So, Dermot and Dave said on the radio this morning that Tom Cruise and Katie..er..whatever are buying their daughter Sari a Swarovski crystal-studded pushchair for her first birthday that’s being hand made in the Channel Islands. Eh? They won’t be thinking it’s such a good idea when they’re picking little bits of soggy biscuit out from between the crystals. Been trying to wrack my brains and think back to what buggy I had with #1. I think it was a second-hand number that my Mum got from somewhere. I vaguely remember it being a kind of aqua coloured check material. I remember #2’s though, because we had enough money to buy a new one (woohoo!) and I got the orange and navy blue Mamas and Papas one with the big chunky wheels from John Lewis (ooh get me). It didn’t turn into such a good buy when we realised that it was so huge it didn’t fit in the back of the car.

Now, of course, all that stuff just doesn’t enter into my world, and it all seemed so important at the time; what buggy you had and whether you had one of those weird ’strap your baby onto your back’ contraptions or not (I didn’t because Hubby refused to look like he had a baby-shaped backpack on - he’s not a ‘new man’). I do still coo at babies in Tesco’s though, much to my children’s disgust. Where did the time go? My boys have gone from little blond cherubs (They had white-blond hair and very light blue eyes, a bit like those demonic children from that 1960s film Village of the Damned. Figures.) to big strapping hulks who snort derisively when I call a song ‘a record’ instead of ‘a track’ or dare to mention (quite legitimately I thought) that the lead singer of My Chemical Romance has very nice teeth. God, first the ‘mutton’ crisis and now this. Might as well just check myself into a Twilight Home for the Perpetually Bewildered (my Dad used to answer the phone like that) and be done with it.

It’s a sad confession, dear reader, but I think I’ve ‘let myself go’. I’ve been having a very interesting (and hilarious) email discussion with the ravishing C on the subject. We were talking about the latest fashions, but ended up lamenting the fact that now we’re thirtyharumph (oops, bit of a cough there), bending down for any reason whilst naked (keep it clean now, people) is an absolute no-no, especially near a mirror. Gravity is finally taking its toll. How did this happen?

Now C, as you know, is both beautiful and groomed, but confessed to a crisis where fashion is concerned: ‘?With the sun shining I decided I needed some new trendy summer clothes. Off to Debenhams I went, husband and kids in tow. A few pennies lighter, I unpacked it at home and tried it all on. I had even purchased a pair of black leggings (oh, don’t worry - THEY are going back!). What is it with this floaty, maternity style clothing? It doesn’t suit me. Where do I fit in fashion wise? I am too old, too flabby and too grumpy!‘ Firstly let me say that, being the same youthful age as me, she’s certainly not too old, and unless the girl has been inhaling Mars bars since she was here last, she’s certainly not too flabby either. In fact, on our first ‘grown up’ holiday sans-parents in our teenage years, I nearly gave myself a hernia trying to hold my stomach in for an entire week whilst lying on a sunbed in a bikini next to her. Nothing’s changed.

But the point here is that C is right. Someone sage and thoughtful once said that if you’d experienced a fashion the first time around (see leggings above), then you shouldn’t even attempt it. Now okay, I don’t want to parade around in a puffball and cut off tights, but I don’t want to gravitate into nylon slacks and cardies quite yet either. I love my Seven jeans, but I now appear to be sporting a rubber ring of flab around the top of them every time I bend over. I can’t bear to think that I might be mutton dressed as lamb! What to do?

There’s nothing for it. I’m off back to the unfeasibly large shopping centre for some big support knickers and a floaty maternity top. Trendy and comfy. Just what the doctor ordered.

I’ve gone all Italian today. I’m very excited, my new Ebay purchases have arrived. I got two Elizabeth David books: ‘A Book of Mediterranean Food’ and ‘Italian Food’ and Jane Grigson’s ‘English Food’, for which I’ve been searching an absolute age. I’m already halfway through the first Elizabeth David (what better tome to read in the beautiful spring sunshine?) and can’t wait to get on to the other two.

Feeling suitably Mediterranean, then, I set about making pizza. Having tried loads of different recipes, I’ve found that Ainsley Harriott’s is by far the best dough, but any recipe that contains a good glug of olive oil to give that authentic chewy texture to the base is fine. Antony Worrall Thompson puts honey in his, but I’m not keen.

Here’s mine and Hubby’s. Hubby’s side is the one with all the chilli on. I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.

Ooh, had a lovely phone call from the wonderful E that manages the fabulous Spa where C&R and I spent our incredible pampering day, and also where Mum and I have been for a couple of treatments. I tell you, these girls are so good they make even a bikini wax feel like a pampering treatment. She was wondering if I was free to pop over sometime this week and ‘road test’ the new, not yet opened, thermal spa ‘as a favour’. Well, Hubby (who overheard my conversation and offered his services too) and I are always ready to oblige a friend in need, so we’re off to the spa on Thursday with our swimmers to do a bit of consumer testing. It’s hard being so charitable, but I’m sure we’ll manage somehow….

Blimey, I feel like I’ve been up a whole day already. I’m sure the first time I was cuddled, poked and prodded (’Mummy, wake up, it’s my birthday!) that it wasn’t even daylight. A firm ‘bugger off, it can’t be yet’ saw him off for a while, but finally the birthday boy brought troops in the shape of his older brother and then there was no going back.

Our astonishingly generous family sent presents and more money than I’ve had in my purse for rather a long time, and #1 bought him a new football: ‘corrrrrr!’ Phone calls from Grandma, naughty Uncle A (’thanks for the money, Uncle A’, ‘no problem, Pal, spend it on loose women and alcohol’), Disreputable Grandad (all the way from Mauritius - probably cost him more than the birthday money) and a mighty fine Marilyn Monroe-esque rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ from J (Hubby: ‘oh my God, is someone singing??!) later, and his excitement knew no bounds. Special birthday pancakes with lashings of maple syrup followed and now we’re making serious plans for the birthday cake. No surprises that it’s looking pretty chocolaty so far.

Next, we’re off to some far-flung retail park to spend his birthday money (it was never going to last more than a day in his pocket - I’m hoping to persuade him to save half, but it’s not looking good), before a celebratory road trip (round the fields) on the sparkling red wonder that is his new bike. Thank the lord it’s only once a year. Happy Birthday, sweetheart xx

Something, dear reader, is amiss. Strange things are happening, and I don’t just mean the general randomness of life chez-nous, such as finding five-day-old socks under the cushion on the sofa, or the discovery that the nice new cereal you purchased has mysteriously disappeared, leaving an empty box in the cupboard. No, this is weirder still. For instance, this morning I was woken by the chinking of crockery and glasses, and then a cup of tea was placed by my bed by a small smiley boy. On entering the kitchen, I discovered that all the cups, glasses and plates had been stolen. No, even stranger, they’d been washed, dried and replaced in the cupboard. Now my cupboards generally remain empty, because apart from when my Mum’s here and they get tidied away, the usual cycle goes: sink to drainer to table to sink to drainer and straight back to table. Curiouser and curiouser.

It transpires, though, that we haven’t got a community of friendly, washing up-loving elves. Nope, the well-known phenomenon of ‘pre-birthday sucking up’ is once again upon us, as the perpetrator of all these good deeds is shortly to turn nine. Why the avaricious little weasel thinks that cleaning up will result in bigger presents is beyond me, but you can’t blame him for trying.

And so it was that, with a suitable flourish, we were presented with [cue fanfare] the birthday list, neatly typed and printed, stretching to a staggering 15 items and including such gems as ‘Grand Theft Auto Liberty City Stories’ (an 18 certificate PlayStation game - not gonna happen) and a pool table. On closer interrogation it turned out that what he actually wanted was a bike ‘with gears’, so off to Halfords we went, paying 1.70 Euro to drive approximately 300 yards through the toll bridge to the retail park. I have to say I was truly stunned to discover that people pay more than 1600 Euro for a mountain bike. Blimey. While Hubby and I stood, mouths agape, looking at the prices, #2 pinged from bike to bike like he was on fast-forward, fairly dribbling with excitement. After talking him down from an adult-sized monster, teetering on the saddle (held upright by the stand) and insisting that he’d grow enough in the next few days in order to reach the floor by his birthday, we found a reasonable compromise. Hubby, as usual, spent the whole trip talking on his phone, so we had to communicate by hand signals, lip reading and mimed displays of mock horror. When we’d finally relieved Hubby of a disgusting amount of money, got the enormous box in the car by removing the rear headrests and wrestling, pushing and pulling until we were all cross and frazzled, little #2, pink and breathless with excitement squeaked ‘I LOVE birthdays!’ Yeah. Me too.

We had a right laugh yesterday. C&J came to dinner and I decided to rustle up a dodgy approximation of a Chinese meal. Actually, it went really well and although not particularly authentic, it tasted okay. I had that last-minute flap when everything suddenly either became ready or needed doing at the last minute, but that’s the beauty of having friends round, because they either don’t care, or they’re too polite to say anything. Either way you’re on to a winner.

So, quick menu (recipes at the bottom):

Five Spice Chilli Cashews
Teriyaki Chicken
Sweet and Sour Chicken Skewers
Red Thai Curry Prawns
Chinese vegetables in oyster sauce

I also did some steamed rice (supposed to be with lemongrass but they didn’t have any in Tesco), and I also planned to do a noodle dish with spring onion and chilli, but in typical ‘doh!’ fashion, found them still in the fridge after dinner. Ah well. We teamed it with a nice, chilled bottle of Chenin Blanc, then J brought along an absolutely to die for cinnamon crumble cake and a chocolate one too for my poor, chocolate addicted children, and we spent rather too long afterwards indulging in a lovely bottle of Hardy’s Crest Cabernet Shiraz and playing mad games on the Wii (still think it’s a stupid name).

So, for the Five Spice Chilli Cashew Nuts (just a little appetiser): heat 300g cashew nuts in a dry pan for 1-2 minutes until toasted. Sprinkle over 1/2 tbsp Chinese five-spice powder (actually, I found some Thai seven-spice powder which was really nice), 1 tbsp salt (omit if you’re using the salted kind) and 1/2 tsp dried chilli flakes, stir for another 30 seconds and Robert’s your Uncle.

For the Teriyaki Chicken, which turned out to be particularly good and very easy, I nicked the idea for the Teriyaki sauce recipe off another one for Crispy Duck Teriyaki Noodle Salad from Ashbell McElveen, who did it on UKTV Food, but then (as usual) bastardised it to my own liking. Basically you just bung 8 tbsp of Teriyaki Sauce (Kikkoman do a good one) in a bowl with 4 tbsp soy sauce and a tbsp Sesame Oil (the recipe calls for 6 tbsp but I was making a healthy version), plus 2 tbsp clear honey, the juice of a lime, one fat garlic clove (grated) and an inch piece of ginger, also grated. Put in your fillets of raw chicken and leave to marinate for a couple of hours. Finally, just grill the chicken pieces until cooked through, basting them with the marinade a couple of times during cooking (obviously don’t serve the marinade uncooked - Salmonella Teriyaki is never going to be a winner).

For the chicken skewers, I just threaded chunks of chicken breast onto pre-soaked wooden skewers, grilled them then served them with the wonderful Ching He Huang’s Sweet and Sour Sauce

For the Thai Red Prawn Curry, I used my Thai Green Prawn Curry recipe but added a sliced red chilli and substituted the red curry paste for the green one.

And finally, for the Chinese vegetables, just chop a couple of Pak Choi and a head of Chinese Leaf, then quickly cook them in the wok with a splash of boiling water (so they basically steam) until just tender, then drain and at the last minute stir in a tbsp of Oyster Sauce. Yum.

There you are, that should keep you busy. Needless to say, when J&C left, Hubby and I were in such a good mood (oh, the joy - adult company that doesn’t include each other!) we ended up carrying on drinking. Sore heads all round today then.

Well, Peanut spent her first night outdoors last night. Unintentionally, I have to admit. We did think it was a bit funny when she wasn’t around when we went to bed, but she often hides in strange places so we didn’t think too much of it. Then, in the middle of the night, I was woken by Hubby rolling up one of the blinds in our bedroom. He often does odd things in his sleep, so I sneakily watched, thinking I’d have something to rib him about in the morning. Things got odder when he opened the window, reached down and produced…a meowling white Peanut! Somehow, probably when we were taking the bins out last night, she had slipped out of the door and got shut outside. She was very purry and happy to see us and spent the rest of the night on our bed, revving like a sports car.

The next morning, when we finally took a look at her, it transpired that she might have investigated the cars as she was covered in black greasy splodges, all down her back and head. This called for a bath - not something I was looking forward to, as I could imagine it would be something akin to getting on the wrong side of Edward Scissorhands. As it happened, I escaped with only minor lacerations but was a bit disappointed to discover that most of the oil hadn’t come off. So now she’s recovered from us all laughing at her (I know, they’re very sensitive, but she looked like a very cross, spiky Yoda), she’s sulking in the airing cupboard. Bless.

I had a good old-fashioned stream-of -consciousness, girls-only type chat with J yesterday. I was in the bath, and sent her a text lamenting the fact that #2, whilst gazing adoringly up at me (after bounding onto our bed to wake us up - well, it was 10am) announced that the little blonde hairs on my top lip were ’sparkling’ in the sunshine. Not good. So, against my better judgment it was out with the Immac. One word of caution: don’t try this at home. Ten minutes later and in the place of my ’sparkling’ facial hair, I was sporting a rather fetching (and very sore) bright red comedy moustache, which refused to die down until lunchtime. Hubby was unimpressed: ‘God, I hope it doesn’t grow back black and bristly’. Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.

When we’d finally stopped laughing, we also got to talking about hairdressers (J was on the way home from a visit to hers). ‘Why’, she said, ‘do they insist on giving me ‘volume’?’ I agree. I like my hair flat. It’s gravity, for goodness’ sake. And, as J pointed out, if she ‘wanted to look like Sonic the Hedgehog’, she would have asked. Every bloody hairdresser I know insists on trying to ‘bouffe’ you up like Princess Diana in her glorious flicked-back eighties heyday. My stupid, baby hair is fine and straight and all it wants to do it lie down - why can’t they just let it be?! Anyhoo - enough rambling. I’m off to slow roast my Easter leg of lamb. I guess this shouldn’t sit well with me when I am currently surrounded by lush green fields liberally sprinkled with lots of little spring lambs, gambolling happily around their mummies (oh and they sleep in the little nooks and crannies around the roots of the trees - cute!). I’ll try and get you a picture, but, hey, I’m not a veggie, I’m a realist. Also, it might not be trendy, but I’m afraid we all like our lamb meltingly falling off the bone and not pink and still looking like it might bound back off into the meadow. So there. (Ooh, I’m in one of those moods this morning).

Wow, it’s been absolutely b-e-a-yootiful here. I couldn’t even tear myself away from the sunshine to come in and write my blog yesterday. The boys probably don’t appreciate it, but there’s nothing like 20 acres of fields, streams and nothingness when the sun’s shining. Yesterday they played football in next door’s paddock, climbed trees, rode their bikes down the tracks made by the tractor tyres, threw sticks for mad Holly from next door and basically ran around unfettered all day, pausing briefly to stuff a bit of Easter egg in every so often. Hubby was very industrious and decided to sand and oil the garden furniture, while I sat and helped by keeping quiet and reading a book.

We did, obviously, have to take a detour to the nearest (ha) retail park to buy the teak oil and some brushes. I love the DIY stores here, they’re all huge and full of lovely things like rugs and smelly candles and kitchen equipment. Needless to say I came away armed with a new gadget - an egg poacher (hmm…seasonal), which I put to good use this morning. Peanut, who is yet to experience the joys of being outside, slept the whole day in the airing cupboard.

Here we are in our little sun trap around the back of the house, doing absolutely nothing at all. Bliss.