa with a cushion on my head.

You can see why a well-known parenting magazine have been commissioning me to write features can't you?

I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die

I'm still reeling from seeing Walk the Line last night. I have to say I found it more enjoyable than Bummers Mountain - and although I felt sad at the end, in the knowledge that June and Johnny are no longer with us, I wasn't traumatised for hours (I still can't bear to think about lonely gay Heath in that mucky trailer - sob!).

I mentioned to Matt, that I found it a bit irritating when June/Reese held out on ol' Johnny/Joaquin for so long. Maybe I'm just a soft touch, but when he kept calling her and then walked miles in the rain just to see her...well, he would have had me at hello. Matt wondered if all he'd have to do, if I ever threw him out, was stink a bit of booze, pop some pills and hang around the house incessantly.

Probably.

So I started off with Word Press...

...but I didn't like it much. So here I am.

The good news is - we're all alive! The lack of blogging didn't sneak into the house in the dead of night and nip my neck.

Knowing that the people who used to read my old blog aren't going to read this unless I tell them about it is liberating, to say the least. Still, I'm too much of a big gob to keep it quiet for long.

So what's happened since I made my graceful exit from 20six? Well, I had my first byline in Celebs on Sunday, the Daily Mirror magazine, my mum came to stay, Eliott got another tooth and a few more words and our Valentine's night ended in disaster after I had an allergic reaction to the pink champagne and went to bed in a fit of sneezes.

And they say romance is dead.

Did I mention that I hate first blog posts?