The Innocence of Tansy

Tansy, 10.23am, yesterday. Sadly, not a titled Jilly Cooper heroine; more a lovely, very friendly type-bod, nonetheless.




Those of you still traumatised by my experience with the evil smoothie (http://poo-diaries.blogspot.com/2006/08/innocent-until-proven-guilty_04.html) can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

For, though unfortunately I still haven't had the painters in (in either sense, although I'm pretty certain my contraception covers the event of the odd fumble with a soft drink or two) , I'm happy to report the cessation of violence in the Blackberry Wars.

For, unbeknownst to me, a concerned friend had decided to enrole herself as peacemaker. Manfully, she took stock of the situation, girded her formidable loins and contacted the perpetrators of the affair with my sorry tale.

And hence, one not-so-sunny morning last week, I awoke to the sound of vicious hammering on my door. On opening, I was greeted by a slightly halitosid young man, thrusting a large brown box eagerly into my trembling hands.

Given the previously shocking events, it's perhaps understandable that I was somewhat nervous of opening this offering; particularly when its contents were revealed as a deep row of smoothies, all standing to attention and clearly ready for action. Suddenly, a thousand images of potential war and terror flooded my mind - pictures of the bastards storming my flat with shot and shell, sabring my newborn's throat and contaminating my lounge with their uzi-ripe breath.

But then. Happily it turns out I had nothing to fear: these smoothies had come in peace. For on further investigation, I discovered this small note, attached to the underside of the box:

"Hello

Your friend Kirsteen told us of your unfortunate experience last week. Here is our little sorry on behalf of the stroppy smoothie - it's just they don't much like being kept out of the cool fridge. Congratulations on being a new mum.

Enjoy...Tansy."

Aww. So instead of the feared nest of terrorists, there I was holding a huge free box of smoothies, and a lovely little note? Oh Innocent, in the name of your brand, your copywriters, and of course the lovely Tansy, I salute you.

All peace is resumed.

The Boston Tea Wash

Introducing my new cleaning lady: great for comedic scenes involving pianos and stairs, the odd tea party and those vital "chimp in a toupee" moments...
Less successful at washing your smalls.


Much as I'm loathe to admit it, this whole having had a baby thing may have slightly affected my cerebral abilities. When you're expecting, you hear a lot about how pregnancy and childcare can reduce your IQ and make you act slightly oddly: a bit like a Blairite occupation dumbing-down your brain.

Fortunately in my case there have been no noticeable signs of this. As anyone will tell you, my neurons are still as spangly as a whole pocket full of 5 pence pieces newly delivered from the Royal Mint. And besides, surely everyone puts salt in their coffee, comes on to bus conductors and insists on being called Edith Marie by bemused Saturday girls in Topshop?

Or so I thought. However today I have begun to suspect that my intellect may be not quite as shiny as once it was, and that some of my actions are possibly becoming, well, a bit bizarre.

For there I was, taking a break from motherhood with a relaxing stint on the washing machine, only to be greeted by the puzzling stench of builders and an accompanying cast of slightly damp, sepia-coloured clothing as I opened the door.

30 minutes and an irate call to the Persil Careline later, I discovered the source of the problem. The very earnest Judy in Customer Care had suggested that I might, inadvertently you understand, have put the wrong thing in the wash cycle; thereby causing all my clothes to turn beige and smelly.

To my shame, and Judy's evident distress, I laughed cruelly at her suggestion. But then I spotted the completely unopened box of washing powder sitting alone next to the kettle. I reluctantly checked the machine, and made the discovery that I am, in fact, a complete moron.

For there they were, two bags of PG's finest Tips, sitting in the place usually under bicarbonate occupation: all passion spent, and enjoying a crafty post-coital fag as they chuckled over the wreckage of my clothes.

So, evidently I'd rather rinse my smalls with tea bags than with Persil, and can only conclude that my neurons may have become the tiniest bit smaller since having Lucy. Politeness and common sense demand that I hereby offer the sincerest of apologies to Judy, and steer away from anything more complicated than breathing for the foreseeable future.

Mind you, simpleton or not, every cloud does at least have a lining, and I'm happy to report that my official range of pyramid-shaped clothing launches later this month. Predicted to be huge amongst the tea-party going chimp population, apparently.

Powers of Horror

Clever old Mother Nature: 9.45pm, yesterday.


















The first time Lucy projectile vomited, I thought I'd reincarnated an original cast member of The Exorcist. As if further proof were needed, she followed this with a virtuoso faecal performance; most of which ended up on the back of my hand, where it remained for the afternoon.

Apologies, Dear Reader, but I do have the shocking misfortune to report that baby care is often this gross. What's even more shocking is the fact that, whilst a normal reaction might have been to undergo a swift scrub-down in a darkened room before casting Lucy aside forever, I merely shrugged and carried on with the day.

But how? How, in the name of all that is good and holy, is this possible? Why aren't millions of new mothers leaving their young in the waste disposal at the first smell of that over-filled nappy and the first sight of vomit chuckling its way down their best Versace trousers? Surely no force in the world is enough to help you park your disgust and pay happily for your Tesco's shopping with a faeces-caked hand?

Ah, but enter stage left, Mother Nature: a clever old stick if ever there was one. There you are, dripping in a rainbow of infant bodily fluids and along comes sly old MN, whispering in your baby's ear that now might be a good time to smile at you.

Yup, that's it: just a single, tiny, fleeting smile. But somehow it's everything and enough. Suddenly the entire world stops moving and it's like ten thousand shards of happy glass have pierced your heart.

And trust me: it might not get your nails clean, but it's a feeling that wipes even the most vesuvian of bowel movements right out your head.

Gina, you rock my world

The wonderful Gina Ford: an unlikely, slightly squashy looking angel.






Returning to life is pretty hard once you've had a baby. All of a sudden your day's normal activities are replaced by a constant barrage of baby crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Throw in a huge dose of anxiety and the continual worry that you've mistakenly killed your newborn, and you're suddenly alone in a cold, sleep-parched landscape, finding it impossible to keep up.

Until a couple of weeks ago I was stuck in that place. It would often get to 6 or 7 pm, and there I'd be: sitting in just my pants with the curtains open, having managed to eat a whole slice of ryvita and suddenly realising I hadn't been to the toilet for over 24 hours.

Now then, flashing the neighbours a bit of arse and dining frugally on rye is all very well, but when your urine starts to turn orange, you know its probably time to act. And thankfully I did, with the purchase of The Contented Little Baby Book written by one Ms. Gina Ford.

For the uninitiated amongst you, Gina Ford is nanny extraordinaire to the Stars and proles alike. Her philosophy is a simple, if fantastically strict, one. Babys need a structure, apparently, and to achieve any kind of peace from your squawking monster, you need to turn your home into a tough boot camp.

On Gina, a 7am wake up call and nappy change is followed by a 39.678 minute breast feed, 20.2 minutes playing with an odd red cube, and 2 seconds of noisy gurggling whilst you look on adoringly. You're then allowed the breakfast of your choice before selecting the least drool-covered outfit to wear for the day and putting the baby down for a short nap. The afternoon continues in much the same vein, and you finally get to go to bed no later than 11.27 at night.

Jesus. Pre-Lucy if anyone had so much as suggested I try to turn up at work at the same time everyday, I'd probably have punched them. And yet here I am, slavishly lusting after Gina's every breath and marching through the regime like a demented Sergeant Major.

And the odd thing is, it really does work. Though I can account for mine & Lucy's movements down to the last half second of the day, I do know there'll be at least a period where she'll be quiet and not crying or hungry or hot, cold or indifferent. At the moment, for example, Lucy is sleeping sweetly whilst I am strapped to a milking machine, singing a rousing World War II battle song and rinsing all the neighbourhood's smalls through an 80 degree hot wash programme.

Ah Gina. Gina, Gina, Gina...With your weird squashy face and frighteningly processed hair: you're a hard taskmaster, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you. Your regime may be as punctilious as a Nazi parade, and I still feel all a bit helpless, but at least it means I can now attend to the important things in life.

Like passing water, for a start.

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Now then, it's not every day you wake up to the sight of a bloody massacre in your front room. And yet this morning as I stumbled around trying to shake off sleep and the relentless sound of my daughter crying, an appalling sight hit my eyes. Dark blood was spattered everywhere: from wall to ceiling, floor to sofa, everything was covered in a sticky red mess, leaving my room looking like Stephen King's first foray into interior design and smelling sweetly of road kill.

Slightly panicking, I looked around for any bodies and an explanation of the curious night-time events. Perhaps I had left the front door open: a clear invitation for East Finchley's notorious psychopath to enter and slaughter a range of small rodents by the dining table? Maybe Lucy had been up late again watching Driller Killer and decided to experiment?

Or was it more sinister? Oddly, the only thing untouched by goo was the latest IKEA catalogue. Could the local branch of Swedish furniture lovers be to blame, angered by the absence of any Besta Jagra storage combinations, and the fact that a paltry two tea lights were the only lighting solution on show?

And then I saw it. A small, not so innocent smoothie bottle, nestling smuggly on my top shelf: bleeding its last between Middlemarch and Captain Corelli. The bastard had decided to ferment and explode in the middle of the night, leaving its innards all over the room.

So yes, it really has come to this - 31 years of life and here I am obsessing about an exploding drink, and elbow deep in cleaning products trying to get the stains out of my carpet. My advice to you all? Just don't leave bottles of blackberry juice on the arm of your sofa. Innocent my arse: they only get all lonely and enraged, and they're a real bitch to clean up.

Police photos indicate the terrifying nature of the assault.

Earlier CCTV footage shows the vicious smoothie, staking out its victims.