…or just make it work? Purleeeeeeease…

Eventful morning this morning, then. Firstly, as usual, we were rudely awakened by several furry kilos of greyhound, intent on giving us a good morning wash before settling his hefty bulk down between us (or preferably actually on our pillows). The boys think this is really funny and hide, sniggering, behind the bedroom door after they’ve let him in, watching the chaos unfold. Don’t you just love the school holidays?

Secondly, the car had to go back down to the Opel garage in Dublin as the fuel gauge is still telling outrageous lies and the dashboard is lit up like Blackpool Illuminations. This would have been alright (as it’s the third attempt at a repair, it’s on the house), only we got all the way there to find that they didn’t actually, as promised, have a car big enough to accommodate the aforementioned several furry kilos of greyhound, and having squeezed him into the back of a Corsa last time (he’s never been quite the same), I had to put my foot down and insist on a decent sized car.

Being half girl, half chicken, I’m not much good with confrontation, but I did start to get the hump. I do also find that Hubby, being the owner of an exceedingly short fuse, comes in very handy in these circumstances. All I had to do was phone him and tell him that having driven all the way down to Dublin, they didn’t actually have the hire car they’d promised, then hold the phone a little way from my ear while he ranted, raved, swore and generally raised hell. I then told him, sweetly, and within earshot of the service desk, that of course I would tell them that any further problems would result in him telephoning the General Manager direct and voicing his concerns, and that of course I would let them know exactly how angry he was and that he may well be tempted to take his business elsewhere. Miraculously, when I got off the phone, they’d found me an Astra, and all without any actual complaining on my part.

Oh and while we were there we took a look at the new Opel (Vauxhall to those of my homeland) Antara. It’s surprisingly nice - very big and chunky. I might have to transfer my allegiance from the Discovery and Range Rover Sport (I know, I know, but I live in a field and our roads are made of Leerdammer) and start to drop hints in Hubby’s direction. When he’s calmed down, obviously…

So it’s been a while, but last night we had another little dabble with the Cocktail Bible (Hamlyn £14.99 - beats the real one hands down, sorry Mam). I was especially interested in recipes containing watermelon as my delightful second child insisted that he ‘loved watermelon’ and waited while I spent ages cutting up a baby one (no pips!) into bitesize chunks before daintily nibbling one tiny corner and deciding that he’d changed his mind. I bagged it up and shoved it in the freezer, and blimey, I’m jolly glad I did.

Here goes with the recipe then:

First, take your frozen watermelon chunks, then plonk them into the blender (no, I still haven’t saved up enough for a KitchenAid one yet) along with a large measure of vodka (officially one measure is 25ml, but I use a shot glass), half a measure of strawberry liqueur (it should have been passion fruit liqueur, but I don’t have any), a large glug of cranberry juice and a squeeze of lime. Whiz it up into the most delightful salmon pink slush and serve in your incredibly expensive Urban Bar glasses.

We also used the carton of frozen tropical fruit we got on a bogof offer at Tesco to make Tropical Daiquiris and they were bloody nice too:

Half fill your blender jug with the frozen fruit, then add ½ measure of fresh lime juice, 1 measure of Bacardi, a slug of Cointreau and whiz until slushy. You might need an extra splosh of fruit juice if your blender gets clogged up. Drink whilst curled happily on the sofa going ‘eurgh’ at CSI:Miami (that last bit’s optional). The first one was my favourite though, although I could have been influenced by the colour.

Oh, and while we’re on the subject of pink stuff, I’ve finally managed to persuade Hubby to allow a touch of pink into the bedroom. Here’s our new watermelon martini-pink bedlinen complete with a delighted Bertie (he’s in touch with his feminine side). Bless.

Ooh, I’ve got a great new gadget. It’s one of those evil, instrument of torture-type hair plucking things called a Braun Silk Epil Xelle or something like that, I can’t find the box now. The smalls are absolutely horrified that I would spend good money (more than Pokemon Pearl for Nintendo DS, apparently) on a teeny little machine that actually rips your body hair out by the root. And Hubby walked in on me doing my legs this morning, stared hard at me, then walked back out again. Bertie didn’t seem overly bothered, and sat next to me on the bed while I did it. He did keep an eye on me though, and I made extra sure that I didn’t get it too close, what with him being a tad hairy and all - it could have been very messy.

I know this will sound a bit weird, but I absolutely love it. I’ll admit that I did nearly cry while using the armpit attachment (I know! An attachment just for pits!), but you soon get used to it, and it plucks the hairs out when they’re really tiny so you’re always smooth and lubly. And the pain’s kind of grown on me, like when you’ve got an insect bite and you finally give in and give it a really long scratch? Kind of therapeutic. There you go, I’m obviously odd. Odd, but no longer hirsute, natch.

God, I hate ferries. Whoever invented such a vile behemoth should be hung, drawn, quartered and have their bikini line waxed by toddlers. After surviving four hours in the cars (we had two to bring back) with a child each (I got #1, so we discussed everything from how much money he’ll be earning in the RAF to why priests don’t get married), we finally arrived to find that the crossing was being listed as ‘moderate to heavy seas’ uh oh.

#1 and I would both qualify for the Olympics if vomiting were a recognised event, so we both stuffed down a travel sickness pill and headed gingerly for the car decks, closely followed by Hubby and #2. Everyone was quite perky until the Captain came on and mentioned that the first 40 minutes especially were going to be a bit of a challenge, then as we started to be hurled about as soon as we left port, it all went a bit quiet. Well, it was two hours of absolute horror. People were scattered about the boat, feebly holding their sick bags up to their pasty green faces, and one little girl was actually sick right next to #2. As he came back up to tell us about it, all of a sudden the memory seemed to tip him over the edge and he threw up too. Ew, I tell you, it was ghastly. I’ve never been so glad to be told to go back and get in my car. Even Hubby looked a bit green. I have to say, though, those travel sickness tablets did at least partially work - they didn’t completely stop the nausea, but at least we weren’t joining #2 with the sick bags. We all just concentrated on keeping our heads still (apparently that’s half the battle) and looking out at the waves. I didn’t even get to go in the shop. And they sell Clarins - see, it really was bad.

Still, we perked up when we finally touched Irish soil again (resisting the temptation to jump out of the car and prostrate ourselves on the gravel) and a scary hour trying to follow Hubby as he zigzagged through the Dublin traffic seemed tame in comparison to the trip. Once home, we discovered that emptying the fridge, but then forgetting to empty the kitchen bin is a really bad idea when you go away for a couple of weeks, but apart from the lingering stench of two week old broccoli, there were no major disasters. Talking of disasters, we’re picking up Bertie later, then it really will feel like home.

So, with Hubby’s course at an end and real life beckoning from behind the swishy curtains, we’re shortly heading home and so arranged to go out with the Disreputable one for a farewell pizza.

We started with a nice bottle of Merlot and four dishes of dough balls with garlic butter (yum), progressing swiftly on to a second bottle of Merlot (well, the service was a bit slow) and some serious pizza action, well, all apart from the Disreputable One’s other half, A, affectionately referred to as his child bride (well, she’s half his age - I’m SO going to get my arse kicked for that one) who finds it impossible to order anything off the menu without altering it (I’m sure she does it on purpose just to wind us all up now), who did her usual ‘I’ll have the chicken salad, oh but can you put the dressing on the side please?’ rising gamely above all the sniggering coming from behind our menus.

The children and I finished off by ordering a triple chocolate glory (I had the fudge one) whilst A (DD’s CB - ooh, I like that) declared that she was going to really, really push the boat out for her pudding. We held our breath while she perused the menu (Baked Cheesecake? Chocolate Fudge Cake with Mascarpone? - I thought she might join Hubby and go for the figs with vanilla syrup - well, it’s still fruit) as she strung it out as long as possible before announcing to the waiter (complete with triumphant smirk in our direction) that she’d like … mint tea. ‘Oh dear’, groaned Hubby, ‘you’re going to get blogged for that one’. Yup.

I’m not that old, but I think I’m probably a bit old fashioned. For example, you know when someone has a baby now and they tell you how much they weigh in kg? It means nothing to me. I mean, I know that a 6lb baby is quite small and that a 10lb baby would probably have smarted a bit, but kg? Nope, nada. So today, I’m being dead helpful - no, nothing to do with babies actually, I was digressing. Me Mam’s got this really good converter thing on her fridge for converting ounces into grams and fluid ounces into millilitres. So anyhoo, I thought I’d pinch it and because I’m so generous I’ll share it with you, my loyal readership:

1oz = 25g
20z = 50g
3oz = 75g
4oz (1/4 lb) = 110g
5oz = 150g
6oz = 175g
7oz = 200g
8oz (1/2 lb) = 225g

Then the liquids (essential knowledge for us cocktail queens):

1fl oz = 25ml
3fl oz = 75ml
5fl oz (1/4pt) = 150ml
7fl oz = 200ml
9fl oz = 250ml
10fl oz (1/2pt) = 300ml
12fl oz = 350ml
15fl oz (3/4pt) = 450ml
20fl oz (1pt) = 600ml

Remember the golden rule, though, don’t mix the two - it’s either all Imperial or all metric. Oh, and don’t skimp with the alcohol, but that’s a different story altogether…

So, after 8 long weeks of separation, solitary drinking, taking the rubbish out on my own, several fights via text message and quite a few sniffy phone calls, oh and quite a lot of hard work, Hubby finally passed his very, very hard final exam. Woohoo! We went out with his instructors to celebrate who told me that this is the hardest thing he’ll ever do. I know, I know, but this is an anonymous blog so I can’t tell you what he does. Rest assured though, that he’s a clever old beaver and it’s something to do with being high up. Nope, that’s all you’re getting.

So yesterday we decided to go out with me Mam and the kids to celebrate. And celebrate we did, in fine style at TGI Friday’s. I was mightily impressed, I must say. We started with cocktails: I had a Cosmopolitan made with Absolut Kurant, a kind of fruity vodka, and me Mam went with a classic Martini. #2 had a November Sea breeze: cranberry, apple and lime topped with soda, and #1 went for a Pineapple Sunshine: pineapple, orange and passion fruit juices also mixed with soda. Hubby, on a rather scary high, sampled a few of the cocktails, including a fabulous Lynchburg Lemonade, named after the birthplace of Jack Daniels: a rather yummy mix of JD, some orange liqueur and lemonade; chasing up with a rather weird blue Bubblegum Shooter (orange and banana liqueurs mixed with Baileys and yes, it really does taste like bubblegum) and peaking with an Uncle Vanya, a mix of vodka, blackberry liqueur and citrus juices. We then soaked up all that alcohol with some fantastic food, starting with nachos all round with guacamole, sour cream and salsa, crispy battered shrimp, the most enormous burgers you’ve ever seen, sides of garlic bread, onion rings and coleslaw and then some ludicrously enormous puddings. Hubby and I shared a popcorn brownie sundae: the biggest dish you’ve ever seen crammed with chocolate brownie chunks, hot fudge & caramel sauce, vanilla flavour ice cream & sticky toffee popcorn. Oh and it’s all topped with whipped cream and more brownies.

Don’t be too jealous, we suffered for it later, especially Hubby whose burger repeated on him impressively for several hours afterwards. Still, all that hard work deserved some celebration and let’s face it, indigestion’s a small price to pay. Well done, darling. We’re very proud xx

I’ve just been reading some very interesting comments from the girlies at Beaut.ie about Pout’s new ‘Bustier’, a bust enhancing cream that apparently not only smells fahbulous, dahling, but shimmers too. The million dollar question is, however, whether all these lifting/bust firming/bugger-off-cellulite type creams are all about the massage and the moisturising rather than some wonder ingredient that actually hoicks up your, er, luggage.

Take my Clarins Total Body Lift stuff. After the initial cheek-burning humiliation had worn off (well, what would you think if your husband bought you cellulite cream for your birthday? He stopped short of saying ‘there you go, lardy’), I started to use it regularly and, do you know what? It actually worked. But blimey, you want to see the instructions - all that massaging and rubbing with gel tingly enough to make your eyes water is bound to do something. I read somewhere recently that the way to really shift the lumpy stuff is to massage with your knuckles: painful, admittedly, but the thing is with lumps that they need firm handling - there’s no point in pussyfooting around. Think of it as kneading bread dough - if you don’t give it some welly it’ll never get smooth. I got some Clarins Bust Beauty Gel in a gift box a while ago and it sat on my bathroom shelf because, frankly, the instructions put me off. All that applying ‘with light circular movements all the way from the base of the breast up to the chin and including the neck’ seemed a bit of a fag and, well, a bit weirdly self indulgent. Let’s face it; it’d be a lot more fun if you could enlist some help. Am I right?

But hang on, let’s give Pout a chance here. It smells gorgeous, makes your skin shimmery (a glimmering hint of cleavage must look better than your common or garden one, surely?) and comes in a really cute pink pot too. What’s not to love? I’m in.

Can I just apologise in advance to the people that have been trying to read this blog only to find it completely changed every time they refresh? It’s my fault. I’m having one of those days when I’m just not feeling this post and feel the urge to log back in and change it every two seconds. Bear with me, I’m nearly there.

So I have to admit to being almost as intensely boring as I usually am in Ireland, the only difference being that there is slightly less mud involved. We’ve done a bit of shopping , it being the Disreputable One’s birthday shortly - no, I can’t tell you what we got, he might read it. Oh, and I also acquired the most luscious pair of fuchsia pink Hunter wellies you’ve ever seen (just because it’s muddy, there’s no excuse for being dull) and visited the Clarins counter at Debenhams (well, one must, mustn’t one), obtaining a new Multi Matte Something-or-other for my shiny forehead.

The boys have done a bit of socialising: #2 missed out a bit last time so we’ve arranged play dates with a couple of his friends. He got to spend yesterday afternoon with his mate Olly. #2, as you know, is a little bundle of contradictions: a friendly chap who doesn’t make any effort to make friends, a sporty type who has no interest in sports, but he clicked instantly with Olly and right from the beginning their friendship was, in true #2 style, firm but rocky. Olly’s Mum, J, and I laughed yesterday remembering how I’d drop #2 for play dates expecting to arrive to pick him up only to see one or other of them red faced and furious. They would play, then bicker like a couple of old women, then play, then bicker. All quite exhausting really. Still, being the grand old age of 9, they seem to have grown out of the falling out, and spent a happy afternoon in each other’s company.

On the subject of friends, apart from having a good catch-up with Olly’s Mum, J, I’ve only managed to see R&C for a quick hello in the playground (I was trespassing) as they’re both at work during the week and poor C has been laid low with a nasty virus, but we’ve got a firm gossip-date for Friday. B’s also busy working and has visitors herself, but I’m sure we’ll get together.

Anyhoo, the sun’s shining, which is one small bonus of being away from Ireland, so if anyone needs me I’ll be in the garden with this month’s Olive magazine, popping in briefly from time to time to change this post even further. Toodles!

Oh we had a laugh yesterday. We went out to dinner en famille and played a huge family game of Either/Or. I actually laughed so hard at one point I nearly passed out (that was because#2 had to be stopped from asking his brother something so obscene I can’t print it. Email me if you really want to know). It’s so good I’ll let you into the secret. Only if you promise not to tell anyone else though. Here are some highlights from yesterday’s game:

#2: ‘Right, this one’s for Dad: what would you rather drink: a pint of wee or a pint of mouldy raspberries’. He went for the raspberries.

Me: (Hubby again): ‘You’re on the Black Pearl and you have to make one person walk the plank into the shark infested water (and no, they’re not basking sharks, smarty pants): your Mum or mine?’ (he asked if he could send both - sorry Mums!)

Hubby: (for me): ‘What would you rather do, never be allowed to use any hair products ever again, or wee in a public place in front of lots of people?’ I went for the wee, naturally.

#1: ‘What would you rather eat, an entire piece of mouldy cheese or a whole raw liver?’

And this went on until we got bored and went onto ‘Yo Momma’ jokes. ‘Yo Momma’s so fat that when she got on the scales it read ‘one at a time, please” and my personal fave: ‘Yo Momma’s so thick, when Daddy said it was chilly outside, she went out with a spoon’.

And finally, #1’s jokes:

Q: What’s pink and fluffy?
A: Pink fluff

Q: What’s blue and fluffy?
A: Pink fluff holding its breath

Q: What’s silent but smells of carrots?
A: A rabbit fart

Blimey, never let it be said that we don’t know how to party.