Tampons in Skirts

Tampax launch their new "dog and dress lovers" range: 3.23pm, yesterday.

Given that I have about 36 minutes left before I have to re-earn my advertising crust (well, the soggy bread of direct marketing to be strictly honest, but I've never been one to let small details get in the way), I've been making a vague attempts at paying attention to what's going on on the small screen these days.

I'm heartened to see that little appears to have changed when it comes to the 30 second product push. The genius of Cilit Bang and Barry Scott are still doing their shouty thing, JML continue to forge innovatively ahead with their bemusing pet mit and full body stocking range, and all brands of tampons are still offering us the chance to take up a slice of la dolce vita.

Now then, it's quite an expensive business, this being a woman thing. Even if you happen to have a small squeaky child that sucks up your cash like an ice-cold camel in Alex, there's still the essentials that you need to splash out on. Sadly for me, sparkly bikinis, heels and handbags are now off the obligatory list, but I have been known to indulge in the occasional bout of hair cutting, food shopping and, um, sanitary protection over the past year.

Naturally, the humble tampon is big business in the UK. With over £370 million a year spent on the blighters (and not just by my good self, I might stress), it's no surprise that the ads literally tumble over themselves to try and persuade us that buying their particular brand will meet our every need.

Perhaps I should just stop watching Channel 5, but I am quite glad to see that they're no longer just amazing at soaking up some suspiciously blue coloured liquid and, in fact, can be a truly life-enhancing choice. After all, I've often fancied being able to stroll out and stop a line of traffic with the flick of my hand, jump in the back of a pick up truck whilst a high-pitched Diva sings “wooooahh” dramatically in the background, and serenely fling my pants out of a New York window as I stand there, gorgeously flaunting my Agent Provocateur's. So thank heavens that the TV and the ad men are there to show me how to do it.

I have to confess though, some of the products do seem a little, well odd. Tampax's scented range, for example, may have appealed to some but, quite frankly, made me feel all a bit confused and itchy. Thankfully, to relieve the itch, it's good to know you can now buy a towel made virtually from pure silk, or perhaps go for the exciting, and somewhat bewildering “tampon in a skirt” option. Sadly, there's no available explanation as to why you might need to go out with your tampon all suited and booted, but presumably it's something to do with offering you the vital added protection you've been missing all these years.

I can't wait for what the next generation of these ads brings. Personally, I'm holding out for the “Life Coach Pad”, to help me write a killer CV, vet my boyfriends, remind me to drink some water when I've had one or two many glasses of wine, and clean up after Lucy has helpfully wet herself on the carpet. Again.

Now, when that one comes out, I'm definitely buying...

Argument # 5,679

The woeful contents of Lucy's toybox; 4.32pm, yesterday.
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Maintaining cordial relations with Lucy's dad is, it seems, a tad tricky these days. In fact, were I of a more pessimistic bent, I might be tempted to conclude it's nigh on bloody impossible, m'lud.

Having called the ceasefire on our relationship, you'd think that a fashion of peace could ensue: S no longer has to gameplay the dutiful father, whilst I no longer have to torture myself with thoughts of his other daughter and the bountiful Ms. Haythornthwaite. Ergo, we should both be happier, leaving me to concentrate on more pressing matters: like the washing up, my imminent return to the workforce, and just how many times I have to tell Lucy "no" before she stops trying to eat her way through all her dirty nappies. A surefire recipe for success that even Delia would be proud of.

Or so you'd think. Alas, it seems that there still isn't a subject borne in God's green land that we can discuss without a razor-bladed tongue or two and stake-burnt voices at the ready.

As a typical example, the latest topic for discussion has been my housewifery, or, to be more precise, my complete lack of it. Now then, it's true to say that Freud himself would have struggled to make the case for my housewife's psychosis, and those that know me well will freely admit I'm no Anthea Turner: I haven't got a clue about towel folding etiquette, have never paid a visit to my toilet with a lemon and some flat coca cola in hand and, more importantly, am clearly and very thankfully not married to Grant Bovey.

These things aside, although I'd probably not encourage my guests to lick the cistern, my flat's never truly hideous. It is, frequently, a complete mess; particularly when Lucy has been helping matters by distributing the entire contents of the fridge, washing machine and all my bookshelves across the floor with joyful abandon.

However, it seems that S has now decided that he's had enough of my scruffiness. And it really is a bit much to expect him to see his daughter when the toys are not safely aligned in their box and the carpet has not been scrubbed in honour of his visit. I can apparently expect the social services to come round and remove Lucy any second now, on the charge of my home being "a mess" and, more ominously my bedroom being "a complete state".

Clearly, I'd better engage a damn good lawyer in the face of such frightening accusations. I just hope the courts don't object to the pile of used syringes that I like to keep on the floor for Lucy to peruse at her leisure, when she's bored of her favoured collection of old condoms and fag ends that we collect after I've taken her out for a night's hard drinking.

Hmm. Perhaps if I keep them in some nice coloured boxes it'll be okay...

In The Name of The Father

Some confused children; 9.59pm.





Unless the phrase "nanagooie da!" has recently made an entrance into the Oxford English Dictionary, I'm saddened to report that, at the grand old age of one, Lucy has yet to say her first proper word.


Now don't get me wrong, she's brilliant at syllables. A veritable Jedi Master, in fact. From "aah" to "gah", and all the way through to "pah", there's not a far-rhyming couplet she can't make. And, had the mighty James Murray had the foresight to include these in the OED, he would surely have needed at least 5,000 extra pigeon holes to verify the sound provenance of Lucy's utterances.


However, when it comes to stringing them together into something a bit more like recognisable speech, she's, well, not quite there yet. With foolish enthusiasm, I did hope she'd finally managed to break into the world of talking way back in December, when "dada" made it's way into the conversational fray over present opening on Christmas morning: much to the delight of her actual Daddy, who happened to be there at the time.


And, for a while, it seemed that she was "dada" mad - muttering it away to herself at every opportunity, like a drunken 80-year-old on a crack & Werther's Original high. I'd open the curtains to an excited "dada!"; change nappies and remove carrot from my hair to yet more "dada dada!!"; walk for miles through the rain to it; and, excitingly, make lunch, do dinner, wash up and bathe my precious one to it.

Everything, in fact, was accompanied by a delighted high-chorus of da-bloody-da, whilst I quietly grated my eyeballs in the background and gave her an extra hundred lines on the benefits of the far more appealing "mama".


Since then, my digits haven't exactly worn themselves out in the mammoth task of counting how many times she's set sight on the clearly thrilling "dada". However, I am pleased to reveal that she has finally taken the hint and now knows "mama". She's not quite so free and easy with the expression though: "Mama", it seems, really is reserved exclusively for me.

Though, on occasion, the washing machine, the laundry basket, her pram and the settee do get greeted with the "M" word. But clearly when she says that, I know she's just trying to find me there. And I do often hide myself away with the dirty clothes. Honest.

Letter to Le Jig Jog

A sentimental old fool; 7.21am this morning.








It's been exactly a year to the day since that very nice man, wearing blue overalls and slightly suspicious plastic clogs, sliced me open and introduced you – my beautiful Lucy Lamorna - to the world.

And what a year it's been. To say that it's all gone a bit quickly is, well, more understated than an entire convention of Understaters. The crust on my eyes has barely twinkled, and yet many, many things have changed. I've gone from being an overly anxious, slightly drunken career girl in a dwindling relationship to a single mother, and yet I wouldn't alter a thing.

The first days and weeks with you felt eternal. I couldn't tell if you were hungry, tired, bored, cold, colicky, or just frustrated at having missed the first few episodes of Big Brother. All of a sudden, my day's normal activities were replaced by a constant barrage of crying, nappy-changing, feeding, burping and rocking. Even when you were asleep I couldn't rest, and had to check every second that I hadn't mistakenly managed to kill you in some hideous National Enquirer incident. Danger seemed everywhere: malicious nappy bags threatened to release themselves from their packet and float over to your cot to choke you; the evil asbo sun would try to sneak through your curtains to burn you; and villainous books prepared to throw themselves from far-off shelves to bash your precious head.

Thankfully, things gradually got easier: with the help of good old Gina Ford, I was able to get some sleep, and some days even managed the herculean tasks of both eating and dressing in the shaky knowledge that there'd be at least half an hour in the day when you would give me some rest. Then suddenly, the days started to drip with oil and slipped past so quickly that I could barely catch them. And now, now you're one, I can't believe how fast it's all happened, and how much I've learnt over the simple course of a year.

For a start, I can now block the hearing in one ear as surrounding wine glasses shatter at the onset of your crying. I can peel and massage a parsnip whilst simultaneously stopping you from emptying the entire contents of the washing machine and crawling inside for a swift spin cycle. My favoured topics of conversation now include a thousand and one tips for removing carrot stains and which songs about frogs and row boats I would take to a desert island.

Impressively, I can now also keep a straight face whilst you trump like an untrained fishwife in a queue of strangers. I've paid for shopping with odd brown streaks on the back of my hands, and learnt that (thankfully!) most people are too polite to mention the fact that I've left the house again with baby vomit on my top and yesterday's knickers hanging out the bottom of my jeans.

But more than all that, I've found such joy in the smallest things of you. A mere twelve months ago, I would rather have grated my own flesh than face the thought of a daily clothes wash and twenty thousand nappy changes. But, now even the most deathly-boring and menial of tasks has a point. And, Daddy may have left, but I've come to realise that I am enough for you and when we're together we are more than complete. Unfortunately for the distilleries of Scotland, I also now know that a smile from you is more warming than the finest single malt; and I would give up the riches of Midas to know that you are happy, safe and well.

A good year indeed. The strangest thing of all is that I can hardly remember a time when there was no you. You are the beginning and the end of me, and the one thing that finally makes sense of it all: whoever you become, wherever you go - I will always love you.

Happy Birthday, baby.

x

Care in the Community

A stunning picture of me; 2.59 pm yesterday. Fortunately, I have since shaved off the beard & 'tache.

If one thing has become apparent over the past year, it has to be how undoubtedly shit I am at real life. It's been almost twelve whole months since Le Jig Jog made her entrance, and at least six since her daddy finally, and most resolutely, left the building. Yet still here I am, umming and arring about the possibility of a return to the workforce, quaking at the thought of single motherdom, and wrestling like a WD40-basted blindman over the idea of putting my most precious thing in the care of anyone else.

Still, at least there's consolation in the thought that the past 360 or so days haven't been exactly the easiest in the run of a normal life. For a start (and most predominantly for me), there's the fact that I've been hiding from for a while. That Lucy actually has a half-sister. Virtually her age (in fact, born on Lucy's due date, as luck and life would have it), and borne by an Australian Artist of Oranges and Still Life Trees. At any rate, citrus fruit and silver birches aside, it's been good to know that her half sibling's mother was a more exciting prospect and more child-worthy than me: oh SH, you of the sperm donation in car parks and lying text messages - hail to thee!

Life's knocks and knuckle-dusters aside, there is much to be said for the fact that here I stand (or, at least, sit and type - if you're of a pedantic bent). And, much as I would love to take the credit for being able to withstand all, there are many, many people this year who have tightened my stitching and made sure the ballast was secure.

First (and co-incidentally evermore) there is my family. Despite being possessed of a genetic wit to rival Oscar Wilde's and a wry humour that Dorothy Parker would have envied, we don't say much, us H's. But please know, despite my blushing fingers, that without you this year I would have been lost, lambasted, and fruitlessly sucking dry sand on a sinking oasis that had long since fallen to Eden. Every phone call, every visit, every card and every text has been ridiculously appreciated, and I would swim after the African Queen in a force-9 gale to tell you so.

Next in the list, of course, come my wonderful friends. It's impossible to know where to start or where to end in the honours list, because you have all been amazing. But in particular, I will never forget the fact that there is A, who sent me a baby monitor when I'd merely mentioned the fact that I was glued to Lucy's door to check she was breathing (and who keeps on being an astonishing pseudo-aunt as every day unfolds); that K & D came to my door early one work-day morning just to sign some forms for Lucy's passport; that C brought me wine, a smile and an amazingly generous amount of money one rainy October afternoon; or that 40p Man has always made sure he's there with some dinner and a crap DVD and will never leave without the assurance that all the lightbulbs in my flat are burning brightly and that the smoke alarm is on. There really are too many acts of kindness from all and sundry to mention here. Please forgive exclusions (and the foray into cliche-land), but I can't thank everyone enough.

Finally, and most oddly of all, I have to offer thanks to the people that don't even know my name. From the chemist's assistant who charges round the shop with my pram when Lucy's screaming like an untrained banshee in a brothel, to the Budgen's checkout girl who clears an entire queue to serve me first. To the newsagent who runs outside with my paper when we're storming passed, or the doctor that cuddles my daughter for an entire appointment on her knee. To the entire online community that eagerly stretch out their compassionate keyboards to calm the discovery of anything: from the emergence of a new spot my chin to the discovery of some missing condoms in S's washbag and some nasty scratches on his back from when he last went to Bangkok.

The coming year, hopefully, will be a little better. I may even be able to stop leaning on all of you and help out instead. But for now, I'm glad that you've let me lay down my sword and take shelter in your shields. My armour was getting a bit rusty, after all.

Supermarket Sweep

At long last, life is looking up: Budgens unveil plans for their 9th annual Drunken Trolley Dash, 2.54pm, Thursday.

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Having once wet myself on an ex-boyfriend's chair, it's probably fair to say that I'm no stranger when it comes to the odd drunken incident or two.

In fact (if my fingertips can stop blushing long enough to impart their shame), my 20s were a veritable world record attempt in filling phoneboxes with hive-breaking tales: starting with the more standard pulling of pigs and rolling out of unpaid taxis, going through a brief spate of shoplifting Hello* from the local garage, and ending with a merry dance involving some tramps and a lute player on the Embankment plus the odd broken bone or two.

Jesus. It's probably quite clear that I shouldn't drink.

Happily, since entering my third decade and unfolding the joys of motherhood, the ferocity of my drunken antics has been somewhat dampened. After all, it's pretty hard to get ratarsed and make guinea pig noises in restaurants when you're in every night weighed down with the responsibility of childcare. Plus, Lucy tends to get really annoyed with me when I try to tell strangers on the bus that I love them, so I've pretty much given up.

Or so I thought.

A couple of Thursdays ago however, I managed to get reasonably merry with Lucy's dad as we struggled through the very last showdown of our relationship. Finding the wine stocks dwindling, I ventured out to my local Budgens for another bottle. Swaying round the isles for a while, I also managed to get some other essentials, which for some reason I had neglected to ever purchase before: two large Battenburg cakes, some corn plasters, a sewing kit and a make your own fairy wings set.

Perhaps there was a hint in my other shopping that I was a little bit more drunk than I'd thought. Or perhaps the biggest hint came when I got to the till and loudly accused the lady in front of me of stealing my bread (which, cunningly I hadn't even managed to put in my basket, let alone drag to the till).

The poor accused woman, of course, looked at me as if I was slightly deranged. Sadly, the look turned to something more like pity when I demanded that she turn out all her shopping bags and clothing, and angrily slurred for the manager to come and sort the "shoplifting pickpocket" out.

How on earth I thought a pickpocket would get a huge loaf of bread down their trousers I do not know. Hell, I'm not even sure she was wearing trousers. But I was still muttering about it as they saw me to the door.

Needless to say, I haven't been back, which is slightly ridiculous given that it's the nearest shop to me. However, I am working on my fake moustache and french accent so that I can venture in there again: three weeks is a long time to go without bread, after all.

*Please accept my apologies for my choice of reading matter. Must have been extremely pissed that night.

Blight Club

Sadly, Gingerbread Man had forgotton the first costume rule of Blight Club.












This morning, Lucy and I decided to forgo the excitement of our weekly music gathering, and traipse along instead to the local Gingerbread group.

For the happily uninitiated amongst you, Gingerbread offers support for the more, erm, alone parenting folk out there. In retrospect, I should probably have joined the second my urine inked its blue truth along the pregnancy test. But, being undeniably stubborn, not to mention flakily hopeful, I've managed to ignore everything and put it off until now.

Useless personality traits aside, another reason for my delay has been, well, unmitigated terror. It's weird and bad and scary enough joining normal baby groups with their tireless renditions of Wind the Bobbin Up (now sadly an absolute favourite of mine, and well deserving of its no. 3 spot in my personal top ten of songs). But the thought of sitting in a room watching 15 or so single women pouring their partnerless bile into tea-cups and dunking their digestives into the bitterness of desertion has never really been up there on my list of things to do before I die.

Fortunately, the envisaged bile-fest was not in evidence this morning. True enough, there was plenty of tea, and there were certainly a fair few women in attendance, but not a single wisp of embittered gossip was to be had. Not even a smidgen: not a single tale of an ex-husband caught "testing" condoms with the next door neighbour; no shared experiences of previous partners flying off for yet another exotic whore tour; and not even the remotest breath of extra-marital breeding in Sainsbury's carpark on dogging Wednesdays.

Ah well. No gossip, just lots of dull advice on housing and benefits instead. Mind you, it does look like they've got a slightly more interesting schedule for the rest of the year, if the "Keep Your Pecker Up" leaflet that I was given is anything to go by:

For example, every third Wednesday there's a tartan-clad outing to Hampstead Heath for a major reenactment of the battle of Colloden. On Thursdays there's a cunningly named "sew and sew" afternoon, which will give me the opportunity to finally finish off that fluorescent, 3-D version of the Bayeux Tapestry that I've been working on (oh to be able to find the right shade of yarn for a popped eyeball!). And to top the activities off, every second Friday, the group apparently have ten sambucca shots each and take it in turns to pin the tale on Stephen Hawking.

Truly, I can't wait.

Olympic Bid

Lucy, modelling the new British Swim Team 2010 kit*; 1.24pm, yesterday

*Kindly sponsored by the Steroid and Tan Fan! Association

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Do forgive the slight hiatus in blogging: for reasons far too complex and acid-steeped to mention, my mind has been somewhat otherwise engaged of late.

However, in amongst the wide swathes of life's crapness, I'm pleased to report that Lucy and I have been doing our bit to promote British excellence in sport; by competing in the astounding and, erm, challenging event of baby swimming.

Now then, as is manifest in the sadness of my thighs, I'm clearly no expert in the whys and wherefores of any kind of sporting venue. Nonetheless even to my naive eye (and sorrowfully dimpled leg), if the state my local pool is anything to go by then Britain has more than a moonwalk to go before our facilities can pass anything like an Olympian muster.

Entry into my pool is, you see, a bit like well, walking into a chlorine-scented abattoir. A set of cheery, vacuum-packed doors permit entry into the changing room. Here, the flesh of 20 purple-flecked mothers is revealed - all nervously preparing their young on a set of verruca-soaked bassinets, ranged jauntily alongside the sweating, petri-dish walls.

I could go on through the bath of horrors. But fortunately it seems that Lucy has not inherited such a jaundiced view of either the world or of North London's amphibious attractions.

She has, in fact, been unrelentingly joyous at each session: gurgling as yet another arc of stranger's wee is aimed straight onto her towel; chortling when dunked under the sweltering (and slightly yellowey) water; gleefully chewing on the chemicaled floats; and quite literally pissing herself laughing as she yet again manages to undo my bikini top in front of the Polish New Man Dad who insists on calling my daughter Lucian and keeps telling me how "handsome" she is.

Ahh - gender-confusion, a risk of legionnaire's verucca and the exposure of my hideous body - all be damned. As long as Lucy is so clearly delighted I guess it's worth it, and there's always the glory of British sport to consider.

I'll just have to remember to pack the goose fat, plastic socks and slightly less atollian swimwear for next week. Not sure I'll be setting up camp next to Polish New Man Dad again, though.