Be careful what you wish for (2)

I suppose it was inevitable that the week of my twins 16th birthday would be so busy I had to split this into two, but what I didn't expect was that it would last for a whole week. That only used to happen for the "big" birthdays  of 18ths and 21sts, but apparently 16 is the new 18. I was asking myself why the hell anyone would want to grow older more quickly, but then I remembered what it was like to be that age. God, it was good and bad and fantastic and awful and exciting and frightening and well, simply wonderful.

So Monday arrived and we had a reasonably low key start since the twins are still off on study leave - although with only exam to go between the two of them, there was hellish little studying going on. They seemed pleased with their presents and I headed off to work. 

Mildly disappointed at the lack of flashers gathered outside, I was greatly comforted by the fact that I was heading for a nice, easy three day week. Why did I think that, really? Three day week, yes, nice and easy, not a chance. Within an hour of starting the week, I had to deal with a complaint which had been sent to the Care inspectorate.This is the first - and hopefully only - complaint we have ever received and it really wasn't what I needed this week.  I wouldn't have minded, and have often thought an unannounced inspection or even just a visit would be a good opportunity to prove that we don't just put on a show for the regular visits and that we operate to the required standards at all times. I did, however, mind getting a complaint on this occasion as it did not come from a current parent, but from someone who had decided not to send their child to us. Not that she could have anyway, as the waiting list is too long. The Inspector, though, was absolutely fine and I think all went well. She told me at the end that as the complaint had actually been ANONYMOUS, they wouldn't be able to respond to the complainant, but would send me on their outcome. Honestly, if someone has a genuine complaint or concern, you would think they would be keen to know the outcome, rather than just bloody mischief-making.

When I returned home from work, then I was probably not in the best of moods to receive visitors, but receive them we did, including what is becoming a mandatory appearance by the local constabulary. Thankfully, though this was Bobby dropping in for a coffee and to give the twins their present rather than an official visit. It does worry Siggy quite a bit that he no longer reacts when he arrives home and finds a police car outside, as it is normally either community council stuff or Bobby introducing another colleague to a somewhere to get a coffee whilst out and about. Even the neighbours have stopped walking their dogs or finding an urgent need to put out their bins when a cop car arrives.

Siggy had made the mistake of working form home all day and had used the brilliant sunshine as an excuse to do a bit of bush trimming at lunchtime. By the time he was finished work and the various visitors had arrived, the back garden looked suspiciously like a lawnmower repair shop and the twins, as part of their birthday present, were being taught how to mow the front lawn. This meant Siggy had to get to work too, not really what we wanted to be doing as he explained to me several times later.

I'd just like to pause at this point, having re-read the paragraph above, to point out that everything in it is literal. There are no euphemisms in it at all. 16th birthday or not.

All in all,the birthday itself passed off without a great deal of incident or excitement, but we then had the out-and-out fixation that followed on the big 16th party. This lasted all week and never have I had to witness such angst about who should be invited, who shouldn't be invited, who was coming, who wanted to be encouraged more to come and what to wear. That was just the boys - the girls are another story altogether and I have seldom been so pleased that I only have boys. Anyway, for Monday, the guest count was sitting somewhere around the dozen mark, which seemed about right for a 16th birthday party in the house.

Tuesday saw Gordon sit his last exam - Accounts - and also saw the guest list grow to about 18, as they remembered they needed to count themselves and one or two were at the accounts exam that Gordon felt he "needed" to invite. Apparently this was necessary as they would go in the huff in they weren't invited and Gordon wanted to avoid upsetting anyone. Apparently I am not "anyone" so upsetting me by inviting people we have all agreed are "undesirable" was not seen as an issue. It wasn't an issue, according to Gordon, because they wouldn't come anyway (he had heard they were going somewhere else before he invited them). I asked if they had said they wouldn't come when he invited them. "No," he replied, "they're thinking about it and might come here rather than the 18th they were going to." I gave up.

Wednesday. Guest list count now 22.The 2 undesirables had declined, but it was though that Donald should be allowed to bring a few friends. in accounts speak, outgoings = -2, incoming =+6, nett position +4.  

Wednesday also seen me taking my life in my hands and going to boot camp at the rugby club. This is meant to be a fun, but tough, fitness session and I had agreed to go to it with Phoebe (Toni was invited too but as she is running loads of Zumba sessions every week just now, she doesn't really need it). I had been reassured by some of the rugby mums that they had been and it was indeed fun but tough and overall a good workout. It also helped that that first session was free. As it turned out, they had got it half right - it was tough. I am still waiting for the fun. Mind you, perhaps I didn't make the best start by wandering around the clubhouse and talking to various people wondering when the session started. When it was pointed out to Pheobe and I that the session was down next to the pitch and had already started, we went outside and were quite surprised to see a group of about 20 going through their paces whilst be yelled at by a pretty tough-looking guy in full combat fatigues.

We jogged gently down to join and I was immediately pounced upon by Gavin, one of the second XV and a coach for the club. I say "pounced upon" but don't mean that in a physical sense - yet. All he did was congratulate me loudly on making it along so that Stevie - the guy who was running this because he the SAS thought he was being too hard on them - knew my name right from the off. Well, they might as well have painted a target on my arse from that moment forward.Every single drill seemed more and more complicated and Stevie didn't seem to care that I had came along without my bracelet or my watch on, so how was I supposed to know which way was left and which way was right?

"Run." "Jump". "Run backwards." "Crawl." "Carry the man next to you on your back." "Jump" "Run". "Lift those weights" "Dodge."

I though I was going to die. You may have noticed the "Carry the man next to you on your back" bit. The man next to me was Gavin. Gavin the second XV player. Gavin the second XV player and coach. Gavin the bloody 15 stone plus second XV player and coach. He was a gentleman though. He didn't shout too much when I was trying to carry him  - you'd think he'd carry me, but no.

"Change Over, One Left"

"Thank God," I thought.Now Gavin would have to carry me. I turned around to get carried a bit but Gavin had disappeared. Next thing I felt was another huge lump landing on my back and screaming "Go" into my ear. I went. I'm not even sure who I was carrying, but I know they were even heavier than Gavin.

"Last change. Three Right"

I had given up. I had no clue what the second bit meant, but it was later explained to me that it mean I had to move three people down the line in a the direction of my non-existent bracelet - I can only tell my left from my light with the help of the useful visual clues of my watch and bracelet, but because I didn't have those clues, I was too slow and ended up as the carrying every time rather than being carried. Thankfully, the next partner I had turned out to be Pheobe. Not a second XV player Pheobe. Not a coach Pheobe. Definitely not even close to 15 stone Pheobe. And since I got to carry her AGAIN, not a kind caring, considerate friend Pheobe. Wait until next week. I'm wearing my watch and bracelet and I'm carrying no-one. 

I have made arrangements to make sure I don't get caught out the same way next week. I've told Siggy he's coming too and that way I know there someone much slower than me there and if thinks there are any circumstances that may lead to me having his 16 stones plus on top of me then, well then he can forget having his 16 stone plus anywhere near me for a very long time!

Thursday. Mild pain in thighs and knees, but can still walk and generally breathe with only mild pain. Guest list; incoming:+2; outgoing:0; nett position:24. Peter had remembered another 2 names who should be invited or his girlfriend might be upset. Note: Mum no longer anywhere near as high on priority list as girlfriend. I am both gutted and pleased. Gutted because it makes me feel a wee bit old. Pleased because there is hope that one day, he will be someone elses problem. I know that one day may be years and years hence, but can now live in hope.

As I hadn't actually died as a result of boot camp, and with a rather extreme degree of optimism brought on by the combined effects of now being off work for a long, long weekend and the idea that boot camp will make me drop two dress sizes before my holidays, I went for the even bigger torture that is a wardrobe clearout. This was achieved relatively quickly and the only real problem was that I broke one of the plinths (whatever they are) on my chest of drawers, so i left that out for Siggy to fix. You'd think I'd asked him to repaint the Forth Road Bridge the way he went on about, but to be fair he did get it fixed whilst I was out with Toni and Pheobe for a drink to completely negate the Boot Camp efforts from the night before.

Here's another strange thing. Siggy pointed out that when Jesus managed to feed five thousand people using just a few loaves and fishes and miraculously had dozens of baskets left over, they hailed it as a miracle and put it in a book. Why, he asked, did we not have the press around clamouring for pictures of the Miracle Of The Wardrobe. Having weeded out a bit, I had produced five black bin bags of clothing to dump -although we will give to the Scouts who are collecting Cash4Clothes money for their funds - and yet, according to Siggy, the wardrobe remain full. What an idiot. I had to show him the spare hanger I had when I was finished and he just can't understand my logic that, as I now have a spare hanger, I need a new outfit to put on it. Men!

Friday, or P-36 hours as Mission PartyPartyParty would have it. Legs now completely on fire and thighs screaming in pain. Guest list; incoming: +4;outgoing: 0; nett position: 28. Apparently one of the twins invited guests - we'll just call him "S" - had asked if Donald could bring some girls as well as "all of the girls in my year know me, so I have no chance." True though that may have been, I was now concerned that I appeared to be organising a party which involved a degree of pimping for the less successful boys in the twins group. Who was I kidding? I wasn't organising anything, i was just paying for it. 

Paying for it meant that Saturday arrived with a whirlwind of issues to deal with with. Most importantly, my legs seemed to have been extinguished and I could now walk again. Guest List Final Count: Incomings: +4, outgoings: 0; Nett Position: 32. Apparently there were some others  who had asked if they could come and the boys didn't like to refuse. I shall say no more on that.

Siggy made an early exit. 8.30am early to be exact. He had conveniently volunteered to take Scott to day 1 of his two-day football tournament leaving me to run around getting in all the food and drink for the party, but I had an even greater trauma to deal with before that.

Dappy, the mad cocker spaniel, appears entirely incapable of shedding any of her winter coat except in the living room, which has began to look like it has a black carpet when really it is just discarded dog hair on laminate. She therefore was booked in to be groomed at 8am, because he had to leave at 8.30, Siggy had left this take to me as well. Dappy was bounding around as happy as could be when she found out there was an early morning car trip on the cards and even better when we were taking Siggy's bigger car as she had even more space to bounce around in. She was still this happy when I drew into the driveway of the groomers, which is actually run from the groomers home. I put Dappys lead on her and she scrambled over me to get out the car, excited as ever to be somewhere new. 

Except it wasn't actually somewhere new. We had been at the same groomers about a year ago and as soon as her paws hit the ground Dappy froze. It was like having a statue of a cocker spaniel with me as she sat resolute and refusing to move.I could see the curtains twitch as the groomer had obviously see me arrive and so running away wasn't an option. I pulled Dapply along on her lead and but all this meant was that she became more like a stute of a seal as hse lay as flat to the ground as possible and hid her paws underneath her body. I dragged and dragged her until we got to the door, at which point she did stad up, but wrapped herself around me and hid behind my legs.

The groomer was impatiently sympathetic. By that I mean that she told me it was fine and not to worry, she was used to it, but she did keep looking at her watch and encouraging me to get Dappy in as quickly as possible. I left her there, shaking and unhappy in the stirrupy-thing (Dappy, not me) and the groomer assured me she'd be fine and she would muzzle her if need be.

I returned just after 10am to find a shorn Dappy in major huff and a groomer who did very little to make me believe that "she was fine, really." Perhaps I should have asked her about the scratches on her arm and the teeth marks on her hand, but I was in a hurry and anyway, she chose the job, not me.

Next stop was the cash and carry for pizza, cake, crisps, drinks, etc for the party. Bobby, in what I thought was a nice gesture to help, had volunteered to come along with me and this was appreciated when Siggy wouldn't be there to do the lifting and shifting. Now, I'm not in any way ungrateful, but what is it with men and impatience? It's like driving with a constant commentary and really, if I wanted that I'd just tape Siggy and play it on a loop. 

Thankfully, when we arrived, Bobby buggered off with his notebook to take note (I guess that's what note books are for after all) of prices for stuff for a future course he is running and he needed an idea of pricing as they have asked for catering as well. The cash and carry is fairly big, but not big enough for me to avoid him the whole time,although I did clip one old woman's ankles and almost had a nasty accident with a display of laptop accessories when i had spotted him almost turning into the same aisle as me. I should have known to stay away from laptop accessories as I knew he might need some after his dog (yeah right) spilled a cup of coffee over his laptop.I really, really tried to be sympathetic when I heard that. Honest.

Got to the checkout and was then forced phone Bobby as, as is any man's wont, he was nowhere to be seen when he was needed. He eventually turned up and had only the one case of drinks and I had a trolleyload, so I really was glad of the help. At first.

"Why do they need to check your trolleys again on the way out?" "Why cant they make all the wheels on the trolley go in the same direction?" "You'd think they would have a lower bit of pavement to save you bumping the trolley down" (They did but it was five yards away and I wanted the fastest possible route back to the car to get him to shut up) "Wish that bloody driver would make up his mind where he's going to park" "My God, you could have got a bus in there sideways in the time it's taking him"

I was, you may have guessed, pleased when we got to the car and Bobby could stop commenting on every little thing in the 50 or so yards he was left in charge of the trolley.

I began to pack the car and realised that, genuinely, all bloody men are the same. As put each thing in the car, Bobby viewed it as his manly duty to rearrange it for me. I didn't see that putting a case of beer - heavy and hard though it may be - on top of the three catering sized pizzas - soft and squidgy though they may be, but if it made him happy to rearrange things, who was I to argue. I did think that squaring up the pizzas and other boxes into nice straight lines did smack a bit of a place somewhere towards the far left of the autistic spectrum but didnt say anything.Well, not much anyway.

And so we faced the journey home. Bobby doesn't understand me the way Siggy does. Siggy knows that "I know the way back" means "I kind of know where I'm going but I'll just talk a lot and check with you every so often but you dont really need to answer or express an opinion" Well, I think Siggy understands that but as he is the self-confessed world's worst passenger and never lets me drive, I can't be sure. I can be sure that I was glad to drop Bobby off though.  

In fairness, though, I have to thank both Bobby and Pheobe for coming along to the party and keeping Siggy and I company in the garage whilst 34 (I didn't even ask!) teenagers marauded around the house.

Now I know that you all want the juicy details of the party but I have to be honest and say that we didn't see much in the way of juicy detail. We pretty much left them to get on with it and only nipped in every half hour or so to make sure there were no major traumas and I have to say that the kids generally behaved really, really well.

OK, it was noisy, the music was awful and one or two of the girls did seem to be a wee bit squiffy, but no-one was sick, nothing was damaged and if there were any tears on the stairs, we never seen them Honestly, do kids these days really know how to party.

Oh, there was one incident involving a girl climbing out of a skylight window whilst two blokes had their hands on her bum. But that was me so it doesn't really count, does it? Just to explain, we were in the garage and Siggy went to do one of his regular patrols when he found out that we were, in fact locked in. Thinking it was a cunning ploy by the partygoers to stop us interfering, Siggy call all three of our boys (Scott had been banished to my mums earlier, didn't want his tender mind corrupted by anything that might have went on) and of course received no answer. Determined not to let them get the better of us, I volunteered to climb out the skylight and unlock the door from the other side. Even with the receding pain in my lower limbs, I was able to get on the back of the couch and grab on to the sides of the open skylight. As Siggy will tell you, though, I have absolutely no strength in my arms  - he has learnt this over years of asking me to help manoeuvre furniture, carry in shopping (well, groceries, proper shopping isn't a problem for me) or generally assist with any task where I have to hold stuff for a long time. I get giggly and did so again as I was hanging from the sides of the velux. Next thing I knew, at least two hands were shoving me up by the bum and through the skylight. The skylight faces into the conservatory and the sight of me appearing suddenly out of the garage roof must, Im sure, have served as a very effective warning about the evils of drink and drugs  to the open-mouthed teens sitting in the conservatory at the time. In the end, it turned out that they hadn't locked us in, it was just that the handle, which Siggy was supposed to fix, had broken again. Anyway, they knew then not to mess with us and all passed off very well.

I should just say for any parents of attendees of the party who may be reading this that you can all be very proud of your offspring as they were all very polite and well-mannered with us around. I'm sure they are not always that way, but we could genuinely have no complaints about them. Actually, maybe we should be disappointed at their lack of invention when it comes to parties, but they have plenty of time to learn!

Hope you all have a fantastic Jubilee Holiday. After last week, I certainly need it.

Be careful what you wish for (part 1)

Some of you may have read my previous weekly update, when I rather stupidly said things had been a bit quiet in my world. I really must remind myself to be more careful what I wish for.

Less than hour after I had posted about that quiet week, I was flashed at. Not in the speeding camera way, in the good old fashioned guy-gets-his-bits-out-and-shakes-it-all-about kind of way. I was amazed - I really thought people didn't do that kind of thing anymore. I mean, we're living in a digital age when exhibitionists can get their kit and their rocks off to a worldwide audience from the comfort of their own bedroom with the aid of a webcam. Weirdly, though,I also heard that same night about someone receiving that other right of passage of yesteryear - a heavy breathing phone call. Good to know some of the old traditions are still on the go, I suppose. However, I didn't get the heavy breather, so can't comment on technique or anything like that for them.

The flashers, though, I can comment on. 9am on a Friday is not really when you expect to be getting mooned at but a group of young boys who had clearly had a sherbet or two, but mooned I was and not just once - time and time again. OK, the extra times were really because I kept going back out to check them out again, so perhaps I should explain.

I arrived at the nursery on Friday morning and parked at the back door as normal. When I got in, it seemed a fairly ordinary day, with parents coming in and dropping off children. Then at about five past nine, one of the mums came in looking a bit flushed and giggling nervously. In my best diplomatic and sensitive manner, I asked her if anything was wrong. "I..., I've ....I've just been mooned at!"

Biting back my excitement, I asked "Oh, dear, that's awful, are you, OK?"

She began to laugh, waving away my concern with her right hand, "Oh, I'm fine, it was just some young guys waving their bums around as I came in. They'd better watch, looks like it's going to be really sunny today and they really don't want those pasty white backsides getting burnt"

Well, what could I do but go out to check? Sure enough, young lads, clearly the worse for what I assumed was a heavy nights sessions, were in the park outside, trousers at their ankles and pulling down their boxers at each of the mums as they came in to show what were definitely very pasty and very white backsides. I know they did this to each mum as they came in and told me. And if they didn't mention it, I took them back out to show them. A bit of naked flesh is, after all, a bit of naked flesh.

I also called the police because, funny though a bit of mooning may have seemed at the time, the fact is that it is entirely inappropriate behaviour for anyone, but even more so for the children coming in as well. We also had some of the older children from the school coming across for our weekly "book buddies" session (book buddies is our initiative to improve literacy for both our children and those at the school. It has been highly praised from many quarters and is quoted as a model of excellence. I like to remind people of this whenever I can). I wanted to school to be aware so they could take the children in a different way to avoid the idiots (or so that the teachers could be ready to get a better view, you decide).

Now some of you may be thinking, a wee bit of mooning - so what, it's hardly "flashing"? Not just a bit of mooning, I'm afraid.

Having called the police, who agreed on the phone that this was disgraceful and given that we were a nursery they would make it a priority, nothing happened for the next half hour and they still hadn't arrived. I nipped back out to see if they had left, being conscious of the potential waste of resources if they had moved on and thinking I could cancel the police call out. That's when I realised what a lucky girl I've been all these years.

"Aw, here doll, you wanting a bit of this?" He didn't actually say "this", but I couldn't make out exactly what he said, think it was something to with male chickens. Anyway, I wasn't really listening as the brave young lad had decided that showing off his bare bum wasn't really enough and had now turned around so he was facing me, boxers still at his ankles and waving his manhood around with a degree of pride. I really don't know why. I mean, we were having a bit of a mini-heatwave , so it was definitely very warm that morning. And he was clearly quite excited to be out in the sun but honestly - "a bit of it". This was not something that would required to split up into smaller portions and either he had really, really big hands causing a bit of an optical illusion or I have really been spoilt. Must ask Siggy what he thinks.

Eventually, the local boys in blue turned up. Unfortunately not Clive, who is a fairly regular visotor and really cute, but another officer we didn't know and he began to ask some questions, mainly the usual, "What's your name" "When did this start", "Did other people see them", etc.Then he told me that they had actually picked them up and asked "Would you be able to recognise them again?"

Well, that got me started. Not ranting - giggling. "Well, which bit exactly do you want me to look at?" The poe-faced officer looked a bit puzzled, so I added "I wasn't really looking at their faces." Still no danger of any upturn at the corners of his mouth, even though I was now shaking like mad inside as I tried to bite back the giggles. Honestly, it was like being back in school when one of the teachers went off on one. I always dissolved into helpless giggling then and spent most of my time in the corridor as a result. I thought I'd go for more physical comedy, "I mean, what's the ID parade going to look like," I half-turned, directing my own bum at him and pointing.

"I'm not sure you're taking this seriou..." he began, but just at that Marie, our French tutor arrived for her session.

I've always thought of her as a bit of a no-nonsense character, despite the slightly hippy attitude - she arrives on her bike and always wears big floaty, flowery clothes, which is enough to be a hippy in my book. "whats going on here she, " she interrupted, "We've not done anything wrong I hope?"

"No," I replied, "There's been some flashers hanging around outside this morning waving their bits at our mums." I shot a sideways glance at PC Poe-Face and could see he was unimpressed with the "waving their bits" part of that expression.

"Oh, excellent, " replied Marie, "Where are they now and are any of them tasty?"

Well, that was me finished. I burst out an excited giggle and relayed as much as I could to Marie who was more animated in responding than I had ever seen her. We proceeded to to debate potential viewing positions and compare approximate sizes with wholly inappropriate hand, well, finger, gestures.

"I don't believe I'm listening to this, " intoned Poe-Face, but I'm sure there was just a hint of of snigger behind his attempt at a stern gaze and there was a decidedly pinker tinge to his cheeks. Maybe he prefers hippies.

After a short time, we had cleared up the fact that yes, there were four of them, yes around 19-20 years old, various heights, various types of denims and joggers on (ok, we did revert to giggling again when I said some of them had white joggy bottoms, but come, on....) and the police were ready to leave.

"So had they been partying all night then?" I asked as they were about to leave.

"No, just a bottle of vodka for breakfast it would seem."

Unbelievable. Perhaps that explains the rather less than well-endowed pair.

(Vodka, though, featured again later in the week as we prepared for the twins birthday party, but more of that later. I told you it had been an exciting  week.)

Later on the Friday, despite Gordon still having one exam to go, the Twins were off on a mountaineering camp with the explorers. Siggy was working from home and had taken Peter during his lunch out to get a few last minute bits and pieces such as energy bars but otherwise, miraculously, the twins had pretty much got themselves entirely ready for the weekend and were mostly all packed. This is definitely one of the advantages of the boys getting older and having had all those years of experience in Scouting. They can be pretty independent when they want and to be honest we had not had to take much to do with the camp, except paying for it of course.

When I got home from work, Siggy asked when they were leaving and, as it was to be 4.45pm, he volunteered to take Gordon round his papers first, but said that he would need to work on then and I'd need to take them down to the hall. He also texted Bobby, who's also the Explorer leader just to check if he was needed to transport them to camp, but he was told it was alright, they'd manage.

Looking back, Bobby must have though this was a strange question because, when I dropped them and we were just chatting about the weekend, etc, I casually asked where exactly the were going, "because Siggy didn't think there was much mountaineering to be done around Auchengillan" Auchengillan is a scout campsite about 16 miles from us, which presumably explains the peals of laughter from Bobby and Tom, the other leader.

"The Lake District," they replied in unison.

"Oh, right" was all I could find to say and for a while I was genuinely concerned that I hadn't realised this and thought how awful it is that my children are growing up so quickly and need me so little. That lasted nearly half a minute before I got over it and just smiled in satisfaction over how we are looking towards having a life of our own again, With Scott nearly 11, we reckon another 15-20 years should do it.

And so we rolled into the weekend, which was pretty quiet with the twins away and incredibly no overnight garage guests with Donald and only the task of getting birthday presents for the twins that really needed dealt with urgently. We settled on headphones for both plus a MP4 player for Gordon as his ipod died some time ago and the headphones he wanted were quite a bit cheaper anyway. Clothes for both had already been bought by me on a shopping trip on the Saturday morning which was super-efficient. I only visited the one shop and came home shortly afterwards. I say shortly afterwards, Siggy said, "How did it take you two and a half hours to come back with three bags from one shop? " He also said, "Why do the twins need two sundresses, a couple of vest tops, size 4 Converse trainers (they're both size 12's), two pairs of tiny shorts, new underwear including three bras, a bikini and a sarong?" He just doesn't understand the concept of efficiency in shopping as he proved on the Sunday.

On Sunday,Siggy had to take Scott to a football tournament on the Sunday morning. It was a fantastic day again and latter we were to see why there really is value in putting sun tan lotion on, even in Sunny Govan. As he has stood at the same side of the pitch all morning watching the football, Siggy had managed to turn a deep shade of red down one arm and one side of his face as well as having a genuinely red neck. By Sunday night, it was like having our own wee belisha beacon in the corner, but that may have been due to his "heroics", more of which later. I digress. Sorry.

Once I had came over to Govan to find the last game was going to penalties and therefore came over to watch and found that, you guessed it, I couldn't watch.They lost in the shootout, but at least it wasn't due to Scott this time and so the level of distraughtness in the car was minimal. Well Siggy's car. Scott went home in that so I was only left with Dappy bouncing around in my car like she always does when she gets out on a car trip. I honestly don't know how you see dogs with their heads out of car windows - if we opened the window whilst moving, I know for sure that Dappy would jump out after a bird or something.

We went home left my car and Dappy there and set off to HMV to get the Adidas headphones Gordon had asked for.None there, damn. Off to Argos. They had the MP4 player we were going to get but not the headphones, so we decided to leave the MP4 and head off to Currys instead. This meant leaving the shopping centre and riving to another retail park, but we reckoned they would also have MP4's so that would be fine.

We arrived in Currys and couldn't see the headphones. This created a problem for Siggy. There are two things Siggy is incapable of. Actually, there are a lot more than two things, but only two are relevant right now. Firstly he doesn't use the phone to speak to anyone except work and friends - therefore ordering chinese, arranging holidays, etc all falls to me. Of course, he will sit in the same bloody room as me and add in his thoughts (criticisms, corrections, call them what you will) as I go along, but no, he doesn't do phone calls. Actually, I've just realised that that isn't relevant, it just annoys the hell out of me so thought I'd share.

The other thing that he is incapable of, and this is relevant, is asking for help in shops. If he cant see what he's looking for, he is more likely to look around for half an hour then leave the shop grumbling that they "didn't have anything" than he is to ask for assistance. I have reminded him before that they are call "assistants" for a reason but, apparently, he doesn't need any help. I have honestly seen him respond to assistants with his standard "No, we're just looking, thanks" line when they approach him, even if it is blindingly obvious that he does, very much, need help. Therefore, when we got to Currys and they also didn't have the headphones, I had to go and find the assistant to see if they could help.

Some people say they dream of getting into a threesome. Some people even lie and tell you they have had one. I am not telling any lies when I say I have now had a threesome and it was not fun. Nor did I find it in any way satisfying in the end. Picture the exchange - just to be clear, this occurred with all three parties within touching distance of each other, as you would expect of a threesome:

Me (to assistant): We're looking for some headphones for my son's birthday.
Assistant: Certainly Madam, any particular ones?
Me (to Siggy): Which ones was it he wanted?
Siggy(to me): It was the Seinhesser Adidas ones.
Me (to assistant): the Seinhesser Adidas ones.
Assistant (to me); Is it in-ear or over-ear you're looking for?
Me (to Siggy): In-ear or over-ear?

To be honest, I had no idea what that question meant

Siggy (to me): Over-ear
Me (to assistant): Over-ear?
Assistant: I'm not sure if we do those ones
Siggy (to me): Well, they had them on the website, ask him if he can check the website.
Me: You had them on the website, could you check, please?
Assistant: Of course, which website did you use - Currys or PC World?
Me(to Siggy): Currys or PC World?
Siggy(to me): Dunno. Thought they were both the same one
Me(to Assistant): Sorry, we're not sure
Assistant: Ok I'll just have a look
Me: Thanks
Siggy (under breath); Not much bloody assistance him, is he.
Me: (under breath): He's trying
Siggy: Yes, bloody trying
Me; Shut up.
Assistant: Any idea how much they were/
Me: ?

I didn't actually say anything, juts raised an eyebrow and made sure Siggy was facing the assistant

Siggy (turning to me): I think they were around £50 weren't they dear?
Me: Yes, about £50.
Assistant: Ah, found them (shows me the screen) Is that the ones?
Siggy (looking over my shoulder); Yes.
Assistant: Sorry/
Me: Yes, that's the ones.

The poor assistant hadn't heard as Siggy, as usual, was talking to me and facing away from him.

Assistant: We don't have them here, but we seem to have them in our Coatbridge branch.
Siggy: Could he phone them?
Me: Could you phone them?
Siggy: And ask them...
Me: And could you ask them to put them aside?
Assistant: DO you want to pay them here or when you get there?
Me: We'll just pay up there , thanks.
Assistant: Certainly, just give me a minute.

Off he went. "What bloody difference does it make if we pay here or there?" said Siggy, moaning.

"I don't know, why don't you ask him?" I replied.

"Doesn't matter".

Unbelievable. Mind you, he has passed on his patience for shopping to his youngest son. Scott spent this entire episode moaning about having to be out shopping, but then wandering away to look at ipads. He had spent all his time in The Fort also moaning and also wandering away - in HMV, he went to look at games, in DW Sports, he went to look at footballs, then rugby balls, then Rangers strips, In Argos, he wandered out altogether and went to game. All of which meant it took us twice as long as we had to try to find him again! Sometimes, having had years and years of experience with children and therefore losing any semblance of self can be a blessing. It means that you are no longer embarassed about a lot of things and therefore you no longer need to go for subtlety, even in public places. Instead of continuing the usual frustrating and very time-consuming task of searching for hie from aisle to aisle. I resorted to the much simpler and less energy-sapping option of standing roughly in the middle of the shop and screaming "Scott!" at the top of my voice. I had to do this several times in HMV, but by the time we got to DW Sports, one call was all that was needed. See - efficiency is important.

The assistant came back and we headed off to Coatbridge where not only could we get the headphones, there was also another Argos so we could get the MP4 whilst we were there. The ones in Currys were too expensive so Siggy wasn't going to part with the extra cash when we could get it in the Coatbridge Argos.

We got to Coatbridge. Of course Argos didn't have the MP4 player, so we got the headphones, headed home and dropped off Scott and I as I had had enough and Scott was very close to tears. It wouldn't be the first time he has actually taken to crying just because we asked him to come to Tesco with us for ten minutes. Siggy traipsed back to the original Argos to get the MP4 player. Amazingly, they still had it, but honestly, could he have been any less efficient?

So that night, with the twins safely home FROM THE LAKE DISTRICT, we all settled down, exhausted and with Siggy glowing half-red-half-milkbottle-white in the corner.

"I think that tree's on fire" said Gordon, looking across the street to where we can see a neighbours back garden.

"No, it'll just be the way the sun's setting down behind it" said Siggy.

"I don't think so," Gordon replied, getting up as the rest of us looked out and saw that yes, a 25 foot tall conifer was indeed fully ablaze. The three older boys and Siggy ran out and went across the street, whilst I dialled 999.

Before we knew it, all four of them have jumped over the garden wall across the street and a fair number of others were beginning gather in the lane next to the house.

Siggy tells me that when they got over the wall, Ronnie, the house owner was nowhere to be seen and one of the other neighbours was standing looking at the tree as ash started to drift towards the garage roof.

"Better watch, that roof might catch," said the neighbour. Siggy just stared at him and wondered why he was standing next to the garden hose, already plugged into the garden tap.

By this time Ronnie had appeared, understandably shocked as various neighbours had banged on his front door and told him to get around the back a s the trees were on fire. He just stared, saying "Oh my goodness" a lot. Several other neighbours all came around the side of the house then. Siggy reckons that including our three boys, there were about a dozen people in the garden, all staring at the tree scratching their heads and saying really useful things like "We've phoned the fire brigade", "That ash might set the garage roof alight" and "Do you think it was deliberate?"

Siggy, being a bit more practical, said, "Maybe we should put it out then," turned on the tap and pulled to hose over the tree where, miraculously, lots and lots of water seemed to put the fire out. Meantime, all the neighbours stood back and said more helpful things like "There's a lot of steam," "You missed abit there, " and "Do you think it was deliberate"

I was being far more sensible. I stood in the lane with with collected dog walker and generally other nosey folk whilst I bbm'd everyone I could think of to tell them that there might be some firemen here shortly and top get around if they wanted to see some hose action. In the end, they did arrive, asked Siggy if he wanted a job and left. What a bloody disappointment, especially as one of them was a firewoman and Siggy reckons she had been an East German shot putterin a previous life. Or perhaps just earlier in this one.

Anyway, I said I wanted a more exciting week and you can see I definitely did have, but that was only the weekend and we still had the 16th birthdays and associated party to come.

For now though, I reckon I need a coffee and you will need a fresh one, so look out for part 2 later today. Thank goodness this is a long weekend.

Thank you for making us, us.

Sometimes in life, something happens that is genuinely momentous and life changing. Some people are fortunate enough to experience these events and I am one of them. More than that, it's happened to me more than once.

Sorry, I should actually say it's happened to us. As I write this tonight, Siggy and I have just celebrated being parents for the last sixteen years and it has been quite an experience. Nothing changes you more than becoming a parent and in our case, the twins turning sixteen has been something of a catharsis. Having your eldest children "officially" become adults - even if only in the eyes of the law, the lottery and the licencing board - is a time for reflection and, on reflection, that really is a cause for celebration. I don't mind telling you that I've had tears in my eyes on more than one occasion today and I'm not alone in that, although I'm not sure Siggy will admit that to anyone.

Sixteen years ago, things were very different and so were we.

Monday 27th May 1996 was a bank holiday and, like today, it was warm and dry. I was 29 weeks pregnant and frankly completely niave. I had woken up not feeling too well and had terrible, terrible back pain, which I just put down to being so heavily pregnant and having slept poorly. Anyone reading this who has been through labour will probably know exactly what I didn't at the time. I was not only in labour, I was in the fairly advance stages of labour.

On phoning the hospital, the fantastic Rottenrow Maternity in Glasgow, now sadly demolished, we were only mildly concerned when they suggested that we "just come in whenever you can and we'll check you out." I went for a bath, to see if that would ease the pain a bit and because one of the midwifes had suggested it might help, and with no great rush, we drove in just after lunchtime, fully expecting to be told I was fine, maybe having a bit of Braxton-Hicks and just to put my feet up and relax. On arrival and being taken through to the examination room, we found ourselves in what felt like a parallel universe, an out-of-body experience, a surreal dream and living nightmare all rolled into one.

I was told, in a calm, professional and efficient yet reassuring voice that I was 6cm dilated and in advanced labour. They told me they would need to give me some steroids immediately and some other drugs to try to slow down or preferably stop the labour. We didn't realise on that warm afternoon in the cool and clinical walls of the hospital, but outside the room all hell was breaking loose with on-call consultants, specialist nursing staff and various others were being alerted to the fact that they were about to have twins born very prematurely.

Siggy says that he had the experience of travelling at a thousand miles an hour inside his head whilst the world outside had basically stopped except for whatever was going on in the walls of the room, which we soon realised was not just an examination room, but a labour suite. I became aware that the bed was very uncomfortable and remember thinking that I'd need to ask for a change of bed if they were going to keep me in once they had stopped this labour, which, at that point, was what we genuinely expected to happen.

After a few hours, during which I began to feel as if I, and the labour, had stabilised a bit and I was in a bit less pain, Siggy and I talked about a lot of things we had talked about before -  what would we call them, what might the labour be like, how would we arrange things on a day-to-day basis, etc - but suddenly these things were all about to be real and somehow the situation still seemed absolutely unreal. Siggy had gone out and called both sets of parents to say I was in hospital "just as a precaution" and might need to stay the night. Now, he's not even sure if he managed to speak to both sets of parents until quite a bit later in the day and certainly didn't say in the first calls that I was actually in labour. There was a reason for that, though. As well as me being in labour, we were both in denial. We were so out of touch with the reality of the situation that Siggy even began to talk about how I could just stay in hospital for the next ten weeks and he would just come in and visit every night on the way home until they decided it would be OK to let me go into labour again. God, we were like kids ourselves, even though we had been married for nearly four years and were both in our late 20's. 

As the day progressed and the doctors and nurses had began to explain more and more to us, including why I had needed steroids (to help inflate the babies lungs) and how they hoped to stop the labour for as long as possible as they could give give me another does of steroids 24 hours later "to help give the babies a chance".

"Give them a chance" Four words that hit us like a train between the eyes.

Unless you have been through it, it is really difficult to explain what it is like to realise that your child could very possibly die. A million and two feelings and emotions course through you at the same time. Fear. Anger. Guilt. Fear. Pain. Questions. Puzzlement. Wonder. Fear.

Fear, though, didn't turn out to be the worst feeling - the seeds of helplessness had been sown and nothing, absolutely nothing, we could do would stop that awful, paralysing and disorienting emotion taking hold. 

By around 11pm, following goodness how many calls to anxious parents and one or two stunned friends, mainly to give Siggy something to do when he left the room every so often to just change the background for both of us, the staff were fairly confident that they had managed to stop my labour and they suggested that Siggy should go home and get some rest before he could come in tomorrow with some nightclothes and other bits and pieces for me as I was going to be in for a while whilst they  kept me under observation. Siggy, reluctant, scared and tired, eventually went home around half past midnight, leaving me to stare at the ceiling and will my unborn children to just keep fighting to stay where they were and grow as big and strong as possible in my safe keeping.

As a young girl who wasn't "properly" a mother yet, confused by these sudden and unexpected developments and with the pain of a previous miscarriage thirteen months earlier still feeling fresh, something inside was unconsciously, but very powerfully, turned on. Call it what you will, but somehow during those dark, frightening hours of the night, I came to understand what being a mother meant. What I didn't know at the time and have only found out now, sixteen years later and through the sweet tears of a painful but shared and incredibly binding experience, is that in those same dark hours, five miles away in our safe and secure home, Siggy also felt some strange surge of that powerful new force coming to fruition. That force was what comes with the realisation that everything has changed and nothing is more important in your life than loving and protecting that most precious of gifts - a child.

As the darkness passed, five miles from where I had awoken to an awful feeling of foreboding and some not inconsiderable pain, the phone rang just as Siggy was getting out of the shower. He had got up sharp so he could nip in with a bag of clothes and toiletries for me on his way to work, believing genuinely that this was the start of weeks of me being kept under observation and the twins being made to wait to make their big entrance. Siggy says that as soon as he heard the first ring, he knew. He knew that it wasn't going to be weeks of observation while I held on to my precious cargo or even days of uncertainty over whether I might even get home. As he picked up the receiver with one hand, his other hand was already reaching out physically for my bag, but emotionally for my heart and, somehow - spiritually? - for our beautiful, unborn children. He says that he knew in that split second that he was going to need to be strong enough for four of us for the rest of our lives, however long that may have been in the hours to come.

"Don't break any speed limits to get in, but get here as quickly as you can.Your wife has gone back into labour and we probably wont be able to stop her again"

Speed limits were, undoubtedly, broken.

Siggy arrived in the hospital just after 7am and for the next few hours I strained every single fibre of my being to try not to give birth. I had had an epdirual, but they weren't sure it would have time to take effect. I, obviously, went nowhere, but at one point, probably just after 9am, Siggy left the room to use the toilet and, he although he didn't tell me at the time, the scene that he stumbled across in the corridor has stayed with him until this day. Around the nurses station, there were lots of staff gathered around and it was only much later that he realised every one of them had stopped talking and turned to look as he came out of the labour suite. Every one of them, he later knew, had been gathered for the arrival of our twins.

At some point, just as the contractions were becoming unbearable and I was trying to listen to the midwife and Siggy at the same time but actually not hearing a word of what they were saying, Siggy says there were 19 people in the room - 21 if you counted the two children jostling for position at the top of the birth canal. We, stupidly in hindsight, thought this was the way births happened, but it was so far from the normal process in a modern birthing suite that it was more like an overblown piece of Hollywood fiction with everything but the dramatic soundtrack, unless you count the hums and beeps of fetal and maternal heart monitors, the low drone of half-whispered half-conversations and the far away but undeniably clear hubbub of "normal" life passing by in the corridor outside or drifting in in through the open windows along with the warm morning sunlight.   

At 1038, in a magical moment where time stood still before an explosion of activity from all the gathered staff, Peter was born. 3lb 6oz of terrifyingly silent and worryingly unmoving childhood. I was shown him only very briefly before he was put into a transportable incubator and all manner of tubes and wires were attached. Siggy, torn almost literally in half as he tried to keep hold of my uncontrollably shaking hand whilst at the same time trying to reach out to his struggling, tiny son at the other side of the room, also only had a very quick chance to look upon his face before he was whisked off to intensive care with almost half of the staff in the room.  

The room seemed eerily silent and half empty as I lay, panting and staring at the ceiling with tears of dulled physical pain but penetratingly deep and searingly hot emotional turmoil and anguish. In reality, there were still around a dozen or so people in the room and next thing I knew I was being told to push again as contraction after contraction shook my already weary but determined body once more. 

At 1053, in yet another life-altering moment, Gordon made his entrance into the world at a whole 1oz more than his brother but with the same quiet, tiny and helpless demeanour which neither of us could understand but both of us knew was was going to bind us forever. Siggy, this time, went over and peered in the incubator for a little longer before Gordon, too was taken from us and the whole room was suddenly and cruelly silent. 

"He looks perfect. Absolutely beautiful." Siggy half-sobbed to me as we held onto each other for dear life. Never before, and honestly only twice since, have we been as completely and perfectly one. Terrified but determined, each of us swore to always be there for each other and for them, although I'm pretty sure neither of us actually said so. We didn't have to.

Some time later, in some sort of a daze, I delivered the shared placenta and my part, physically, was over for the day. I went into the most uncontrollable shivering through physical and mental shock and time stopped to exist. 

Siggy left the room and went to check on Peter and Gordon. I don't know how long he was gone and he has no idea either. He tells me that the ICU, on that first visit, was an alien and strange world of half-light, beeps, alarms, whispers and shadowy figures of both nursing staff and numbed parents staring into the various incubators around the room.

When he came back, though, Siggy had two polaroid photos, one of each of the boys and those were the most precious things in my life for that moment. It is impossible in some ways to explain, but the very real and very present threat of your child, whether hours old or years old, being close to death is the most lonely feeling in the world. Lonely, even though it was the most intimate and undeniably shared experience we have ever had.

Siggy told me they were both ventilated and in incubators with heart monitors and fingertip blood saturation monitors on. These things were just clinical mumbo jumbo to us that day but over time we became incredibly familiar with all. Siggy, control freak and knowledge-sponge that he was, read charts like an expert in time and we learned everything we ever need to know over the weeks that followed.

All that first day, though, I didn't get to actually see my beautiful, tiny boys and I'm sure that my heart broke time and time again throughout the day. I was moved back to the ward and time passed in a chemical- and love-induced haze that still manged to allow the waves of pain to permeate through the strange forcefield that had settled around me. Proud new grandparents came in full of the joys and left, still proud but confused and uncertain of the future as Siggy explained what had happened and what we had been told, the whole time looking for all the world like he wanted to split himself in two and leave one part with me and one part with the boys in ICU.

36 hours after having given birth, I was taken down to ICU in a wheelchair and for the first time got to gaze upon the wonders that I had brought into the world. I cried every single piece of me out in the unit in the few precious moments I had with them.

In the early days, every hour counted - "the first 12 hours are vital", "If they make it through 24 hours, we can consider the next steps", "72 hours in we will have some idea of their chances." At the same time, we were being given updated "odds" on their progress; "They probably have a 30percent chance of surviving" was possibly the worst moment of the first couple of hours, that changed after a week or so to "40/60, but there may be some lasting effects," until we eventually reached what was becoming the holy grail, firstly "it's probably 50/50 that they'll get through ok" and later "they're definitely more like 60/40 chances now." Fear of tempting fate meant that we stopped asking any more then. 

I stayed in hospital for ten solid days whilst Siggy ran around between work, home and the hospital day after day and then we had a further 41 days of commuting to and fro before the boys were finally allowed home. In that time, they put on around 2lbs each and had countless transfusions, tests and scares. In Gordon's case, he basically died twice when he had stopped breathing and  Peter, not to be outdone, had terrified us when a scan had shown asymmetrical brain growth and a degree of fluid where fluid shouldn't be.

On one unforgettable day, Siggy was called in from his work when Gordon had stopped breathing for some considerable time and staff had been "working on him" for what seemed an eternity. Speed limits were again, doubtlessly, broken.

Even on the day we were due to bring them them home, Peter caused a scare by turning blue and he - and I as I had been rooming in again overnight - had to ensure one more night in hospital before our lives together could start, properly. Maybe, just maybe, we knew all along as his name actually means "fair warrior".   

Life has a way, though, of paying you back and Peter and Gordon are now both 6'3" rugby players who have barely had a day sick since. they will try anything, do anything and with the slightest smile, light up our world. they also light up a lot of other worlds, most of them female. Siggy, six years after they were born, had just changed jobs and one of his first cases was to help out the registrar who had twice saved Gordon's life. He helped him get a fair bit of backpay, but could never repay the fantastic gift that he, and all the other Rottenrow staff gave us.

As you all may know, they never put us off and their two brothers had their own fair share of drama when they came into the world, but thankfully not quite as dramatic as the twins and not requiring so long in hospital. Those stories though, can wait for their birthdays. 

Siggy and I had been together for eleven years when the boys were born, but on this fantastic - and of course in our house chaotic - day, I just want to thank Peter and Gordon and Donald and Scott for just making us, us.  

We love you. Always. 

Was it Chubby Checker?

This week has been a bit of a quiet one for me - almost too quiet as I've had such a tough time writing this blog. I have even gone as far as contemplating porcicide. I don't know if that is a real word or not but, yes, I was so desperate tonight I almost killed my pink chocolate Percy Pig Easter "egg" that Scott bought me (I say Scott bought me, but I strongly suspect Siggy was responsible for it as Scott seemed quite surprised that that was what he had got me on Easter Sunday). However, I have resisted so Percy lives for another day. Mind you, with the fantastic weather we've had this week, he may melt soon and I'll be forced to put him out of his misery, but I'm going to try to keep him as a special treat at the end of term. I'm sure he'll appreciate it.

If the weather keeps up, of course, I can always put him in my exceptionally cool new fridge - and when I say cool, I don't mean it's hip, trendy, "rad,man",at the cutting edge or any of that nonsense. I mean cool. Actually, no, I mean cold. Our old fridge was on its last legs some months ago but we fought on bravely as, with three TEMs (Teenage Eating Machines) in the house, it is very seldom that we have food in the fridge for long enough for it to be a problem. And, of course, Siggy was absolutely determined that the only problem with the fridge was that the boys were incapable of closing the door properly. I have to say, I do agree with him on that.

Which is another weird thing, Siggy and I have been doing that a lot recently. No, not that "that". Agreeing.

We've agreed that the boys need to study more, by which we mean they need to study, full stop. We've agreed that pear cider is actually quite nice.

We've agreed that Siggy should at least put the ironing away after I've gone to the trouble of doing it. OK, we didnt actually agree, I just kept putting it back on his side of the bed every night until his resolve was well and truly broken and he had to put it away. Must be getting old, he never used to be so resistant to an excuse to go through my knicker drawer. 

We've agreed that the TEMs really ought to be able to watch Scott for a few hours during the day as long as we're not too far away, which is how we managed to escape to Ikea on Sunday for the new fridge. That was as close to free time we've had together in a long time.

Mind you, I apparently nearly wrecked that before it began. He's so bloody touchy at times. We were drawing out of the driveway and, because he had no rugby on Saturday and had got around to cutting the front lawn, he said "Well at least the grass looks better, amazing what a difference a weekend with no rugby or football makes"

"Yes and we can get started on the upstairs rooms now too if you've got all those free weekends," I replied innocently.

Well, can you imagine the petted lip that produced! No? Just imagine a small child who's just had their favourite lollipop taken away and you're about a quarter of the way there. All he said was "Be nice if you could just accept one job completed without adding ten to the list once in a while." He didn't so much say this as mumbled it into his chest, but I could hear him ok. Still, that didn't mean I had to answer, so I just asked what else we could maybe get whilst we were at Ikea and whether I should check if Pheobe still wanted the king size mattress she had been talking about. I bbm'd her and left him to stare, open-mouthed, at the road ahead for a while.

Pheobe had been saying the previous night about the mattress when we had gone out to the local "Brewers Unfair" as it has now been christened. It was one of those spontaneous decisions to nip out for a meal when we realised that two TEMs were out, so we took Donald and Scott and I invited the SPOT  group around. Pheobe and Bobby came along for dinner with their 13 year old son as their daughter was away to an "unders" disco (I'm sure you're not supposed to call them discos any more, but it annoys the hell out of them and I thought I should mention as a tribute to the sad passing of both Donna Summer and Robin Gibb this week). Toni and Jack said they had already fed their kids, so they said they'd come along later just for a drink.

The pub is one of those order-at-the-bar-with-your-table-number jobs and we were struggling at first as we didn't have a table, but the barman helpfully pointed out a couple sitting near the door at a table for four who were just about to finis, so said if we waited for ten minutes, we should be able to get their table. Pheobe, though, was hungry. I think it must have taken all of 90 seconds before she strode over to the girl who was sitting on her own as her partner had gone to the toilet. From a distance, we saw her obviously asking if they were using the two spare seats at the table and was obviously told "No," so Pheobe sat promptly sat down and, bluntly, STARED HER OUT whilst she had one, maybe one and a half  more spoonfuls of the huge chocolate fudge cake before getting up and flouncing out the door. We went over and sat down and I'm sure I saw a rather embarrassed and slightly disoriented boyfriend come out of the toilets and look around hurriedly before heading for the door too.

The meal was fine and either Siggy or Bobby had texted Toni to let her know we were eating our main course so she could head over anytime - they're only two minutes from the pub, but we all appreciate how long it takes to get  a 5 year-old girl, her ten-year old sister and 12 year old brother ready - not to mention her 43 year-old hubby - so we wanted to give her time to get there. Toni, super-organised or gagging for a drink or both was there within about three minutes. She really is a marvel, especially when there's the promise of a drink involved.

On arrival, however, the plan went, frankly, totally tits-up! No sooner were they through the door than the "helpful" barman was over explaining that no children were allowed in the bar area after 9pm. We did point out that it was only just after 8pm, but apparently the kids are only allowed in if their eating and they stopped taking orders at 8pm. So Toni and Jack had to make a hasty retreat.

First time I've ever seen Toni thrown out of a pub sober but we made up for that as she and Jack had us back to theirs afterwards and we had a really nice wee night. Cheers, guys!

So following the night out, I got my new fridge fitted and have been enjoying ice cold milk on my cereal all week as well as really nice cold meats, cheese which isn't sweating and, best of all, butter that doesn't spread itself (not actually butter, that pretendy-butter stuff that's OK because it's not margarine)

So, once the weekend was over, I had a very quiet week. I got around to booking our November weekend away and thereby proved why we need to book early - bloody place was fully booked by the time I went to book it on Tuesday after it had been available all weekend when I'd checked. So we're going back to the same place as last year.A hot tub's a hot tub, right?

I really stuck to the menu Siggy had carefully written on the whiteboard, how I was supposed to know that "week 2 " meant the second week of the menu. I mean, how is "this week" really that obvious? Once he'd explained that all the stuff on "week 2" was frozen and most of "this week" was fresh (in my new fridge), I suppose it was kind of obvious.

I went to a couple of meetings in the town - even parked in the space as last week and didn't lose my ticket in the space between the dashboard and the windscreen.

I even went for a very slow jog with Siggy and Dappy in the park. So a really quiet week with no slip-ups, disasters or comedy moments compared to the normal. I don't care what Siggy says, falling backwards into the dogs bath whilst it was half full of water so my a**e got wet and I got stuck, lying in the back garden like an upturned turtle whilst shouting to Siggy in his office and disturbing his videoconference is not a slip-up or a disaster.

Spending the afternoon sorting out six months worth of receipts for work expenses, putting them in nice, month-by-month piles, then going in to grab a coffee and finding the wind has taken them all over the decking is not a slip-up or a disaster.

And its not a comedy moment either.

A comedy moment is when your friend BBM's you from a wedding to tell you the bride has been taken to hospital because she twisted her knee at her first dance and the only response you have is "Was the first song Chubby Checker?"

Face it - every one of you is now adding to the list of alternatives that created - Twist and "ouch", Everybody "Kneeds" Somebody, anything by Twisted Sister or Kneel Diamond...... just send them in as comments!

Why do they gang aft agley?

I have to start with an apology for not having blogged last week and depriving my reader of their Friday feeling. You see, it was my birthday weekend and Siggy whisked me away to a hotel for the night to wined and dined and just to generally chill all day on the Friday because he's so thoughtful with stuff like that. It was truly wonderful - lovely champagne, a delicious meal, really plush room and hours relaxing in the spa on the Friday.

Well, that's the way it should have been. Siggy was due to be working way up north on Friday and so, given it was my birthday coming up and he had the choice between driving up late on Thursday and arriving about midnight or getting up at 5am to drive four hours, work for 6-8 hours then drive back again, we decided I could take Friday off, drive up with him on Thursday and have a nice relaxing day with a book.

That was the first plan to gang agley.

Turns out that after me booking the day off, arranging my mum and dad to babysit overnight and getting myself all excited about the trip up north, Siggy found out that the feuding parties he was going to see had sorted their problems out. I think it was the thought of Siggy grilling them for a whole day and telling them why they should start talking to each other again or lose their business. He's not as scary as they obviously thought though, because he just couldn't bring himself to spoil my excitement by telling me trip was off (or maybe it's that I'm that scary when someone spoils my excitement). So, do you know what he did? He booked another, closer hotel so we could have the a nice night out, arriving earlier, having the meal, the plush room, the spa and most especially a day of doing nothing on the Friday.

Plan number two was therefore afoot without me even knowing. Of course, agley it ganged.

Siggy, knowing we had less than a half hour to drive to the hotel, was more amenable to helping out his last appointment of the day - which started at 6.30pm so he was much later than he expected to be coming home. I was left to endure over an hour of Witter Mobile® (it's not nearly as entertaining or as mobile as Twitter, although it follows you round everywhere in the house, it has no off switch or volume control and it's My Mum-shaped) whilst he sorted out the best price to charge for syringing someones ears in a nursing home. I know where I'd rather have been, to be honest. Anyway, that was the calm, relaxed start to the evening up the spout and I moaned and moaned all the way to the cut of where Siggy had to take a different route.

Then believe it or not, I IMPRESSED HIM with MY SENSE OF DIRECTION! We were only a couple of hundred yards of the M80 when I noticed we had turned off and the road and I said so. I have to be honest and say I was a little unsure about the idea of not going away up north, but I soon warmed up to the idea when I saw the hotel. Then I cooled down again, the room was bloody freezing. Undeterred, we went for our meal, which really was lovely, and settled down for a drink after the meal.

Now I know what you're thinking - where did that plan gang agley? Well, it did and all I'm saying is that Siggy couldn't get home quickly enough the next morning. He claims it was because he had to get home to get on with work, but I know it was because the phone call he got from one of the four boys just put him off all night. in fairness, it put me off too, but hey, what's the point in having teenagers if they can't be teenagers?

And so we bumbled on into the worst - and best - weekend of rugby all year. It's the final weekend for the minis and always means a double-header of tournaments at Strathaven and Helensburgh. The boys played poorly on Saturday, but Siggy felt they had been put in too difficult a pool and, in any case, he came revitalised in his refereeing skills, which was nice to see as he'd been a bit put off since the last game which featured an all-out brawl on the park and accusations that the try he gave in the last minute, which put his team through, wasn't a try at all. To be fair, he is adamant that it was but the all-out brawl did take a bit of sorting out.

That's why Sunday was a bit surprising. As usual, I had to run around beforehand, dropping Gordon at his work and collecting him again before  I headed down to Helensburgh to meet Scott, Peter and Siggy at the tournament. When I picked up Peter, he was really poorly, so I took him home then set off - just me and Dappy the mad cocker spaniel - in my shorts, but well prepared with the Hunters and matching poncho in the boot. When i say "well-prepared", I kind of mean "totally and utterly unprepared". I had sat nav, but no postcode and a "broad" understanding of where Helensburgh was. Of course, this was another plan about to gang up it's own backside, but I was getting used to that.

I found my way by getting Peter to text me the postcode and was going along nicely with only the gathering rainclouds to worry me - even though I had the wellies and poncho, I was wearing shorts and irritated that I might get wet at the rugby. Oh, the other worry was Dappy deciding that my gearstick was a really comfortable chinrest, but she does that a lot and usually stays over her own side of the car.

Amazingly, the way my week had been going, she did stay on her own side and I happily turned off onto the Erskine Bridge.

Oh dear.

"Toll Bridge" the huge Orange signs declared.

No handbag.

No purse.

No change.

No anything to pay with and I was halfway across the bridge.

At this point, could I just ask everyone to remember that I am a good, law-abiding citizen and thus in no way would I have risked using my mobile phone whilst driving. Equally, I am so law-abiding and not in any way daft enough to stop my car in the middle of a huge, busy suspension bridge. I will therefore leave you to make up your own mind about how the next twist in my week unfolded. Equally, I will let you make up your own mind about the vocabulary and phrasing which follows. I may not have recalled it perfectly as I was under a little stress. I rang Siggy:

"Oh my goodness," I said calmly to Siggy after he hadn't answered his phone and I had to call Peter instead (I can't remember exactly the briefly conversation with Peter but I think it went along the lines of "Hello dear son of mine, please pass the phone to your father if you don't mind"). Sorry, getting off track.

"Oh my goodness," I briefly, succinctly and very calmly began, "It appears that I have left my handbag and purse at home"

"You called me to tell me that?You do that everytime we're going anywhere. I'm watching this game and the refs a total and complete tosser. See you when you get here and I'll get you a coffee." He went to hang up.

"Darling, there is a slight problem," I gently said just before he hung up.

"What is it?" he said really brusquely and, I think, a bit too angrily for someone who was only being asked a simple question.

"I would seem to be on the lane for the tool bridge and don't have any money with me" I very coolly said to him in a matter-of-fact way.

"Where the heel are are you going?" he yelled, half-laughing down the phone. "The Severn Bridge is a bit out of the way"

"Severn Bridge?" I said calmly, "I'm on the Erskine Bridge"

"You a**e," he said, "there hasn't been a toll on there for at least five years" and hung up, which I thought was a bit snippy.  

In the end, I got off the bridge ok but when I arrived at the tournament Siggy, the guy who was so pleased with how well he had reffed the games the day before was standing at the side of the pitch absolutely losing the plot with the ref for their games. Losing to such an extent that opposing supporters actually came around to his side to point out that the ref was doing his best. Big mistake, but for once he was right. the ref was a complete idiot and even I could see the errors he was making - "offside" is clearly not a concept he understands and as for his knowledge of quick free kicks and the fact that you cannot take two in a row, don't even start me. The ref, though, seemed to think that Siggy reminding his team of that was some sort of implied criticism of him and so he did tell Siggy to shut up.Siggy, predictably, didn't. The team, picking up on the energy from the sidelines, played with a lot of aggression and won easily in the end.

Still didn't stop Siggy moaning about it for the rest of the day - or at least until he had something new to moan about when I told I had no petrol and he would need to fill the car. Amazingly, he actually left me to fill it myself whilst he filled his own as well.

"Is it unleaded?" I asked, again calmly.

"Of course," he moaned back.

"Is that the green pump?" I again enquired politely.

"Yes." Grumpy sod.

Then he had the audacity to make put the petrol cap back on for me. In fairness, I have only put fuel in the car twice before and twice, he claims, the petrol cap has fallen on when he opened the fuel door. He is such a moaner.

Mind you, this week has been better. I started Uni! It was so exciting - I had gone and bought new pens, highlighters, paper, folders, pencil case, everything pink I could find in the stationery aisle and could hardly sleep the night before. When I got up, I was ready and out the house in loads of time and even arrived a bit early, found a parking space and found the room no bother. What could possibly gang agley?

I sat at a table with a group of girls I vaguely recognised. Turned out they were all from Stirling and, although I may have been picking up some of the accent wrong, they all really liked some guy called Ken. They must have done, because nearly every other sentence began or ended with "ken, like." How was I to know that this was actually going to be the naughty table in the class?

I mean, we're being told everything about induction, credit units, minimum essay lengths and all that stuff and I was keeping up really well. I know I was because I was even able to hold three simultaneous bbm group convos with Toni, Phoebe and, the girls at the nursery and Siggy. The lecturer seemed to be a little put off by some buzzing from our table, well, my hand bag (it was the phone, nothing else) but you'd think he would be a bit more professional than that.

Anyway, after playtime - they try to be all sophisticated and call it coffee break, but it's playtime as far as I'm concerned - the nice lecturer had obviously noticed that I had accidentally sat myself at the naughty table with all Ken's groupies because he said he'd kept me a seat down at the front. I think he's got the hots for me.

So the day was going really well and then I remembered I had to top up the parking meter. I was dead well-prepared.I had plenty of change with me and I had taken some out of my purse at playtime and had it in my jacket pocket so I could slip out at the appropriate time and top up the car.Some of the girls, I noticed had been trying to sneak out and I thought their shuffling was a bit distracting. I could hardly keep track of the bbm convos at one stage. I bided my time, tough and waited until there was just about three minutes left on my ticket. No shuffling for me - I stood up at the front and told the lecturer I had to go out and top up the car.

He smiled in a kind of grimacing way and off I skipped  to my car. I went to the machine and beamed with pride. Exactly on time. I put my pre-prepared £3 in the meter and printed my ticket, went to the car and gaily slipped it onto the dashboard. I have to say I was more than a little stunned to watch it slip down the slope of the dashboard and disappear down in the gap between the dashboard and windscreen.

I am not proud. I can say it. I panicked.

No handbag.

No purse.

No change.

No anything - not even a pink pen or a pair of tweezers to get the bloody thing back out, even if I could see it!

I ran like the wind back into the uni and up the three flights of stairs. Shit. I ran back down a flight as I had forgotten I was on the second floor after playtime. Ran into the room, breathless and slightly dishevelled to find the class was empty. Completely empty. I turned around, panic rising and saw the hot lecturer in the classroom across the corridor. Damn, must remember left from right in future.

I flew across the corridor, swung the class door open wide enough to almost take it off it's hinges and dived into the class, panting in the HL's (Hot lecturer is going to be too long to type every time for the whole course) direction. He smiled sweetly and very kindly looked towards the ceiling to save him any embarrassment. "Need... change" I said, I hope a little sexily as I was out of breath. I grabbed my bag, knocking over the chair it was hanging on and HL very kindly, although with what i thought was a bit of an overdramatic flourish, held the door for me.

It's a heavy door that, because it made quite a loud bang that echoed down the corridor after me as I sprinted back along the corridor and down the stairs. I ran out, crossed the road and got back just in time to get a new ticket and STICK IT to the windscreen before a traffic warden came round the corner. I told him all about it, he nodded a lot, looked at the new ticket STUCK to the windscreen and walked off. Funny man.

So, lots and lots of plans this week, including getting this out on Friday morning to cheer you all up but, as so aft, that ganged agley too.

Normal service will hopefully be resumed next week, but if anyone has any comments and thinks getting this on a Saturday is better, please just leave a comment.

Life through a whiteboard

Life in our house is complicated, but it is governed by a very simple device.

We have a whiteboard in the kitchen. Just like you might find in any office or school. A simple, effective and absolutely essential addition when there are six people in the house who are likely to be travelling in at least three different directions at any one time. So a year or so ago we invested in a whiteboard and since then have came to absolutely depend on it. The calendar industry is very narrow minded. You cannot get a "Family" Organiser with more than five columns on it. Why? Simple really: Marge + Homer + Bart + Lisa + Maggie = 5. They don't like Santa's Little Helper because he's a dog. Pooh + Piglet + Eeyore + Tigger + Kanga = 5. They don't like Christopher Robin because he's, well, "special" 

Of course, I can't claim any credit for discovering the massive benefits the whiteboard provides. We stole the idea, plain and simple. Worse than that, this was theft from a friend, but I'm sure they don't mind. And even if they do, it was hardly a copyrighted idea, was it? Our friends Susan and Paul are simply fantastic for me. They were friends-of-friends and I was always aware of their growing family when we were younger and have to be honest and say that I was mildly surprised when they finally stopped the six kid mark. They had had five girls in a row and then one boy and they are fantastic for me because they know exactly what it's like to live in a house that's never quiet - which reminds me of something weird that happened this week. Siggy bbm'd me on Sunday to say that he had suddenly found himself home alone.Every child had left to go somewhere and taken their friends with them (more about that later). His message read curiously "Strangely alone in the house - all out  and not really sure what do with myself". Now I know what some of you are thinking and to the best of my knowledge no, he didn't. To be clear on that "To the best of my knowledge" means that I didn't actually ask him, but the fact that I got another bbm shortly afterwards saying "Donald home, that was nearly seven  minutes" gives me a degree of confidence that he couldn't have got up to much in that space of time.

Enough of that though, back to Susan and Paul. We have Mount Ironing in our hall cupboard, permanently attached to which is Ben Sock. The strange thing is, Ben Sock can at times be higher than Mount Ironing, but of course Mount Ironing goes down every so often when I get a surge of domestic godessness and attack it in a cloud of steam and heat. Ben Sock, on the other hand, only ever grows and grows. We gave up properly pairing socks some time ago and as long as they are vaguely the same colour and length, they will be worn as a pair. Siggy was delighted with himself on Wednesday because he was actually wearing TWO socks that said Wednesday on them. He's achieved that before, but they were different designs and one was embroidered whilst the other had one of those kind of stick-on motif things.

Sorry, I digress again. Paul , as the only adult male in a room with six women, has commented on the fact that they have  a black leggings room - a whole room - where black leggings live in perfect happiness and appear to breed in a similar way to Tor Sock in our house. So similar in fact, that at least one of their girls has been known to wear two or even three pairs at one time just to get both legs fully covered. She swears that she didn't need to as ripped leggings were the in thing at the time but Susan, in an uncharacteristically concerned way, felt compelled to utter the maxim she never thought she'd utter. You know the one - "you're not going out looking like that, young lady."  This is not the same girl who climbed - no, wait a minute, really can't tell that one. Nor is it the same girl who, no, never mind, can't tell that you that either. You get the point. We live an a madhouse, they live in a madhouse. And we're all very happy about in our respective asylum.

So when we were at theirs for dinner one evening, my eye was drawn to their whteboard which contained scribbled notes, shopping lists etc and a very strange big number - I think it was 21 or something and it changed daily,as it was the number of days since both of them had given up smoking (I'm delighted to report that they are both still off the ciggies - very well done both of them). Anyway, we then went out and got a whiteboard.

There is a difference with our whiteboard though. It has been subjected to my OCD (or CDO, to put the letters in the correct order as Toni keeps reminding me to do) and it is all neatly drawn lines and colour-coding. Menus are in black, shopping green, appointments for everyone in a neat box for the week in red and finally blue for any notes or reminders. Siggy occasionally rebels and writes notes in red and puts items on the shopping list in blue. He still only writes in block capitals though, he's not that brave. Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a foolproof system. I had a BIG note - in blue - for weeks reminding Siggy to put oil in my car and he just ignored it. Eventually, I asked about it and he said he didn't respond to instructions in pictures - just because I had drawn (very neatly) the car badge on it as well. What an ar*e he can be.

Which brings me to a lowlight of the week. The twins are sitting their exams just now which, as I'm sure all of use remember is a hellish time. I have never understood what the kind of a civilised society takes the most fantastic years in the lives of its youth and totally and utterly buggers those years up by making them sit awful exams just at the best time of the year  - spring heading into summer - at an age where no matter how their parents want, they can't kick them out of the house because they're still just too young to get jobs and house of their own. Come the revolution, when I'm in charge,exams will not be legal until you are at least 22 years old (although no-one will sit them because, as a favour to parents, I'll also make it legal for people to start working at age 13 so they ca be booted out of the house into their own flats on precisely the day after they first announce that "it's not fair, you don't understand what it'slike to have fun") 

I know, I know, get back to the point. Siggy, in a strange bout of support for the twins study plans - he never had study plans himself because he was a self-confessed lazy and disorganised git as a teenager (he still is, just isn't self-confessed now). Perhaps that's what made him feel he had to use the whiteboard to put up a study plan for the twins and write - in black and in capitals - a reminder that they should check on Tuesday that they had calculators for their exam on Wednesday. It probably also explains why he remembered to ask Gordon on Wednesday morning if he had his calculator. Amazing though it is, Gordon actually did have his calculator, showed it to Siggy and left, which meant Siggy could get on with some work and start his videoconference at 10am. 

Siggy hates videoconferences. He says that when you work from home, it feels so much more of an intrusion to have your work colleagues peering into your home, but more than anything else, he hates the fact that you have to sit in the same bloody place for hours and cant just get and make a coffee, which he generally does every 20-30 minutes when he's working. He has even considered just recording himself for a few hours some Sunday when he is hungover and not feeling like moving too much so he can then feed it it in to videoconferences instead of actually sitting there. he gave up on the idea when he realised his colleagues would the wonder why he only owned one shirt and never said anything, which is the genuinely hard bit for him, argumentative so-and-so that he is.  

Anyway, he gets onto the videoconference at 10am. at 10.05, he received a BBM from Peter:

"Are you still in the house"

"Yes. Why?"

"Forgot my calculator, can you bring it up" 

"No, am in VC. Will BBM mum"

So he sent me a message, which I received just as I finished with a psychologist (for one of the children at the nursery, not personally of course), so I bolted out of work and came straight home, flew into the house and ran around - really quietly because I hate anyone on the other end of Siggy's videoconference hearing me - couldn't find the calculator, but eventually did. I went past Siggy's office, waved and jumped back in the car (which now has oil, I'm pleased to say). 

Twenty's Plenty? As Jim Royle would say,my arse. I must have hit sixty before I was 200 yards down the street and didn't slow down from there until I screeched to a halt in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber outside the exam hall. I abandoned the car and ran in the door, waving the calculator madly in the air at the girl behind reception who smiled back and pointed. In hindsight, that should really have alarmed me more than it did and it should certainly have alarmed her as they are really strict on exam rule and the like. Unfortunately, as has been pointed out to me by every "friend" I have spoken to since, the school are so used to my being in and out of the place that they barely batted an eye.

I spotted Peter - hard not to when he's 6'3" - but couldn't get anywhere near him. Luckily, however, about half of the 200 or so kids shaking nervously waiting to go into the hall have, at one time or another, been served breakfast in our kitchen after staying overnight in the garage, so before I knew it, one of them had seen me,seen the calculator and said "Oh Cheers, Mrs A, which one's it for?"

I think I mumbled, "Peter," in response and the next thing I knew, all I could see was the calculator being crowd-surfed across the hall at a rate of knots with a slight buzz of "Peter" moving through the room like a whispering wave. Next thing I knew, I just saw a thumb up in the air some 80 feet or so away and the boy who had taken it from me turning and saying "Sorted" 

Seconds later, the room had cleared and they were in the exam hall. Made it by the skin of my teeth. I went  home, played commando again to pass Siggy a quick note telling him that it was delivered safely (Note:"Playing commando" isn't as much fun a it might sound. I once inadvertently went into Siggy's office when I didn't know he was on a videoconference and took some paper out of the cupboard behind him. As I walked out of the room, without him having said a word to me, all I heard was Siggy saying "Oh yes, that was Aud." followed by "Probably not, I'll tell her later" and laughing. I asked him about later and he said it was just Richard at the other end  asking if I knew my bum was on screen for whilst I stretched to get the paper out. Therefore, I now have to play commando to get any messages into the room).

So, need to go now as the Whiteboard says it's a big weekend of rugby and I'll need to get organised for it all. 

I "heart" my whiteboard. I hate that phrase. See you next week.

PS - Admit it, how many of you scrolled back up to see if Siggy used the right colour for the calculator note? He didn't, that's why it didn't work.

PPS - As i finish this weeks blog, Siggy is taking out the recycling bins. In case anyone passes and notices that the glass bin is overflowing and has a box full of bottles on the top, we missed it last month.  Honest.