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.