On Saturday evening, C and a group of girls from where I used to live completed the Playtex Moonwalk 2007 to raise not just money but awareness to help fight breast cancer. The ‘Totties’ crossed the line together after 4 hours (and 13 miles!) trudging around London, finishing at Hyde Park at some ungodly hour in the morning.

Congratulations C! Now it’s down to Big R to administer foot rubs (just foot rubs, mind). Well done, darling - buns of steel!!!!

If you’re a bit squeamish, you should probably look away now. Unless you already looked, in which case it’s too late and I recommend smelling salts and a lie down. Here is #2’s rather large head-egg, which he received after hurling himself 4 feet out of a tree, as you are wont to do when you are 9 years old and have absolutely no concept of your own mortality. His Grandmother nearly had heart failure. Now you know why he’s called ‘Death Wish Child’ in our family.

By the way, the egg has gone down, but now his whole eye is a fetching shade of green, which fades out across his forehead into a kind of purply blue. Oh, and he’s getting mighty fed up with being asked if he has a headache/double vision/sickness/nausea (delete as applicable).

Right, you’ll like this one (not a lot, but you’ll like it - ooh was that Paul Daniels?). I’ve often got bits of half written potential blog material lying about, and one of the ones that I’m often caught adding to is one on life lessons. You know the sort of thing: stuff I wish I knew when I was 18. Here’s an example:

Secrets:

If you have a secret that you want keeping, do not tell another living soul about it, even if you trust that person with your life. Think about it. How many times has someone told you a secret and you’ve gone: ‘oh, well I can tell X because she doesn’t know Y and that means that the secrecy contract between Y and I obviously becomes null and void’. This is your first mistake. X will then tell another of her friends, who will tell her husband (because they usually don’t count) who, searching for things to say, will tell his Mum, who will tell her next door neighbour, whose friend will tell her friend whose child will go to the same playgroup as Y’s child and suddenly everyone knows Y’s secret and you’re in deep poo. You know the drill. Also, once a secret has been passed on several times, it loses its secrecy. It starts as ‘don’t tell anyone but….’, then this in turn becomes ‘you don’t know my friend Y so I can tell you this secret she told me…’, then that becomes ‘my friend X has this friend Y and she…’ and on and on it rolls, like a tiny snowball rolling down a snowy hillside, gathering size and momentum until it’s so huge it kills a small child at the bottom (poor use of imagery but you get my drift).

So then I realised that I actually have several hundred Life Lessons that I wish I could tell my 18 year old self (like ’stop worrying that you might be fat - you have a flat stomach and are a size 8!!! WEAR THAT BIKINI, in fact, sod the bikini and just walk around naked!).

So, in the spirit of camaraderie and because you are always sending me very funny emails on random things, I thought I’d invite you all, my dear and blessed readers, to join in. I’ll even create a category just for you. So, in true MI:2 styley, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to provide me with at least one Life Lesson - something that you wish you could travel back in time and tell your 18 year old self (even though you know that 18 year olds think they know everything and, hence, will be extremely unlikely to listen to their 37 year old future self coming back and throwing unwanted advice about - as if!). This blog will self-destruct in 60 seconds.

Oh, and here, for all you nature lovers, is the little family of sheep that woke us up with their silly gambolling around and high-pitched bahhhhing this morning on my crap lawn. Cute eh?

Right, where were we? Oh yes, so Hubby’s Mum being here has prompted a bit of interest in his ancestors and we’ve all got a bit obsessed with tracking them down. Here’s the story so far: Hubby’s paternal Grandmother Rose and Grandfather Thomas had four children: Margaret, Thomas, John and Patrick. She then died shortly after, or during, the birth of another daughter, possibly named Teresa. Thomas, John and Patrick went to live with Nelly and Packie (Ellen and Patrick) in Cavan (theirs were the graves we found yesterday) and we’re not sure where Margaret went. We’re pretty sure she was the eldest so maybe she didn’t need looking after.

Armed with this information, and knowing that Hubby’s Father’s birth certificate shows an address in Kells, this seemed a good place to start. First stop, then, was the church, which appeared not to have a graveyard, where Hubby interrupted a lady who was having a pray up the front of the church who was terribly nice about his interrupting her communing with the Almighty and directed us to the ‘new graveyard’ further along the Dublin Road. We split up and searched all the graves for any familiar names. Hubby cheated by collaring the caretaker and ended up standing having a half hour chat with him while Hubby’s Mum and I did all the legwork. Typical.

I was telling J how fascinating it was to walk around an Irish graveyard. And before you say it, no, it’s not the same as an English one at all. Firstly, the graves are enormous - often being family graves rather than individual ones - and secondly there are far more details. These details are both amazing and often terribly sad; there are photos, poems, family nicknames: real personal stuff. One family had lost three children, and their faces were carved in relief onto the headstone, surprisingly realistic with their chubby cheeks and wide eyes. Heartbreaking. On a lighter note, we stumbled upon the most enormous couple of family graves: one like a miniature Greek temple (still probably about 6′ high) and another surrounded by life sized angels, all in glistening white marble: ‘that’s the Rooney’s family plot’, said our guide, ‘that one’s Wayne’s Grandad’.

But although there were a few graves carrying the correct surname, there was no mention of Rose or Thomas, or of their baby daughter. Thinking about it, if Rose knew Nelly and Packie well enough for them to take in her children when she died, maybe she was buried back up in Cavan. Another trip to the Stern Lady with Glasses could be in order. Ooer.

So, Hubby’s Mum’s over at the moment. On arriving from the airport she was forced to accept the customary strip-search enforced by the boys to relieve her of any contraband, ie chocolate and cash. The Nanny-frisking successfully completed (several squashed Easter eggs and some bonus Cadbury’s Crème Eggs, plus cash and cuddles too), we decided to head up to Cavan to continue with our search for Hubby’s ancestors.

First of all we took a drive around the tiny Cavan village where Hubby’s Father and his two brothers were brought up by foster parents after their own parents died. We searched long and hard for any sign of the little single storey dwelling Hubby’s Mum had visited when they were first married and although we found a few promising derelict little buildings, nothing rang a bell.

More success was achieved after we popped into a café, got chatting to the new owner and were pointed in the direction of the church office. A very stern lady with glasses and seriously dark lipstick (thought I’d better not point out that a lighter shade would be more flattering) barked at us to wait in the office (which we did, feeling unnecessarily guilty) where we waited like school kids summoned to see the Headmaster until Stern Lady with Glasses returned with an official looking red file and ongoing absence of smile. The office smelt funny and was full of candles and stuff and I was starting to feel very twitchy. I must explain here that anything vaguely religious makes me very uncomfortable, (I’m with Carrie Bradshaw - a fully paid-up member of the ‘Church of Be Nice to People’) - and Stern Lady with Glasses just made it worse by explaining that un-baptised babies wouldn’t have been buried with their mothers (Hubby’s paternal Grandmother Rose died in childbirth, possibly to a girl called Teresa) in consecrated ground or possibly would have been sneakily placed in the casket but definitely wouldn’t have been listed on the gravestone (I need to check all this with J, who knows all about Catholic stuff and will be able to explain about limbo and all that). Anyhoo, I’m waffling now. Stern Lady with Glasses found the name and plot number, snapped the book shut with a flourish in case we saw something we shouldn’t have done, and sent us blinking out into the sunshine.

So, long story short, we found the plot where Hubby’s foster Grandparents were buried and were slightly disappointed to find a dead end (excuse the pun) as they were the only occupants of the family grave. Interestingly, though, his foster Grandparents had the same surname, so it was apparently a strong possibility that they were actually related in some way. In those days, people would often have taken in their relatives’ children when they died, and we knew that Rose gave birth in Kells, so we headed there next. More of this scintillating stuff tomorrow. Don’t get too excited.

Whilst sitting eating our Sunday lunch yesterday, a somewhat half hearted affair of lemon roast chicken, new potatoes, peas and carrots followed by yesterday’s leftover brownies with crème fraiche (well, I had a late night…and a teensy hangover), we got talking about B. Now some of my newer readers (welcome!) may not know much about her, but she was our gorgeous, glorious, spindly fawn baby. It’s now four months since she died, and although we’ve had a couple of foster greyhounds in the meantime, none quite compared to the inimitable B.

We were remembering how much she liked the little pre-prep girls at the boys’ school and used to whine and squeak with excitement, levering her head through a tiny space in the car window to get a better look to see if they were coming, then graciously accepting hugs and kisses whilst happily bashing hell out of the car interior with her tail. When we first got her she was so unused to soft carpet that she would just drop and sleep anywhere, it was so comfy. #2, suffering a little at leaving the UK and his friends and family behind, was going through a stage of waking terribly early. The amount of times I found them curled, fast asleep and entwined, on the living room floor probably got into double figures. That gangly, doe eyed girl did a great deal to help both our boys adjust, taking their minds off their worries and giving them something to care for.

As she grew to know us, she grew increasingly confident (and, dare I say bonkers), rushing up the hall in the morning to bounce up onto the bed and bark furiously at Hubby until he rolled over to give her a cuddle, and defying all our attempts at recall training by pretending to trot obediently by our sides before hurtling off as fast as she could as soon as we were distracted. In the end, of course, that was our downfall, and ultimately hers. Of course, if we could turn back time, we’d have her back tomorrow: sod recall training, we’d never let her off the lead and cherish every minute with her as we should have done. Honestly, if you’re contemplating a pet, take a trip to a retired greyhound sanctuary near you. You won’t be disappointed. There’s a doe-eyed pocket rocket just waiting to fill that empty spot on your sofa.

Last night we did a bit of socialising. I know, I had to read it twice too. But we really did, we had Hubby’s naughty partner-in-crime-at-work, J, and his lovely girlfriend, S, round. And a jolly nice time was had by all I can tell you. I started off having a total panic because being a man (yes, I’ve checked) Hubby didn’t think to clarify whether they were coming for dinner or just drinks until I had a very unseemly hissy fit and made him text J. We settled on a selection of hot nibbles and I got my revenge by sending Hubby out to the shops on a Saturday afternoon to buy baguettes and prawns and that sort of stuff that you don’t keep lying around (cue evil laugh).

So, back to the evening. It got off to a tremendously good start when S, who turns out to be very high up the pecking order at a very large and very posh cosmetics company (and incredibly groomed, slim and beautiful too, natch), arrived with a veritable bucketload of freebies for me. Naturally I took to her instantly and the evening was set from there really. We discovered a mutual fascination/irritation of the way our other halves quote their partner-in-crime ALL the time: ’so I said to J….’ and ’so when I told J he said…’ and a mutual amusement at the fact they toddle off for lunch together at their favourite venues every day like an old married couple. Naturally we got loads of stick back, but the general good-natured atmosphere of gentle piss-taking was very enjoyable.

Oh yes, the food. So discovering that J isn’t a lover of ‘little green bits’ in things (Hubby told me), I regretted my choice of little baked chicken and spring onion cakes with sweet chilli sauce (uh-oh, mucho green bits), stir-fried prawns in chilli butter on crostini (and, having a glut of prawns, some of the same in garlic butter too) and quickly cracked out a few plain grilled chicken skewers with satay sauce, some little chilli sausages (that I forgot to cook until it was too late) and loads of peanuts, crisps and tortilla chips with various dips. For dessert I just made chocolate brownies (must share the recipe with you - they were very good) except I didn’t have any walnuts so I used almonds instead. You know me - nothing if not resourceful.

#1 made some yummy Champagne cocktails (frozen tropical fruit whizzed up into slush then topped up with Champagne, Bellini style), both #1 and #2 gave us a little impromptu guitar concert (which our guests seemed to genuinely enjoy, much to the boys’ absolute delight) and after we finally packed the little blighters off to bed, we settled down to an evening of chatting, more drinks and a bit of background MTV.

So, it’s not often you meet a couple for the first time and hit it off quite so well. I always think you can tell a lot about people from how they treat the kids, and J&S listened patiently to all the kids’ waffle and laughed politely at their silly jokes too (the staple of pre-adolescent boys - fart jokes and sniggery toilet humour). And what an absolute bonus when you can grill your female guests for grooming tips, insider info AND get freebies into the bargain. Result.

So this is exciting then - for the first time ever last week I got 1000 hits on my little blog! Thank you, thank you, whoever you are [pauses dramatically whilst fighting back tears] and please continue to tune in.

In honour of this momentous occasion, then, I’ve decided to upload a hit counter, so you (and I) can check to see if those stats really are true or if WordPress just make it up to make you feel good. Several hours and lots of swearing later (I had to have a ‘how to: HTML’ guide open on another screen) and it’s finally installed. I wanted the digits bigger but my techie-ness doesn’t stretch to that so hey, it’ll do.

Thanks again people. I love you all xx

I was just settling down with a cup of tea to watch UKTV Food this morning when there was a knock at the door. Not the most extraordinary turn of events you may think, but when you live in the middle of bloody nowhere like we do, a knock at the door is tantamount to entertainment. There before me stood two dear old ladies with curly perms and those large, round plastic glasses that I would have called ‘NHS glasses’ but there’s none of that round here. They’d walked all the way from the village (well, I assume they had because there didn’t seem to be a car about) and that’s over a mile so I thought I’d better hear them out. This seemed like less of a charitable idea when they explained that they were campaigning on behalf of Fine Gael. Ah.

Me: ‘I’m a bit confused about Irish politics, I’m from England. What’s the difference between Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil then?’ (silently cursing the fact that I hadn’t spoken to anyone since dropping the kids off, unless you count shouting at Gary Rhodes for wasting potatoes by insisting on cutting them into stupid barrel shapes).

Them (looking suddenly interested in their orthopaedic shoes and shuffling about a lot on the doorstep): ‘Em…well, Bertie Ahern’s corrupt’, stuttered Dear Old Lady 1. ‘Yes’, said Dear Old Lady 2, catching on fast, ‘and Enda Kenny hasn’t any baggage at all’.

Me: ‘Oh, Enda Kenny - isn’t he the one with the slightly gingery hair?’

DOL1: ‘That’s right. Lovely hair he’s got. Will I give you a picture?’

Me: ‘Oh thanks. So, at the moment, the government is a coalition of PDs and Fianna Fáil, is that right?’

DOL2: ‘that’s it, pet, but we’d go with Labour

DOL1: ‘…or the Greens, they’re nice’. You can tick either of them as well, so’

Me (even more confused): ‘Er…okay then thanks’

At this juncture, DOL1 dropped all her leaflets and as I bent down to pick them up, DOL2 patted…yes, actually patted…me on the head. And off they toddled, back to the village, presumably, with me left on the doorstep none the wiser.

So, in summary then, my current understanding is that I should vote for either Fine Gael because Enda Kenny has nice hair and hasn’t any baggage, OR I can vote for Labour OR the Green Party, because they’re nice too. Mind you, I could also vote for Bertie because (aside from the suitcase full of cash issue), J says he smells lurvely. Easy, this politics lark.