It was lovely this weekend. So, in a rash moment, I decided to tackle our outside space. Yes, I know we’re completely surrounded by fields, but we do actually have a bit of garden before the wheat starts. Trouble is, having been thoroughly neglected, they’d kind of merged into one, so off I went to Woodies (B&Q but better) and arrived back, much to Hubby’s amusement, with a Flymo.

Half an hour of huffing and puffing later, it became patently obvious that the Flymo was not going to be man enough for the job, so after a quick begging session down the lane to the lovely Dave later, Hubby was all tooled up with a petrol strimmer and a fetching face mask. This worked much better and on Sunday, the boys christened it with that most English of pastimes, a gentle game of cricket:

#1 (bowling): ‘Howzat! That hit the stumps!’

#2 (batting): ‘No way, I’m still in’

#1: ‘You’re out, stop lying!’

#2: ‘It missed by a mile. Cheat’

#1: ‘Don’t call me a cheat you girl!’

This carried on until Hubby joined in, sorted out the argument, batted until it got dark and failed to declare even when his score hit 257. Much time was spent looking for the ball in the now knee-high wheat and there was even more huffing, puffing and name-calling than when they were playing on their own. Ah, Sundays with the family eh? Heaven.

…searching for the perfect moisturiser. Lads, you can go now; this is a girl thing.

So. The Disreputable Dad (who, being a perfumer and purveyor of all things smelly for donkey’s years, knows his onions about such things) and from whom I have inherited my interest in fragrances, cosmetics and generally buying stuff that I can’t afford, sent me a Clarins Moisture Quenching Hydra-Care Cream for my birthday. I love it. It smells gorgeous and leaves your skin really soft. Trouble is, I’ve had to downgrade it to a night cream as it’s somehow too rich for me and by lunchtime the sun reflecting off my shiny forehead is dazzling oncoming traffic.

Now although I’d got my old favourite, Estée Lauder’s DayWear Plus SPF15, which is the one that smells lovely and goes on looking grey, but turns into a surprisingly flattering tint on your face, I find that I can’t put that on my neck (never neglect your décolleté, girls - nobody likes a crinkly cleavage) when I’m wearing certain things because it makes my collars dirty. I’ve also got a Liz Earle moisturiser that I got with my Cleanse and Polish, but it smelly funny and I can’t be doing with smelling like an old lady. Back to the chemist then. Quickly discarding Olay’s Anti Wrinkle Firming Day Cream SPF15 (too greasy) and the Nivea Visage Oil Free Moisturising Fluid (not bad for a cheapo, but not moisturising enough for my two-children-induced lines), I moved onto their Sunkissed Skin moisturiser, but it has that awful reek of cheap fake tan and two days of Hubby sniffing the air and going ‘ew, what’s that smell’ every time he came near me were quite enough, thank you.

My new purchase, then (thanks to the exceptionally patient lady in the chemist) is ROC Hydra+ Matifying Re-Sourcing Care, which says it’s a gel, but looks like a cream to me. So far it’s looking good and seems reasonably matte on the skin without leaving me feeling like I can’t smile or my face will crack (I wonder if that’s what Botox feels like?) Still, if this one doesn’t work I’m going to have to start selling my body (or my children) as even the usually mind-mannered Hubby might start to take exception to my expenditure. And don’t even get me started on foundations. Ho hum. It’s tough being gorgeous.

Ok, I’ll admit I’m getting a little obsessed with my pheasant (I’ve nicknamed him Phil), but after so many nights of disturbed sleep and just as many early mornings shattered by his dulcet tones, I’ve grown fond of him - added to the fact that I don’t get out much. Good news today though - he’s finally pulled! Oh yes, waving one gorgeous shimmering wing goodbye to the ranks of the single and lonely, he’s been strutting his stuff all day, doing his funny little starter-motor clucking thing and showing off his new bit of skirt. Here they both are at his customary ‘I know you’re in there’ place at the window. I know it’s a rubbish picture, but, gosh - ain’t love grand.

Disreputable Dad, having recently discovered technology, is now able to berate me by email (typed, apparently, over several hours and with one finger) as well as phone, and says he doesn’t read the recipes. So here, for everyone except DD, is #1’s chocolate cheesecake. Well, I couldn’t find a chocolate cheesecake recipe anywhere that didn’t involve either baking it (he didn’t want a baked one) or faffing about with leaves of gelatine and all that rubbish. So, in the spirit of pushing culinary boundaries, I made one up. And, happily, it’s turned out alright. Here goes:

100g butter
300g pack of chocolate digestives
500g cream cheese
100g icing sugar
200 ml cream
Bar of Green and Black’s dark chocolate (the smaller one not the monster)

So, cut a chunk of butter (it was about ¼ of a big, 1lb pack, so roughly 100g) but you could use a bit less if you’re a supermodel, or dieting or whatever (but then what would be the point of eating a cheesecake stuffed with cream and chocolate?), then break up the biscuits with a potato masher (very satisfying, but you could do it in the food processor) so they are just crumbs. Melt the butter in a jug in the microwave then stir into the biscuits. Press into the bottom of a springform tin, then put into the fridge to cool.

Meanwhile, break up your chocolate, melt it in a dish over a pan of hot water (NOT in the microwave, heathen!), and leave to cool slightly (my Mum added that bit when I told her what I was doing). Put the cream cheese (it was 2 ½ packs - you probably could use three but it seemed an awful lot) into a bowl and sieve the icing sugar into it. Beat it all together, then add your cooled chocolate and stir so it makes a nice gooey mess. Whip your cream (that was my idea!!) and fold it in. Pile it all over the biscuit base and leave to cool in the fridge.

I’m going to make a sugar syrup with a half and half mixture of water and sugar, then reduce it and add the raspberries, then pour it on top of the cheesecake, but hey, do what you like, it’s your cheesecake.

Firstly this morning may I just say a resounding ‘Happy Birthday!’ to #1. And will you please stop growing up because you’re making me look really old. Being very nearly a teenager (oh dear God) means he’s far more laid back than #2 about the whole thing. In fact, he actually complained because #2 woke him up jumping on the bed and shouting ‘#1, wake up! It’s your birthday!!!’ in an overly loud and, frankly, juvenile manner.

Phone calls from Disreputable Dad and me Mum followed (separately, obviously). I got in a quick chat with Mum but Disreputable Dad rang off before I got the chance to say hello - he’s probably off doing something wayward and mischievous and didn’t have time to talk.

Anyhoo, being old and boring he only wanted money, so the present opening ceremony was slightly short. I think he secretly liked the animal balloons we blew up for him though. I got completely cross with the snake one as I couldn’t blow it up and had to wait ’til Hubby came home (he was horrifically late) and humiliate myself by asking him if he’d blow up my balloon. We have also bestowed upon him the grown-up birthday treat of being able to have one of the copious amounts of televisions we have in the house (I swear they breed) moved into his bedroom. I’m not letting him have Sky in there though. Firstly, because I can’t even imagine how much it would cost to have some Sky chappy in to drill holes in the walls, etc (oh, that’s another reason - the drilling) and secondly because I don’t want him to be stumbling across such gems as ‘Badly Dubbed Porn’ (I’ve just seen it advertised, okay?) in the middle of the night when I’m not there to supervise.

For his ‘you can have absolutely anything but only on this one day’ birthday cake he’s chosen Raspberry and Chocolate Cheesecake which is not only terribly grown up, but something I’ve never made before, so it’s off to the recipe books this morning. He originally chose Cherry and Chocolate Cheesecake, but there were no cherries of any description in Tesco. As it was I nearly had heart failure purchasing one teeny tiny pack of raspberries, flown in from bloody Africa probably at the expense of several square miles of Brazilian rain forest or some iceberg where polar bears are having a really hard time living or something. I normally would have thrown them back in disgust, but it’s his birthday and who gives a toss about your carbon footprint on your birthday eh?

Not that I perpetually have odd email conversations with my friends or anything (ahem), but I was having a chat with B about boobs the other day. This wasn’t actually prompted by the ‘don’t look in the mirror when you’re bending down’ conversation I had with C, but it probably ties in quite nicely. You see, B had gone to La Senza (do they have those in Ireland?) to return a bra (’yes, the same one I took back a couple of weeks ago because I had picked up the wrong size’). Unfortunately that one didn’t fit either as she discovered that she’s not the 34C she thought she was but in fact a 34D. ‘How did that happen? I have breastfed three children, for God’s sake!’ lamented B. Well, I’d actually be quite pleased - I think mine are shrinking. Although I did pick up a rather nice little black number with black and white polka dot ribbon woven through it in Penneys (shh!) which was a 34C, only to find that it was a bit tight - but that’s always the way - every shop’s sizes are completely different. Actually, it felt quite nice to have a bit of cleavage. It reminds me of my Mum: if anyone’s ever got a heaving bosom on the telly, she always says ‘ooer, her dumplings are boiling over’.

Anyway, I digress. Back to B. So, having been assisted by the little lollipop of a girl who is de rigeur in such places (’she didn’t even look old enough to have boobs let alone advise you on how to hold your own up’), she discovered that they only had two bras in the whole place that fitted and one of them was pink and brown so that basically left her the huge choice of…er…one. Not exactly a satisfactory shopping trip. In my ‘if I was a millionaire’ moments, I’ve always fancied shopping in one of those really posh places like La Perla or what’s the other one called? Places where you get properly fitted. I remember shopping in Mothercare once for a maternity bra and the woman measured me over my jumper, saying it didn’t matter. I ask you.

Now where was I going with this? Oh yes, as you also know, I’ve got a rather nasty Ebay habit, and I recently admired (and purchased) an underwear set online (bit of a gamble, admittedly). Well, my luck, for once, was in. It arrived yesterday and it’s gorgeous. It’s a divergence from my usual lace exclusion policy, but it’s nice stuff not itchy scratchy cheap and nasty lace, and it has little pink bows on too. B-e-a-yootiful, as Bruce Almighty would say, although probably not about underwear.

I’ve just had an email from my lovely mate Susan in Hawaii (yes, I know it’s weird having a friend in Hawaii but we have a mutual greyhound obsession and it kind of stemmed from there). Anyhoo, Susan saw an advert in the local paper advertising two greyhounds as ‘giveaways’, and - never one to shirk from a challenge - took them both on. They’re now settling in to a new life with Susan’s existing 45 MPH couch potatoes, Aires and Sweeper, and looking forward to a new happy life. Giveaways indeed.

Well, Saturday night saw the long-awaited bowling tournament finally take place. Trouble is, Big C went and ruined all the teams by being called back into work for a crisis (boo!), so we ended up splitting ourselves up (probably very unfairly) into a big ‘Anglish’ mixture of adults v children. As we had the aforementioned children present and absolutely not because we are pathetically bad at bowling, we asked for the little rails to be put up at the side. J’s got the exact scores, but I’m pretty sure that ‘Team Big’ whipped ‘Team Small’ big style. In the second game, we did a child swap, so it was Hubby and I with Little C, and J with #1 and #2. I can’t remember who won that one, but it was probably us because of Hubby.

Lots of fun was had critiquing the different styles of bowling: J went for the delicate, fairy-steps approach before gently gliding the ball down the lane in a kind of ‘less is more’ thing which was quite successful. Hubby, a man obsessed with technique, hurled the bloody thing like his life depended on it, and at one stage had something ridiculous like four strikes in a row (a ‘Turkey’??). Little C went for the opposite of his mother and practically threw the ball down like it had done him some terrible injustice - again quite successfully, and #1 was very professional, holding his bowling stance (with right leg flicked behind left knee and arm pointed meaningfully down the lane like an odd yoga pose) right until the ball hit the pins - less successfully, I have to add (sorry son). #2 just chucked it with absolutely no finesse, but seemed to do pretty well. Oh, and I was, as usual, completely random and schizophrenic and either got a strike or missed completely. Story of my life, really.

Anyhoo, bowling over, we went and had adult time in the bar, and they ran riot in the children’s play area, spending vast amounts of money in those games where you pay 2 euro for five seconds on a pretend motorbike and other such things. Lovely. After this, it was back home for Hubby and I and off to J’s for a night of DVDs, pizza, fizzy pop and e-numbers (3 packs of M&Ms) for the smalls. When we picked them up on Sunday, #2 proudly announced that he and Little C had played ‘Tony Hawk’ on the PlayStation until 3am (#1 fell asleep) and J was still looking astoundingly perky (she probably collapsed with a large alcoholic one after we left - 24 hours with #2 being akin to ten rounds with Mike Tyson). They fell straight to sleep in the car on the way home, and were in bed and out cold by 8pm last night too.

So, in summary: Ireland and England were equally crap at bowling, but equally incredibly good at socialising and eating M&Ms. Gripping stuff.

Okay, so it’s Earth Day today and according to some really dodgy ‘family’ website I found which had articles on ‘Making Mealtimes Fun’ (ban your children from the table?) and ‘Make Your Next Family Camping Trip a Success’ (cancel it and book a hotel instead?), it’s a ’special day to learn about our planet and how to take care of it’. So in the spirit of Earth Day, here are ten things that we all should teach our children so that we’re doing our bit to take care of our own Mother Earth:

1. Energy is precious. This means that having three televisions on in three different rooms, plus the computer and every light in the entire house is not good karma, especially when you’re in the bath playing your Gameboy.

2. Conserve our precious water. Like when you’re cleaning your teeth and you wander back into one of the rooms where the televisions are blaring to stare goggle-eyed at the screen, you really should turn the tap off first.

3. Showers and baths need to be small to use less water. Thirty-minute showers where you sing the whole of Green Day’s repertoire and make your hair into several different mohicans with shampoo whilst trying to emulate Billy-Jo are just not cricket.

4. Wearing an item of clothing for ten minutes, then putting it in the dirty clothes basket because you ‘fancy having shorts on now’, doesn’t mean it’s dirty and needs to be washed, nor is bunging it in there an acceptable alternative to folding it and replacing it in the drawer.

5. Aim to choose products that are not over-packaged. Easter is therefore cancelled next year because Easter Eggs have five different plastic and cardboard layers before you get through to the ounce of chocolate in the middle.

6. Learn to recycle. By the way, recycling isn’t where you put the empty orange juice carton back in the fridge so that when Mum goes shopping she doesn’t buy any as she doesn’t think we need it.

7. Daddys need help learning about recycling. This means that putting everything in the kitchen bin so Mummy has to get in there and rescue all the tins and bottles from the stinky black depths leads to the withdrawal of certain privileges. Daddy will know the ones I mean.

8. Learn to re-use. Yoghurt pots make good containers for growing seeds. You could grow herbs on your windowsill so Mummy could cook with them and then you could spend ages picking all the green bits out of your food.

9. Learn more about energy consumption. Some ‘gas guzzling’ cars are really bad for the planet. Obviously these do not include the new Land Rover Discovery 3 TDV6 HSE in Lugano Teal that Mummy is currently trying to persuade Daddy to buy her.

10. And finally, one for the Mummys: tumble-drying our clothes in the middle of summer so that the entire kitchen becomes sauna-like is not an acceptable alternative to hanging clothes out. Even if, frankly, you just can’t be bothered.

Just as well, really, as this chap seems to have taken quite a liking to me. I was busy telling you all about pushchairs earlier when I got that creepy feeling you get when you feel like you’re being watched, and there he was. He actually pecked at the glass earlier on. They’re incredibly beautiful up close. All shimmery greens and golds. I feel sorry for him - all the rest of them are with mates now and he’s all on his tod…maybe he’s ..well, not interested…do you get gay pheasants? Not sure where I’m going with this, so I’ll end it here.