I posted a couple of days ago, a brief note about my brother Tim who died eight years before to that day.
One of the tips for new year, new you is to clear out your wardrobe, throwing away anything unworn over the past year.
In my old life – the one with travel, no children and a flatish tummy – I spent lots of time on courses learning how to negotiate.
I was described as ‘organic’ the other day. By a hairdresser. It didn’t really register at the time but I think I’ve realised what he meant. Call me shallow –
A few days ago, a friend and I talked about how much we were loving the holidays: everyone at home, no school runs, even relative lie-ins thanks to later-than-usual bedtimes for the children. The holidays are too short!
There is a dance routine that I have perfected over the years. It is set to Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ and is performed in the kitchen at times of extreme stress or emotion to my favourite audience: my three children.
I’m not sure quite when it was that I turned into my mother, but I have spent the last hour making mince pies.
That is the question, as it turns out. My husband is sporting a beard (grown pre-Becks, he likes to remind me) and I just can’t decide if I like it or not.
I measure all pain on the BC scale: before childbirth. Even using an epilator is a walk in the park nowadays. But there is a mother who has raised the bar when it comes to showing the love. This particular one has her babies, then lets them eat her.