Do you know who I am!

I have two followers, and real live people are reading this. Thank you all, you're making me happier than I felt when I discovered the lie about power tools.

I'd like to tell you a bit about my job, but being a lawyer client confidentiality issues prevent me sharing some stories. I could tell you about the GT Memorial Coffee Machine, but then I'd have to kill you. If anyone from my firm is reading this, I'm sure you won't mind me saying that we're a bunch of missfits, a small but perfectly formed band of criminal defence solicitors, fighting the law and generally losing. If you do mind you can pelt with with elastic bands later. I stumbled upon this place after a three year maternity break when I could no longer contemplate another morning at the Church Hall singing Row row row your boat with the little darlings. Despite my father's attempts to invoke deep maternal guilt at being a "working mother", I cheerfully exchanged my vomit encrusted mummy uniform for a suit, and went back to work. I hear lots of stories about how women cry when leaving their offpsring at the nursery for the first time. Sure I was crying - tears of joy - with the timeless words of Martin Luther King resounding in my ears FREE AT LAST.... In fact the only emotion I felt remotely like guilt was that I felt no remorse at all.

So, I donned my suit, swapped a nappy bag for brief case, and reunited myself with the human race. I always wear suits to work, not because I think people take me more seriously in formal attire, but because of an incident, in the early days of my career, long before the little darling came along. I represent convicted prisoners, a dirty job I know but someone has to get those deviants back on the streets so that my criminal hack colleagues can represent them when they re-offend. I also enjoy being the sort of person that pisses off News of the (oh no, prisoners are allowed to breathe oxygen) World readers. Please stick with me, I am getting to the point. I went along to HM Prison Drake Hall, an open womens' establishment, to see a lady lifer client. It was a long journey so I dressed for comfort in jeans and t-shirt. After the visit had finished I walked out of the prison - no gates or walls in an open prison - towards my car. I became aware of someone running towards me, so I stopped and turned around, and a prison officer shouted at me, where the fuck do you think you're going! He had mistaken me for a con. There was one further incident when I was mistaken for a Probation Officer. Quite frankly this was more offensive, and I've power dressed ever since.

I must get back to the day job now, but hope to share some more tales from the criminal justice system later.

The Blokeness Code of Practice, Volume 1

I've had some more thoughts about blokeness. The main symptom is clearly the inability to listen. Men really are childlike, and I don't intend that to sound patronising. Consider the similarities. Children and men do not do instruction manuals, they do not hear you asking them to do something remotely helpful, and while children believe in Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy, Spouse believes in the laundry and putting away fairy.

Last year we were lost in France, it was getting late, and we couldn't find the hotel I'd booked. I foolishly suggested that we stop and ask for directions. I had broken the sat nav the previous day when disembarking from the ferry Tom Tom suggested that we drive back across the Channel, so I impaled it on the dashboard (ok so I have anger management issues). The Little Darlings were rocking gently in the back of the car while Spouse and I disagreed about whose fault it was. Having the audacity to suggest we ask for help evoked the "don't be absurd woman" look on Spouse's face. I may as well have suggested that he dance naked down the Champs Elise. I was clearly asking him to break the Blokeness Code of Practice. Here is the code - I can't claim it's all my own work, but rather the fruits of extensive research...

1. Under no circumstances may two blokes share an umbrella;

2. It is OK for a bloke to cry under the following circumstances:
a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
d) One hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds into "The Crying Game".
e) When she is using her teeth

3. Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a mate out of jail within 12 hours;

4. No bloke shall ever be required to buy a birthday or Christmas present. In fact, even remembering birthdays is questionable behaviour. If you have to break this rule and buy Christmas presents, please ensure that you don't start shopping until 4pm on Christmas Eve;

5. When stumbling upon other blokes watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing;

6. You may flatulate in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she's officially your wife;

7. Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game (ie, can explain offside or LBW) and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers. You can then be assured she is a genuine Ladette, and follows a similar Code;

8. Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza;

9. If you compliment a bloke on his six-pack, you'd better be talking about his choice of beer;

10. Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary;

11. Thou shalt not buy a car in the colours of brown, pink, lime green, orange or sky blue;

12. Never speak the truth when asked the question "what are you thinking about" by your wife In fact, have some reserve lies at hand;

13. Never, ever put dishes in the dishwasher. It's ok to leave them nearby, as long as you chant the mantra "why have a dog and bark yourself" whilst carrying out the said operation;

14. Never ask for directions because this implies that the person you ask (who may be a woman) is somehow cleverer than you, and it may dent your ego;

15. Reading an instruction manual constitutes betraying your gender unless it's the Hains Manual which is very butch;

16. If you must buy your wife flowers ensure that you tell her they were on special offer at the local garage;

17. Never let your wife know where you are, and do not under any circumstances answer your mobile phone if she calls;

18. Ensure that you take your holidays during term time lest you are presented with an opportunity of bonding with your children;

19. Never ask your wife how she's feeling. She may give you an honest answer, and we can't be doing with the truth now can we;

20. Fight for custody of the remote control as though it were your progeny;

I'm sure there are other commandments in the Code. If anyone has any suggestions, please do share.

Drifting away with Doby Gray

I've woken up four nights in a row with the same question rattling around in my head. What exactly did Dylan mean by - it takes a lot to laugh; it takes a train to cry. I've listened to the song over and over, and it's confusing me even more. It does take a lot to laugh, I get that, but the train bit is baffling. Thinking about inconsequential questions in the early hours is, however, preventing me filling my brain with things that should be insomnia inducing, ranging from global warming to how I'm gonna pay that damn tax bill.

It's occurred to me over the last few weeks that music is the best way to prevent real life impinging on my consciousness. I have a playlist for every conceivable activity and emotional state. It's possibly an odd thing to say, but my life has been saved not by a DJ but by my ipod. Rather than sticking my fingers in my ears and humming, I plug into some sweet soul music, pump up the volume, and drift away (to steal a phrase from Dobie Gray). That song is pure poetry - give me the beat boys and free my soul, I wanna get lost in your rock n roll, and drift away...

The law of sod dictates that the sun shines all week, and it rains all weekend. My plans to do battle with the budlea have been dashed since I'm a fair weather gardener and it's raining. Instead I decided to do some DIY. Whilst sanding the staircase I devised a conspiracy theory that men have kept the pure unadulterated joy of the power tool a secret because it keeps us ladies relatively happy in the kitchen and laundry. Spouse huffs and puffs when he carries out any project in the home, not because it's a chore, but rather he thinks I'll be fooled into believing drilling holes in walls is the shitty end of the stick. I've seen the light at last!

I almost feel that I could be a bloke. Some years before the Little Darlings graced the stage that is my life I completed a blokeness quiz from a magazine like Loaded with a group of my gay male friends. There were questions like, have you ever travelled more than 200 miles to a football match, have you ever bought anything from Anne Summers, have you ever changed a spark plug and so on. I out-bloked them all. But boys will be boys and girl will be women, so I gave birth and re-connected with my feminine side.

This is totally unconnected, but I feel the need to share it with you. Boychild brought home the merit badge yesterday. Every week one child at his school is selected for the honour to celebrate an accomplishment. My first, undeniably unkind, thought was that he'd borrowed (stolen) it from another child. Perhaps this marks a turning point. Perhaps not. Although Jack has stopped undressing himself halfway through the school run in protest at having to sit still for a few hours, he's not a big fan of education. Just as well he wants to be a Police Officer when he grows up.

That's Ma Boychild

This morning at the breakfast table Boychild purposefully placed his cutlery on the side of his plate and said - if you were sick on a helicopter you could just stand up and lean out of the window - then carried on eating. Where do such comments come from, I wondered. He will be six on Easter Sunday, and I've finally arranged his party. He doesn't want any girls (pronounced gels) there, including his sisters. He used to like playing with girls as well as boys. He's changing, and I have very little control over the process, sadly. He won't let me kiss him any more, and if I manage so lamp one on him by surprise he grimaces and wipes his face with such vigour you could be forgiven for thinking he'd been hit by a rotten egg.

There is an upside to this: Jack used to join in with Spouse in "totty watch" whilst driving past the university on the school run. Thankfully his new dislike of all things female has taken the pleasure out of admiring scantily clad young women. And as long I promise not to kiss him, he still loves a cuddle.

There's nothing more unnerving than people being nice

Here are my thoughts for the day for what they're worth. The presenter of BBC Breakfast news made me laugh this morning. It was a good way to start the day. He made an uncharacteristic joke. Let me share it with you: The Americans are trying to sell The Flintstones to the Arabs. They've shown it to trial audiences. The viewers in Rhyadd don't like it but Abu dhabi do. I love the spring, and it seems to be having an effect on both the Little Darlings and the Spouse. The lighter mornings mean that I can pack away the fork lift truck formerly needed to extract them from bed in the morning.

Having said that Boychild has developed an extremely annoying habit. He has either a mild cold or hay fever, and, rather than blowing his nose, or excavating with a finger (which I agree wouldn't be pleasant) he's taken to inhaling mucus up his naval cavity. It's noisy and extremely annoying. He knows it annoys me almost as much as when he burps the national anthem. Spouse, wisely, suggested that I ignore it and he will stop doing it, that it's my (over)reaction that motivates the boy. I guess I just need to have something to be annoyed about, and today that's it. I find myself pretty irritated that there's not much pissing me off at the moment.

My usual role at home, other than that of invisible woman (see old blog for more details http://badmother.blogdrive.com), is chief interpreter. Boychild says to Father Parent, do you like the picture I drew at school today? Father Parent continues staring at the TV. Child repeats the question until I holler, Jack wants you to know if you like his picture. I've been thinking of investing in a megaphone. But there was none of that this morning. Spouse was attentive, cooked eggs for breakfast, and even packed the lunch boxes. Yesterday he asked me if I'm happy. I can't remember the last time he asked me that. In fact I'm not sure he's ever asked me that before. This is unnerving. My customary demeanour which ranges from being mildly depressed to incandescent with rage has been well and truly rattled.