Computer said no

The dreaded letter arrived from the Inland Revenue telling me that they are disappointed that I have neglected to settle my taxes, and invited me to telephone their Debt Management Department. I called the number, naively expecting a human being to answer and help me to manage my tax debt. I spoke, instead to a Geordie (Geordieland is to the English is what Texas is to Americans). The conversation when like this:

Badmother: I would like to come to an arrangement to settle my taxes.

Geordieman: Can e explain why ee not called like before today like since your tax was due on 31st January man?

BM: Because I haven't received a letter threatening to take me to Court before today.

GM: Did ee make provision like to settle your tax bill man?

BM: Clearly not or I would have paid up on time.

GM: Did ee not think it like would have been a ged idea man te make provision for your taxes man?

BM: Do YOU think it's a good idea to patronise fiscally challenged people who are trying to come to an arrangement?

And so it went on. He refused to accept my offer of a monthly payment and suggested that I borrow the outstanding balance from the bank. I told him that the banks won't lend money because of the regulations the Government have imposed on lending in a knee jerk reaction to the credit crunch, after the horse has bolted, so to speak. Aren't we all in a pickle, I volunteered. Silence. Geordie man then suggested that I come up with a satisfactory proposal within the next seven days. I agreed to see how much the twins would raise on ebay, and hung up.

Swine flu, child flu and manflu, compare and contrast

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EElqrgk4N0

Twin 2 is unwell. She is experienced in the art of throwing a sickie, and what with it being Monday morning I was sceptical. I went through the Badmother checklist I have developed to identify a scam:

1. Do not immediately check temperature. Closely observe child to prevent him/her pressing forehead against heater, then check for signs of fever;
2. Engage in close eye contact, and watch for signs of child looking downwards and slightly to the left whilst under interrogation about symptoms;
3. Ask the other Little Darlings whether there is anything in particular happening in school today, ideally before they learn of child's supposed illness, lest you fall foul of a sibling conspiracy.
4. In desperation inform child that you were intending to take them bowling/to the movies after school, but if s/he is not well...

Sadly Eve passed the test, and excelled herself by adding that her neck was stiff. I'm sufficiently cynical about Twin 2 to believe that she's heard that this is a symptom intended to make parents squawk, and run around hysterically looking for a glass to check for a rash that doesn't disappear under pressure. She didn't look that ill, but I did check out the NHS Direct website. They have a questionnaire that checks symptoms. When I added the stiff neck, and clicked next, an alarming red sign flashed at me - DIAL 999. Awe come on, I thought. Whoever disigned the questionnaire clearly has not come across a child with the inventiveness and determination to miss school as Twin 2. It's now 10.30 am and after an hours sleep and a bucket of Calpol she's slumped on the sofa watching Hannah Montanna and making demands every ten minutes in the style of a 1970s Secretary General of the TUC .

What concerns me more than Eve swinging a day off for a mild cold is that Spouse was sneezing loudly and dramatically over the breakfast table this morning. It did occur to me that the dire warnings of a Swine flu pandemic on breakfast tv had subconsciously tugged at his Y chromosome intent on inducing a bout of Manflu. This morning it was sneezing, this evening he will be coughing like a barking seal, checking his temperature repeatedly, and he will have a face like a slapped arse. Tomorrow he will struggle to the sofa, and whisper stoic phrases such as You go to work, I'll be ok.... probably. The kitchen will become full of every cold remedy known to mankind. Meanwhile I will fight the urge to say anything remotely like, get it yourself you lazy malingerer.

Paradoxically, I know it's pointless to suggest that if he really is as ill as his self reported life threatening symptoms indicate he should, perhaps, think about seeing a doctor. Another clause of the Blokeness Code of Practice that I forget to mention in an earlier post is - thou shalt not consult a medic unless you have a limb hanging off, or you have stopped breathing.

Sex in Simcity

Mg's of Valium: 0


Playlist: Hand Build by Robots, Newton Faulkner

Eve and I moved on a step further with creation theory this morning. She started playing the Sims, and insisted that I help her to get her Sim pregnant. Very cunning, I thought, while trying to come to terms with the fact that this issue is not going away any time soon. I was addicted to the game for a while - great escapism. Then I discovered Facebook which offered a more satisfying alternative reality to the cheep thrill of getting same sex Sims to snog. I can be very childish as you've no doubt observed.

Eve's Sim is called Lulu, and she's married to Pod. She made them herself, and I have no idea where the names came from. What is disconcerting is that I went to school with a boy nick-named Pod (we remain friends, largely through Facebook). The Sim she created was the very picture of the Pod that I know, and the idea of getting him to mate with Lulu made me feel like a fully blinged up pimp complete with three mobile phones, and spinners on my BMW. I lamely suggested that Lulu adopt a baby, which, in the game involves a simple telephone call. She stood silently with her hands on her hips, in much the same way I do when Spouse comes out with pitiful excuses not to mow the lawn. So Lulu and Pod got under the sheets and WOOHOOOED. Eve observed that baby making is a bedroom activity and I sensed that she felt this was enough information. Happily neither of us were ready for the mechanics which will either horrify her, or else she will find it screamingly funny - you to that with it!!!

As part of the fully rounded sex education a la Badmother I insisted that she look after the baby when it was born. In Simtown gestation takes approximately three Sim days. The Sim stork arrived with - you won't believe this - twins. I was pleased to observe that Sim babies are about as needy as the real thing, and Twin 2 begged me to help her take care of them. I told her I've been there, done that, got the vomit encrusted t-shirt. She left the game running, and went out to play. Along came Social Services to remove the Little Darling's little darlings. Another lesson learned.

Mg's of Valium: 0

Playlist: Feeder (The Singles)

Last night while being a bad mother, Boychild found Spouse's clippers and, well, you can imagine... He had etched out a kind of Mohawk on the side of his head. There was nothing for it but to give him a very short crew cut. He retired silently to his room once the procedure was over and contemplated himself in a mirror for a while. I knew it was only a matter of time before the tears and protestations started.

I remonstrated, telling him that he looks like a soldier, while inwardly facing the fact that he has the distinct look of a Romanian orphan about him. Spouse suggested that we get his ears pierced, buy him a hoodie and go for the "Laner Look". Burnthouse Lane in my city is a central location for our punters, and this particular class of criminal are referred to locally as the Laners. It's the closest thing to the hood we have in the middle class, largely Caucasian cathedral city of the west. When the Local Authority chose the name for the street the residents really didn't have a chance. They may as well have called it crime central. Perhaps the collective name for a group of young offenders should be laner: a pride of lions, and a laner of crims. I wonder if giving a street a particular name can induce it's residents to turn to a life of crime in a self-fulfilling prophecy sort of a way. It probably has more to do with the substandard housing and lack of pro-social activities, and the drugs of course.

Back to Boychild. His black eye has pretty much faded away. I'm not sure if his teacher could have coped with both crew cut and shiner at once. She avoided eye contact this morning nevertheless. Last week Boychild kicked Twin 1 once too often and she lamped him. I don't believe that violence is generally the best way's of settling one's differences, although it does keep me in business, but I have consistently advised the Little Darlings that if someone hurts them they hurt right back twice as hard. Kate was clearly listening.

Milligrams of Valium: 2

Playlist for the day: Misery (Pink); White Flag (Dido); Aint No Sunshine (Maybelle Queen); You're No Good (Betty Everett); Hurt (Johnny Cash); Things Have Changed (Dylan); Don't Believe the Truth (Oasys); Fill My Little World (The Feeling); Mr Rock & Roll (Amy MacDonald).

Now that's not what I call music

You know when you're destined to have one of those days, so in true Bridget Jones style:

Milligrams of Valium consumed: 4

Number of primal screams: 3

The phone rang at 7.15 am when I had one leg in a pair of pants, and Spouse was barking why aren't there any clean socks in my drawer. During the weekend my passive aggressive streak got the better of me, and I disregarded Spouse's clothes washing needs. The childminder was calling to say that she is sick and will not be able to collect the Little Darlings from school today. This was a particularly acute irritation since today is their first recorder lesson. I was counting on the childminder enduring the post first lesson enthusiastic practice, and by the time I returned from work they would have worked out that the recorder is, effectively, an utterly pointless, so called, musical instrument. The only purpose it serves, in my humble opinion, is to put children off music for life while simultaneously driving parents to revisit the decision to bring new life onto the planet.

It's quite simply an impossible task to make a recorder harmonic, even Mozart would have struggled. I have to concede that they are capable of making weird noses like the Clangers, but this is not exactly how I expect the hard earned money I invest in the Little Darling's education to be spent (ok so I still haven't quite cleared last term's fees, but that's not the point). The school must be aware of this. Normally we receive a permission slip when the children are to embark on a new activity. This was the case with drama club, football practice and swimming. The headteacher clearly knew that if parents were given the option of their Little Darlings being taught something useful instead of learning the the art of acoustic torment they would have signed only under Guantanamo style torture. When I deposited the Little Darlings at school this morning and the children compared their shiny new recorders in the playground (Boychild was using his as a gun, of course), we parents huddled in a corner and bitched. Sadly not one of us had the bottle to tell the teachers that we would prefer it if our offspring could kindly be exempted.

Now I have to ensure that during the evening of the concert at the end of term I am otherwise engaged before Spouse sneaks in his apologies.

Primal screaming

There is nothing more annoying (today anyway) to a bad mother than children's toys with more than five component parts that require assemblage. Consider the hell that is the lego set. Boychild received four sets for his birthday. I suspect that the source of this karmic retribution are the craft sets I gave to my nieces when I was a childless twenty-something (my sister in law still doesn't speak to me). I knew nothing about parenting then, and naively thought that glitter glue, stickers and finger-painting sets were fun. Bitter experience and sanding down the kitchen table on a regular basis during the Little Darling's toddler years taught me very quickly that arts and crafts are activities strictly for nursery and school.

These lego sets are nothing like the the small boxes of random coloured squares I played with as a child. Oh no, in my day they required no adult interventions whatsoever, and did not come with instructions that rival the Ikea (easy self-assembly ((my arse)) manuals). The kits that have been bestowed upon him this year require precision construction, eagle eyes, and the ability to stay calmer than Mother Theresa on Valium. Boychild has been hassling me to start on the 798 piece Indianna Jones kit all week, and this morning I ran out of excuses. He seemed to have sensed that it would be utterly pointless to ask Spouse - I fear he was born with the Blokeness Codes of Practice embedded deep in his consciousness and appreciates that to get his dad to consult an instruction manual would be sinful.

Mumma I'm not a patient boy, he said, menacingly, to me this morning. I took that as a threat: build my lego or your favourite plant/picture/ornament gets it. So I went peacefully to his bedroom where he had already opened all the packets from all the kits and helpfully jumbled them up all over his bed. I inhaled *in with love* exhaled *out with hate*, before embarking on the project. I don't like to be sexist, but lego could simply not have been designed by a woman. There are transparent pieces for heavens sake, and the instruction manual is helpfully in black and white so it takes an age to identify the required piece. Any woman would know that lego was not made for children's amusement, but rather to become embedded your feet when while creeping into your children's bedroom to turn off the bedside light when they've finally fallen asleep, making you shriek and wake the said children. It is also designed to block up the Dyson which Spouse cannot fix because, once again, it could involve consulting an instruction manual.

After three hours twenty-seven minutes Indianna had his truck. Four minutes later Boychild decided to send Indie flying down the stairs...

Dear Mr President

Referring back to an earlier post about my addictive personality, I have to admit that I kept another activity from you, although I strongly suspect that most of the people who kindly visit this blog know about it in any event. Last year some time I discovered a game on Facebook called scramble. It's effectively computerised boggle, and it's highly addictive. There is a reason that I'm telling you about this, and I'll get to it as soon as I can. You can chat to other players, and over the last six months or so I have formed very good friendships which I hope will be lifelong with a number of people from all over the world. In fact 27 of my 53 Facebook friends I've met through the game, that's just over half. Some people may think this is a little sad, but I get to socialise every evening with people whose company I enjoy without having to put make up on, and all it costs is the bottle of wine accompaniment.

Anyway, last night Sonja (Cape Town) and I were happily imbibing some grape juice, and Maureen (New York), amongst others, complained that it was too early in the day for her to join in. I agreed to write to the delectable President Obama requesting that the USA adopts GMT so we call all party. He's my letter:

Dear Mr President

May I first of all congratulate you on your decisive victory in the recent election. I have to, however, take issue with the widespread belief that you are the first African-American President of the United States of America: this was clearly President Palmer. I hope that you receive the same level of support from Jack Bauer if you are ever to come under terrorist attack, and I think it would be sensible to reinstate CTU.

I have made a number of friendships with your good citizens recently, and we like to chat to one another on Facebook over a few games of scramble (I'm sure a man of your taste will be familiar with it). The problem is that with the differences in the time zones between our respective countries, I meet my American friends during their afternoons, when I have finished my working day, and can enjoy a convivial glass of wine or two. This is making some of your citizens unhappy, which I am sure will displease you. I should therefore like to propose that you arrange for the United States to adopt Greenwich Mean Time.

In addition to the clear benefits of the peoples of the world bonding more freely, which can only assist in your determined efforts to bring peace on Earth, it would also encourage greater productivity in the workplace: do you have any idea how many Americans play scramble during working hours? If we were all able to meet across a scramble board in the evening there would be less delinquency in the work place, and this could bring an end to the credit crunch.

I appreciate that it will involve your countrymen rising in the darkness and sleeping while the sun shines. Once again I would respectfully point out the added benefits this opportunity offers. It has been widely reported that incidents of skin cancer are rising as a result of over exposure to the sun coupled with the effects of global warming (ask Al Gore if you don't believe me). Adopting GMT would consequently lead to less exposure to the sun, less cancer and a reduction in the resources required by Medicaid. You could perhaps then divert the dollars saved into your many worthy projects.

I appreciate you have many pressing matters to attend to so I will (s)ramble on no further, but trust you will give due consideration to the above matter.

Yours sincerely

Merlotjo

PS. I joined your Obama support group on Facebook, and if could have, I would have voted for you.

The birds and the bees - part two

I'm back at work and have exchanged whinging children for whinging clients. There's a kinda bush telegraph within the prison system, so word got out that I'm back the minute I walked through the door, and the phone started singing like a canary before I could make it to the GT memorial coffee machine. I escaped for a KFC fillet burger lunch (I know it's foul - pardon the bad pun). The staff have clearly been sent on a customer relations course. The beaming smiles and repeated requests from repeated staff if they could help me with anything else was truly unsettling. I did wonder whether to ask them to come take some phone messages at the office, or clean my car, but didn't want to risk facetiousness with staff for whom English was clearly a second language. There was a stupid new sign in the "restaurant" too: now made with 100% real chicken. Is KFC finally admitting that they previously fed us finger lickin' deep fried Ferrel cats? Probably best not to think about that.

Last night I made some progress with Eve and the birds and the bees. We watched a documentary about a baby being born. My tack tics are to work slowly back from birth to conception. Very very slowly indeed. She asked me if it hurts having babies. I was honest, perhaps too honest, and gave my best basilisk stare to Spouse whose only contribution thus far was to suggest that it may have smarted a bit. I didn't realise her eyes could actually occupy her whole forehead before. She has decided that adoption is the way forward. My work here is almost done.

Boychild's sixth birthday is over. It hasn't really bothered him that he shared his big day with Jesus but he is irked about two things: that the Easter Bunny is clearly suffering the effects of the credit crunch; and that his sisters get stuff on his birthday and he didn't get anything on theirs.

The twins have a big issue with sharing a birthday. Kate asked me how she could change her birthday. The only advice I could summon was that she marry Prince William, become Queen, and then she'll get an official birthday. She doesn't seem to think this will be a problem.

One of the best phenomenon of childhood is their unshakable belief that anything is possible. This weekend, while I've been struggling with Boychild's new lego set (that's another post entirely), Eve has been designing a rocket. She's told me it's top secret, so I can't disclose any details. She's worried that if the press get hold of it she'll have to fight through the Paparazzi every morning on the way to school. She's written to NASA and everything. She was so excited about the project that it made her cry, and that made me cry too. When she asked me to help her build it, I had to confess that I've never made a rocket before, and suggested she watch Apollo 13. There seems to be a film to address most parenting dilemmas.

But not this one. There is another topic Eve keeps raising with me that is even more challenging then making a plasma engine thruster out of a few planks of wood and a ball of string. She wants to know how babies are made, and she aint gonna be fobbed of with the when a mummy and a daddy love each other nonsense. I suppose I could let her watch Spouses Saturday Night Beaver DVD in the hope that it will put her off sex until she's at least twenty one, but even I recognise that would be yet another bad parenting decision.

She wants clear, clinical details, and I'm chicken. She asked me if you have to have an injection to get a baby... Kind of, I said. I knew this moment was approaching, stealthily from the murky depths of Twin 2's mind. I bought a book, but I'm too frightened to give it to her, because I can still remember the horror I experienced as a child when I realised that my parents did that twice in order to produce me and my brother. The other reason I'm resisting is that Twin 1 is happy as larry believing that babies appear, Zebedee like, as if by magic. And they are bound to share the revelation that willies are not just for weeing with Boychild. Jack had enough difficulty when he was about three and noticed that mummy didn't have something that he and daddy have. He looked at me in the shower one day, and, with tears welling up in his baby blue eyes asked, what happened to your willy mummy?

I guess I'm not ready to get off the magic roundabout of innocence yet, and Eve, sweetheart, you're gonna have to work harder to get me to spill.

I'm pleased to report that the walls of the money pit are still standing. Today's DIFY activities have gone without adverse incident, apart from Boychild intentionally stepping in the paint pot and making footprints everywhere. Children: you can't live with 'em and you can't live with 'em. I didn't like the parquet anyway. Home improvements are now officially known as do it your fucking self since the spouse has demonstrated absolutely no intention to get involved other than buying magnolia paint, and saying, helpfully, you've missed a bit.

Decorating is so much more tolerable now that I have an ipod to keep me company. Today's playlist was a combo of angry young women - Katy Perry, Pink, Duffy - and it helped me to attack the project with vigor. I'm in danger of turning the children mute though. Jack is so used to me not hearing him that he mimes everything even if I'm earphoneless. I like to think I'm bringing out the dramatist in him. Does music create a mood, or reflect it? I've been pondering that whilst painting the skirting boards. I've also started to re-read one of my favourite novels - High Fidelity, and the urge to write lists is overwhelming:

Badmother's top five things that will go up against the wall come the revolution:

1. slow walking people who, my friends will know, deserve to be punched in the back of the head;


2. managers of DIFY stores who peddle cheap magnolia paint;


3. magnolia paint;


4. Hannah Montanna;


5. the person at the Inland Revenue that is about to send me a letter demanding I settle my tax bill;


6. a sandal wearing probation officer in Essex - you know who you are.
   

Ok, I know that's six, but I couldn't decide who to edit out. Any more suggestions would be welcomed.

The Money Pit

So I've been neglecting my blog for a few days, but since I've had nothing to write about I thought it best to leave well alone. It's the Easter weekend, of course, which in my secular household means a trip to B & Q, and starting home improvement projects that will never be finished. Four years ago we moved into a big old Georgian house which had been in the same family for decades. Picture, if you will, Miss Havisham's pad in Great Expectations (but not as big). You couldn't contemplate a constitutional in the back garden without a masheti, and the interior of the house had last been decorated in about 1964. I remember laughing out loud while watching Tom Hanks in The Money Pit. Now just thinking about the film makes me start to rock, slowly, back and forth, back and forth.

I had grand plans to restore the house to its former glory. In four years we've installed central heating and an aga, and with the exception of the crayon murals and finger marks courtesy of the Little Darlings, not a single room has been decorated. The first project - operation install the aga - which should have been a simple two day project lasted five weeks, and involved rebuilding the chimney. Five long weeks of workman standing around scratching their heads and arses, drinking tea, and saying things like, I can but it's gonna cost you. It cost me every last penny and my sanity.

Today's trip to the DIY store reminded me of another reason that I don't shop with the spouse. I wasn't stupid enough to go with him, but sent him with very clear instructions to buy - sandpaper; undercoat, satinwood (white), emulsion (cream vinyl - or any damn colour he chooses as long as it's not magnolia). He ticked the first three boxes, and regarding the fourth, came back saying magnolia was on special, and it kinda looks like cream. I gave him my don't fuck with me on this point look and he went back and changed it. If I'd accompanied him we would have had the magnolia is NOT cream debate in public. Anyway it looks like I've embarked on project three - paint the house. Wish me luck... I can't help feeling that the minute I put a brush on a wall, the plaster will come crumbling down....

A & E -v- TV

It's the Easter holidays and I've taken a few days off work. Last week, while trying to clear the Brazilian rain forest off my desk I was really looking forward to a few, stress free days at home with the little darlings. It's day two, and I've already exhausted a month's supply of Valium. I've been logging onto my office computer and checking emails in the hope that I will stumble upon an excuse to drag me (fake kicking and screaming) back to the office. Sadly there's no crisis, no job someone else there can't handle, and so I'm here, desperately trying to think of low risk activities. Right now the Little Darlings are watching some vomit inducing American tv programme, but I estimate I have approximately twenty-two minutes before they need entertaining.

The tv as a source of entertainment is much underrated in my view. It's generally safe, and can even be educational, although of late all the little darlings have learned about is the pinky pledge. Regrettably Boychild does insist on watching it, from time to time, while balancing on his head, but it's still less hazardous, on the whole, than outdoor pursuits. When he was a toddler Jack formed the habit of climbing on top of the tv and lying with his head hanging over the front of the screen. I would periodically remove him. I've read chapter and verse about the oppositional child, and followed the professionals' advice to choose my battles wisely, which is why I tried to ignore his climbing habits. This parenting style came back to bite me when the tv broke down, and the repairman came to take the tv away. The box had suffered such abuse at the hands of the Little Darlings, we abandoned his list of pre-existing injuries the set had endured, and I agreed to sign to say that it was "totally screwed". In any event the reason that the tv had ceased normal operations was that it was full, apparently, of toddler urine.

I'm not sure if it's a mother thing, but Boychild has me in a constant state of anxiety. While I was cleaning up after breakfast, Kate came in and as she poured herself a drink, nonchalantly informed me that Boychild was stuck on the trapeze. She said it so casually that it took a few moments to register. We don't have a trapeze, or so I thought. I then ran out back, and Jack had managed to rig up a kind of Heath Robinson death slide, and was stuck on top of it. I spoke softly to him as I approached, as though I've been trained to talk suicidal would-be jumpers away from the precarious edges of a tower blocks, with visions of yet another trip to accident and emergency looming large on my consciousness. I untangled him without incident, and begged him to watch tv.

The incident brought back memories of the forays we've had, over the years, to the local hospital, the most memorable of course being when Jack broke his leg. I remember the triage nurse carefully holding Boychild's head in his hands so he couldn't look at me, and asking him how it happened. I accept the nurse needs to check for signs of child abuse, but it did made me wonder if there is a secret record alerting staff when a certain number of visits have been racked up. Setting aside the illness as opposed to injury visits the Little Darlings have accumulated the following attendance record:

• When Kate was two she ate an Ariel liquitab (the sort that should go in a washing machine)


• Shortly followed by Eve diving head first out of a Tesco's trolley - that's when I assumed the Bad Mother title


• Next Eve sprayed perfume in Jack's eyes (or so I thought until, on the way to the hospital for the next trip, he confessed that he'd done it to himself)


• Most recently Eve dropped a marble chopping board on her foot.
  

I guess five trips in eight years isn't so bad. However, I now need to find some non-A & E inducing activities for the Little Darlings that doesn't involve Hanna Montanna et al.

While perusing the bookshelves I found a book Spouse bought me for Christmas - just his little joke - Debrett's Etiquette for girls. It occurred to me immediately that there had to be a post in there somewhere, and I turned immediately to the chapter, Food and Drink, subsection, Wine Behaviour. According to Fleur Britten (the minute her parent's named her she was destined to write pointless coffee table books) it's ok to sniff wine presented in a restaurant, and take a small sip. I knew that, although I rarely do it because I only eat out in restaurants with my gay friends who insist on grandiose swirling and deep inhalations followed by comments like, I detect a hint of nutmeg. All the while my eyes are skyward and my inner consciousness is screaming pour me a glass of plonk you pretentious arse. I love them dearly, but there are certain behaviours that drive me to distraction.

Protocol demands, according to Fleur, that glasses should only be filled half way without noisy sloshing. She also demands that one does not repeatedly re-fill the glass. The two rules are mutually exclusive - the glass must be filled to the brim to avoid continual re-filling. It was at this point that I lost interest in Fleur. Strangely enough she doesn't have a subsection on drinking special offer wine at home alone, so I'm not sure if I'm following the protocol. These are my rules - if at all possible ensure the Little Darlings are in bed before pouring the first glass... That's the only rule I can summon. Lets face it drinking wine is a relatively cheap and tasty way to get squiffy in the evening, and all the rest is bollocks. I know I drink to much and too often, and women of my age are under, it seems, constant scrutiny from the nanny state about solo wine drinking activities. I decided to take a test to see whether I'm an alcohologist (can't bear the term alcoholic since it summons up images of the go and wash brigade, slumped on the streets with a bottle of meths). If I am addicted to alcohol I'm doing it in middle class fashion. Ok so here's the quiz:

Give yourself one point for each “yes” answer.

1. Do you lose time from work due to your drinking? rarely - one of my rules is that I'm allowed to drink providing I make it to the office by 9 am. But I guess that's one point to me.

2. Is drinking making your home life unhappy? No way, it makes it tolerable.

3. Do you drink because you are shy with other people? No, I drink because I like feeling fuzzy.

4. Is drinking affecting your reputation? Not that I know of, apart from, arguably, after the annual office Christmas party, but since I'm always expected to win the most drunk person award, it's can't be affecting my reputation. If I were to stop drinking, now that would affect my reputation...

5. Have you ever felt remorse after drinking? I once got drunk and made a very expensive international phone call, does that count?

6. Do you confuse memories of things that have actually happened to you with things that you’ve seen happen to other people on T.V.? Not that I can remember. I often struggle with the plot of Lost after a few glasses of wine, but I don't wake up thinking that I've been shipwrecked.

7. Have you gotten into financial difficulties as a result of your drinking? I once spent all my money on booze during an evening out so I didn't have the taxi fair home. I don't think that counts.

8. Do you turn to lower companions and an inferior environment when drinking? No, I often turn to facebook friends for companionship while drinking, but the www cannot count as an inferior environment, surely.

9. Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days? Nope, I have never, ever decided to stop drinking for a week, period.

10. Are there periods of time for which you cannot account, no matter how hard you try? I guess I have to hold my hands up to this one. The period between 1987 and 1990 (my first degree) remains a complete blur.

11. Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking — stop telling you what to do? No one has yet been brave enough to tell me what to do vis-a-vis vino.

12. Has your ambition decreased since drinking? Nope, I've never been very ambitious.

13. Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year? If they mean hair of the dog, no thanks. I'm strictly a caffeine addict in the am.

14. Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble? No, envy is ugly.

15. Do you ever try to get "extra" drinks at a party because you do not get enough? That's just stupid, there is no such thing as an "extra" drink. I always get enough.

16. Do you sometimes “skip” breakfast or lunch so that you’ll have more money to spend on drinks? Nope. How could I possibly skip that Chardonnay lunch?

17. In arguments, do people quickly concede your point rather than risk having to deal with you when you’ve gotten overexcited? I rarely have a point, so, no.

18. Has the distinction between drinking alone and drinking with others become so badly blurred that you can no longer tell the difference? Whoever set this quiz really has problems. I've never spoken to an imaginary drinking partner, other than Harvey, of course, but he's a very real six foot white rabbit.

19. Do you tell yourself you can stop drinking any time you want to, even though you keep getting drunk when you don't mean to? I pretty much always intend to get drunk, so, that's another no.

20. Are there no longer times when you really don’t mean to get drunk? It depends on your definition of drunk. Ok so I'm a lawyer, you didn't really expect honest answers...

So the result is (drum roll): Scoring: 0-3: Risk low. Even people with no risk of alcoholism sometimes encounter alcohol-related difficulties.

The only alcohol related difficulty I encounter is when the shops are shut and I discover I'm wineless. I really must stop completing online quizzes.

I've spent most of the day trying to organise photos, and therefore haven't found much time to write. The computer keeps crashing too. I find it does that when you repeatedly smash the Ctrl Alt Delete keys. Sometimes I wish the Little Darlings had Ctrl Alt Delete keys so I could close down certain programmes they repeatedly run: can we have a puppy; I am NOT eating that; and if you don't buy me that you've ruined my life, to name but a few.

Anyway, I found a load of photos I'd forgotten about and thought I would share them with you. I've put it to music in the hope that it will be more palatable.

Do I look like Ban ki-Moon???

It's quiet here, very very quiet, disarmingly quiet. The children are on temporary release to the Grandparents this weekend, and I feel a little odd because it's over an hour since I shouted STOP IT. My little darlings are professional squabblers, and recently they've become pretty physical. Kate's room resembled a crime scene last weeked after Jack kicked her in the nose. I like to think that the fighting is some form of primeval reflex which will prepare them for life in the big bad world. I'm sure that if David Attenborough were hiding in the undergrowth in our garden, observing the little darlings, and whispering to camera he would point out that the verbal and physical sparring is quickening their reflexes, toning up their little bodies and preparing them for life in the wild. Just as the lion cub is more likely to survive the hostile world if he play fights his sibling, the twins will be better prepared for an annoying husband if they learn to moot with their irritating brother.

I try to stay out of it as much as is possible, providing there's no blood on the carpet. I've pointed out many a time that I am not the United Nations, and if they want an independent adjudication on who started it they should approach Ban ki-Moon. Is this lazy parenting, or am I encouraging them to develop their own system of conflict resolution?

It's time for a rant. I received a letter from the Parole Board today inviting me to comment on proposals to allow victims to attend life sentence prisoners' Parole Board hearings, and to present a statement concerning the impact the crime has had on them. They are already permitted to submit a written statement. I appreciate that it may be difficult to carry many with you with me on this one, but please hear me out.

The life sentence has two elements - a tariff (minimum term before parole is possible) which is set to reflect the requirements of retribution and deterrence. Once this term has been served the prisoner is entitled to be released if he or she can demonstrate that the risk of causing serious harm to the public in future is no more than minimal. Like it or not, this is the law. In setting the tariff the trial Judge considers the severity of the offence and the harm that it has caused to the direct victims, and society as a whole. To re-visit the impact of the offence on the victim for a post tariff lifer can only constitute a re-sentencing exercise, since it can have no bearing whatsoever on issues of risk. I don't make the rules. I try to work within them, but it increasingly seems that the Government are (to use a few tired old metaphors) pushing boundaries, moving the goal posts and generally taking the piss out of the law.

Since the Parole Board cannot legally take into account the views of the victims in deciding whether a life sentence prisoner can be released from prison, allowing them to be there is at best dishonest, giving them the false impression that they are playing a part in the process. At worst, the Parole Board will be swayed by the victim's views, and we may as well allow a panel of News of the World readers to decide who gets to walk the streets.

What concerns me is that there has been a shift, ironically, under new labour, from prison being about rehabilitation to purely about punishment. In my view it should be about both. If you consider the situation from a purely economic position, what is the sense in spending millions of pounds of tax payers money keeping offenders in prison if no attempts are made to change these people. The prison gate becomes a revolving door, and everyone loses.

And, to borrow a line from Forest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

I've had one of those days, and cannot seem to summon the creative juices. I feel the need to share something with you, so here is a copy of a genuine complaint made to Devon & Cornwall Police Force from an angry member of the public:

Dear Sir/madam

Having spent the past twenty minutes waiting for someone at Bodmin police station to pick up a telephone I have decided to abandon the idea and try e-mailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this message on to your colleagues in Bodmin, by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or Ouija board. As I'm writing this e-mail there are eleven failed medical experiments (I think you call them youths) in St Marys Crescent, which is just off St Marys Road in Bodmin. Six of them seem happy enough to play a game which involves kicking a football against an iron gate with the force of a meteorite. This causes an earth shattering CLANG! which rings throughout the entire building. This game is now in its third week and as I am unsure how the scoring system works, I have no idea if it will end any time soon. The remaining five walking abortions are happily rummaging through several bags of rubbish and items of furniture that someone has so thoughtfully dumped beside the wheelie bins. One of them has found a saw and is setting about a discarded chair like a beaver on speed.I fear that it's only a matter of time before they turn their limited attention to the bottle of calor gas that is lying on its sidebetween the two bins. If they could be relied on to only blow their own arms and legs off then I would happily leave them to it. I would even go so far as to lend them the matches. Unfortunately they are far more likely to blow up half the street with them and I've just finished decorating the kitchen. What I suggest is this - after replying to this e-mail with worthless assurances that the matter is being looked into and will be dealt with, why not leave it until the one night of the year (probably bath night) when there are no mutants around then drive up the street in a panda car before doing a three point turn and disappearing again. This will of course serve no other purpose than to remind us what policemen actually look like. I trust that when I take a claw hammer to the skull of one of these throwbacks you'll do me the same courtesy of giving me a four month head start before coming to arrest me.

I remain sir, your obedient servant

Dear Mr ??????

I have read your e-mail and understand you frustration at the problems caused by youth playing in the area and the problems you have encountered in trying to contact the police. As the Community Beat Officer for your street I would like to extend an offer of discussing the matter fully with you. Should you wish to discuss the matter, please provide contact details (address / telephone number) and when may be suitable.

Regards PC ?Community Beat Officer

Dear PC ?

First of all I would like to thank you for the speedy response to my original e-mail. 16 hours and 38 minutes must be a personal record for Bodmin Police station, and rest assured that I will forward these details to Norris McWhirter for inclusion in his next book. Secondly I was delighted to hear that our street has its own community beat officer. May I be the first to congratulate you on your covert skills? In the five or so years I have lived in St Marys Crescent , I have never seen you. Do you hide up a tree or have you gone deep undercover and infiltrated the gang itself? Are you the one with the acne and the moustache on his forehead or the one with a chin like a wash hand basin? It's surely only a matter of time before you are headhunted by MI5.

Whilst I realise that there may be far more serious crimes taking place in Bodmin, such as smoking in a public place or being Muslim without due care and attention, is it too much to ask for a policeman to explain (using words of no more than two syllables at a time) to these twats that they might want to play their strange football game elsewhere. The pitch on Fairpark Road , or the one at Priory Park are both within spitting distance as is the bottom of the Par Dock. Should you wish to discuss these matters further you should feel free to contact me on If after 25 minutes I have still failed to answer, I'll buy you a large one in the Cat and Fiddle Pub.

Regards?

P.S If you think that this is sarcasm, think yourself lucky that you don't work for the cleansing department, with whom I am also in contact!!

Please come back for a proper post tomorrow.