You really couldn't make it up

There is one good thing to come out of the MP's expense claim scandal: lawyers are, for the time being at least, not the most hated and least trusted profession in the country. Don't worry, I'm not going to carry on bleating on about that subject, and I promise not to mention that Alister Darling also put his dirty fingers in the public purse to pay his accountant's bill for preparing his tax return because "it was in the public interest that he paid the right amount of tax". He said this in answer to a question posed during a tv interview. No doubt the Nation were, like me, screaming don't we all, but we have to pay our accountants out of our earnings. The interviewer gave him a refreshingly hard time, and the only additional question I would have put to him is, how the fuck can you sleep at night you dishonest bastard. Sorry, I appear to be bleating on again.

A friend recently asked what the difference is, in the UK, between solicitors and lawyers, since in the US, where she lives, there are just lawyers, and solicitors are another thing entirely. In England, solicitors are forbidden from soliciting, in every sense of the word. I would say that's ironic, but I'm far too fearful of being arrested by the Irony Police to suggest that, and receive the caution "you do not have to say something ironic, but if you do not mention, when questioned something ironic you later rely on in Court..."

In the UK "lawyer" is an umbrella term for solicitors and barristers. Barristers are allowed to solicit, providing its not the sort conducted in Kings Cross, because their professional organisation, the Bar Counsel, actually supports them. They are also allowed to wear wigs and are not allowed to shake hands with each other. The Law Society, by contrast, continually rolls over on our behalf and charges us an annual levy for doing so. It also sets up specialised Panel's that we need to join to demonstrate that we are competent in our chosen field, and charges us a levy for doing so. It also invites the public to make complaints about us, and charges us a levy for doing so.

Over the last few years the Government has been looking for ways of cutting the Legal Aid budget (presumably so there is more cash available for the MP's state of the art electrical equipment) and along came the Carter reforms. Lord Carter, in his infinite wisdom, concluded that criminal legal aid should be the first to be cut since it would be popular with the vast majority of the public, and the only people to suffer would be already the most disadvantaged section of society and the least able to protest. So they brought in fixed fees for criminal work which means that it doesn't matter how much time you spend preparing a case you get paid the same. The Law Society wrote a polite letter to the Government saying that it was jolly bad form, and could they possibly reconsider. The Government blew are raspberry back, and that was the end of the protest. Trade unions are prevented, by law, from running a closed shop, and employees are entitled to join whichever union they please. The Law Society is a closed shop, but it suits the Government so we can expect no changes there.

The Bar Counsel, by contrast said, effectively "bring it on" with your reforms, and their members agreed not to accept briefs for fixed fees. A situation arose where, in a very high profile case where an innocent young boy had been shot to death by a teenager, no barrister would accept the brief to defend him. Since the defendant is entitled to legal representation under the European Convention on Human Rights, and it looked like the defendant may be acquitted on a technicality the Government were forced make an exception, and barristers are no longer stuck with fixed fees in certain cases. Bar Counsel - 1 - Law Society - 0.

A final word: a recent President of the Law Society who is now involved with the Solicitor's Regulatory Authority, advised that all reprimands, cautions etc that solicitors are bestowed for not being as brilliant as they should be sought a gagging order to prevent Private Eye from publishing the fact that he had, in fact, been repremanded whist in private practice. Is that ironic? Possibly in the Alanis sense of the word.

President Sarkozi is now officially off Queen Elizabeth II's Christmas card list. He didn't invite her to the D-Day commemorations. President Obama was apparently pretty peeved about this, hopefully recognising that the British made far more effort on the said D-Day than the cheese eating surrender monkeys. He offered to take her as his date, but she doesn't want to play, and is going orf to the races instead. It strikes me as a bit odd that the ceremony is to be dominated by the French, who didn't actually take part in the landings, and the Americans, who probably killed more Frenchmen in friendly fire incidents than the Germans, if their recent military record is anything to go by. Obama is the new kid in town, and everyone wants to be his best friend which is no doubt why Brown swallowed his pride and asked for an invitation.

I guess Brown is also trying to summon some media attention that isn't about cabinet ministers lining their pocket's with our money. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alister-eyebrows-Darling apparently made a mistake in claiming for a mortgage that had been paid off, or was the the Home Secretary, or both. There are so many thieving politicians it's hard to keep track. In a tv interview Darling apologised for the error. That's ok then, you've paid it back, no harm done. I'm considering calling Jordieman back, and saying that, oops, I forgot to pay my taxes on time, and since I'm ever so sorry, can they kindly repay the interest they charged me.

What the - Heck:where the bad kids go

Boychild is currently obsessed with death. This weekend he fashioned one of his toy boxes into a coffin for his, apparently departed, toy dog named Toto. He continually threatens to kill himself if I try to make him do things he doesn't want to do, and asks seemingly endless questions about what happens when one departs this motal coil. In the normal course of events I would have to refer him to Spouse to answer questions about heaven and hell since he actually listened in RE lessons, and strangely was a member of a church group in his youth. By contrast I was brought up by committed atheists, and irritated the hell (oops, bad pun) out of my RE teachers by constantly referring to religion being the opium of the people. Christ, I must have been an impossible child.

Now I have all the answers about where naughty little darlings go when they die, and I'm not afraid to share them. Forget the Bible, Dante's Inferno and Milton's Paradise Lost - Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go by Dale E. Bayse - has all the answers you need. This book is, peculiarly, an enchanting story about siblings Milton's and Marlo's post-death shenanigans in child hell after they die at the hands of a freak marshmallow explosion in a shopping mall, as you do. I'm not a fan of otherworldly fiction, but Heck is something else, and fed my addiction to satire and punnagry, and a couple of perfectly executed digs at the French made me howl.

Now Boychild believes that should be meet an untimely end he will be greeted by Bea "Elsa" Bubb, the Principle of Heck; he will undergo SATS (Soul Aptitude Tests); take Ethics lessons from Richard Nixon; and discover whether Home Economics teacher, Lizzie Borden, has an axe to grind with him. All this in a luridly evoked world of demons and, well, lashings of poo. The book works on a number of levels, from the ingenious concept to the savage humour and literary references, together with a really very touching development of the siblings relationship. The only thing that I don't get about Heck is that it seems to be marketed at children. It's far to good for them.

http://www.wherethebadkidsgo.com/

Dentistry is no laughing matter

I finally bit the bullet, or rather after biting on a chocolate bar which caused the kind of searing pain I last experienced in childbirth, in the general vicinity of my lower right wisdom tooth, I decided that after five years it was probably time to reacquaint myself with the dentist. I stopped visiting after a winged serpent creature from hell masquerading as a dental hygienist castigated me once too often for flinching when she stabbed me with a needle the size of a tooth pick, and I decided that either she had to die, or I had to neglect my molars. The alleged woman's face was incapable of breaking into a smile, and she made no secret of the fact that she found my nerve induced attempts at humour to be incredibly tedious. After considering the pros and cons of life imprisonment I concluded that, quite frankly, there are more interesting hate figures in my life that I would prefer to do time for, and therefore have ignored the check up reminders ever since.

I've been treating the pain with neurofen plus for a while but this week when I went to buy my 24 pack - the largest the nanny state allows you to purchase in one go - the pharmacist begged me to visit the dentist. Why can't we buy more than 24 painkillers in one go, it just doesn't make sense. If someone was hell bent on suicide by overdose they would clearly go to the double of visiting more than one pharmacy in order to get the job done.

During my five year break dental technology has moved on, and I was very impressed with the slide show presentation laid on my Dan - strange being on first name terms with someone that's about to do battle with your oral cavity - after he photographed and x-rayed each tooth, he explained why I'm in such pain. It was a bit like watching Peter Snow analysing election results: if you look at this pre-molar you will note the slight red shading indicating a dyxtal cavity, but the blue hint is suggestive of a resurgence of periodontal exclusion... It was about as fascinating as being shown live feed of my cervix during a biopsy a few years ago. There are just some things you can get through life quite contentedly not knowing. All I wanted him to do was extract the offending tooth. After the procedure he complemented me on my apparent lack of a gag reflex, but despite the fact that he's pretty hot as dentists go, I resisted the urge offer a quid pro quo for the costs of the treatment - you pull, I blow.

Expensive expenses or Hogs round the trough

Mercifully the current breakfast tv obsession has moved on from swine flu and is now centred squarely on expense claims submitted by members of Parliament. I lost interest in party politics some time ago when the Labour party abandoned it's principles and started trying to out tory the Tories, the Tories consequently had an identity crisis, and the Lib Dems got drunk and played with rent boys. I do feel aggrieved that I helped the incumbent Government into power by securing Spouse's vote which would otherwise have been cast in favour of the opposition by offering him a blowie. It is, however, delightful to watch politicians of all political persuasions desperately trying to defend making the nation pay for everything from the upkeep of their tennis courts and helipads, to keeping them in toilet paper and double espressos. I would, however, like to complement the appropriately named Douglas Hogg MP for submitting a claim for the costs of dredging his moat. That is so screamingly outrageous it's fucking hilarious.

My only regret about this story is that it broke after I concluded my dealings with Geordieman. Consider the fun I could have had by asking what my tax money was going to be spent on: it wouldn't quite cover the costs of the renovations on Hazel Blears constituency home, but it would have bought several Corby trouser presses. I could have offered to settle my tax bill by sending 2272 packets of chocolate Hob Nobs directly to the House of commons thus saving Geordieman the trouble of asking me any more asinine questions. Alternatively I may have offered to clear the arrears by cleaning up a moat or two, or pruning Hazel's roses every Sunday for the next six months.

Perhaps it would have been possible to negotiate a reduction in my tax arrears by agreeing some additional expenses to off set my income. Since crashing my car during a mult-tasking meltdown I have to walk far more (I do not recommend applying lipstick, sending text messages and having a sneaky smoke while in charge of a mechanically propelled motor vehicle) . I can no longer claim mileage, so perhaps some recompense for the additional wear and tear to the Choos would be in order. It is also necessary to dress well in order to avoid being mistaken for a prisoner or probation officer, so again, an LK Bennet clothing allowance should not be too much to ask for.

Just one final thought: if I fiddled my expenses I would not only have to re-pay the money, I would be sacked and struck off. Bring back Guy Fawks - all is forgiven.

I've spent most of the weekend trying to figure out how some facts seem to become embedded in the Little Darling's psyche, and other's don't. After school on Friday they watched an episode of Dr Who, The Shakespeare Code, where the good doctor takes Martha back to Elizabethan England (I appreciate that I'm in danger of alienating my non-Anglo readership) . Boychild asked who Shakespeare is, and Twin 2 announced, with the condescension of a Cabinet Minister, don't you know anything Jack, he was a writer when Jesus lived. I didn't know where to start correcting that one, so I let it go. I'm sure most parents have experienced the dinosaur debate - did they exist when you were little, when Granny was little, and so on. Their lovely little minds simply can't comprehend the expanse of history, and they seem to dip in and out of moments in time much like Dr Who in his TARDIS.

Twin 1 has a fascination for what did and did not exist when I was her age - she was horrified to learn that I had to endure only three channels on a black and white tv, that music was emitted from a crappy old cassette player, that windows were for looking through and mice were vermin, that the closest thing to a games console was etch-a-sketch, and that cutting and pasting involved scissors and glue. I suppose the Little Darlings' inability to comprehend life before technology is understandable. How the hell did anyone get any work done before email and the Internet? My first task every morning is to check the inbox, delete the plethora of invitations to extend my penis, have sex with an unfeasibly large breasted woman from Indiana, and pay my tax bill online. What I do love about email is that it reduces the number of telephone conversations with minions from the Ministry of Justice who are definitely somewhere on the autistic spectrum, and aren't on an extended period of sick leave, strangely enough, and therefore have to suffer my particular brand of sarcasm. I know it's the lowest form of wit, but you have to admit that it is incredibly funny.

More fuckwittery

One of the enjoyable things about being female and of a certain age is the ability to shock by uttering a few well chosen expletives. I love swearing, always have and always will. I know that a lot of people aren't fond of the c word, but there are circumstances when only cunt will do. Unfortunately my love of all things invective almost cost me my practicing certificate during my first year of work. I was completely out of my depth with a dispute over a will, and was being masterfully manipulated by a pompous arse of a solicitor representing one of the other parties. He he was afflicted with short man syndrome, and since I had the audacity to be newly qualified, female and tall I seemed to bring out the Napoleon in him.

One Friday afternoon just as I was about to leave the office he rang and demanded I fax him some document immediately. These days I would tell him to fuck off, but in the infancy of my career, before deference had been subsumed by the realisation that being a lawyer is ninety-eight percent fuckwittery management, I submitted to his bully boy style. I stomped back up to my office on the third floor, retrieved the relevant papers, and stomped back to the fax machine on the ground floor whilst chanting, you cunt you cunt you cunt... Somehow, in my haste to get to the pub, I managed to address the fax header page - Mr Cunt - and only spotted it when the page came out the wrong side of the fax machine. Oops. Mr Cunt, I mean, Mr Carter was not impressed, and threatened to report me to The Law Society who, on the whole, take a dim view of the use of the c word in interpartes correspondence, and are not, as an institution, renowned for a ribald sense of humour. Fortunately the Senior Partner of my firm devised a cunning tourettes defence, and secretly agreed that the the whole matter was complete fuckwitism.

The next time I used the c word unwisely has lead to a situation where I can't be honest with twin 2 when she asks me what her first word was until she's at least twenty-one. The girls must have been about eighteen months and we were house hunting. It was raining, and we were waiting for the spotty teenage estate agent to pull up in the BMW peeping over the steering wheel, and show us around a prospective new home. Spouse and I were carrying a twin a piece, and I was grumbling, and grumbling and cussing is one and the same thing for me. At some point it was inevitable that I would say cunt. Up until this point Twin 2 had been mute apart from random gurgles, but, sadly it was at this precise moment that she chose to find her voice - cunt was her first word. She found the word fascinating, and once the acne faced chino wearing estate agent finally arrived, she repeated the word at five minute intervals throughout the tortuously long viewing. Acne face pretended he hadn't heard and feverishly pointed out original features and cupboard space like a toad on speed. I desperately wanted to ask him if I looked like the kinda cunt that would teach my babies to swear, but resisted.

Despite having true badmother credentials, I rarely swear in front of the Little Darlings. Fortunately Eve forgot the c word before she started nursery, and although they are aware these words exist they appreciate they are strictly for parental use. Last night Boychild told me that he is no longer friends with Oliver because he swore at him. I asked what he said, and Jack whispered, he called me an idiot. This struck me as funny since in scramble chat, the game I've mentioned before, you can call someone a wanker, but you can't call them an idiot. More fuckwittage, if you ask me.

The return of Geordie Man

Whilst writing this post I have a telephone receiver jammed between my shoulder and ear, and I'm on hold to the Revenue due, apparently, to the high volume of calls at the moment. I'm waiting for an adviser to become available. Advisor huh. We'll see.

While waiting, impatiently, I'll share my proposals with you.

1. As a British subject I am concerned about way in which the Government are wasting the tax income they receive. For example, every household in the land is to receive a leaflet advising us what to do if we fear we have swine flu. I can offer the Government the advice that this is totally unnecessary since every household in the country is so well informed on this teeth clenchingly dull subject that they could write an article for the Lancet about it. If there happens to be someone that has managed to avoid the agonisingly patronising news bulletins they must live in a hippy commune in the Welsh Mountains, and therefore have no contact with the outside world, and the swine flu virus. My fee for advising the Government that it can make a huge saving by not sending out any more redundant information is the balance of my tax bill.

2. I'm not confident that this will work, so I have a back up plan. I've applied for a new credit card since that I would prefer to pay interest to a faceless bank whose call centre will be based in New Delhi rather than Tyneside, and although I will probably have as much difficulty understanding the Indian adviser that telephones me to ask why I have not made a payment, I will not have to endure Geordieman again. I intend to inform him that I have followed the fine example set by our leader, Gordon Brown, and borrowed my way out of this crisis. Who do you think will go bankrupt first, I wonder, Badmother or Great Britain?

Fuckwittery

Here's a hypothetical story for you to fly up your flag pole, and see which way the wind's blowing.

Let's say that if I were acting for a lifer convicted of murder about thirty years ago, and he was due to apply to the Parole Board for a transfer to an open prison to prepare for release into the community, you might expect a suitably qualified forensic psychologist to prepare an assessment on the nature of any risk of serious harm that he may pose to the public. Hypothetically the Parole Board might, strangely, agree with me and direct a psychologist to prepare an assessment. However, the hypothetical psychologist in this story does not think that a prisoner who has killed someone with a sawn off shot gun, and maimed another to be a priority. One would have to wonder about who the hypothetical psychologist would consider a priority - Peter Sutcliffe is in Broadmoor extracting pencils from his eyes, and Myra Hindley did us all a favour, eventually, and died.

For the sake of argument, lets say that we all go along to a Parole Board hearing, and a certain psychologist tells me before the hearing that it's not my place to demand a report, and I tell her to bring it on with her flat brown shoes and taupe cardigan before the Judge. Perhaps the Judge agrees with me (I know it's not professional to gloat but I did manage to do that ner ner na ner ner gesture to her without the Panel noticing). If this happened to be a real story would you expect that, after being chewed up and spat out by a Judge, and receiving a further deadline to complete a risk assessment, that a hypothetical psychologist might do her fucking job. Apparently not. Strangely the psychologist won't take my calls - was it something I said? So where does that leave me in this imaginary scenario. It's just this sort of fuckwittery that drives me to keep writing.

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.

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.