In my 25 years on this planet i have endured 2 whole years of pregnancy in total, three labours, approximately 84 experiences of the dreaded 'curse', 2/3 years of puberty, regular bouts of PMT and hormonal outbursts and have had the whole world see more of my body than I care to imagine. Yet still if push came to shove, (quite literally) I'd choose being female over being male any day of the year, (except perhaps for 5-7 days once a month, but let's not get too specific.)




Of course if Mother Nature employed me as her apprentice I might suggest one or two changes for the female breed . . . maybe abolish one, if not all, of the aforementioned women's issues? At the very least I'd add a few extra perks to being female, (like removing the calories and fat from chocolate perhaps?) but overall I think Mother Nature has already done a pretty amazing job.




Now I'm not going to turn all diva-ish here by chanting, 'Girl Power,' and pouting at every opportunity, and I don't want to alienate the opposite sex by slating them - I'm no man-hater at all, far from it, (I have always listed 'boys' as one of my hobbies,) yet despite my love for and general interest in boys, (which started at a very tender age for me,) it has to be said that in the age-old battle of the sexes, I'm on team 'G' all the way.




Women, are, quite frankly, creatures of utter amazement to me. Not only are we better looking, (in most cases) than our male counterparts, and much, much more mature, we can also handle many a task with greater speed and efficiency than the boys. And we can grow babies. And you can't get better than that. So there.




I do have a great fondness for boys, and i can admire a decent man for more than just the sweetness of eye candy that he may produce, but i think i'll always have more admiration and be more impressed by the powers of a woman.




'Girl Power,' and all that it entails, has long been a statement that I secretly quite like. Not because I'm a huge fan of the platform wearing, badly dressed, irritatingly catchy Spice Girls, (though i cannot deny to being a bit of a closet fan,) but because I truly believe in it. I truly believe that girl power should never be under estimated.




Despite the Spice Girls injecting us with a severe dose of Girl Power back in the day, I don't really believe they can claim to be the inventors of it. Nor do i believe Maggie Thatcher was the one that bore the idea of Girl Power. It started way before all that . . .




Some might say the concept of Girl Power began back in the day by the hippy chick from the 60's, the one with the gravity-defying tits, (which she must have possessed, why else would she insist we all burn our bra's?!) - but I don't believe that either.




In fact, my friends, I can tell you exactly when and where Girl Power was born. I sussed it ages and ages ago. It all started with a girl named Eve, whom successfully seduced a boy named Adam and had her name in the bible for doing so.




And ever since that day those fortunate enough to have been born without the (I imagine rather uncomfortable,) funny bits between the legs, (and they are funny, don't you agree?) have been able to celebrate. So long as they have had the ability to recognised the gift of Girl Power bestowed upon them in the first place.




Plenty of us girlies out there don't realise how lucky we are. We cannot seem to see the extent of the powers we have at our manicured finger-tips. Too many men have tried to make us appear the weaker sex and too many policies have tried to suppress our powers. But let's face it ladies, without us the boys would be screwed, (and not in the way in which they'd like perhaps.)




If you've ever witnessed a woman give birth I'm sure you'd agree, (in fact you only need witness any female species give birth to be amazed. Take our Tinkerbell, for example, she gave life to, not one, but ten gorgeous little kitties all by herself, which is more than the tom-cat who got her up the duff in the first place can say. He didn't even show up to check on his babies, let alone offer to pay any form of kitty support or maintenance.) - It is an amazing feat for any girl to survive, and it so deserves recognition. (Preferably in the form of Shoes and Handbags please folks!)




But I'm not saying that only us Mummies deserve to be celebrated, because wonders of pregnancy and child-birth aside, we girlies do have a lot on our plates, and it certainly isn't easy being a girl.




Sure we have cheaper car insurance, the right to be irrational from time to time, the ability to transform ourselves with Make-Up and beauty products, the wonders of the Wonderbra and the ability to manipulate almost any situation with a simple flutter of the eyelashes and a cheeky smile. Yet there are negatives too that can never be ignored.




There is very little dignity in being female. Just the other day when making an appointment with the nurse in my local surgery I was practically forced by the bitch on the desk to explain the nature of the appointment. Try as I might i couldn't help but blush when I found myself half-whispering the word, 'Contraception,' and thus raising many an eyebrow amongst those sitting close by in the waiting room. Guys don't have to deal with that sort of embarrassment.




Then there's the day when Aunt Flow comes a'calling for the first time in a young girls life, marking the day when she officially begins to transcend from being a little care-free girl with pigtails and an obsession with bikes, to being a woman, with PMT and horrible cramps. It isn't pretty, it isn't fun and yet we have very little say on the matter at all.




Physical changes in a woman's life are one thing, but the mental aspects can be even worse. It might be a nightmare spending time with an unreasonable psycho bitch from hell, but you wanna try being in the mind of one. It's like undergoing a personality transplant with your eyes wide open and there's nothing you can do about it.




We all know the signs, we begin to get agitated by the slightest thing. Something someone says, something someone doesn't say. You could be on your own in paradise and you'd still find something that pisses you off. Irritability begins to bubble until eventually you boil over, erupting like a volcano and spreading red-hot lather upon anyone, or any thing, that might just happen to be within throwing distance. We know we are being unreasonable. We know our actions are out of order, and yet we just cannot contain it. And all the while we have to deal with such hilarious jokes such as, 'That time of the month darlin??' or, 'Cheer up love, might never happen!!' Woe betide a man who makes such comments in my direction, I'd make 'em wish they were never born.




But you know what else? We don't even support one another these days. The secret society of sisterhood is certainly not always readily available, (unless it is so secret that I rarely discover it?!) and instead of uniting in all that is feminine we have an unattractive tendency to bitch about one another. We're all too quick to judge each other as women. On our choices in men, the choices we make as mothers, the decisions we choose surrounding our careers. We point fingers, as though it's gonna make us feel better about the people we are, but it doesn't, instead it just makes us cynical and lonely.




I think if Mother Nature did employ me I'd change all that, but in the meantime I can only control myself and ensure that I don't judge or bitch. Instead I will officially declare myself a 'girls' girl.' and I'd like to urge you to join me.




So here's what we're gonna do. We're going to remain in our bra's (afterall we all look better in them, let's leave the burning to the boys,) we're going to smile at each other, support one another and put the competitions aside. We're gonna strutt with pride, sway our child-bearing hips and shake our booties at the boys and then we're going to remember that no matter what choices we make, what routes we choose to take (oh god this is all rhyming and is beginning to sound like one of those,'new age poems') – with the right pair of heels on and our pals beside us, we really can conquer the world.




By Steph, (whom does not possess a willy but is proud nevertheless.)




x

I once read an article that said you could tell a lot about a person from the contents of their wallet. 'No Sh*T Sherlock,' I hear you say, but money aside, apparently the other stuff you carry around can actually speak volumes about you.




At the time I was a fresh-faced and enthusiastic eighteen year old, with a full time job at a health spa, very little responsibility and plans to conquer the world, one shoe at a time.




My wallet was of course manufactured and designed by Morgan De Toi, it was black, with a chunky silver, 'M' tag and it was home to many a truth-telling token. Photographs of drunk and happy groups of friends snapped in the hottest nightclubs in town accompanied by old train tickets, beauticians business cards and taxi numbers. Tucked away in the compartments that only those with teeny, tiny fingers could access were screwed up bits of receipts printed with telephone numbers carefully scrawled in eye liner. And on display for all to see were my newly-acquired driving licence and permanently abused cash-cards.




But I think my favourite token living in my wallet, which was strategically set to take pride of place, was none other than the little black rectangle of endless possibility. My first ever Credit Card.




Oh and it was so beautiful. Slim, sleek and shiny, with my name boldly embossed across the front of it and that familiar symbol of 'VISA' glistening away and provoking my imagination into a frenzy every time I caught sight of it.




I hadn't intended on owning my own Credit Card. The responsible seventeen year old Stephanie had assured herself that she would never be getting into debt. Yet the closer i got to my eighteenth birthday the more persistent the application forms became. Eventually it dawned on me that whilst I didn't trust myself with such a dangerous weapon Mr. Bank manager clearly did think i was responsible enough, and not only that but he actually wanted to give me free money in the form of a flexible friend. I didn't want to upset him, so of course I did my duty and applied for a card with a £2000 limit.




It wasn't to be used though, nope, i promised myself and my parents faithfully that it was merely there to add some art to my wallet. It looked good and provided good company for my other cards so that's where it would stay.




Until i ran out of real money one day. And there was a sale on at Topshop. And it was a really good sale. And included in the sale was the most gorgeous pair of rainbow stilettos. And i fell in love. And they told me to buy them. And my little credit card asked to be swiped. And the rest, as they say, is history.




But it was okay. They were an investment, (no really, they were, seven years on and I still wear them!) and it wasn't real money that I'd purchased them with anyway, everyone knows that credit cards aren't real money.




After that I became quite good at using my credit card, it served a real purpose and the two of us built a lovely relationship. Unfortunately though that relationship wasn't a long-lasting one, because whilst the money wasn't real, the bills were.




Suddenly the literature promising such hopes as 0%APR (which stands for something quite good in financial terms, i think) and lots of cashback and stuff turned nasty. The letters became mean and scary and the postman started smirking slightly whenever he delivered a red letter through the door. And my hard-earned wages told me they wanted to spent on travelling the world and not on the minimum payment that the credit card company demanded.

I got so used to living the champagne lifestyle on the lemonade budget that it actually hurt when I was forced to chop my lovely card up into little bits. I guess I leant my lesson the hard way.




Actually that's bull, in fact the only thing i really learnt is that I am extremely good at spending money. It's one of my talents. When i got my first pad at 20 years old I discovered that I am so good at spending that I managed to single-handedly blow an entire months rent in just one shop in half an hour. That's a record surely? Alas tis not a record anyone else seems to want to celebrate.




Eventually I have grown to kind of despise money. It's a weapon of ultimate temptation. It's full of empty promises and it brings out the absolute worst in even the nicest of people.




If I ruled the world I would abolish all kinds of money and instead go with the romantic notion that I've been working on in my fantasy land for quite some time. Instead of having and spending money to get what we need and desire we should just swap stuff? Trade for trade.




You know, like if i wanted to buy milk or something I could just go along to a farmer, select a cow, write the farmer and his cow something to amuse them and in return grab a pint.




And if a hairdresser needed an extension built on her house she could offer the builder highlights, or a new barnet or something?




You could have a lovely meal in a restaurant, for example, and literally sing for your supper. And the world would be a much happier place.




What do you think??




Until that day rolls around I guess I'll just have to live in the real world and accept that Money and Stephanie simply do make for a bit of a disaster, which is exactly what Mr. Connolly discovered upon meeting me.




Nowadays, much like the queen, I very rarely carry real money on me. And if i do have dosh in my purse we tend to part ways pretty quickly.




Mr. Connolly handles our finances and he does a fab job. Admittedly i don't own as many shoes and handbags as I could. Alas i can now climb into bed quite comfortably without sharing my slumber patch with my wardrobe (before I owned so many shoes that i could barely see a spot in which to rest my head.) And we have a fridge full of yummy food and a lovely roof over our heads, which is more than I could provide. (Tis better to have a home in which to house a *small amount of shoes than it is to just have shoes, apparently.)




It's an old-fashioned kind of arrangement, that we have here in the Connolly household, but it is definitely an arrangement that works.




If we go anywhere it's always Jay that picks up the bill, he goes to the bar when we go out and orders and pays for the drinks, (it's a London boy thing and if seeking a bit of a modern-day gentleman i highly recommend them) and even though I shouldn't say this as a modern gal, i much prefer it this way.




Especially now that we are all victims of the Credit Crunch, (unless of course you are an MP in which case you are probably still living the life of Riley.)




I can't pretend to know much about the ins and outs of why our country is in a state of financial disrepair. But it does frighten me. So many jobs are disappearing and so many redundancies are being made, and such a lot of talent, therefore is being wasted. It's so depressing.




Alas it seems the rest of the country are dealing with this depression much the same was as I do. With a little spot of retail therapy, (which works wonders) – and finally it is okay to shop. It's good for the economy.




So dig out your shopping shoes ladies and gents, and grab your 'bags for life'. Hit the pavements the way only Gok can and do not return unless you have battered your bank balances. ;-) It is, after all our duty. (And if you feel the urge to buy me presents please do not suppress it!)

It's been a little over eight weeks since my little man made his début on the outside world. During this time I've mastered the art of juggling, can multi-task like never before and have learnt many a very valuable lesson, but mostly, over everything else I've learnt, I have come to understand the true meaning of the term, 'Mummy's Boy.'




My goodness that child, though I say it myself, is completely delicious. I could get lost in his enormous baby blues, when he gazes at me, his eyes wide like deep blue pools, I become completely mesmerized. And his head, oh the sweetness of the scent of his little bald head, I wish I could bottle the fragrance and smell it forever.




If I actually owned an apron, it has to be said, I think I would tie my little Leonardo to the strings with great big bows.




And I used to seriously despise Mummy's Boys, honestly I did. (Though perhaps it was the actual Mummies I despised more than their Boys.)




Perfectly good men have been kicked to the kerb, many a mobile phone number erased and several, otherwise promising, matches have been burnt-out on account of all the boys sharing one common trait, f'ing awful Mothers.




To give you an even clearer indication, I once dated a guy who had to be home every evening, without fail, at seven o'clock sharp to share an evening meal with his mother. His mother had a particular thing against girls being in the house, and since I did not actually posses a penis (though had more balls than most men I know,) I of course was never actually welcome to stay and thus had to wait for the duration of the meal, (usually three courses) outside. In his car. Oh yes, his car. He was 21.




Seriously 21 years old and unable to invite a girl in for tea?! Nor to even perch quietly on the couch whilst he ate his tea. Utterly crazy. I guess you know it's time to ditch 'em when they rush a dinner date with you to be home for a second date with the mother.




Now I've always been nice and polite and respectful towards those women whom bore the sons that I took interest in. I always tried to be friendly and I always ensured my skirts were never too short nor my heels too high upon meeting the parents, yet it was a rare occasion when my manners were returned by the Mums, (though Dad's have always seemed quite pleasant.) And typically those fortunate enough to not have dragons as mums were usually the ones I wasn't all that bothered about in the first place.




I suppose if I were to really analysis things it was the single Mums, the Mums who had single-handedly taken care of their little boys, who were always the most unpleasant. And I totally get it, they'd invested time and love and effort into the life of their strapping sons and were so frightened of being left along when, or if, that son flies the nest. I can understand that, of course, yet the upset I felt by being snubbed by this breed was enough to make me vow that if I ever had a little boy myself, I would be different, no matter what my circumstances.




My Nanny Brenda says, 'A daughter is a daughter all her life, a son is a son 'til he finds a wife.' Now I don't know if that's true, but is enough to make me want to lock my little Leo up in his bedroom for years and years, away from the temptations and troubles of girls like me. Unreasonable, yes. Stupid, yes, but true nevertheless. Alas I know from my own experience that to breed and raise yet another Mummy's Boy is unnecessary and frankly cruel to any would-be suitors out there.




Fortunately my own Mother-In-Law has managed to do a pretty perfect job of raising her offspring to ensure he has the perfect balance of Mummy's Boy Syndrome in him. He loves his mother, adores her in fact, he respects her and can get her to do all his ironing with just a little wink and a smile, (pretty much the way he gets me to do most things too lol) and yet he does not share a freakishly unhealthy or abnormal relationship with her at all. I definitely think I could take a leaf out of my mother-in-laws book, and I'm not even saying that just for the brownie points either. :-)




It is my intention to raise my little boy to be a happy, healthy, kind and caring young man, with all the qualities of a gentleman, the courage of his namesake - the lion, and of course the strength of an ox. I know, I'm striving for absolute perfection, but I do like to aim high :-)




I have come to realise, within these past few weeks, that the methods of which I use to raise my little Lady however differ from those I use with her baby bro.




Not that I treat my children unequally or love them differently or anything, I am absolutely head over heels for both of them, it's just that I've discovered that raising a little boy and raising a little girl are two completely different tasks.




I can't quite put my finger on the actual differences between the methods I use though, it's odd. I suppose it stems from my wanting different things for them perhaps? Different aspirations and different ideas of the kind of people that my two little cherubs might grow to be. Of course nobody knows what the future holds for either of them, all I can really do is prepare them for the paths I imagine they may take.




And let's face it, certain qualities are more beneficial for certain sexes. I don't mean for this to sound old-fashioned or chauvinistic or anything. It's not like I'm going to teach Lori how to sew and bake and powder her nose and all that and then teach Leo to make paper aeroplanes, play keepy-uppy and construct a number of weird and wonderful things from wood, (haha, can you imagine?!) - It's just that I believe there are separate foundations for each gender that need to be laid down before the building can commence. (I realise I make reference to building and stuff quite a lot lately, blame my mother for getting me hooked on, 'The Home Show,' and then blame the gorgeous softly-spoken George for being way too irresistible to switch off! Lol – Sorry Jay.)




I'm not going to stereotype my kids according to their sexes, despite my own personal preference for men to be men, (rugged and tough) and women to be women, (flirtatious and feminine) I won't be upset if Lori becomes a mechanic and Leo comes home wearing make-up (though Daddy might have a thing or two to say I'm sure! Lol) just so long as they are happy, I'm happy.




And on the off chance that this blog still exists in, ooh i don't know, 20 years or so, I'd like to make the following declaration to those who may have the pleasure of falling for my children, they way i have done . . .

I, Stephanie Connolly, hereby promise to never wind up being an absolute dragon of a mother-in-law, (just so long as you take care of my babies :-) )




x

"That's enough about me . . . Let's talk about you. What do you think of me??"

Beautiful people, who i love so much, i wondered whether you might be able to spare a little time, (5 mins, tops!) to take part in my surveyabout my little place in cyberspace?

You don't have to answer all of the questions, none of them are mandatory, but if you would answer at least some of them I'll be eternally grateful :-)

My blog, as you know, is my job (I know, I know, it's not what some might call a 'real' job, alas it is my dream job) so if I can collect a little info and opinions from you fine people I'll be able to continue to earn my shoe money doing something that I love (and hopefully providing you with something you'll love too! She says!)

Feel free to send the survey link to everyone and anyone, the more the merrier!

Many, many thanks in advance and lots of love always!

Steph x

http://www.questionpro.com/akira/TakeSurvey?id=1323402

Once upon a time, in a land faraway, there lived a princess named, 'Cordelia,' (actually her name was Stephanie but since that is very 80's, (sorry Mum, Dad, but it is,) we shall go with Cordelia for now,) naturally Cordelia was very beautiful, witty, intelligent, charming, charismatic and well, wonderful, (yes she was,) and she spent most of her life searching for her Prince Charming, (and the perfect pair of heels.)




Cordelia kissed her fair share of frogs in her quest for love and indeed met one or two princes, yet none of them seemed quite right for her, until eventually she fell head over high heels in love with Prince Jay.




Unfortunately Princess Cordelia and Prince Jay did not live happily ever after upon meeting, as they should have. Instead theirs was a back-to-front kind of fairytale, an Irish one if you will, and their pursuit of ultimate happiness was littered with sad, frightening and occasionally tragic experiences.




Their first castle together was invaded by drunken goblins from a strange land known as 'Chavsville.' The goblins destroyed all of the Prince and Princesses possessions, smashed the castle to pieces and hurt them and their friends in the kingdom and Princess Cordelia thought Prince Jay was going to die.




She saved his life with a kiss (because her kisses are magical) and together they went in search of a new castle. They thought their 'happily ever after' was in sight when they discovered they were going to have a baby and yet had all hopes dashed when they discovered their baby had gone to heaven to be an angel.




Later they found they had a new baby, a little prince, yet fate also intended for Prince Harry to be an angel too.




Once again the Prince and Princess, together with their little Princess Lorelei and all their animal friends found a new castle and opted to have a fresh start to their fairy tale, however once again tragedy struck as the Royal puppy, Mr. T ran into the path of a speeding chariot and sadly met his death :-(




When the Prince and Princess learnt they were expecting a new baby they were so frightened that they would not get a chance to meet this baby, that instead this baby would join his siblings in heaven yet finally the fates smiled upon the royal family and blessed them with Prince Leonardo, an heir to the thrown.




Princess Cordelia became the Queen of her castle, and Prince Jay became her King and together with their beautiful daughter the family were overjoyed with their gift. The whole kingdom celebrated!




And they all lived happily ever after.




The End.




Or is it?




I mean, what happens next? What happens when you've met your match and have everything you've always longed for? (Except perhaps that perfect pair of heels?)




Are you just content? Do you simply spend your days smiling happily and floating around your castle on cloud nine?




Or is there a sequel to the story? A new dream to pursue?




I know they say Fairytales don't exist. That they are merely fantasies, figments of the romantic imagination, but I am a believer, fiction or fact it is the concept of fairytales that gets me through most days.




I guess I've always lived with my head up in the clouds, where everybody loves one another and lives in harmony. Call me sentimental, a hippy, or just a soppy tart, either way it is the truth. But oh-so often the harsh realities of the world seem to draw me back down to earth with an almighty thud and it seems to take me an age to nurse the bruises this can cause.




I do believe that there is en element of light to be found in even the darkest of corners, that every cloud has a silver lining, that where god shuts a door somewhere he opens a window. Yet i am so suspicious of this place that I'm in, I'm so aware that it could all fall to pieces and that my happily ever after could simply transform into a 'happily for now' at any moment, that I struggle to just enjoy the here and now. And the truth is I'm scared.




What I really want if for someone to hold me in their arms, envelope me in love and tell me that it's all going to be alright, that I've been through enough tragedy for now and that I can relax and breathe knowing that this part of my journey is here to stay. But I fear nobody can do that for me, and instead I'm left feeling like a contestant on a game show, where I've reached an enormous prize yet could lose it all with just one wrong answer, one wrong move. If only I could just get to the next step where I could bank it all and be safe in the knowledge that my prizes are completely secure.




No one really knows what's round the next corner. Some people go through life with very little stress or strain. Others are given the world and don't quite know what to do with it. Some of us will fluctuate between happiness and sorrow and some of us will unknowingly invite drama in wherever possible. I think I fall into the latter.




How much of our lives do we really have control over? How much of it is up to the fates? Can I really just cling to all I have and fight off any elements that threaten to break it? Do fairytales really exist? Answers on a postcard please :-)




I'm going to stop analysing now, its hurting my head. Instead I am going to hold on tight. Be thankful for all I have and savour the moment, no matter how long it lasts.

If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.




I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)




I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.




Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.




This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.




Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.




The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'




Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.




About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.




Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)




I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)




I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.




I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.




Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?




Steph x

Of course the trouble with not going to school very often and using science lessons as fag breaks is that the opportunity to obtain a career within the medical profession is pretty limited for a girl like me.




In fact the reality of the situation is that I am currently facing two obtainable options. I could either look at becoming a surgeon, specialising in 'Operation,' (you know, the game where you use tweezers to take out body parts and if you put the wrong bits in the wrong places you get buzzed.) Or indeed i could consider option two, which is becoming a slutty nurse with a little assistance from the dressing-up section of Ann Summers. So you see, very limited options indeed.




Fortunately, however, i am pleased to announce that I have no huge desires to embark on a new career in the medical profession anyway, though I do have a talent for diagnosing my own medical problems.




And it is with this talent, coupled with a little internet research, that i have concluded to diagnose my current state of health. And it doesn't look good guys. Because I've decided to diagnose myself with the dreaded Swine Flu.




(Either that or I have a cold.)




As much as I'd love to have your sympathy right now, (I am a firm believer in the curing wonders of a touch of sympathy and a new pair of shoes – so please feel free to send shoes also,) – I probably don't deserve it. Because, Swine Flu or Common Cold, either way, I've probably bought it all on myself.




I've partied far too much in the last week or so. I practically drank both Jay and Corny under the table the other night (when we had an impromptu evening of fun, frolics and karaoke) and I've lived off a diet of Budweiser and chips for a few days too long, (such a classy bird am i!) - not exactly running around screaming, 'get me, get me' to any form of virus going, but not really giving my immune system the best possible chances either.




The very fact that I am even considering my immune system when i go out and let my hair down these days, probably indicates that I am too old for all this malarkey. Too old to be imitating Amy Winehouse's lifestyle, (though probably just old enough to wisely spend her money,) and too old to be assuming that my bod will bounce back to normality the morning after.




Well I have learnt my lesson and am suffering the affects now. Especially now that I *have Swine Flu.




Today I have on the sexy and alluring scent of Eau De Vicks, and I am popping Cold and Flu tablets like there's no tomorrow, (of course there might not be if I get much worse) – my nose is running (but it's okay cos I've bought some more toilet roll since my last blog) and I am generally feeling rough.




An early night, a little TLC and a cuddle from my two gorgeous men should be just the medicine I need. Your lovely messages won't go a miss either ;-)




P.S – I don't know if it's possible to diagnose oneself as a hypochondriac, but if it is, i think i am. (she says shamefully ...)

My husband, Jay, hasn't exactly got, what you might call, a way with words. I mean, he tells hilarious jokes, (he never forgets a good punchline, unlike yours truly,) and he can do great accents, (my favourite is his Irish one, it's delicious -I would have married him in seconds if he'd used that on our first date!) and when he's working he uses a silver tongue in all his sales pitches. Yet when it comes to describing things Jay will almost always favour his own terms, sound affects and actions over the language of a standard Oxford English dictionary.


It took a while before Jay and I truly understood each other. Not that we have a lack of communication or anything, it's just that I am, in Jay's words, 'a posh Surrey tart,' with a love of the English language and he is a typical west -end London lad that knows and uses virtually every form of cockney rhyming slang ever invented, (and some that I'm pretty sure he's invented himself.)





You want me to give you an example don't you? Hmmmm, well he once called me and said,

'I've just gotta rub over me Baked Beans before we go out tonight. Should I wear my Scooby's or my Gloria Gaynors?'




Which roughly translates to,



'I've just got to iron my jeans and should I wear my shoes? ('Scooby Doo's') or my trainers? '




Gradually, as time has rolled by, we've managed to find a compromise between our two languages so we can chat like any other couple, though I still use terms he finds hilarious and he still says things like, 'tune, by the way,' when a good song comes on the radio or, 'it ain't about that,' when he finds something he doesn't like so much.




One of my favourite characteristics that my gorgeous man possess though is his ability to do Blockbuster sound affects. Seriously he can make the strangest noises. He can simulate a car or a plane or any other motor for that matter, and can make machine-gun noises that wouldn't be out of place in any violent movie. I think it's a talent he shares with the majority of his kind, (the males species that is,) because I've noticed that lots of boys can do it. (Perhaps they learnt at the secret lessons boys had at school, the one where they also learnt to set their farts on fire and to make paper aeroplanes that really can fly?!)




Anyway the point is I am now pretty much used to the way he communicates and thus wasn't surprised when he just pointed out that instead of his life being, (*whistles* a happy tune,) it's more, ('dun, dun, DDDDUUURRRNNNN!!!')




(What he means to say is that instead of everything being easy and simple in his life, it always seems to be complicated and dramatic.)




And this, I'm afraid is where I have unknowingly influenced him. You see my life is always a little dramatic too, I almost always take the hard route and those things that old people are always on about, that are 'sent to test us,' always seem to be sent directly to me. (Perhaps I should redirect my mail?!)




Drama always seemed to follow me around, yet now it appears to want to follow Jay too. Which is why my husband is currently stranded approximately 170 miles from home up in Middlesbrough.




It's a long story, (which involves the loss of a car key and the lack of a spare,) and the conclusion is that instead of being home with Mummy and Leo, Daddy is wearing yesterdays clothes, smells like a tramp, (I imagine, because he forgot to take a towel to use after taking a shower,) and is awaiting the arrival of the spare key which should be with him before 9am tomorrow morning, (according to the very nice lady at the post office whom also kindly informed me that I'd forgotten to actually seal the envelope containing the spare key. Ooops.)




So anyhow I am now technically home alone. Little Leo is spending the night away with Nanny Sandie, (which was arranged during the bizarre hour during this afternoon when it was suggested that I would act as courier and rescue my hubby by taking the 4 hour (and £77!!!) train journey up to meet him,) and Lorelei is still down at Nanny Annie's (and I'm missing her like mad!)




I've got my Tilly and my Jack (both of whom act like Rottweilers, will keep away the burglars and thus will, for one night only, be allowed to sleep on my bed tonight!) – I've got my Tinkerbell (although she hasn't been home for a while, dirty little stop-out) and of course I have Woody and Lucky (the two ducks in the garden) but other than that I'm on my tod.




I'm a 21st century chick. An independant woman. I don't need a man. I enjoy my own company and will saviour this time alone. Ah who am I kidding?! I miss them all already. And I don't quite know what to do with myself.




I have toyed with the idea of drinking Jay's Stella's in the fridge and then belting out a few tunes on the karaoke machine (yep, we must be the only family in Britain to have a karaoke machine in our living room! lol) but singing solo to a couple of mutts seems a little sad, even for me.




I have also toyed with the idea of clearing Lorelei's room and getting cracking on the makeover I'm going to perform as a surprise for her when she returns home. (I've been all inspired by 60-minute makeover and have concluded if they can do a whole house in an hour (give or take the tea break they have half-way through, lazy buggers) I can certainly do a room in 2 weeks!) - Yet I just can't bring myself to tackle the mountains of bits of plastic and play-dough and broken or unused toys.




The telly is somehow displaying billions and billions of channels but still absolutely nothing worth watching and the housework is beckoning but I'm on strike. No way am I going to spend the evening scrubbing thank you very much. (Though I am aware that it is Wednesday and therefore I need to 'do the bins.' Yet since this is Jay's job I'm not really sure what, 'doing the bins' actually entails . . . anyone? lol)




I could go out. Except I have about a fiver in my bag and cash-card is up north. I could invite some friends over, (except we've nearly run out of toilet roll and I don't think it's very good etiquette to invite guests over and ask them to bring their own.)




What did I used to do before I became a Mummy and a Wife? It seems an age away . . . let's see . . . If i wasn't in the pub, or out dancing the night away I might have been in the gym, (Katy and I used to go together. We'd weigh ourselves first, then work-out, then weigh ourselves again, then go and have a Maccy D's to console ourselves on the discovery that we hadn't lost an ounce. Lol) – or failing that I think i would have been at home pampering and preening and beautifying myself.




Yep. That's what i'm gonna do. Stick my ipod on shuffle. Spend an hour in the tub. Deep-condition my hair. Exfoliate. Moisterise. Face-Mask. Slip into my softest PJ's and chill . . .




And just like that. Suddenly I'm not feeling quite so lonely after all ;-)