To Storm Katie, with thanks

Now I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I can see that our little mini adventure threw a light on all the lush stuff about family life. Whether it was in wellies and cagoules at 4am in thrashing wind and rain working with ao to wrestle an escaped awning in to the boot of the car, or it was realising that the car key didn’t work so having to set off the car alarm or whether it was the fact that Alex had been playing peekaboo with his bunk curtain from 1 til 3 AM or whether it was the fact that all this was happening during Storm Katie and 60MPH winds or whether it was the three bowls full of G&Ts working their way in to a hangover or a combination of the lot but suddenly AO and I found the whole thing very very very funny. We towelled off the rain and climbed back in to bed (being careful to avoid Alex who was finally asleep slap bang in the middle of it) and just got the giggles. If the wind wasn’t already tossing us about, then the caravan would’ve been shaking with laughter. 

So I suppose our hideous night in Storm Katie is a microcosm of all the shit bits and all the ridiculousness of parenting, but the utter triumph of it all is that we came out laughing. Just.  


Caravanning: a riches to rags tale

Although I don’t expect much sympathy (sniff), I am utterly bereft. Six months ago, our beautiful seven bedroomed seafront holiday home got sold. I know that makes me sound like a wanker, but the boys and I god damn loved that house. 

I would Insert Image here but it hurts too much. 

Instead, we bought a caravan. It wasn’t, initially, my idea. I have never been on a camping holiday (passing out under taupalin at Reading ’99 doesn’t count) and I’m not in to bird watching, or OS maps or swinging or any of that other deviant shit that goes on. 

However, bolstered by AO’s fond childhood memories and a ‘we’re no longer shackled to North Wales and Europe awaits our single axel adventures’ attitude, we hitched our wagon to the stars/impractical BMW and headed for the golden sands of Cromer. 

Fifteen hours later (NB- that’s a return trip to Angelsey with time for chips in Bangor), we arrived bedraggled and bickering in West Runton: a name so ugly it sounds like a limping inbred. 

Any road, time has passed, kids have whinged, been bribed, eaten crap, played the slots, and Gortex and matching fleeces have been spotted in communal bathrooms and the caravanning thing has been exciting, claustrophobic, cosy, frustrating and, thankfully, nearly over. 

We now hand it over to my sister and her family. Good luck.  

Here’s a pic of me drinking a bowl of gin, fresh from spa-ing at the communal showers where relaxing ‘Sounds of Healthy Stools Plopping’ is piped continuously. 

The Wig Wearer

Totally realise the name of this blog makes it sound like I’m married to a sexual deviant/adventurer. Husbo, aka AO, is a criminal barrister. William thinks AO is a hero who puts “baddies in gaol”. This is fundamentally the utter opposite of what he does.  In truth, AO spends most of his time defending kiddy fiddlers and scrappy guys from Yarmouth.

Anyway, if Wills ask, AO is a defender of truth and justice.

Anyone who is married to or are themselves self-employed will be familiar with the lurch between Manically Busy and Career-endingly Quiet. This is all much reminiscent of my also self-employed father who would one day be “fucking busy” or declaring the end of publishing and making us hang up the phone and turn off the lights. Hence my declaration I would “never marry someone who works for themselves”.

My mum kindly reminds me of this from time to time- mostly when AO is making us eat out of the freezer as part of our family austerity measures (which saw the end of Virgin tv and the buying of a caravan).

When I grow up, I’m going to set free petty thieves, just like daddy,

But honestly, AO works like a trooper with some utterly grotty people and he works with these violent, miserable, lying drunks so he can keep us all in a nice life and I love him for it: pensions and savings can be goddarn sexy. I wish I could say this is why I married him but it’s shallower than that: he has a delicious bum and mad parallel parking skills.

Bad habits

It feels like a moderate amount of time has passed since new year so it’s tasteful to start discussing bad habits I have no incentive to rectify.


Eating my children’s chocolates

Just polished off Alex’s Cadbury Easter bunny he was given by an aunt at the weekend. In fact, didn’t manage to eat the head as heard Andrew come home so binned the last few mouthfuls rather than get caught in the act.

Keeping a lime on the chopping board

One lime serves four G&Ts. Why bother putting it back in the fridge when it’ll be back out by 6.31PM the next night.

Eating in front of the telly

Can’t remember the last time the wig wearer and I sat opposite each other while masticating.



I think this has become a major part of my personality: teacher, mother, wife, moaner. Would grumble about how much I hate what I’ve become but…


Dying pot plants: another thing to moan about