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A competitive marriage

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on Thursday, 24 April 2014
Last Monday we all woke with too much chocolate in our tummies. A family run to the top of Primrose Hill seemed like the only thing for it. So, on went the lycra and trainers, as the Smalls limbered up in the hall. Finally, He was ready and off we went.

You’ll be relieved to know that there was much sweat but no tears. However, there was a certain amount of healthy competition, as we huffed and puffed our way up and down that hill. And I say healthy in the most Royal way possible. Because it’s fun to see William and Kate race each other furiously round Auckland harbour and then again challenge each other last night as she beat him on the music decks.

Anyone who knows us well can confirm that He and I are a little competitive. We stopped playing tennis long ago (or at least scoring properly) and no holiday is complete without the four-lap sprint with one gloating winner.

William is right because ‘healthy competition’ is just what we all need to avoid taking life too seriously. Anyway, I’d rather be pipped to the post by Him than someone who might feel embarrassed to beat me.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

A lesson in marathons

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Last Sunday, as I was looking on in awe and horror (in equal measure) at the London Marathon, my mind started to race. Is there a bigger message in this no-mean-feat other than just sweat and blisters?

As many as 40,000 people pounded the pavements of the capital to run, walk or hobble the 26.2 miles. Ranging from elite (Mo) athletes to the average fit-loving person to some pretty comical run runners, the entrants all seemed to have a point to make.

Aside from the crucial fundraising, it seems that a personal best time is the main driver. A challenge, a goal and (hopefully) an achievement drive the best of us on a daily basis. And this must be the main attraction. But does it justify the sheer pain that so many of those runners clearly experienced en route?

From what I can understand from questioning those with now aching muscles, all those signals sent from the body to the head scream: ‘PLEASE STOP’ and ‘THIS HURTS’ and ‘MY LEGS ARE KILLING ME’. But those on this running race mission hardly stop, absolutely overruling any body weaknesses. The gig certainly sounds tough.

The biggest tonic of all is the crowd. My sister-in-law, who ran the race (in admirable time), told me that the cheering of her name while showing admiration for her drive gave her the power she needed to finish the race.

And so my point this week isn’t really about running a race but more about how we introduce our children to idea of realistic challenges in their lives – therefore giving them the possibility of that glorious feeling of achievement and recognition. With our encouragement and some sheer determination, they should be made to feel that they can finish the course. Whatever that course is. And without even caring about winning.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Insta-love NOT Insta-hate

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Wednesday, 09 April 2014
I know I’m meant to hate Instagram. All those #perfect lives documented in each #perfect square. But I just can’t. Instead I. Love. It. The social picture-sharing website makes me laugh and admire in equal measure as it rolls out varying degrees of smugness, clever captions and artistic prowess. I suppose, for me, it’s like delving behind the scenes on a glossy magazine shoot or jumping into a food photographer’s kitchen… really, honestly not quite as offensive as many are making out.

So I’m here today to defend my sepia-tinted friend to those insta-haters:

1. You say you hate selfies. Well, my response would be to look at the extending arm needed to snap and you’ll start to find them pretty amusing.
2. You say it gives you food envy. But does it inspire you to cook something? Or even give you a sneak preview of what your long-anticipated dinner at Chiltern Firehouse might look like?
3. You say perfect children are nauseating. I say it’s a moment in time, relax.
4. You say they over-share. But their constant need to update doesn’t need to be connected to your constant need to observe. Control your insta-urge!
5. You say it makes you GREEN-EYED. Don’t be ridiculous. Their lives through 70s rose-tinted glasses, cropped to perfection and edited till bliss aren’t real.

My last piece of insta-advice is to choose carefully who you follow, enjoy the real artists out there and relish a pretty nosy insight into curiously documented lives. I certainly do.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Mum in the Alps

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on Thursday, 03 April 2014
We met at a crowded party. A few of the crowd had had at least one too many and the DJ was doing his thing at full pelt. So, I must admit that much of our conversation (back in November 1996) is hazy. But I do remember that one of His first questions (before asking for my number) was: Do you ski?

And, today, as He and I covered some pretty serious ground in the Austrian alps, I wondered what would have been if I had answered negatively to his question. But, of course, I didn’t and for more reasons that this, I’m a keen downhiller.

Because skiing makes me feel FREE. For hours at a time I can forget about everything else. The Smalls, snaking down the blue runs, are someone else’s responsibility. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. And He and I could easily be the 20 somethings we once were.

Somehow I don’t feel like a mum or a wife or even anyone with a deadline. And this is one of the main reasons I would invest in the Smalls’ ski-skills. Just in case one day they too need to feel free.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Conscious uncoupling

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on Wednesday, 26 March 2014
‘It’s hard being married,’ she said.
‘Duh, really?’ I would have responded.

But in actual fact Gwyneth didn’t inform me personally of her recently announced ‘conscious uncoupling’ from her Brit singer-songwriter.

Yes – if you haven’t yet heard the news, Mr and Mrs Chris Martin, the slightly cheesy rock star and actress, have confessed that their marriage isn’t what it used to be. Oh and we’re all supposed to be vaguely surprised. Not shocked that the duo didn’t make it long term but that marriage is apparently hard work at times.

I mean who honestly wouldn’t agree? And how bad does it have to be to start carving up the net worth? I’m not a film star and He isn’t in a band but we work hard ALL the time at making our marriage work. Because ‘uncoupling’ isn’t really an option at all. Instead it is damn hard separation and grief for all involved, before any re-coupling is even contemplated. I’ve stood by and watched from the sidelines and divorce isn’t pretty.

So, even with £89m, some apparent consciousness and a heck of a lot of co-parenting praise, Paltrow will need more than her infamous cupping therapy or her Goop cleanse before she can commiserate to Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ in her bath tub.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Underage music tastes

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Wednesday, 19 March 2014
I fully expect blaring music with a thumping base once our Smalls are teenagers. But, seeing as we have a few years until then, I’m not quite ready to be dictated to on the music front. In fact, I strongly believe that until they can drive, I should be sole controller of the music on the school run. And Absolute Radio is my FINAL decision, simply because those in my cheap-seats don’t know too many of their song lyrics.

You see, Mini quite fancies herself as an up-and-coming pop star. Not only is there a fair amount of hairbrush-mic going on, but she also tends to use lyrics from her favourite songs in response to my morning demands.

‘Sit down next to your brother and have your breakfast, please,’ I request
‘That boy is a monster, m-m-m-monster,’ (Lady Gaga) she responds.

And then at the school gates,
‘Goodbye darling, have a great day.’
‘Baby, let me be your, let me be your last first kiss’ (One Direction.)

For her 10th birthday (which by the way is a whole 6 months away), she’s decided she would rather like to go to her first concert. Capital Radio’s Jingle Bell Ball? She suggested. I corrected her – it’s Brixton Academy or nothing. Until she’s old enough to get there on her own.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Inexplicable life.

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Thursday, 13 March 2014
Have you ever realised just how much you can’t tell the under 10s? A fair amount you can, of course, re-word. For example, the world wars can be simplified into goodies and badies. 9/11 was caused by some mad, mad people. Burglars are Robin Hood. Mostly. But there’s one whole lorry load of bad smelling stuff that you simply can’t ever explain.

This morning Absolute Radio won the vote (from the back seat) for the school run. We rocked along to the Killers (in theme with the above paragraph) and squealed with the delight at the weather forecast. Then came the news. And now Small is fixated on the missing airplane.

I mean why wouldn’t he be? It’s beyond curious.

‘How can a plane take off and never land? Where is it now? Aren’t the people on board hungry? Are they there yet?

How on earth can I answer these questions? Nine nations have now joined the attempt to find this Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777 that disappeared. 239 people left Kuala Lumpur on Friday and now there is no sign of any of them.

If anyone knows any answers my 8-year-old son could stomach, do come forward. Meanwhile I have tried to interest him in the 34 aircraft and 40 ship search mission.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Half term half baked

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Thursday, 20 February 2014
One of my Smalls (aged 9) is half way through her half term break. I say ‘break’ because that’s what I thought it was. But, as far as I can work out, she’s mixing any relaxation with some hard core work. Yes, WORK. Science exam revision, a Beethoven written project, a poem to be learnt, music theory papers to be completed and some good old fashioned piano practice. And I’m left wondered if the 9 year old (one of life’s true grafters) deserves a REAL break?

Which leads me to my question: which skills do these kids actually need? I mean, what do they really need to know under the age of 10? How to speak Mandarin? Which materials make effective thermal insulators? How many flats B flat minor has? I suspect not.

While I’m mildly interested in the temperature of the hottest part of the sun (16,000,000 degrees Celsius, if you’re wondering), I’d rather give this traditional curriculum learning a miss. At least for the week. Instead, I’m fantasizing about teaching her the following:

1. how to read a map of London
2. how to draw happy, quirkily-dressed people
3. a little Brit history – maybe a king or queen from years gone by
4. a mean bolognaise which includes more than 4 vegetables
5. how to change a plug

It would certainly feel a whole lot more fun, less pressurized and might leave her better refreshed for next week’s exams. But I fear that by doing so, I will let her down. And so we dive back into electrical conductors…


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Enforced love

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Tuesday, 11 February 2014
Enforced love is a strange old thing. And, as we are all too aware, this is the week to do it. I remember standing in the phone box line at boarding school clutching my 10p piece. It bought me just enough time to hiss down the receiver Valentine card sending instructions… at my parents. There was no way I could risk leaving the whole shebang to chance, while some girls in my dorm would be counting double figures.

Of course, the choosing and sending of cards is always a joy. Inscribing them with my left hand (now less of a ritual) and showering those I fancied/admired/lusted after from afar was, without doubt, an entertaining game. But now, happily married with fully-fledged offspring, the whole day feels simply ridiculous. And, if I’m brutally honest, a bit of a chore.

So, there’ll be no bunch of a dozen red roses nor double-layer chocolate boxes for me. You see, strict instructions since the Millennium (the year we wed) will ensure of this. Nor little black dress date-night accompanied by a white tablecloth and silver service. Absolutely NOT. Instead, we’ll review a fancy restaurant with other Valentine strikers on 13th and hibernate the following day with a take-away and bottle of wine. How romantic that sounds...


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Sex Respect

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on Tuesday, 28 January 2014
My thoughts this week are (unusually) a little political. I’m concerned enough about Sex Ed in schools to get on the bandwagon. You see, without teaching boys (and girls for that matter) some proper dos and don’t, we’re in danger of seeing the already high numbers of girl-groping incidents rise. In fact, I read a startling fact today: in the UK, 1 in 3 school girls experience unwanted sexual abuse – from boyfriends, friends and relatives. How utterly hideous is that? And, I’m presuming those offenders can only claim ignorance if their education hasn’t set them straight.

So, the House of Lords is considering making an amendment to the Children & Families Bill which would require all state-funded schools to teach Relationship and Sex Education.

Hallelujah, I say.

In an era where we’re still discovering more of these Jimmy Saville types together with an infinite and readily accessible amount of Internet porn at under-age fingertips, the threat is constant. And frightening.

So let’s educate them. The kids need to learn as much as possible about sexual consent and respectful relationships.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

News of an affair

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on Tuesday, 21 January 2014
He came home with some ‘news’ last night. Over a city lunch, a friend had confessed his ongoing affair and announced that he is leaving his wife.

‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought they were so happy? What about those poor children?’

‘Yes they were,’ he confirmed ‘ before he met someone on a deal he was working on… now he’s going to move in with her.’

Just like that, there it was. All the information I was going to get - or in fact need.

I quickly started rustling up some dinner (from a bare fridge), asking how the rest of His day had been. Then, when the Smalls came down whining of insomnia, I ushered them upstairs leaving Him with His whisky, evening paper and the football on.

After I had cleared up our dinner, I (even) asked him what he’d like to watch on TV. AND didn’t touch my laptop nor phone. Avoiding the subject of the cost of the fake grass I’m currently lusting after and the trip to New York I’m planning, we sipped our chamomile tea.

Perfect wife. Perfect home. Perfect life. Anything but the thought of a perfectly awful affair.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

School project by A. Another Adult

Posted by Mum About Town
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on Tuesday, 14 January 2014
How long is it since you last worked on a school art project? You know, the type which requires air-dry clay, plasticine and a quantity of some properly sticky glue. Only a week ago, a few of you might cry. Well, you’re the ones I want to listen to this week’s rant…

…because I’m fascinated by the sheer intensity and single-mindedness of your efforts. Yes YOU. Not the 7-year-old in question who is standing by your side, mystified by your energy, ambition and fired-up competitivity. He had thought that his assembled pyramid had been perfect. Maybe even bonus-worthy. But no! You have bigger, grander, better plans.

Art shops are raided, kitchens rearranged…. This Egyptian scene (due in at the end of the month) needs to be THE BEST. It must blow all others out of the River Nile’s muddy waters.

And so that promotion at work and the latest private equity deal pale into insignificance. This Cairo must be built in a day. Gold paint is sloshed around to reflect the Egyptian grandeur (as well as your ambition) and perhaps some glitter as a finishing touch? Mummies (real ones), Sphinx, perfectly formed camels, temples and pyramids…. no-one must touch.

The whole family looks on in relief. The job is done and your tension abates. Your house insurance doesn’t cover any potential damage to this (particular) work of art so you decide to hand it in early. Now all you have to do is pass it off as his.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

NY Resolutions

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on Tuesday, 07 January 2014
The pressure is on. That new year, new you type of pressure that is only conjured up by… yourself. But, as I sit here trying to work out what on earth my resolutions should be, I’m wondering why I didn’t feel compelling to improve myself on 30th November. I mean, what’s the big deal, this is only a new month. A new month which just so happens to fall at the beginning of the year.

2013 was just fine. My tax return was (almost) late, I lost both car keys and had to have the car towed away (at huge expense), I told a hideous client to take a running-jump and I had to have yet another boob operation, but the year really was just fine.

Anyway the statistics are bleak: only 8% of those who resolve actually stick to their plan. Mostly the resolutions we aim for are unrealistic, sadistic and plain old boring. Who wants to feel that they HAVE to read four books a month, send a handwritten letter to an old aunt or give up something fun that they enjoy (despite it being terrible for their health)?

If your new year’s resolution is to diet, I bet you’re reading this with an empty tummy and a sour face. And if you’ve promised yourself to visit the gym more often over the next 12 months, then I’m afraid you’re the worst statistic of all. You’re absolutely destined to fail.

Honestly, I don’t resolve to change too much of myself this year. And I’m welcoming 2014 with open arms.


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Turning off for Christmas

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on Tuesday, 17 December 2013
We’re on the verge of hitting wind-down time to coincide with the fat man in red slipping down our non-existent chimney. Except that we’re anything but wound down. Instead we are MAXED out and I wholeheartedly blame technology.

Yes - I know - without Amazon we would be a different sort of frazzled and at least the odd e-Christmas card has prevented some degree of RSI. But there is no doubt in my mind that with omnipresent technology, we are dangerously close to spiraling out of control.

Picture this. The presents are wrapped, Ocado has delivered, the cranberry sauce is made, the table is laid and, with ‘A Wonderful Life’ on the box, all is calm, peaceful and quiet. But… there you are on the sofa, snuggled up with your loved ones, losing out on the precious moment as you OBSESSIVELY check your Instagram feed (keeping track of those supposedly having more fun) or instead tweet some alcohol fuelled almost-wit.

I think they now call this Status Anxiety as we struggle to show the (social media) world that we still exist. Or is it that we are suffering from a bad case of FOMO (fear of missing out) as we feel compelled to comment willy-nilly on another’s status? Either way it’s utterly draining and completely unhealthy and not in the least bit festive. My advice? Lock up your smartphone, forget the virtual universe and raise a glass of sherry to a purely retro, non-tech-additive Christmas.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Divorce

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on Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Isn’t divorce a grubby old process? As the Saatchi/Lawson court case continues and dirty washing is being aired in a way we never (previously) thought possible, I feel that perhaps we’ve all seen enough. Enough, enough, enough. And I don’t doubt that many of these endless ‘reports’ aren’t even true. When it comes down to it, I’d rather believe less of Saatchi’s accusations about the woman who taught me to eat straight from the larder (albeit mine is cupboard whereas hers is an entire room).

But another’s divorce details simply ARE grubby and awful and absolutely none of our business. And yet, whenever anyone gets divorced they over-share their grubbiness as if it’s hot gossip. I suppose they think that we really NEED to know what went on behind their closed doors, when we’d much rather they’d move on and leave us out of it. I’m certain that Charles must have at least a couple of friends he could rant to and, if not, I hear a therapist can work a treat. Nigella’s recreational habits are her business and after all, we should remind the media, it’s a couple of alleged fraudsters on trial not a marriage.

So, let’s not engage nor even twitch the net curtains. That way our domestic goddess might crack an egg and whip up a really good pudding.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Party season

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on Tuesday, 03 December 2013
Party season is creeping up on us and here lies a bit of a problem; we’re all dog-tired. Sapped of energy, irritable from lack of light and sporting a to-do list as long as tinsel. And if we’re not present punching online or word-cramming those carols, we’re wincing at last minute recorder recitals, dashing to nativity/gym-displays/ performance assemblies (delete as appropriate) or warding away that pre-festive virus sweeping its way to a house near you…

Yes, we are absolute exhausted. Him, them, me and even our most laidback au pair seems to need some respite from this end of Christmas term mayhem. But we HAVE to party: drinks, nibbles, dinners, brunches…. This is the season to party and appear merry. It’s just a shame I don’t have an invitation to a masked ball, a big grown-up sleepover nor a ‘dress-as-a-zombie’ soiree…

In an effort to at least a little more presentable for Small’s Christmas concert, I made the big mistake of going to the local hairdresser. Of course my tresses look a darn sight better, but those fashion magazines dumped on my lap made me feel even more exhausted. Their glossy hair, clear skin and flat tums all rounded off with those huge whitened smiles…

They do say it takes a village to make these Hollywood glam girls look that good but I’m pretty sure right now I would need the whole of London town.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

When the Smalls are away…

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on Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Lord and Lady Y have just called offering to have our Smalls for a sleep over this Saturday night. The offer makes me feel literally giddy with excitement and before I had even hung up, all activities previously planned for the weekend had been mentally cancelled. Because, quite frankly, 24 hours without offspring is Father Christmas come early for ANY parent - even if his big red sack isn’t yet full.

And now, while I should be sitting here working, I am dreaming of my freedom. Our freedom. We can talk, without being interrupted. We can read… to ourselves. We can just be, without being parents. I mean, how many films d’you reckon we could squeeze in? I know He wants to see Barry Humphries as Dame Edna so we could try and get returns for that too. Oh and I could trick Him into a little festive shopping before an early cocktail at the chic new Winter bar at the Churchill Hotel too?

Winter Wonderland also opens this weekend. But we wouldn’t want to see anyone else struggling with their smalls so we should avoid that. Our 24 hours must be childless, a make-believe world where little people and their running noses don’t exist. We need to remember those days without the responsibility, the nagging and the incessant planning.

Of course the list of what I SHOULD be doing is also endless: the tax return, client invoices or even a tidy up of this mess we call home. But that would be NO fun at all. Instead, this weekend I’ll sleep and play, because the Smalls are away…!



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Working mum

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on Monday, 18 November 2013
I used to think that there were only two kinds of mothers: those who went to work and those who didn’t. And now, of course, I realise that I am the third type: the one who falls in between, in no-mum-land.

Those who wear high heels and swishy power suits aren’t sure whether or not to ask me what I’m up to today as I drop the Smalls at the school gates. Meanwhile, those sporting flat tummies in their Lululemon work-out gear are unsure about how busy I really am in my freelance world so tend to hesitate before suggesting I join their coffee shop gang…

I’ve said it before and I’m bound to wax lyrical again, but I honestly feel that one of the hardest things about giving up your career to have children isn’t losing the salary. It’s about losing your place in the world. Suddenly you’re not the somebody you were, but instead you’re somebody’s mum. Of course, being the best mother you know how IS a full time job and anyway flexible, part-time jobs are few and far between but, most crucially, the cost of going back to work is more than a number of us can possibly earn.

The government hasn’t helped the situation either. George Osborne’s changes to childcare subsidy and child benefit costs could feel like an attack on full-time mothers. Having worked part-time (often dressed in my OWN lululemon uniform) for the last nine years that I have been the Smalls’ mum, I’m constantly juggling the balancing act of work/family commitments – whilst also trying to discover my still relatively new identity…


You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Are your children always right?

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on Monday, 11 November 2013
‘Of course not!’ I hear you chime. But it’s HOW you tell them that they’re wrong that is bothering me most this week. A mother I know of (not Gwyneth P. although she is almost as glamorous but with less hilarious named offspring) NEVER seems tells her child off. It’s almost as if this child lives his own world, ruled only by him. When I’m in the vicinity of this little mite, I want to scream: NO! Don’t do that! But, while of course I refrain, I do wonder what sort of self-assured monster he will be on the dating circuit and how on earth he will respond to his future boss when corrected? Don’t get me wrong, I’m trying my hardest not to judge other parents, but surely we have a responsibility to show our children how to behave? And isn’t their future happiness intrinsically linked to the understanding of right and wrong?

On the other side of this guessing game they call parenting, I do worry that I tell my Smalls off too much. In fact, one of them woke up this morning saying that he had had a nightmare.

‘What was it about?’ I enquired sympathetically. ‘I was being controlled,’ he responded cautiously ‘my whole dream was about being controlled.’

Well, as you can only imagine, this sent me into a total spiral of parental self-examination. Am I even allowing these small beings to live and breathe? Should they decide themselves when is the best time to practice the piano? Or maybe handing in half-done homework might work a treat?

‘Mummy, you’re not listening to me’ he added. ‘I was a robot. A really clever, bionic robot controlled by a super-natural force.’

A temporary wave of relief rushed over me. For the moment, I was off the hook. Meanwhile I think we’ll do some painting after school today instead of those dreaded times tables.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.

Halloween

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on Friday, 01 November 2013
It’s at this time of year that I am reminded how scarily different I am from our English-speaking American allies. My Brit reservation and modesty kick right in as I try my best to dodge supermarket aisles, magazine pages and TV ads, all dedicated to what the Yanks call Halloween. Bloodied masks, mini-sized broomsticks, glow-in-the-dark paint, sparkly-coloured hair spray, gruesome table decorations, never-ending spider webs…. it’s all crossed the big pond ready for the retail vampires to spook us out.

But, of course, as a mum I have NO WAY OUT. Especially as dressing up is a rather regular occurrence in our house (amid the Smalls, I should add) – and that’s before the temptation of punk witches, bleeding pirates or a day-glo skeleton. More than this though as, on top of the fancy dress expenditure and hassle, I pretty much need to re-think my parental values for the night. As far as I can see, [which is not far as a) it’s pretty dark and b) it’s very crowded on our local trick or treating well-trodden path] I need to encourage my Smalls to knock on strangers’ front doors. Yes, I’d like them to reverse all that I have taught them over the last 9 years and, once they’ve knocked, I’d like them to beg in front of these strangers. A hungry, innocent face will do. More and more sugar, all in vibrant colours, shapes and sizes, will drop into their little hands. After an hour or so of this begging ritual, I’ll have to allow them to cram their little mouths full of this (usually rationed) evil sugar before a scrap will ensue between the two little horrors as to ‘who has more?’ in their begging bucket.

Having revealed myself as the officially haunted scrooge of All Hallows’ Eve, I don’t mind admitting that the majority of the looted sweets will end up in the bin the next morning. And the only relief will be that Halloween is over for yet another year.

PS of course the MONSTER fun that I had at Home House’s Halloween Party last Friday night is a completely different kettle of (grown-up) ghoulies.



You can read more musings from Emma at www.lifeofyablon.com.


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Our elderly mother needs a live in carer/companion on a part time basis. Must be warm hearted, calm & compassionate, with a good sense of humour. [...]

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Cook, Housekeeper wanted
Good cooking skills required to cater for light meals for the Principal and a small staff, as well as occasional lunch/dinner parties. [...]

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