Leaving Home

This is a strange and impersonal way in which to let you know I am leaving home.   

I am not running away with George Clooney, unfortunately (although after watching that boring pack of tripe Argo, I am not sure about his judgement as a producer anymore) or off to save some critters trapped in a well, like Lassie.  Instead our little quartet is leaving the shores of my beloved Kingdom for sunnier climes, two and a half continents away in the glass sweat fest of Singapore.
 
I have to inform you dear blog followers in this manner, as even though I have a mean spirited personality and a big cynical mouth, my heart is all emotional jelly.  I don't contain enough salt water to contend with discussions regarding our move in person.
 
How we got to this point is too long, boring and frustrating a tale and in retelling it, I will end up with a burst capillary in my eyeball caused by stress.
 
My better half has got himself a transfer to work in Asia Pacific and being a refined, culturally well rounded modern day colonial style gentleman he will no doubt excel at his job and fit in spectacularly like Mr Dean in Black Narcissus. 
 
The job in question is an opportunity of a lifetime for his career and our family and as we grow more long in the tooth, it is not an opportunity that will appear again, so therefore, should be grabbed at hungrily,  like the over fifties at a Marks and Spencer's clothes sale.
 
It will be another adventure for the children.  The ten days spent in Antigua were an eye opener to the huge advantages there are for children growing up in a warm climate with access to the wilds and the sea and in somewhere like Singapore, the great food, cosmopolitan culture and access to the rest of South East Asia and the South Pacific.
 
As for me, although always supportive of my other half's career endeavours, as he funds my weekly unnecessary interiors purchases, I have had reservations about this move.  On paper, no question, it is a must do and hugely exciting, but emotionally it is a choker.
 
Giving up work when I had the children left me with no real identity other than wife, mother and social irritant.  It took a few years, but with the kids at school and feeling so wonderfully ensconced in a nice neighbourhood, a warm school community and lovely local friends, I embraced my unworthy existence and began to enjoy my three pronged roles in life.
 
Being lonely in a foreign country, in unfamiliar surroundings, with children at school and a husband who will be travelling frequently makes me fearful.  More fearful, as I have heard being a predominantly ex pat community, people might try to befriend me and that is frankly, intolerable.
 
However, I think of my dear Mum who on losing my Pa still managed to pick herself up at a ripe old age (that I am not allowed to share) and move to a new town, live on her own and manage to make friends and form a weekly routine of socialising and activities.  All on her own.  I take inspiration from her and will remember her bravery at starting life anew without my Dad, when I begin a lame ass panic about leaving my home, my friends and my happy life in Guildford.
 
Yet, my Mum will be the main thing that I miss about home, along with TK Maxx and Boots, but I know she will be okay and her life is settled.  I can worry about her a little less.  I will miss her terribly, but only until she starts phoning me every day because her wireless connection has gone down and she has hammered on all the buttons on the keyboard like a monkey trying to break a nut, attempting to get it working again.
 
I will miss home. I will miss my friends.  I will miss what would have been for my little one on starting proper school this year and the fun he would have had. I will miss our life here.  Thank goodness for the wonders of communication as at least in this day and age I won't have to rely on a carrier pigeon to let those dearest to me know that they are in my thoughts, though we are oceans apart.

Yet, adventure awaits.
 
I apologise to you all dear friends for the manner of our goodbye but like Nanny McPhee, I don't like goodbyes. 
 
So, all there is left to say, to quote The Two Ronnies & Vera Lynn during their little known and fruitless collaboration, is it's Goodbye from him and it's Goodbye from me, until we meet again, some sunny day.
 
But if we do meet in the UK, until we meet again, some day.
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Note
The Midgets Grumbler Blog will take a ten to fifteen week hiatus while we get our lives and the kids packed into shipping containers for the two month journey across the seas.  We will ensure a tiger is in the container with them to keep things interesting.  The Blog will return when we are all sunny side up in South East Asia, unless that attention seeking lumpty Kim Jong Un hasn't blown it out of the water before then.  Farewell.

Holiday

I am converted.  As of 2012 and a glorious ten days in St Lucia I now worship The Lord High Priestess of not having to drive anywhere, carry no cash, feed not my own children as they will be feedeth whenever required, by someone else and bask in the heat with gentle breezes, that is the joy of the Caribbean islands All Inclusive get away.  My confirmation occurred these ten days gone after spending a similar sojourn in beautiful Antigua.
 
I never realised how sloth and gluttony were ambrosia for the soul.
 
Ten years ago, if anybody suggested a holiday by the pool in the heat near the beach we would have slapped their faces.  We were adventure travellers.  Climbing mountains, trekking great paths, exploring the great outdoors, sucking up culture, architecture, history everywhere we went, spending as much time in the earths most wondrous natural environments and going native. 
 
The years 1999 to 2006 saw the Elizabethan Golden Age of low maintenance living and high holiday spending and we were very fortunate to have the means and opportunity to pretty much see every place in the world that we wanted. Of course, this was while all our friends bought nice houses and we still lived in a cupboard.  But who cares!  We were young.

By 2006, we had exhausted our must see places list and had reached that point in our marriage where we were bored of each other and needed another distraction. So in 2007 as Hurricane Dean ravaged the shores of Hispaniola and Martinique it also brought us a bedraggled stork carrying our first child.  Number two arrived a couple of years later and with him came the European villa holidays. Preserve of the scared middle class parent.
 
I am not knocking villa holidays at all.  We had two amazing trips with our small people to Tuscany and Provence but five villa holidays and three cottages down the line and we were most certainly jaded with it all.  We missed the adventure which we were not brave enough to continue with the children and frankly going abroad to go to the supermarket, cook at home for King and Queen fussy, do laundry and drive around to see very nice churches and castles blah blah was frankly, not getting our freak on!  The banality of life was following us on holiday and was still costing thousands of pounds for the privilege.  We were in a rut.
 
So, we swallowed our holiday snobbishness and considered All Inclusive.  We decided on the Caribbean as they seem to have the art down to a fine tea, it was a comparatively short flight, so manageable with small children and was going to be dang hot in Spring.
 
I have to say, I don't think you can possibly love your children more when they are impeccably behaved on a flight and we have been so lucky as three long haul flights in the last two years have witnessed our little folk be applauded by neighbouring passengers for being so quiet and good.  We didn't even illegally dose them with Night Nurse.  Even the pilot didn't get congratulated for keeping us from falling out of the sky, but our two angels were the talk of the town.  Of course, five minutes later in the immigration line they turned feral again and all soppy eyed adoration evaporated.
 
I was asked frequently when talking about our holiday if we were putting the children in a kids club.  I am personally not a huge fan of kids clubs.  I believe for the irritating eights to the puberty riddled teens, they are wonderful in the balmy climate of the Caribbean as the children can get their highs from zip lining, sailing, kayaking, snorkelling, windsurfing and learning some wonderful skills.  For the under eights, the children tend to be kept in some sort of photographic dark room sticking pasta shapes to their eyelids, only to be let out twice, on an hour release for a disinterested swim and some ice cream. 
 
I don't want to put the children in kids clubs.  I know everyone says they make friends with other children, but if you have met my children, you will know they are socially inept, so with the exception of making a nice bead necklace, I don't see the point of keeping them stored away.
 
The main reason is because I enjoy my children so much on these vacations.  I am mostly horrid to them and vice versa for 355 days of the year so when I have ten days when I have nothing to do but wash myself and eat, our relationship blossoms.  The children are a joy to be with and I have realised how chores and routine ruin family life.  Anarchy is clearly the answer and I wish I was bohemian enough to do it but being a boring conformist I know after these ten days we will get back to the old routine of school, cooking, driving, avoiding chores and growing old before our time.
 
Boffins of childhood state that the early years should be based on play. However, this is only stipulated in the case of the children. What about the parents?  I think five years off from work, a maid and chef thrown in and a stint in the hot house at Kew Gardens would do nicely for harvesting well balanced happy children and parents.
 
Having petitioned the government for such a change in maternity and paternity benefits in the UK and not having had a response in the last two years, we will have to instead console ourselves with doing what is effectively an ultra-expensive pool holiday each year to be a happy family.  It is worth the price.
 
 

Germ Warfare

".... the Martians--dead!--slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being slain; slain, after all man's devices had failed, by the humblest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth...
 ... These germs of disease have taken toll of humanity since the beginning of things--taken toll of our prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of this natural selection of our kind we have developed resisting power; to no germs do we succumb without a struggle, and to many ... our living frames are altogether immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly these invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our microscopic allies began to work their overthrow."(1) 

Unfortunately, I think in the 2013 version in my head of H.G. Wells' masterpiece, "War of the Worlds", we are the Martians and "our microscopic allies" are a bunch of turncoat gits.

I am feeling rather under attack and based on the testimonies of many friends, neighbours and the local community, they are all under attack too.  It seems we are facing germ warfare and I am not talking the wondrous "George's Marvellous Medicine" of death that governments use to wipe out thousands of people for oil, diamonds, adamantium or a decent cup of tea but the grot that we pick up on door handles and the sprinkles of other peoples mouth fluids that get fired into our faces as they sneeze and cough without the appropriate Victorian gloved hand to the cake hole.  You could be hanged in 19th century society for not covering your mouth when involuntarily expactorating.  Fact!

Official statistics, that I just made up, covering the period October 2012 to end February 2013 estimate that 95% of families in the south east of England have been bedridden with some "viral this or that" to quote the British Medical Association.  In fact a reliable source recently informed me that viral meningitis and three flavours of stomach bug are currently storming the county of Hampshire, at present.  Our dear county of Surrey is in the throes of flu along with some fabulous high fever and hacking cough combo with a bit of croup thrown in for good measure.  

Honestly. What the hell is going on? 

As a wee nipper in the 1980's I got a cold and cough once a year which lasted about three days and then went away, never to return until around the same time the following year.  

Occasionally, there would be vomitus but invariably it would be once, normally after the soluble disprin my mother would make me down in one, which is basically the equivalent of sticking your finger down your throat. Yes kids, in my day there was no banana flavoured amoxicillin, strawberry flavoured paracetamol and orange flavoured ibuprofen.  Oh no.  Medicine tasted bad and when I say bad, I mean bad.  That was your punishment for being born in the last century.  Medical science advanced from leeches to soluble disprin in a 100 years to the joy in a bottle that is Calpol for our spoilt little brats, luckily born and raised in the 21st century. 

The only other cause of vomitus in my day was a mucus pukus.  Again, only once, due to heavy build up of thick stuff in ones nose and throat which children sadly do not have the ability to remove in as stylish a manner as adults.  But more importantly vomitus had nothing to do with any nasty gastroenteritis that seems to be all the rage on the catwalks of Milan and therefore; everywhere.

I am concerned.  I was not brought up to be a fastidious clean freak.  I have always been a big believer in picking up dropped food off our filthy floor and jolly well eating it.  Firstly, because there are starving children in Africa (this was the most often quoted sentence in my house growing up) and because it can be fun.  It is like eating roulette.  Especially when some of the things on the floor are raisins.  But also because, who cares?  Germs are good for you.  They build up your immunity!

I don't believe this anymore, as the all pervading viruses seem to be able to adapt and morph in a few weeks, like the mutant Mystique (who is super cool but will not make you lose your lunch or poop your pants in 60 seconds).  It seems we are entering a period in time where we are having to start from scratch with this immunity malarky and will now have to go through 10 years worth of Norovirus before we don't get it again and every shade of flu before we don't have to endure that bed soaker for awhile.  Frankly, it is not worth it.  If viruses are so bloody clever, we will never become immune.  

I guess it is overkill wearing a face mask and permanently hand sanitising, but I think it is wise to be a bit of a nut job hand washer, which I have become.  I have extended this mania to my children, whereby as they walk into the house, the first thing they do, is wash their hands.  Because, really, who has time these days to be ill? 

This is paranoid behaviour but I can proudly say that I have not had GQ's Sexiest Bug; Norovirus, for five and a half years.  Neither has my other half or my daughter and my son has not had it for three years.  Admittedly, we do not eat out, socialise, let people breathe near us and have no skin on our hands due to excessive hand washing. I am particularly insane on this one because I am a terrified emetophobe and no doubt, due to this cocky statement about the lack of chundering in my house, the God of sick will cast upon me a curse of a thousand Noroviruses for my blasphemy.

The current health of the nation is a serious talking point.  I have now seen three long documentaries on the BBC discussing in depth, the disgustingness of viruses and how they spread.  Angela Rippon presented a stellar feature on how those magical tin cans of the sky are a frightening breeding ground for viruses. "Confined space, recycled air and the mushroom cloud of airplane food farts above every seat is an epidemic waiting to happen".  (I might have edited her exact comments just a little).  As my dear husband set off on his latest business trip I bid him adieu, told him I loved him and encouraged him not to lick his tray table, which according to Ange, contains the biggest mass of bacteria on a plane.  Even more than the airplane toilet!  I can believe this, as on every long haul flight I have been on, it is clear most people wee around the toilet than in it.

Oh, I did like things when they were simple.  I can't bear the invisibility of this enemy.  When I was growing up in the 80's there were three token kids in all junior schools.  There was the school fat kid and the bogey boy and bogey girl.  I remember my three, 30 years on, by name.  Admittedly, the school fatty doesn't exist anymore based on statistics on childhood obesity.  I imagine the thin kid is the one who gets beaten up and given a wedgie.  Still the school fat kid was harmless with the exception of a curious odour.  The bogey boy and bogey girl however were tricky.  My dreadful memories of these poor unfortunate children who clearly were of a sickly ilk and had no nerve endings in their upper lip has scarred me so badly that I do not allow any bats in the cave in my family.  The children have raw nostrils due to wiping their nose as soon as there is the inkling of a runner and the husband is beaten with a ladle if he is in the same pea green boat.

I remember countless conversations with the bogey girl, in particular (as we did not talk to boys when I was 8 years old, occasionally we would show them our pants but no chit chat, heaven forfend) and after a few minutes of eye watering conversation watching that thick green globule teeter on the brink of falling into the abyss of the mouth, I would run away crying and breathing fast into a paper bag.

Yet as revolting as the whole experience was, at least it was visible and I knew exactly where to stand.  

As far away as possible.
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There will be a two week hiatus to my blog while I go on holiday to do some much needed people watching and eyelid tanning. Hopefully on the back of that fortnight away I will be full of caustic chat inspired by my holiday and less full of information on bodily function, which although my favourite subject, isn't really anybody elses.  Toodle-oo!
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Funny of the Week
As this week's article has been on the grimmer parts of life during the winter months in this country, I thought I would share something equally grim that my little boy brought back in his rucksack from the wonderful Forest School that he attends once a week at his lovely pre-school.   The post-Forest School routine is he returns home exhausted and covered in whatever muck they have been rolling in during the day.  I empty his rucksack of the clothes he has shed on his travels, his half eaten lunch and water bottle.  

This week however, I was rather shocked to see something in the shadows at the bottom of his rucksack and I can only describe what I saw, as something that had come out of the shadows of someone elses bottom.  I was so disgusted that I could not stick my hand in the rucksack to pull it out, so after much violent shaking of the bag, it fell on the floor.  

Well, for the arborists amongst you, it is indeed a turd shaped pine cone. 

(1) H.G. Wells "War of the Worlds

Swimming

(18) Contains strong language, bloody gore, nudity and scenes that some may find disturbing.

On the back of some very kind feedback to my blogpost on "Exercise", I thought you might like to know how went my first foray in 27 years into competition swimming for 5 year olds.

The preamble to this was fraught with problems and poor conditions.  As I like bullet points, here they are:

• I had a clanging headache the day before my swimming lesson which I thought had developed into hayfever by 10am as it was the second day of sun for the year, but then slowly dived into a miserable cold, combined with dizziness and a woolly head.
• Mildred was making her monthly visit. 

So, conditions were not good, however, the direct debit was in place, so I was going.

I spent the evening before, making my preparations.  I started by shaving my head, so cranially, I could be as streamline as possible, with the exception of a small quiff. Firstly, because without the quiff, I look like a POW and secondly, I assumed this would help my speed in the same way a spoiler does on a young man's Ford Granada.  If not, I could always use it to hold my woofer or goggles.  As I watched the hair tumble from my head and land on my nakedy chest like Magnum PI, I knew, the haircut was definitely worth it.  The bodily hair removal was text book although, I knew deep down I would have left a very small but dense patch of hair somewhere above my under knee like a square of black velcro that everyone would notice apart from me.  

I was ready, nervous and excited.  I decided to wear my "Thorpedo" swimming costume branded Speedo!  What a contradiction in terms for obvious reasons but additionally, because I only own such a costume because it was as close to a swim burqa as I could find.  It covers all my hoochie coochie's but is still not quite big enough, as it requires the occasional bit of butt pickage.

When I arrived at the leisure centre I got changed, slathered myself with goose fat and stood in line with three other wannabe's.

I walked round the pool to take my position on the starting blocks, well, the floats that were on the side and did my rapid arm swings ten times while rotating my neck to loosen up.  This would have all looked impressive if I didn't have small squares of toilet paper stuck all over my legs from the mornings panic shave.  No matter, that is what the pool filter is for.

I looked at my fellow swimmers, sizing them up.  I wondered if they were like me.  In a beginners class but can actually swim.  I still felt justified to be there because I knew that I was a hopeless swimmer and imagined that the other women were that sort of friend you have at school who, when it gets to Finals time, warble on about how they did not revise at all and then completely ace their test.  I hated those girls.  I bet they could all swim brilliantly but were in beginners to humiliate those of us who were really lame.  I was going to show them!  Yeah ... "eat my chlorine dogs".  

I then realised, I should stop letting my imagination run away with me and it was important to play down the fact I could swim, albeit badly, so they did not stick me in "Improvers" where they would expect me to swim without my feet on the bottom of the pool. 

The truth is, my fellow learners were not Missy Franklin and pals but a trembling nervous bunch like me.  An old gentleman who we will call Rudolph, an old lady, who we will call Flemjella and another lady about my age who we will call Pandinga.  They were all extremely nice and all terrible in the water.  In fact, I looked like a veritable Rebecca Soni in comparison.  That said, by the end of our half an hour we had all improved significantly.  Rudolph had managed to swim about four metres with a noodle, Flemjella had managed to swim about a third of the pool with a noodle and Pandinga and I were promoted to the second lane to practice our swimming, unaided might I add, breathing to the side, inhaling as much water through our noses, choking, but still not drowning.  

I was also told that I had "nice legs" by our coach, who we will call Chad.  Unfortunately, not when I was strutting and sucking it in poolside but when I was kicking my legs effectively in the water.  So, all in all, a success.  I was the best swimmer in the class, I learned how to breathe properly while swimming like a cadaver and got a date with our handsome swimming coach.  All true apart from the last bit.

The other saving grace in all of this was at 10am, the leisure centre was only peopled with the fit elderly and before I went into the changing rooms I estimated 98% hearing aids and 99% glasses, meaning, none of them would see me drowning or hear my screams.  Result!

Overall, I came out excited and happy that I had learned something new and do feel confident that swimming could become my cardio exercise of choice once I have mastered the finer points.  We know why cycling is a no go for me and now that I have to wear an undercarriage girdle like Borat's mankini following my failed Zumba classes, any high intensity sport is out.  Based on my one lesson, I think swimming it will be.

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On a completely separate note and I am only including this because I thought it was rather funny, I recently bought a couple of little birds to clip onto some old twigs that I have.  They are very sweet and delicate.  Annoyingly, they are attached to a very stiff determined clip that requires a huge amount of pressure to open.  My poor little stonechat robin took the brunt of my aggression to open the clip, by throwing its left eye on to the floor.  Luckily I found it and managed to stick it back with some superglue.  Unfortunately, I didn't realise the eye (bead) is not perfectly round but more doughnut shaped and now my little robin looks like the late great Marty Feldman.  I have attached a picture below of this failed eye transplant as it makes me laugh and I think my blog is rather short on pictures.  I think pictorial irrelevance is still better than nothing at all.

Image

During a short sharp attack of the flu earlier this year,  I was stuck on the sofa with anvils for feet flicking through the stodge that is daytime TV.  In my delirium I came across the alternative menopausal rage TV in the wonderful crapness that is "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and "The Real Housewives of Orange County".  Unfortunately, it was not a delirium induced aberration, as following my convalescence, I continued to record both shows every day.

Unfortunately, it is a source of marital tension.  I do not watch these programmes in front of the children and rightly so.  It is a challenge explaining to them why they are a different colour to me.  Explaining why some peoples skin is made of a completely different material is just impossible.  I am also not permitted to watch these programmes in front of my other half.  He is such a snob!  So instead, The Plastic Housewives of Orange Hills have become my clandestine lover.  I watch the shows when the kids are asleep and the husband is travelling.  Dirty old me!

My real fascination with the shows, apart from the copious wealth, constant fighting, nervous breakdowns, therapy sessions, endless apologising and appreciation for those apologies, is the quite extraordinary faces on the main protagonists.

I would estimate 90% of the ladies on the show have had some facial surgery whether it be minor, scaffolding or borderline Jocelyn Wildenstein.  In fact one such wife states loud and proud "I might be married to a plastic surgeon, but I am 98% real".  Wow! High Five! Wouldn't 100% have been the correct number to crow about?  She says all this, of course, without moving a single muscle in her face.  

At the beginning of my affair with these programmes, occasionally the odd newbie would appear with the most gravity defying face imaginable.  I would watch more in shock that none of the regular characters would even show a modicum of surprise at the state of the guest.  It was like, that is a perfectly normal human looking face, whereas all I saw, was a post plane crash burns Count Almasy with fabulous hair.

The funny thing is, as I have watched these two shows over the last month, I have to say, the ladies are looking more and more normal.  I think one gets so used to that particular type of plastic skin, horse lips and eyes pointing north east and north west that it becomes the norm.  A bit like becoming institutionalised in prison.  But this prison is made of gelatine or silicone or utterly butterly or whatever they use.  It got me thinking that perhaps the odd nip, tuck, stretch and inflation here or there is okay if it improves your image and makes you happy, but only, if you are surrounded by like minded nippers, tuckers, stretchers and inflaters.  If you ended up the only "Shockface Peter" in the village, you may just stick out a bit.

Also, I don't believe I will find that in our polite society.  Sadly, they will never make The Real Housewives of Guildford.  People around here only own plastic under duress.  Children's toys are all wooden and no fun and plastic tends to appear from some mean spirited Aunty or Uncle who are determined to give your child the toy that they actually want as opposed to the wooden carousel you lovingly bought them that they can look at adoringly but NOT TOUCH!  As far as the personalities go, that would not work either.  The nastiest thing people might say here is "I can't believe Arabella left that fox poo on her footpath for another day.  What a douche!"

Back to image.  It is not something that has been of great importance to me.  You may think my desire for a "hard body" as per last week's post is a sign of wanting a great image.  I should submit my six month epilatory hiatus during the more wintry months as evidence of why image really is not high on my agenda.  That said, it is beginning to creep more into my brain, as the state of my image has become an issue of necessity over vanity.

I do not have the wealth of the Orange County and Beverly Hills ladies.  I probably have a smaller bank balance than their pets, so my dreams of having a small incision made in the top of my head and a sharp stretching of the skin upwards, much in the way someone pulls on a tight pair of socks, is going to remain a dream.

Shop bought solutions are all I can muster.  I have two facessentials.  I now wear YSL's Touche Eclat daily because the dark circles around my eyes are so bad I look like a racoon and also because Colin Firth's wife claimed she used it since the day it was launched and you never know, he might leave her one day.  I also wear Benefit Cheek Tint for a rosy glow and as many close friends will know, I have on occasion worn that out having forgotten to blend it in and have chatted gaily on the street to all and sundry, unbeknownst, looking like a clown or those old enough to remember, Aunty Sally from Wurzel Gummidge.

Admittedly I don't worry so much about the neck down.  The only folks who see that are the kids, who currently don't care and my husband, who nobody particularly likes.  He is not going anywhere.

The children will probably be the only reason for making any serious changes, as I would like them to have some pride in me and not because I look like a member of Gerry Cottle's Circus but because I can do an effective impersonation of a young cool Mum.  This was made clear, particularly harshly, by my three year old, who told me a few months ago that I had a beard.  I don't think I have a beard or any particular downy cheek fuzz.  

However, insane paranoia and an investigation after that comment did help me understand why he said it.  On holiday I wear large sunglasses that cover my entire eye area.  Therefore my overbrows and under cheeks get extremely well tanned which make me look like I have a permanent five o'clock shadow.

We are going on a holiday to the sun in a months time which I am really excited about and I have already planned my beauty regime for that trip.  The Touche Eclat, Benefit Cheek Tint musts, full body dipped in acid hair removal treatment and finally a balaclava to wear poolside to tan my eyes and even out my forehead and shadow beard. 

I think at the age of 38, two facial products that cost around £50 in total (which in my world is high end!) and a balaclava being the extent of my beauty regime, is quite a nice place to be.  

Of course those two things have not managed to fix the permanent facial atrocities such as the hooked nose, zits and crooked face that continue to plague my life.  I guess it will have to be plastic surgery in the end a la The Housewives or a more extensive range of balaclava's to match my 2013 wardrobe, which unsurprisingly, is exactly the same as my wardrobe from 2012, 2011 & 2010.

 

Exercise

In last week's Grumbler, I alluded subtly I feel, to the ravages one’s body goes through during pregnancy and childbirth.  I forgot to mention the fury I have that some folks ping back into their pre-children hard body good looks and the rest of us have to find various ways to roll and tuck the excess bags of skin and fat into our burgeoning underwear. 

 

Following the departure south of most of my body and faculties I took up the noble art of Pilates a couple of years ago.  Strengthening the core, improving posture and ratcheting up that pelvic floor so it doesn't fall at the velocity of the elevator in "Speed".  The supposedly supportive people in my life do not regard Pilates as exercise but merely "breathing on the floor".  Admittedly, there is some truth in this as I have on occasion fallen asleep on my mat.  There is also truth in the fact that while my inner core rectus abdominus and other such gladiators around my gut have on X-Ray the strength of those corrugated sheet metal fences you see on motorways, the outer facade of my belly area however, remains the same wrinkled elephant’s anus it has been for the last 6 years.

What does one do in this situation?  The answer seems to be CAR DEE OH VAS CUE LAR exercise!  Fat burning, toning, muscle building, stamina improving and crepe paper belly ironing magic. 

Unfortunately, I hate the gym.  I tried it and gave up 6 months later after religiously doing my prescribed exercises by my personal trainer.  It did work.  My stamina improved, I lost some weight, my bat wings got a bit less flappy and I developed a man boob shaped muscle on the back of each leg making them look more like lady legs and less like chopsticks.  But unfortunately boredom beats results so I gave up the gym by pretending I was not spending enough time with the children in the day and went back to idling while the children amused themselves.

Then, I discovered Zumba!  Before I go into detail, I must preface this with the fact I only went four times and then gave up.  I will elaborate.  I love dancing with the same passion I loathe the gym and Zumba seemed a great alternative as its dancing while having a great cardio workout.  My first lesson was quite a shock.  It was one hour of high intensity dancing, moving, jumping, twisting and after half an hour when I felt my lunch come up again and suspected the drips of water on the floor were not the leak in the school hall roof but me, I looked at my watch hoping we were near the end.  Good heavens!  Half an hour more to go.  By the end of it, I had collected so much water in every crevice I could have rehydrated a drought ridden African village for a week.  My face was on fire during our cool down and I was trembling all over but man I felt alive.  I began to understand when people say they love the "burn".  It felt good and I excitedly dreamed about how Zumba will turn me into Megan Fox in a few weeks.

Unfortunately, three sessions later, something dropped.  And I am not talking about a penny.  Let’s just say Keanu did not save those people in the plummeting elevator.  I frantically started kegeling, for those in the know and for those who don't it’s a type of Scottish dance.  I graciously and sadly withdrew myself from Zumba.  

I searched the World Wide Web typing in "what cardiovascular exercise will not make your bottom drawer fall out?" and the two that came up time and time again were seated cycling and swimming. The only place that I like to go cycling is the Canal du Midi, as it is flat.  I would also only consider riding if my bicycle had a basket on the front so I can carry my baguette.  A bicycle without a basket is basically a climbing frame.  It’s all moot anyway as I do not own a bike and Guildford is too hilly and I would get hot, tired and out of breath.

That left me with swimming.  I am a peculiar case in the swimming world.  I can swim.  I can do front crawl, breast stroke and back stroke.  I have no finesse, good technique or competence but the main problem is I can do all of those strokes in water where I know I can put my foot down and feel the swimming pool floor.  Now technically, this is not swimming.  This is walking in water.  

My swimming technique is simple.  Swim the length of the pool holding my breath under water with my eyes closed.  Of course, I then cannot breathe anymore, come up for air, open my eyes and realise I have been swimming east across the lane swimmers, as opposed to north with the current and am half way up the pool and can no longer touch the bottom which is when I start flailing about and on one occasion in Putney had a lifeguard approach me.  We left south London shortly after this humiliation.  

So, I have decided to start swimming lessons.   There are many problems with this of course:

• The total fag of going swimming.  All that removing clothes and putting them back on again  
• Regular hair removal.  Cannot get away with occasionally shaving and only just above the hemline of today’s skirt or sleeve length  
• Holding breath during poolside strut so nobody can see pot belly 
• Negotiating twisted damp pants
• Ingesting pool water, corn plasters, floaters of every variety through nose and mouth
• The fact the leisure centre has a poolside cafe.  I mean really, isn't this embarrassing enough having to swim with armbands and blow bubbles in the water at the age of 38 while the slow oafs at Costa watch me.  

According to Tim Berners-Lee.  It is my only hope.  I have to swallow my pride along with the pool detritus.  Not only to master something that is very important and get fit but also to avoid the accusation of hypocrisy for the pressure I put on the children to swim well.  Yes it is for their benefit to be competent swimmers but mainly so they can rescue me when I next drown myself by attempting to hold my breath across 25 metres of water.