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Okay ladies I will be speaking freely and honestly in this post about the Menopause well actually the stage before………the Peri-menopause (to be fully meno you must be period free for 12 months).

Coming from an Irish family, silences are something we know nothing about, if we come across them we fill them. So I’m not going to start going all silent now because I’m peri-meno!

I will liken my peri-meno journey to drinking a bottle of wine just because I think it sounds like it should be bottled!

Me, well I’m already a few glasses in and working my way to getting totally bolloxed (fully menopausal).

Let’s begin….


Let be honest, getting old is a bummer.  I have to keep reminding myself I’m a mature woman, a woman with kids.  But I struggle, as mentally I’ve only just turned 18.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I have this peri-meno malarkey thing going on.  Watching helplessly as my body starts losing & gaining all at the same time (SEE HAIR LOSS vs CHIN HAIR GROWTH).

These days I spend more time tending my facial hair then I do the strands left on my head.

According to his nibs, my stubble is often the trigger he needs to remind him to shave.  (See WARNING below).


With a new-found waist the shape of a ring buoy I put it down to middle age spread, the spread my family warned me about when I was young and slim and NOT down to my love of cakes.

IMG_3403You can imagine my delight when I googled ‘doughnut shape’ and found it belonged to the long list of peri-meno symptoms.

No more panic attacks worrying I might have to join the gym or worse still give up cakes!

Of course, not only am I doughnut shape, sometimes my stomach blows up like a balloon, and I permanently walk around holding it all in, bloody hard work.

Just for the record, I wouldn’t bother with those ‘super-duper’ costly hold it all in knickers, they don’t work.


This isn’t something new to me I’ve been forgetting things, usually important things all my life (see MISSED FLIGHTS HOME).

Yet ask me to sing you a TV advert from the 80s and I’m there, word perfect I haven’t forgotten a word.

One advert that came to mind as soon as I started writing this post was the Ready Brek advert.

Anyone not familiar with what Ready Brek is……it’s edible papier Mache.  You will find it in the cereal aisles in all good supermarkets.

I bloody loved that advert (I was young!!) one bowl of Mache and you would trot off to school glowing from head to toe with heat.  It was they said – central heating for kids.

No matter how much of that shite I ate I never glowed, I was gutted.

Fast forward 30+ years and I’m glowing alright, but I don’t bloody want to now.

HOT FLASH (not to be confused with FLUSH)

Nope, the reason my face suddenly lights up like the red arse of a horny baboon is because I’m having a ‘hot flash’.

There are no set patterns to these ‘flashes’ they come from nowhere and their timing is shit.  Like when chairing a meeting, in a lift with strangers, talking to handsome men you know shit like that.

For anyone not familiar with what a ‘Hot Flash’ let me enlighten you:

  • You face will suddenly without warning ‘flash’ baboon arse red for a minute or two even three if you overthink it.
  • ‘Flashing’ has nothing to do with dirty old gits and overcoats.
  • The heat will be equivalent to the inside of a furnace + 100 degrees.
  • You will be unable to have a ‘flash’ without saying out loud ‘God I’ve gone all hot again’ even when no one is around.
  • You will start pulling at your top to show others you are hot and are attempting to cool down along with blowing air out your mouth in an upwards direction.

Apart from a bit of boob sweat that occasionally accompanies the ‘flash’ I thank God, I don’t suffer with the additional waterfalls of sweat.

1% of women…basically my jammy mum, have already drunk the whole bottle of peri-meno without so much as a headache.

As if things weren’t bad enough, one of my aunts recently described how she would lay in bed at night while her whole body would tremble from head to toe.  Believing she was getting Parkinson’s her relief was immense when it was all peri-meno related.



IMG_3404If you ask his Nibs about me + mood swings he will say “she’s not aware of how bad she is, it’s like breathing it comes natural to her”.

It’s like a cloud of raging irritability that hovers over me raining down every time someone, namely his nibs does something really SMALL, so small it shouldn’t even bother me but it does, like breathe or talk at the wrong time.

Add in the sound of his nibs eating pork scratchings and I’m literally fit to kill.  (See above WARNING).

Sometimes I feel guilty about the way I ‘give off’ but I actually can’t help it.  Somtimes, when I’ve been really bad I even apologise.

And then there’s the sensitivity.  I’ve always be sensitive (see DISBELIEVING KIDS) but I’ve got worse.  My eyes drip almost as much as my bladder.  It’s a real struggle just getting through an episode of Bake Off without being in bits when someone goes!


When I asked His nibs for what he thought was the biggest peri-meno difference for me he answered  ‘your always tired’.  (see EXCUSE).

Back to real tiredness and I don’t think I’m any more tired now than I have been for the last 16 years since becoming a mum and playing house.

I’d probably be even more tired if it wasn’t for his nibs being so hands on at home.  I’m very fortunate there.

I imagine the tiredness is probably like a wave of heaviness setting over you until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.

Happy to report that’s not hit me yet.


The first time I woke up in the dead of night for what I thought was absolutely no reason at all terrified me.

I lay motionless…..face burning real HOT, why the hell had I woken up, I NEVER wake up, there could be only two reasons either someone was in the house or I was about to experience something that would see me on the next episode of  ‘A Haunting – it happened to me’.


Cooling my face down I eventually drifted back off to sleep.  I only used to wake up occasionally but now its practically every night up to several times a night.

However, when I wake its not for long and I’m able to easily fall back to sleep.  One sure thing is I wouldn’t be without my fan, no way can I go to bed now without having my fan on.

And I dream a lot more than I ever did, weird horrible dreams.  More worryingly is I remember them in detail the next day and I have to try really hard not to Google what my dream meant just in case it predicts something bloody awful!


The need to visit toilets becomes more frequent.  Don’t be fooled into thinking that just because you went before you left home you will be safe for a few hours, this is not always the case.

Once upon a time, before having kids I proudly had the bladder of a camel.  I could carry a full load all day and not lose a drop even when in the midst of hysterical laughter.

Four kids later and the peri-meno to boot, let’s just say I’m not proud anymore.


I’ve switched from buying Always Night-time to buying Tena Ladies, hiding ‘my problem’ deep in the trolley (funnily enough spellcheck wanted to change Tenas to Tunas……..annoying, but I see the connection!).

Even the simplest of things like sneezing, laughing even walking can cause unwanted leakage.


Back in my school days I considered myself a good player.  So good I stupidly believed I still had that same ability and agility.

Before I started my first match, I went along to watch the team at work and refresh myself on it all before signing up.

Naturally once I committed I insisted I needed proper netball trainers.  His Nibs and his bloody voice of reason told me it was all a ‘waste of time you won’t keep it up” blah blah blah and how I should buy a cheap pair just to see how I got on.

I hate that voice of reason, it always butts in when you least want it.   I didn’t want to hear sensible talk I wanted proper overpriced, netball trainers.   I was in for the long haul.  Why couldn’t he just believe in me.

I left the shop overpriced trainers in hand, I was good to go.


Me, Court 2, and a Goal Attack tabard and I literally had no friggin idea where to take up position court.  Not a good start.  Laughing off my mistake I stood there wondering what the hell I was doing.

In that moment the awful realisation wafted over me the player I once was had long gone.  I literally ran around like a headless chicken avoiding the ball at all costs.  It was bad.  When I did catch the ball it was totally by accident, I didn’t want it and it showed, my feet were everywhere, and I threw it to the wrong side.

And seriously, how much running round a court can you do!!!

I never made it to the half time whistle I found myself feigning a knee injury just to get off the court and have a bloody rest.  The added problem my Tena was proving unable to hold up.

Let’s just say my bladder proved as weak as my netball skills.

So you see, its been in all the news.  I think it’s important we all talk about ‘the change’ why not its nothing to be ashamed of?

Why suffer in silence?

As for me well I’m not having people think I’m a right miserable old cow without attaching a bloody good reason to it!!

Anyway, anyone want to buy a pair of netball trainers, worn once all reasonable offers considered!


Mother Still No Wiser After Teenage Slang Explained.

It was only a year ago – okay….so it might feel like a year but sadly, it’s like twenty-five years longer, when I was an eye-rolling, straight-talking teenager.

It would seem since having my own kids a lot has changed, including the English dictionary!

Back in my day if I said I was ‘talking’ to someone it meant I was talking to them, engaging in conversation, asking them if they had any fags or booze that kinda thing.

Back in my day, there was colour TV, I only mention this as my youngest son recently asked me if it had been invented when I was young.  I wouldn’t mind, but he was deadly serious when he asked!

Today, it would seem ‘talking’ is not ‘talking’?!  Confused?  I am even after writing this.

I reckon learning Russian would be easier than trying to fathom out what the hell my teens are on about half the time!

So, if like me, you don’t speak teenage-language fluently have a look at wtf-does-that-teenager-mean dictionary for further help and confusion.

It’s only a small dictionary, five words in fact.   There are shit loads of other WTF words but it’s so bloody confusing I couldn’t be arsed to explain any more than five.



Teenage ‘talking’, not to be confused with “engaging in speech”.

‘Talking’ said in a lower tone (the tone is very important!) is the stage between being friends and dating.  The bit before becoming ‘a thing’ (see below).

It doesn’t mean two people are talking about getting a McDonalds or shit like that, no it means they are ‘talking’.  Are you with me….?

So the couple, who are not a couple, are however having a sort of relationship but are still NOT a couple, they are just ‘talking’.

In a nutshell its the stage between just friends and dating.


Its gets even more confusing….!


Please note a ‘thing‘ does not refer to an unknown entity or Cat in the Hat.


A ‘thing‘ refers to being together…..but NOT in a relationship.  I repeat NOT in a relationship.  Being in a ‘thing‘ is a step up from ‘talking‘.

You have both established that you like each other (bloody hooray for that!) it’s exclusive but its still not a relationship.  Even more confusingly you CANT, yes that’s right CANT get with anyone else while you are having a ‘thing‘ that is not a relationship.

Are you with me……..no, okay an example perhaps to make it clearer:

Me: “Adam, are you dating Eve?”

Adam: “No but we have a thing, and she can’t see anyone else”.

I know, I don’t get it either, pointless springs to mind and why not just say we’re friends with benefits and be done with it, but I’m betting that’s a different term altogether.

Which brings me to full blown dating.  I didn’t ask them what that’s called, as I was still making notes on ‘talking‘ and ‘thing‘.  God only knows what they call ‘dating’ and how complicated that must be!


A totally unidentifiable word which has nothing to do with the noise a bird makes.

It simply means ‘Flirting’.  I know, simple eh…….how did we not guess!

For example: she is deffo on the chirpse tonight.  Seriously, how ridiculous does it sound!

I think she is deffo on the ‘piss’ tonight sounds better and is clear for all to understand.

I know, I hear you, what the hell has ‘Chirpse’ got to do with being on the piss? nothing…nothing at all.  There is no connection, it’s me being random just like teenage slang.


Anyone wanna guess???  No, okay it’s an expression of real admiration.  Often used by boys to describe girls.  It’s a compliment of the highest order.


ie. my husband thinks I’m peng and he’s dead right I am!

It can also mean great food.

Example: “That kebab with bad boy chilli’s was peng mate”.

I asked my kids the other day if their dinner was ‘peng’, I sounded stupid.  “Why are you talking like that mum, no one your age speaks like that,” said my teen son with a wtf raised eyebrow.

Thats right no one my age does.  So just for the craic and not because they have, once again said ‘I’m old’ whilst not eating their dinner.  I might use it when we’re out eating and the waiter asks if our food is okay, I will say “its peng thank you” and laugh loudly to draw even more attention to our table.


Opposite of peng.  And when I say opposite I mean the complete, further than you could possibly go opposite of peng.

Describes the opposite sex as being really ugly.  No further explanation needed.


I couldn’t end without jotting down two things, not slang words but ‘friendship code’ (my words before my two teens recoil in horror at this) I was just jubilant I finally understood what these meant straight from the off!!!

Chicks before Dicks

Bro’s before Ho’s

Both self-explanatory,


As for me, this ‘ole girl will keep using the words we all understand, thanks very much, such as:

‘as if’

‘eat my shorts’ or

‘butt ugly’

which according to my son “no one speaks like that any more Mum”.

This might be so, but give me words understood worldwide it makes life so much easier.  Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.   Of course not forgetting text speak:


I bet you just googled the above eh!!


Mother Appeals for help finding teenage sons PE bag.

A TEENAGE BOY simply can’t understand why his PE Bag keeps disappearing his mum revealed today.

Mr & Mrs. R. U. Kidding’s Son’s PE Bag complete with school shoes, trousers, shirt, tie and brand spanking new PE Kit remained missing as night fell yesterday.

The unnamed 14-year-old teenage boy, through no fault of his own, has once AGAIN lost his PE Bag.

The missing bag was last seen on the floor in the Gym.  However, distracted and chatting to a mate on the way out comparing abbs it’s unclear at this point whether he had his bag on him.

A source close to the family said “it’s not the first time this has happened, its only 4 weeks into the term and its happened again”.  There is a missing something nearly every term, and the majority involve his own fault,” she said.


The bag was only discovered missing the other morning when his mum checked his timetable and saw he had PE.

Totally convinced but with absolutely no clue at all, the unnamed teen said it was in the house somewhere.  When ‘somewhere’ failed to turn the bag up he had a lightbulb moment and said actually it was definitely in the car.

Not wanting to hinder the search in any way, he remained seated on his arse eating his breakfast while the search continued.

With the bag not in the car either, the un-named teen appeared strangely shocked when informed.

According to his mum, who is an excellent finder-of-things, this is not the first bag he has lost.

In fact, since starting school he has had 3 bags go missing, none of which have been his fault and countless pairs of PE socks.

“It’s worrying to think there is an unknown entity randomly taking PE bags” she said.

When asked where he’d actually looked he said, “I checked the space between my feet, twice and a radius of 0.00 km outside the space between my feet”.


After the second day of searching, Mr. R. U. Kidding returned to the last place his son had it on that fatal day.  Sadly to no avail.

“Unfortunately, my bloody crystal ball wasn’t working that day,” said Mrs. R. U. Kidding “otherwise I would have known to double check he had it when he got in the car”.

She goes on to recall “He was waiting for me at the bus stop, as he couldn’t be bothered to walk.  It’s not an excuse, but a bloody bus appeared from nowhere and I shouted to him to move his arse quick into the car.

It always happens doesn’t it, the minute you pull in to the bus stop one appears out of nowhere telling you to piss off out of the space”.

With rolling eyes her son sighed, adding: “Exactly, I had to rush and you should have checked.  You don’t understand”, he told our reporter “I’m tormented daily by mum repeatedly nagging me to make sure I have my bag, I’ve told her not to keep on.

Already this morning she’s nagged me at least 15 times and again in the car on the way to school I’ve had to put my earphones in to drown out the nagging”.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is she needs to chill out,  it’s not as if I do it on purpose”.

Appreciating her son’s sense of humour she laughs shaking her head.

He adds:’I am a big appreciator of my parent’s reminders, but mornings are fraught enough with finding the gel for my hair, spraying myself liberally with Lynx Africa and catching up with all my messages.  After all I’m not the only one who loses bags, everyone does”.


His mother responded, “Who’s everyone?” with no response she continued “It’s about time something was done, clearly these boys aren’t losing their kits, no-sir-reeeeeee clearly someone is helping themselves to them as soon as their backs are turned”.

“It’s such a lottery tossing it in the classroom without a second thought and walking off.  Will it, won’t it be there when they return”.

“This is the danger when I’m not around to do his thinking for him, things go missing”, she added.

Mrs. R. U. Kidding appreciates though, there are boys who have been clever enough not to turn their back on their kits, therefore outsmarting the unseen entity.

 Mrs. Knott-Mine was asked if her son ever had his kit ‘taken’ ? she said, “gosh no, he’s responsible and thinks” laughing smugly.

Mr Will E. Learn scoffed “how does she put up with it? NO way I would have this!”.

Mrs. R. U. Kidding hopes this is the last time it happens, however, she is a realist and like all things teenage based she lives in hope and dies in despair.

Mrs R. U. Kidding would like the readers to know that fortunately her son is in no way traumatised by this recent event.  He has no flashbacks or pangs of guilt.  It is after all NOT his fault.

The search for the PE bag(s) continues.  Note: All PE Bags are Adidas branding, no way was he taking any old cheap shit to school!

If you see an extremely pissed off mum in the South East of England searching random places please do not ignore her, instead offer to lend a hand in the fruitless search.  She will be pleased to have company.

Lucy At Home


Anyone else an undercover Mum having fun?

If you love days out, trawling round ‘attractions’ with kids, then you may want to skip to a blog that champions it.  This is not one of them!

Let’s be honest: Days out with kids can be stressful.  Believe me, my blood pressure can go from normal to dangerous in a nanosecond.  Early starts are fraught and rows herald the start of the journey ahead.

The older they get the harder it becomes to even get mine out, let alone agree on where to go.  They either look at me as if I’m stark raving mad sporting two heads when all suggestions are considered such a ‘baby’ thing to do!

Worse than that, why would I think they would even want to venture out in public with us, the tension would be too much to bear knowing they might be spotted in transit with the parents.


Over the years I’ve endured some really shit days out, really bloody boring.  Not because I didn’t like being out with my kids, no sir-reeeeee I love being with my kids, the shit days were mainly down to attractions being a total let down.

Let me share with you an extract from my upcoming book 100 Shit Days out with Kids, okay so I lie, there is no book, but there are shit days out with kids.


I never enjoyed it the boredom of walking round local attractions.  I used to get home completely exhausted from upholding a smile steadfast and unwavering while wandering round ‘attractions’ as an undercover mum having fun, a great time!

Most, but not all, days were spent convincing the kids we were having ‘fun’.  Visiting museums and the like could be stressful, especially keeping my eyelids from drooping whilst nudging the kids to keep quiet about ‘being bored’ while the guide finished his talk on ancient history.


I was always keen to try something new and always open to suggestions of places to visit.

One such place, local to us, was a home to birds.  It was highly recommended and came with the taglines ‘fun, interesting, birds, good day out’ and how kids just LOVE it.

There were plenty of reviews online supporting this:

They lied read:

  • Daisy from Deluded:  ‘Had the best day EVER, and such good value’
  • Freddie from Not Fussy:  ‘Fabulous day out can’t wait to go back.
  • Mrs. Einstein from Bighead:  Little Johnny loved it, he spent ages admiring the rare birds end taking notes.

Like most parents, I love having fun, even with my kids!  Nothing warms my heart quicker than seeing joy written all over their faces.

Post-visit, my review would read more like this:

  • Thank god that’s over.
  • Never going back.
  • Little Johnny couldn’t have given a shit if they were rare or not, they all looked the same to him.
  • We were robbed some people may call it ‘entrance fee’.

And before anybody yells miserable cow, I know we can’t ALL like the same thing, and these places try their best blah blah.

Question is, are all these people really enjoying themselves?

More importantly are their kids? the whole reason to be there in the first place.


To be fair one person did enjoy it, sort off, his nibs.  But then he’s always been keen on birds, he even likes the feathery type as well.

His ‘fountain of bird knowledge’ is extensive.  He liked nothing more than bombarding us with bird info.  Which to be honest, could have been any old made-up-shit we wouldn’t have known or even cared, but it sounded convincing.

However, I don’t want to only single out this one attraction, most attractions we’ve visited over the years have been pretty much all the same, minus the birds.


Theme Parks are all about queuing and, sometimes if you’re lucky it’s about the rides.

It’s about queuing for at least an hour to experience a 2-minute ride.  It’s about speed, how quickly can you get your stiff arse in the seat before you’re being asked to get your stiff arse back out. There’s nothing graceful about these manoeuvres!

It’s about joining queues and moaning continuously, even joining in with fellow queue moaners, while eyeballing the smug bastard with sheer hatred as he breezes by clutching a fast pass.

Finally, when the park closes (yep we endure it right until the end I’m getting my money’s worth) it’s off to sit in the car to join another queue.

It’s about concentrating hard on keeping bumper to bumper with the car in front and avoiding eye contact with the smug bastard seen earlier waving a fast pass, edging his way out.



Guaranteed to raise my blood pressure in a nanosecond.  No matter how many toilets you pass, or how many times you ask if they need it, they never will, not until you are at least 5 miles clear of any or the closest one being by the entrance 4 miles away.

Or when you are just about to lose the will to live from queuing for the last hour, you see hope as you move into second place – and they need the toilet, and they want to go now!!!

Souvenir Shop

This is a love/hate relationship for me.  I love: The sight of the Souvenir shop fills me with relief, it spells END for me.  The urge to start whooping and sing hallelujah fill me as I cross the finish line.

I hate the hassle of trying to make it through and past all the shelves of tat without having to whip out the credit card to indulge the kids in some bookmarks for books they don’t read or a pencil case they will later decide they don’t really like.

“Mummy can I have this, please…..please mummmmmmy” translation “Mummy can you just throw £10 in the bin on your way out”.

And don’t you find there’s always a long queue in here, why?

Useful/Fun Facts

This is the bit I struggle with.  Not because I can’t read but how long is long enough to wait and LOOK as if I’m reading it without moving on to quickly.

To all other interested parties, I might look like I’m enjoying it and reading the facts, when in fact what I’m actually doing is wondering if I’ve waited long enough staring before moving on?

His nibs is often doubtful of undercover fun mum, regularly trying to blow my cover with questions such as:

did you actually read that’? –

‘since when have you been interested in that’?


Confirmation of ‘fun’ days out in colour or black and white if feeling arty.

Concrete proof showing everyone “had a great time”.  No one needs to know what bribing or lengths were gone to just to capture the “we are having fun” shot – take 100.

Not forgetting one million and one photos of birds, lumps or rock, windows any random shit to prove you were paying attention and an amazing day by all was had.

Then its home to upload them all on Facebook for all your friends to ignore like.

Sharon has uploaded a new Album titled Beautiful Birds (I know the excitement it must generate!) with the tagline ‘truly some of the most beautiful birds we have ever seen’.


We always bring our own food.  Simply because its bloody expensive at these attractions and I know I will just end up being that moany “jeeze we could have bought ten in Tesco’s for that price” kinda mum.

Admittedly our food has been scoffed long before lunchtime arrives mainly because we spend the first two hours walking 10 steps to stop, open, eat and close the backpack….and repeat.

With all food demolished the kids are S-T-A-R-V-I-N-G they simply can’t go on.

This means one thing, pleas for hot food and promises of how they WILL eat it, they won’t waste it this time……..promise.

As soon as a chip passes their lips, a frowns forms and moans of it tastes “funny” ring out and 4 bags of fries tossed back in my direction.

So it’s off to find a bin, and a corner for me to sit and mourn the loss of my last penny and sanity.

Play Area

They will do anything but play.  They will want to sit with you, moaning constantly how bored they are and how your 3 yo thinks it’s soooooooo babyish.

You will spend the whole time telling them ‘how lucky they are’ and dishing out idle threats.

They won’t be content with playing on the ‘free’ stuff, the pay per go airplane or car is way more appealing.

Finishing off with a high pitched whingy voice pleading for just one go on the wall mounted plastic tub housing something impersonating a bag of skittles on a diet from 1995.

Entrance Fee

Unless you have a cereal box, Clubcard vouchers or your rich friend’s merlin pass be prepared for the sight to be robbed from your eyes to get in.

Any other undercover mums out there?


I can’t believe it’s September – just think it won’t be long until Christmas or more importantly, not long till I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’.  Ooooh I wonder who will be in it this year, what A lister can we look forward to and what off the Alphabet Lister will we all be googling to find out who the hell they.

I love September the start of Autumn.  To be honest, you may know from previous posts I’m not reaaaaaaaaaallllly a summer person.  I prefer frosty mornings, nights in, fluffy pj’s and my bed warming up nicely with our electric blanket, dual control of course!

September heralds the beginning of the no-need-to-shave-legs-for-ages season.   Let’s pause here for a sec to appreciate just what a bloody relief it is.  All further use of razors and hunting shaving gel is suspended until at least Spring.

September sees TV go from what is this shit? to a whole load of decent ‘drama stuff’ and the Great British Bake Off. All annoyingly shown at the same time on different channels.  Thank God for Sky Q.


Early greetings of “morning” are replaced with “OMG it’s so cold, is the heating not on?”, (naturally his nibs is still with the “morning” greeting).

It’s the only time of the year, apart from Christmas, when I enjoy popping into the supermarket.  That warm, fuzzy feeling when I walk in to see a sight to behold, the all recognisable blue & purple tubs back and underfilled with bite size chunks of chocolate.  Welcome back Roses and Miniature Heros.

To mark this annual celebration, I like to get off to a flying start and double up, after all I have kids and who knows how long the 2 for £8 offer will last?

These tubs allow us as a family to spend quality time together, indulging in a favourite game of mine, (and one I’m particularly good at) how many tubs can we get through before Christmas.

The beauty of this game is it only needs one player (mainly me). To be honest, I think its best played solo until only toffees are left.


While September heralds the arrival of colder nights and mornings that one thing that sets it apart from any other month is, the resurrection of the heating police aka his nibs.

What is it with men and bloody heating?  If I dare to say ‘I’m cold’, I’m promptly told the heating doesnt need to be on.

He likes nothing more than repeating the following, daily even hourly:

  1. Not until the 1st October;
  2. It’s not cold;
  3. There’s something wrong with you feeling that cold;
  4. Put a jumper on if you’re cold;
  5. Think yourselves lucky, in my day we had frost on the inside of our windows;
  6. Did you have the heating on today?
  7. The weather shows its going to be 18/19/20 degrees tomorrow


His ambition, this year, is to beat last years record of making it right through to the middle of October before turning on the heating.

It’s a really big deal, and one he has many discussions about with friends over a pint.

“Just think how much money we’ve saved last year by not having it on in September” he said proud as a peacock.  Ever the dutiful wife I allow him that moment, after all ignorance is bliss.

Luckily, in the absence of radiator heat I have the chilly evenings covered – the fire in our living room – this saves any potential loss of fingers, toes or ears to frostbite.

With a nice t-shirt temperature, his nibs is usually heard gasping for air whilst whispering how, any minute he is going to pass out with the heat, dramatic I know.

All he has to do open the door to Narnia aka living room door to allow the cold air in to circulate and momentarily revive him.

Any longer than ‘momentarily’ and I am prone to spontaneous ear splitting shrieks of “shut the dooooooooooooooorrrrrr”.


When the heating is finally switched on the next ‘battle’ is – what temperature should it be?

His nibs and I differ on temperatures, enormously.  I like to crank it up to a respectable ‘heatwave’ temperature whilst he likes to bring it now a few notches to I ‘can-just-feel-my-fingers’ degree.

Turn it up, turn it down, turn it up, turn it down.  Repeat.  It’s a real battle of the wills between us.

The one advantage I have this year is, with a new boiler and an accompanying all singing, dancing thermostat his nibs as yet to use it.

I will of course leave him to work it out in his own time, as I will be far too busy keeping warm to show him how it works.

Of course, I’m sure our house isn’t the only house limited to this.  Who else has a husband like mine?