Category: Stuff that just happens

There’s a great deal of talk at the moment of beach bodies – being beach body ready. No one knows what the fuck it means and we’re not at all sure we care, but it’s that time of year none the less, when we may be hitting the beach and wearing something other than jeans. I’ve blogged recently about body image and granny’s getting their boobs out to give them a bit of the sunshine that we’ve all been feeling of late. We’ve all agreed to embrace our curves subjectively ie live with what we’re happy with (in my case, the result of not cutting out alcohol and peanut butter) and we’re still divided on the whole issue of topless bathing.

But…

What I haven’t talked about, until now, is clothes.

Until, that is, I read about Bob Geldof’s recent behaviour at the Brentwood festival.

Now, Geldof is a bit like Jamie Oliver and Marmite I reckon: you either love him – probably for what he has done for charity and giving us a song to sing when we’ve had a great weekend but now it’s over. Or, you bloody hate him. Perhaps for no particular reason, other than he can come across as a jumped up twat.

Well, on Sunday at the festival, fans walked out after he made foul-mouthed comments about their clothes.

Firstly, he told the crowd how mega the Boomtown Rats are: “How do we know that you are Brentwood and we are mega? Because I am wearing a fuck off pretend snakeskin suit.”

At which point, I would have been saying: and your point? He expanded, basically telling the festival goers how amazing his band looked in their purple suits with elasticated waistbands (that just says ‘fat’ to me) and their cowboy shirts.

By now, had I been there, I think that I would have been looking at this group of ageing blokes, hanging on to the old idea of rock and roll, with their references to their cutting edge fashion and I’d have been thinking: you sad old bastards. But I may have given them the benefit of the doubt,  if Bob had shut the fuck up and got on with the music – which was really why everyone had paid £25 to be there. Not, for a bloody fashion show.

However, he didn’t shut up. He apparently went on to say: “on the other hand Brentwood, you are wearing wall-to-wall fucking Primark. This is a rock and roll festival. When you come to a rock and roll festival you dress for a rock and roll festival”.

No, you complete and utter arsehole. When you pay £25 of hard-earned cash to go to a music festival, you are paying to listen to some decent music. You are not paying to be judged on your choice of attire. And actually you twat, those people that did pay to hear you sing, are there to judge you on your ability to perform and not the other way around.

Someone tweeted: Horrendous individual, who loves the sound of his own voice. He hasn’t made a decent track in ages.

I say:

1. No-one disses Primark, as my entire summer holiday wardrobe and my kids’ consists of it. Unfortunately I can’t afford fake snakeskin, but if I could…I wouldn’t be seen dead in such a ridiculously shit choice.

2. That I’ve just gone off Marmite.

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

A thread on my local Facebook Mum’s page the other day really got me  thinking annoyed. It actually really annoyed me. The woman who posted it was annoyed too and I don’t blame her. You see, she had invited 30 children to a 9th birthday party. 22 accepted, 16 turned up. She was out of pocket on the party bags, but luckily the leisure centre where the party was being held only required a deposit of 12 places and the balance was paid at the party. However, in the thread that ensued on the mums’ network the comments poured in and one lady said her sister was once out of pocket by over £100, due to kids not turning up.

Now, I am sorry, but this is down right bloody rude behaviour from these parents. This was in no way an isolated incident. Comment after comment cited similar experiences. This unfortunately is an extremely common, modern phenomenon.

Don’t get me wrong – we all fuck up every now and again. But when I fuck up I am mortified. If I forgot a party I would make sure that I rang the mum and apologised profusely. I would be so embarrassed. What annoyed me and upset me about what was being said on this thread, was that not only did people not reply, they also replied that their child would be there and then didn’t show. Or, a common theme seems to be that people wait until the last minute to reply, to see if something better comes along. What is this teaching their kids about commitment?

My girls all work for me. They teach in our Taekwon-do classes and get paid to do so. There have been a few times when something better than paid work has come along, perhaps a day’s shopping with friends. However, we have taught them that they cannot let us down. If they want to miss work, they must organise cover (luckily for them there are several of them to choose from). On the odd occasion they can’t get cover, they have to e mail the instructor who they work with and apologise, or miss out on the alternative. They are learning the rules of commitment.

In my blog: Is the Art of Communication Dead? I featured the vlogger Nicole Arbour, who talks about how kids nowadays don’t want commitment. They seem to be repelled by it. You can read this blog here:

Is the Art of Communication Dead?

Reading the party thread, I now know where they get this attitude from.

My theory is that technology is making it too easy not to commit to things. Firstly, you can mark an e mail as unread. It may sit there and prick at your conscience every so often, but it is not a voice at the end of a phone line requiring an immediate response. E mails also get swallowed up – marked as read at a red traffic light and then forgotten. E mails mean that we can leave them hanging around in our inbox until a better e mail comes along. Without the necessity of face to face contact or an awkward phone call, it is far too easy to lie in your reply – no body language to read, or faltering tone to pick up on. It isn’t just kids’ parties where this attitude pervades, we see the same attitudes through our work.

Such is the RSVP nightmare these days, that psychologists are issuing advice on how to deal with it:

There are ways to goad them into action, says media psychologist Pamela Rutledge, Ph.D., director of the Media Psychology Research Center in Boston (and herself a mother of six). She likes to start with a paper invite and tuck in a balloon or stickers. Yes, it’s more effort, but you’ll get a higher rate of return. “Research shows people respond more when you’ve given them something, even if it’s small,” Dr. Rutledge says. Jotting a note creates a further sense of obligation (“Looking forward to having Sean join us!”).

If your initial invitation is sent electronically, prod parents with an e-mail: “Please RSVP so there isn’t a pizza shortage!” (“Our brain responds to scarcity,” Dr. Rutledge notes.) Oh, and bribes work too. “Appeal to parents by saying, ‘RSVP by this date and you’re entered in a raffle for a bottle of wine,'” she says.

So, next time you are organising a kid’s party, bear in mind this advice. Alternatively, don’t bloody bother with it in the first place, because quite honestly, it doesn’t seem worth the hassle.

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

As some of you know from previous blogs, I am a member of: Gransnet. This, in case you didn’t immediately click – I didn’t – is the granny and grandpa version of Mumsnet. I became a member by entering a children’s book writing competition they are running and I had to become a member to enter. I did check that I didn’t need to be a granny, they assured me that I did not.

What this all means is that I now receive a daily e mail from Gransnet, detailing the discussion topics of the day. These are varied and often topical. Occasionally, I find them rather amusing: Poo on slippers (?), Oh, this Great Fat Belly, Air or Water Dental Flossers – that was all on one day. My Wheelie Bin, Gravestones, Demented Blackbird, Gnomes, Falsies…oh I could go on. I mean, you can see why I haven’t unsubscribed…

Anyway, one of yesterday’s topics caught my eye: Topless Grans. I thought this could be an interesting one and I clicked on the link to the debate. Now, I have a personal aversion to topless sunbathers. It is probably because I just wasn’t brought up with it and so it’s as simple as the fact that I’m just not used to it. My girls don’t like it either. Faced with a group of topless women camped by the communal pool in Spain last year, my girls hid in the privacy of our garden to groans of: yeuk! Teenagers really don’t cope at all well with nudity, unless, it seems, it’s on a screen. The point is that real life tits are all different shapes and sizes and can be in uncomfortably close proximity for those who aren’t accustomed to the onslaught. So I read the discussion on Gransnet with interest.

Some people, like me, said they just aren’t comfortable with topless bathing. Maybe I should point out here, that my aversion to it is not age related. However, for some people, it was. Here is the view that kicked the discussion off:

Lucky enough to be on Rhodes at the moment. Lovely & hot so everyone sun worshipping but WHY do so many older ladies still go topless on beach & round the pool. I am no prude & always went topless myself until gravity took over & then I invested in some lovely bikinis & later tankinis. I’m sitting here & in my immediate area there are 5 very elderly women – 70 plus ( all British)with their boobs on their stomachs. To be honest they look awful & I had to smile yesterday when I noticed a woman with 2 long white panels on her tummy caused by the shadow her boobs had made. They would look great with a nice tankini which you can pull up to get your tummy tanned. I don’t I understand it. It’s up to them of course & I’d defend any woman’s right to wear what she wants but really they look awful. Maybe I’ve had too much sun.

I love the ‘2 long white panels’ observation and it did remind me of that birthday card that has been around forever, where a bloke is wearing a t shirt with the words: show me yer tits and the granny lifts up her dress.

Someone in the Gransnet discussion had gone one better and found this:

However, others made the point that why shouldn’t old people sunbathe topless and a person commented:

I don’t see why, if it is an environment where younger women are sunbathing topless, older women should not do the same, if they enjoy the feeling. Judging their breasts as not fit for human view is, surely, buying into the idea that breasts exist for decoration and the entertainment of men.
Breasts come in all shapes and sizes from almost non-existent bumps to big billowing ones but the media keep presenting this image of 34-38 D cup and probably silicone “enhanced”.
If we had some decent weather I’d be down on one of the quieter local beaches, stripped off to my knickers, and if anyone happened to be offended by the sight of my 1 and 2/3 breasts (post partial-mastectomy) then they shouldn’t be staring.

It is one of those debates that leaves me rather confused and unsure of what I should be thinking and feeling. I even found myself wondering whether I agreed with one of the comments:

Enough to put you off your ouzo

Then I felt guilty. And what of the comment that if we say old people should hide them away, we are ‘buying into the idea that breasts exist for decoration and the entertainment of men.’  Are we saying that? Some said it’s imposing, others said: go for it and a few said it’s no-one else’s business. It seems that it’s a subject that no-one can agree on.

So basically I would love all your views. Let’s not confine this debate to the grey hairs of Gransnet. I’ve written a couple of posts lately about body image. My post yesterday was about being less critical of our own bodies, as well as others and one of the points made in the discussion on topless grans was this:

There is far too much judging of other people’s bodies going on IMO and in particular women’s bodies. This has got much worse over my lifetime. Back in the 60s we were not constantly assessing breasts, bottoms etc etc in the way we do now. By today’s standards Diana Dors would be obese and Barbara Windsor seriously in need of silicone implants. 

Should we be judging at all? Or should we just accept that everyone has the right to feel the sun on their breasts, no matter what their age.

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

A model was sitting in a sauna in a fitness club and through the door she saw a woman changing at her locker. The model took 2 photos of the poor woman and sent them on Snapchat to her friend, ridiculing her body. The trouble is, her Snapchat was public and so lots of people now know what a nasty, shallow low-life she is.

I’ve written a couple of posts in the past week about body image and I’ve had a lot of comments back. The common theme running through these comments has been that shape and size are far less important than confidence, self esteem, humour, intelligence and kindness. That people try not to get too hung up about their wobbly bits and stretch marks, but rather focus on what their bodies have produced if they are women with children, and celebrating what they are capable of achieving. People commented that we should not be focusing on weight, size or shape, but rather on strength and fitness. We should be taking inspiration from disabled athletes, by seeing what they are achieving and realising that there is no, ‘perfect body’ needed for personal fulfillment. One lady commented that her motto is, ‘my body is built for use, not for decoration’.

Some people admitted that all of the above is easier said than done and it can be difficult not to worry what other people think. When I saw myself in one of those dreadful 3 way mirrors in M&S, I did feel sorry for all the people in Spain who had got that back view last year. We all have our personal benchmarks, but I guess that the important thing is to keep things in perspective. If we are healthy and happy, then not a lot else should really matter. Not forgetting the importance of mental health here too. It shouldn’t be underestimated how much good a workout does for your mental health, whether it’s sweating it out in the gym, or walking the dog.

I came across a post written by Rebecca whose blog is called: Taylor-made-ramblings and I found it to be very poignant. In it she makes the comment: ‘our bodies are keeping us alive, and that it is the only body we have, or ever will have, so we should therefore be respectful and thankful’, but she has only recently come to this conclusion after years of struggling with her self-image. You can read the full post here:

Letter to my body – a farewell to self-criticism

I do wonder though, whether humans have a criticising gene. I don’t mean that we just criticise ourselves, I think that we can be extremely critical of others. Not, of course to the extent that we would take photos of someone and send them to friends with derogatory comments, but be honest here: how often are you watching TV and you comment on someone’s appearance? Reading a magazine and give an opinion on someone’s looks? Inwardly critical of the way your own children look – have you ever worried that they are too fat, or too thin? So when does this human criticising gene become unhealthy? Well, if the comments on social media are anything to go by, then far too frequently. Faceless trolls are all too happy to openly criticise peoples’ appearance on line.

The model has been named and shamed. She has apologised, saying it was a mistake, because she didn’t know that her settings were on public. No honey, you’re so, so wrong. Your mistake was that you took those photos at all.

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

A Big Issue seller has taken up residence outside our local Waitrose. I guess he thinks that he will fare better here than outside the Tesco in town, although I’m not so sure. You see, in my experience, and I can’t say that I have ever sold the Big Issue, but I have had low paid jobs and been very skint, in my limited experience people with money rather like to hang on to it. Now, I’m not saying that they are necessarily tight, but they certainly are suspicious and if they don’t trust you, they will be resolute in not parting with a couple of quid. They may trust Oxfam, certain Cancer charities, they may have ‘their own charities’ that they support, but unless they can see your credentials, or you are endorsed by someone they know, they won’t want to part with their dosh.

I’d smiled at the Big Issue seller the day before, as I rushed passed to grab a coffee. I hadn’t bought his magazine. I’d felt guilty, but I appeased my guilt by reminding myself that last time I bought it (several years ago) I had thought it was shite. It may or may not have been. I may just have been having a bad day that day, but my memory overruled my guilt.

Today, however, I was sat at a table outside with the dogs. There he was, greeting every shopper with a smile and a: would you like to buy the Big Issue? Most people ignored him. To an onlooker that looks so incredibly rude, but when you are confronted by someone selling you something, you feel pressurized and embarrassed and your auto-response is to pretend that they aren’t really there. Some people smiled back at him and others mumbled, no thanks.

I asked him how many he had sold. 2 in 2 hours, he replied. I asked him where he lived: Croydon, with 3 children in a hostel, he said. I felt bad. I asked him how much it was. £2.50, came the reply. I thought about £2.50. I thought, why the hell wouldn’t I buy the mag? Who cares if it is crap?

When the Big Issue first started in 1991, I thought that it was such a good idea: giving people whose lives are blighted by poverty an opportunity to earn a legitimate income. I saw sellers around a lot – perhaps because I worked in and around London. I made a point of frequently buying. Since I have moved to the sticks, I have seen sellers less. Buying the mag is not on my radar and by the look of the seller today, it is not on many people’s radar around here.

I returned to Waitrose this evening with daughter 1, who was on a mission to cook fajitas, despite the only ingredient in the fridge for this dish being a packet of chicken. We needed more supplies. The seller gave me a wave and a cheery, ‘hello’.

He said, ‘hello’ to you, mum, she said. ‘He remembered you!’

Yes, he did. He remembered me, because I handed over a couple of quid for his magazine. That’s nothing. In return, he remembered me. Yesterday, I gave him nothing as I entered the shop and as I left the shop, he had already forgotten me and asked me again if I wanted the Big Issue. Today he remembered that I had fulfilled his hope for me and he repaid me for that with recognition.

As I we were getting in the car tonight to go to daughter 4’s dance class, a lady passed us. I noticed that my daughter smiled at her. I didn’t say anything, but as we drove off she said to me: ‘I always smile at old people, just in case they have lost a husband or a wife and they are sad. A smile can make them happy’. It made me think of the Big Issue seller this evening when I returned to the shop and he was still there, that’s a demoralising 8 hour shift and he gave me a smile of recognition and a wave. It made me feel happy. It cost me £2.50, but actually that is really nothing compared with what that money meant to him.

In the inside cover of the issue I have, there is a tweet: @bigissue thx for giving man @ seven sis a job. You’ve humanised him & givn back self-worth & rspct. The change is remarkable. I salute you.

£2.50 changes, humanises, gives people self-worth and respect…it’s nothing – buy it and you will almost certainly get a smile back, which is priceless.

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be hypnotised. We’ve all seen those stage shows on the TV, where people are ‘put to sleep’ and then made to look like complete and utter twats. I, like you probably thought: no bloody way! Because you can bet your ass that I’d do something that I could never, ever recover from. So this, along with the fact that I have only ever come across 2 hypnotists in real life: 1 who gave me the creeps and I wasn’t quite sure what might happen to me whilst in a sleepy state and the other was a 6 foot, fit and muscly personal trainer and I wasn’t quite sure what I might do to him in a sleepy state. My wondering what hypnosis would be like was put on hold.

That was until I exposed my pen chewing habits to the world through a photo on Facebook and a hypnotherapist called Claire came to my rescue and said that she could cure my disgusting habit with hypnosis. (Claire didn’t call it disgusting – number 1 friend whom I share an office with did).

So I rang her: Hi, is that Chrissie? No. Oh, erm sorry, Christine? No. Who do you want? The hypnotherapist (I couldn’t think what else to say. This wasn’t going too well). Yes, that’s me: Claire! (I had liked the idea of having a hypnotherapist who I didn’t know, but it would have helped if I had at least known her name…)

Anyway, Claire forgave me and made me feel instantly relaxed on the phone, as she asked me about my fear. I had decided to talk to her about my fear of flying. She explained what the therapy would involve: that she would take a brief medical history, ask me about my fear and what had triggered it. She would then talk about the safety aspect of flying and we would put the negative thoughts I had in a drawer. She asked me to think of somewhere that I felt safe and comfortable and said that she would take me to that place under hypnosis – the idea being that I associate flying with positive images in the future, rather than the negative ones that are filed away.

It all sounded pretty straightforward to me and at £35 for the session, which I would be able to record for future use, I thought very reasonable too. Although not cheaper than the alternative: Valium, certainly the better option.

Claire had asked on the phone whether I wanted the session to take place at my house or hers. At the time of her asking, dog 1 was trying to get into the room I had barricaded myself into, the Love Island final was blaring out from a couple of telly’s, partner was shouting upstairs if someone could feed the cats and the doorbell went…I said that for the full effect, it might work better at hers.

So I pitched up there this morning. I was rather excited and couldn’t help being a bit surprised when there was no psychologist style couch, nor did she dangle a gold watch on a string and say: look into my eyes. No, she fulfilled none of the cliches and after a good 20 minutes background chat, during which I went into more details about when this fear started and how it made me feel, I pressed record on my phone and the hypnosis began.

She started relaxing me by talking me through my body from head to toe. She then took me down 10 steps to my special place of comfort and then…well, to be perfectly honest, I can’t really say what she talked about, because I zoned in and out. I know that she told me how safe flying is and I know that her voice is incredibly lilting and relaxing and calm, but with emphasis where a little more drama is required (when I was nodding off probably!) I know that I felt incredibly relaxed and comfortable. My body felt heavy and I can best describe it as when you fall asleep in the car, but you are dozing and you can still hear the kids (arguing).

I was brought around after 30 minutes, which incidentally felt like 10, by walking back up the steps and being asked to open my eyes at the top. Afterwards I still felt incredibly relaxed…until I walked back through my own front door to the dogs barking, the hall being decorated, a delivery arriving and the phone ringing.

So did it work? Well, I don’t fly until the end of August. However, when partner asked how I feel about flying now, my reply was: ambivalent. Even me just saying that makes me think there has been a gear shift in my brain. Claire has asked me to listen to the recording (for which there is no charge) a few times over the next few weeks to reinforce what happened today. She didn’t push for me to book another session, although I think that I may, just before I fly…mainly because for £35 I’ll get an hour’s peace…I wonder if she could give me a spray tan, cut my hair and trim my bush at the same time?

If you fancy giving hypnosis a go and you live in the Sevenoaks, Kent area, then contact: Claire Feasey on 01732 741275

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

“Cellulite. Flabby bits. Great look. I’m size 16 and beach body ready”

In this week’s Saturday Times magazine there is an article featuring the model Candice Huffine, in which she is modelling swimwear. She is a UK size 16 and what the article is saying is that we are in a new curvy girl era, that ‘celebrates everyone owning their natural and curvaceous bodies’. 

But who, exactly, is celebrating?

It got me thinking about our relationship with our bodies. You see, if I showed females the photos of Candice in a bikini and asked them if they think she looks amazing, I am pretty sure the majority would say yes. Now, deep down, do they really mean that, or are they doing the female comradeship thing of boosting each other, rather than knocking each other down? Deep down would a part of them be thinking: but she could do with losing a bit of weight? 

My thoughts are then questioning that if they really, genuinely think that she looks amazing, then why does it seem that when women get into the plus sizes themselves, they quite often want to lose weight and far from feeling amazing, they feel fat. 

I think that as women we don’t really know what we want to be. I don’t think that we know what to do with our bodies and who we are doing it for. I think that from a young age girls are bombarded with such mixed messages about female body shape, that by the time they are teenagers, they are totally confused and this is pretty much how we remain throughout our adult lives. 

I’ll bet you a million pounds (of fat) that those exact same women who say Candice looks amazing, think they are too fat to wear a bikini on the beach this year. 

I’ll wager that those women who point at the model and genuinely think her body looks great in a swimsuit, are the very same women who are counting how many days until they fly to the beach and are currently working out how many carbs they can cut out of their diet until then, without actually dying.

If I am right, then surely us females are totally and utterly confused. We really don’t know what body we want. When I want to try to lose a few pounds, who do I want to lose it for? If it’s for me, then why am I saying that Candice looks good and meaning it? If it’s for my partner, then why? (Dicks can be unreliable). Or, is it for the other people with whom I’ll be fighting over the best sun loungers sharing the beach? 

I think that we all probably have our own benchmarks for our bodies. For some of us it’s a certain weight and when we go above that weight, we hit the diet. For others, it’s clothes feeling right or creating a bulge through the fabric. What I think we all need to bear in mind though, is that if we are looking at a size 16 model and saying how fabulous she looks, perhaps we are setting our own benchmark too high. 

I’d love to hear your thoughts about this. Please share them in comments or through Face Book and Twitter. Just another (!) thought I had – what about men? I mean, if this post was actually about men. How do they feel about their bodies? Apparently, a lot of men are unhappy with and increasingly preoccupied by the way they look. Allegedly nearly a third of men think about their appearance at least 5 times a day…aaah statistics. That means two thirds don’t give a shit. Perhaps a subject for another blog!

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016

I read an article in a newspaper yesterday, that told me that Gwyneth Paltrow’s guru (I want a guru – where can you get one?) believes that couples should wash together and the journalist went on to question whether unlocking the bathroom door to your partner, unlocks the door to their heart.

This reminded me of a conversation that I had with a friend some years ago, that has always stuck in my mind. She told me that her and her husband leave the en suite door open when they go to the loo and she was worrying about the fact that they had become too familiar. 

Then of course I get the image in my brain, because let’s face it…you do. (If I wrote on here right now: imagine Donald Trump in the shower, despite every fibre of your being screaming at you: nooooo! you’d get an image…err yes, sorry about that). 

So, I immediately got a picture of her husband sitting on the khazi having a crap, while she’s leaning against the door frame discussing their plans for the weekend. 

It just doesn’t seem right.

I mean, I know that I’ve had my legs in stirrups, fanny wide open and twenty student doctors peering in, but that was because the hospital hadn’t seen a natural breech birth in years. There is simply no scientific reason to shit in front of your spouse. If it actually gets your pheromones going, that’s a whole different ball game, but if you’re just using it as an exercise in time management, then talk through the diary like most other couples. Time can surely never be so precious that you need to converse over a dump. 

Perhaps there is an ulterior motive here. Get him on the crapper mid-shit and then tell him you’ve just closed another e bay deal. It’s hard to conduct an effective defence with your trousers around your ankles. 

I’m not even sure about the whole en suite situation. We used to have one, we don’t any more – I’ve lived both lives and I can honestly say that the life without the sound of piss and wind in the bedroom is currently my favourite. God, it’s bad enough hearing sounds emanating from the family bathroom and there’s a whole corridor between us.  

No, the only place I am willing to share conversation with partner in the bathroom is in the bath – as long as I don’t get the tap end and on the proviso that he doesn’t fart. 

If you enjoy my blog, I would be very grateful if you voted for me in the Mumsnet Blogging Awards: Best Writer and best Comic Writer categories. It is a quick one – takes seconds and here’s the link, thank you 🙂

http://www.mumsnet.com/events/blogging-awards/2016