So, after my angry outbursts of late, I thought I’d better expend some energy and settled on a yoga video (that has nestled unopened on my DVD shelf for a disgustingly long time) in order to to regain my karma. I used to really like yoga and soon got into all the stretching and bending (somewhat shakily I’ll admit) and felt rather smug afterwards.

Fast forward, then, to this morning when I crawled out of bed only to discover that all my limbs had completely seized up. Walking the two feet from bed to bathroom was possibly one of the most painful experiences I’ve had here in Ireland (unless you count the gel nail debacle, or perhaps the hangover after the cocktail evening, or being pushed over in the field by B…well, apart from all those). The one bonus to all this is the breakthrough that I do actually have stomach muscles. I know this for sure as they are hurting in a fashion to which I’m completely unaccustomed. I also have thigh muscles. A fast stroll around the fields this morning (to loosen me up, apparently) with Hubby left me with a burning in my upper leg area which is a bloody sight less enjoyable than it might otherwise sound.

B, being a fitness instructor, gym bunny and all-round energetic type was recently singing the praises of the humble hula-hoop. Apparently it’s the ‘NBT’ in fitness and is fab for waist whittling. I do fancy having a go actually, it sounds like fun but maybe I’ll wait until my entire body has ceased to scream in agony every time I put one foot in front of the other. Ow

Okay, one more rant and then I’ll definitely shut up. Now I personally have got nothing against smokers. In fact, I used to be one myself (until Hubby said ‘ew, you stink’ when he went to kiss me at my cousin’s 21st when we were ‘courting’ - he denies this but it definitely happened). I know it’s hard to give up and all that and it’s inconvenient because no bugger’ll let you smoke anywhere and it’s bloody expensive into the bargain, yada yada yada. So we’ve established, then, that I’m a bit sympathetic. But (and here’s the big, huge, massive, stinking but - or should that be butt) why should I, as a proud ex-smoker, nay, non-smoker, have to run the stinky gauntlet of every shopping centre entrance and pub doorway just because you lot can’t smoke anywhere else? I’ve chosen not to fill my lungs with noxious fumes so why should I have to take a big deep breath and hold it (whilst jostling with people laden with shopping bags and women pushing babies eating Wotsits with orange faces) until I can get clear of the exit? Today, trying to escape from the small shopping centre which is pretty crap (not to be confused with the Unfeasibly Large Shopping Centre which, of course, is a magical place) I had to wait so long for a Grandma holding a small child in each hand to get out of the way that I actually started to turn blue and had to gasp in a big huge gulp of smoky fumes. I was nearly sick.

So, in summary, then: yes, I’m sympathetic, but stop ganging up on me by the doors. Frankly, it’s just plain selfish. B says I’m suffering from ‘angry blogging’ at the moment. I think it’s my hormones.

Okay, so I’m going to get my weird golden turban out, look into my crystal-effect paperweight, and make an astonishing prediction. Here goes: if, in fifteen years’ time you happen upon these green and pleasant midlands of Ireland, you should not be surprised to see an entire generation of super-size teenagers waddling around. Each will have no teeth and several chins and weigh more than a Dublin bus.

So here goes the rant that preceded my prediction. This morning, whilst tootling around Tesco doing my shopping, I watched, with horror, as the following things happened:

A mother pushing a small, golden haired toddler in a pushchair (unpimped, I might add) reached into the chiller, opened a bottle of full-sugar (not, in my opinion that diet is a much better option) Coca Cola and gave it to her teeny child to swig straight from the bottle.

Secondly, should this not be shocking enough, another mother, who was walking around with her already rather chubby school-aged child, went to the hot deli counter and got her a jumbo sausage in a bun to munch on as they walked round the aisles. It was, dear reader, 10am!!

Thirdly, no less than four different toddlers, being pushed around the town, were resplendent in their little wheeled carriages, happily munching on Cheesy Wotsits (God, I hate a child eating those - their little faces stained orange with that e-numbery crap), packets of sweeties, lollies and ice-creams.

Okay, I know my children will probably secretly refer to me as ‘Attila’ when they’re older but do you know what? I’m their Mum, not their best mate. I’m happy for them to have Coke as a treat every so often but they don’t get fizzy drinks at home and chocolate is an occasional treat, not an everyday item. If this makes me a horrible old bag, then frankly, I can live with it. Is it really necessary to fill your child with sugar and junk when they’re hardly out of nappies (and in some cases still in them)? Don’t these women know what they’re letting themselves in for? There’s not even free health or dental care here in Ireland - my God, they’ll be broke! Regular readers will probably be aware of #2’s ongoing sugar obsession, but as you know, we try hard to help him make healthy choices and shove them both outside to ride their bikes and run around as much as possible. Everyone loves to let their kids have treats or whatever occasionally; I’m no angel myself, but toddlers swilling cola? STOP!

And finally, here’s a good one for you - I was reading recently that the US spends more than $100 billion a year on obesity related health issues such as heart disease, diabetes, etc. And the amount spent annually on fast food? $100 billion. There you are, I’m all ranted out. Here endeth the lesson.

For those who didn’t know, congratulations are today due to the disreputable one, who has been re-elected in grand style and with a larger majority than before. Oh yes, daughter of a disreputable politician, me. No wonder I’m so damaged. Well, I’m sure he’s not that disreputable at actually being a politician (says she back-pedalling frantically - don’t want to get him in trouble with the powers that be - imagine the headlines: ‘Daughter Claims Councillor is Wayward and Dastardly’); it’s more a general sort of disreputableness. I did offer to design some ‘Vote for me, I’m disreputable’ banners for his campaign, but he declined. I wonder why? Apparently he did all that knocking on doors stuff, the thought of which made me laugh. What on earth does one say to the housewife on the doorstep? ‘Hello, I’m wayward and notorious. Will you vote for me?’ I must ask him if he kissed any babies. Ew.

I’m not sure I’d like to be a politician. It’s certainly not hereditary. Mind you, if Bertie’s example is anything to go by, it seems to mean that people give you suitcases full of cash, which would be a bonus. I wonder if Disreputable Dad has ever been the recipient of large cash ‘donations’. Note to self: better keep in with him, just in case.

So I was listening to the radio this morning on the way back from school and the news was full of how this fantastic Boots anti-ageing stuff was causing riots in the aisles and that there were 50,000 women on the waiting list for it. Apparently (and don’t quote me because I didn’t see it) it was featured on Horizon (a TV programme, for those who live in a tent on the Yorkshire Moors) where some boffin or other proved that it really does what it says on the bottle, ie boosts collagen, pumps your skin full of antioxidants and, therefore, reduces wrinkles and firms the skin. Sales of the Boots No7 Protect & Perfect Beauty Serum have apparently soared by 2000 percent following the programme. All this for a product that was actually launched, to no significant fanfare, back in 2004.

On their website, Boots say that ‘eminent dermatologist Professor Chris Griffiths carried out independent research on No7 Protect and Perfect Beauty Serum and scientifically proved that it repairs photo-aged skin and improves the fine wrinkles associated with photo-ageing’. Wow.

Imagine my surprise, then, dear reader, when I wandered into Boots later, having queued up in the butchers for my Sunday roast (a nice joint of beef, seeing as you asked) to see it nestling there on the shelves as usual. There were no queues, no riots, no hair pulling, no ‘handbags at dawn’, nothing. Much like the new M3 motorway, the hype had obviously bypassed the quiet midlands of Ireland and headed straight up north. So, as you do, I thought ‘well, it’d be rude not to’. So I nabbed one, handed over my 23.50 Euro (don’t ask me what that is in English, I’ve gone too far to revert now) and I’ll let you know how I get on when I road test it. Watch this space, then, people. A sprightly, smoother and significantly younger-looking me could be emerging shortly. Scary.

It was absolutely beautiful here yesterday. I got the rug out of the back of the car and spent a rather disgustingly lazy afternoon lying in the sun with a big pile of cookery books (my recent, as yet unread, Ebay purchases). I got up briefly to make a rather yummy salad with tuna, avocado, olives, radishes and lettuce, all sprinkled with lime juice, hung some washing out, read a novel and basically chilled.

I did briefly check my email. One of those survey things was doing the rounds with questions such as ‘your favourite holiday destination’ and ‘your favourite meal’ on it. Here’s the thing though. Spot the common theme:

Firstly, here’s one of R’s answers to ‘Four favourite foods?: ‘Most nibbles/junk food combined with alcohol!’ And ‘Four places I would rather be right now?’:
‘Sitting in the sun with a glass of something cold (alcoholic!), kids happily playing with friends!!’ It’s off to rehab for you, girl. And now me Mum. ‘Four places I would rather be right now?’: ‘Sharing a relaxed meal and bottle of something white and cold with friends/family’. And again, this time, J: ‘With family and friends and a large supply of all things good to eat and drink’. Trust me, she means alcohol. And finally, me. ‘Favourite meal?’: ‘Green and Black’s Maya Gold, a nice bottle of red wine and a straw (does that count?).’

We’re all doomed. Which brings me to the conversation I had with Hubby yesterday. Why is it that by 6pm we’re gagging for our first glass of alcohol? When me Mum’s here (remember that Pinot Grigio gene?) we start even earlier (we just encourage each other somehow). The trouble is, when I’m sat in front of CSI topping up my third glass it feels great, but here’s the rub: then I wake up in the morning feeling like crap. ‘Give up, then’ said Hubby. The trouble is, I know I’d miss it too much. Blimey, I wonder if that makes me an alcoholic? Anyhoo, just to prove a point, yesterday I abstained. Now I know one night without alcohol is hardly equivalent to a month in the Priory, but I felt much better this morning when the alarm went off. Hubby and I have decided that for the sake of our health, we’ll try to just have a drink every other night because it’s clear that we should cut down, but just the thought of it makes me, well, fancy a drink.

Oh, and lastly, seeing as we’re naming and shaming, here’s one of J’s answers to ‘four places I’d rather be right now’:

A4: In flagrante delicto with Bertie Ahern …

Dear God, J, alcoholism’s one thing, but still that crush on Bertie? I’ll meet you at the Priory.