Still got weetabix on my portfolio

Women's weeklies. We love 'em

2006-03-28T01:10:00.000-08:00

Great to see some fighting talk from Lucy Jolin on the newly launched Journobiz (www.journobiz.com) this morning.
She gives an expert opinion on how to write for women’s weeklies – and lambasts those who look down their noses at such titles.
Preferring to eke out a living writing worthy but dull features for papers nobody I know reads, there are plenty of writers who consider such titles beneath them.
I couldn’t agree with Lucy more.
A magazine came back to me yesterday (hurrah) to commission three stories I’d sent over.
The first was about a father determined to raise awareness of a condition that claimed his son at 19. The second was a letter from a woman to her sister, telling her how proud she is that she has overcome all the obstacles in her life to become a mum and businesswoman. And the third was a woman who has faced so much grief and trauma in her life, it’s a miracle she’s still here, let alone raising shedloads of cash for a children’s charity.
Now according to some, these magazines and the stories in them are ‘cheap, trashy and sensationalist.’
Utter nonsense in my book. Try telling that to the people mentioned above. Or to the woman we reported on a few weeks back who is now having surgery for a terrible disease she bravely discussed. She’ll show you the letters of support she’s had from all over the country and tell you about the friends she’s made since the article appeared. Oh and she can also describe the first holiday she’s been on in years after the magazine footed the bill.
Perhaps it’s a class thing.
I happen not only to identify very strongly with the women in these mags but also admire many of them greatly.
Oh and as they pay oh hundreds of pounds a page, I’m glad I do!

'Cos mums are heroes' (Even Kerry Katona*)

2006-03-26T11:17:00.000-08:00

Mother’s Day. The one day of the year you can take your children out and not have people look at you like you’ve weed on your trousers - in front of them.
Sitting down to Sunday lunch in a country pub, however close to the cosy fire your family is, you’ll often feel a distinct chill in the air.
Scrutinised like you’ve at worst just committed mass murder and at best tracked a hefty dose of dog mess into the carpet, the atmosphere can make you decidedly ill at ease.
So what is it about your presence that so often proves so unsavoury to the other diners?
You’ve taken your children along.
If you were venturing into a three-starred Michelin eatery with two screaming toddlers then I’d understand the frosty glares.
But when it’s a cheap and cheerful place – often even with its own resident bloke in a bear suit or woman dressed like the saddest clown you’ve ever seen - you’ll still feel like the girl picked last for netball.
When we ate out with our girls in the early days, they were without fail their usual unobtrusive selves – no tantrums, no tears, no running around and no filling of nappies – they saved that for when they got home. But still people seemed offended by our blatant show of fertility.
Not that we ate out often. Once in a blue moon more like. The stress of the disapproving glances became a bit much for me. I’d really liked to have literally stuck two fingers up at all the snooty onlookers. But of course I didn’t want to make things more unpleasant than they already were.
These days I’m past caring. Children are people too!
I’m reliably informed there’s now a British Association of Non Parents, which claims to campaign for the rights of childfree couples.
I’m baffled as to what it is they could possibly do.
Perhaps they go on placard waving missions to Wacky Warehouses and ring up ITV to complain about Dancing on Ice being recommissioned.
Whatever it is, there’s evidently an increasing army of eager new recruits and judging by our reception in certain restaurants, they’re fighting dirty.

* Leave the girl alone. I love her.

A letter from an agent

2006-03-25T14:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Shirley,

Thank you for sending your proposal for ‘Working title’

You write a good marketing proposal but ultimately I need to see the writing. Without taking away any of the heroism that Derek displayed, there are many more victims with their story and many unsung heroes in every kind of situation.

A book such as Derek’s has to be really good to rise above the rest. Much will rest with how Derek has written his experiences, his observations and his feelings.

Good luck with the project and should you care to send a sample of Derek’s writing, we would be most interested in reading it.

Yours sincerely

(Dictated by agent and signed in her absence.)

I was encouraged by this letter. Derek had been getting jumpy that anything was ever going to happen. He has been in all the papers again this week. There is a bit of a local backlash and it’s getting him down a bit.

Dave read it and said nothing except: “Well it’s a bit dismissive.” Thanks Dave. See I prefer to take it as reinforcing the earth shattering conclusion that you do actually have to provide an agent with a sample chapter or three to get any decent feedback. Still it's not an outright 'no' and that's good enough for me at this stage.

This isn’t the first agent to reply. My initial contact asked for a synopsis by email. Some 20 minutes later, I was jumping out of my chair, punching the air and shouting f*** at the top of my voice as her reply plopped into my inbox.

Thanks for approaching us with your excellent proposal.

Let's have a chat tomorrow morning.

All best

I couldn't settle all night after that. I watched Nanny McPhee cuddled up under a duvet on the sofa with Lauren and Hannah, but even powerhouse performances by Emma Thompson and Colin Firth, not to mention Angela Lansbury, (loved her since Bedknobs and Broomsticks) couldn't keep my mind from wandering to dream of an impending literary success.

I dutifully rang the next day but she wasn’t in. For some unknown reason and going against the habit of a lifetime I left a message that my synopsis concerned a ‘gentleman’ who’d been in the news. I felt a proper nana, as Hannah would say. Gentleman ffs.

I needn’t have worried. Turned out this agent was painfully posh (please tell me they're not all like this) and actually she’d read the proposal too quickly, googled Derek and when she found out he wasn’t maimed, was no longer interested.

A letter to the friend I've lost

2006-03-21T01:02:00.000-08:00

Post edited - oh ok removed - awaiting publication in a paper, thank you very much.

Short story: She had no shame

2006-03-03T06:47:00.000-08:00

‘Come on love, it’ll be fun, move your arse!’ Mum coaxes. She’s laughing but I pull a face. I don’t want to go.

Squirming with embarrassment as my mother entertains more drunken women at another 40th birthday party is not my idea of a good time.

I’d rather be at home with my music. One day I want to go to college, but it’s been a struggle.

We had to sell my clarinet when Dad lost his job and the tuition fees are out of our reach.I still study, but now with a clarinet borrowed from school.

“Your talent would shine if you were blowing down a bog roll, Amy” Mum told me with customary aplomb. Dad will be at the party too. He’ll have his T-shirt on, emblazoned with the initials BLUFF – Big Lazy Ugly Fat F*cker – and I’ll wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I remember that Mum even asked me to wear one once: Mini Ugly Fat F*cker it said – MUFF for short.

Okay I could see it was funny – but it really wasn’t very nice was it? I wouldn’t be seen dead in that bloody T-shirt.

But I still felt bad when Mum’s eyes glazed with tears as I told her to get lost. As we head for the party, I picture the scene that awaits us.

Mum’ll enter the room, dressed like a lollipop lady, to the sound of Right Said Fred’s I’m Too Sexy.

She won’t be alone. There’ll be a burly bloke squeezed into schoolboy shorts and tie, and no more, at either side.

The women will whoop and laugh appreciatively – like they’ve never seen an overweight man with his top off before.

I’ll look elsewhere as the tipsy party-goers snap away with their mobiles at the ample bellies on display.

Then I’ll smile to myself, thinking of them the next day, cursing at the blurred images they’d failed to nail.

What a joke, I think.Oh yes, the jokes. They always go down well. “How dirty do you want me to be on a scale of one to ten?” Mum’ll ask.

“Ten,” someone will yell, before an “eleven” follows from the back of the room. “Sixty-nine” Dad shouts before anyone realises he’s part of the act.

That never fails to raise the roof. “The oldest ones are the best,” Dad laughs, winking at us, with a twinkle in his eye – obviously having the time of his life.And so it always begins. The rude jokes come thick and fast.

Mum bats off hecklers with a swift rebuke. It’s men who call out, insulting her, mocking her weight.

And she fires back: “If your c*ck is as big as your mouth, I’ll see you later.”Listening to the bawdy repertoire is no place for a 16-year-old girl. How’d you like it if you heard your mum utter a gag with the immortal lines: “Can I smell your fanny? No? It must be your feet then.”

Sometimes she picks on someone in the audience.“Boy you’ve got big hands,” she says: “Bet they make your c*ck look small.”

While the women roar, all the men, except Dad, squirm in their seats.It hasn’t always been like this. Dad worked in a factory. He’d been there since he left school.

He was a union man through and through. But those days were gone. I never understood why – something to do with China, but I didn’t get the full picture. I don’t think Dad did either.

Mum had a job in the supermarket in our village. She worked school hours and was always there to pick me up.Then she would listen to me playing the clarinet and we’d plot my future of world domination as an international performer.

We researched scholarships to music college.Still I knew where I was needed. There was no way I could go. I needed to stay and bring a wage home. Mum lined a job up for me at the supermarket.

“You should be on the stage Shirl”, enthused Mum’s colleagues. They were in stitches as she recounted her saucy tales. She had no shame.

Other people’s mums were cross if they swore. My mum sat on the sofa, farting and giving herself marks out of ten.“Mum..” I’d begin, gearing up to ask her for a pack of crisps or a biscuit.

“Mum’s arse!” she’d answer – years before Jim Royle was on the scene.And so, when Dad was made redundant, she did go on the stage.

She continued to work in the supermarket, she continued to pick me up from school, even when I insisted she really didn’t have to. All the time the bookings for her act Lady Muck were mounting up.

She had a regular slot at the community centre down the road on Friday nights. Other days, without fail, after I went to bed she tapped away at ‘gags’ on the computer.Dad was proud of her. He went on loads of courses – how to be an IT consultant, how to be a cost management consultant, how to be a herbal drinks consultant – but he couldn’t go the distance.

“Consultancy’s just not for me love’, he sighed and we couldn’t disagree. But he needn’t have worried. Soon he was needed in a supporting role for Lady Muck.

Mum was featured in our local paper: “Roly poly mum cleans up” ran the headline.It was the talk of our school but I didn’t care, I wanted a ‘normal’ mum – one who got cross if I said “f*ck” and one who didn’t look tired all the time.

Last year she won an award. A national arts promotion body gave her £3,000.She was featured in a tabloid. ‘Check out girl licks the competition,’ screamed the headline – and there was Mum, dressed as a lollipop lady, with her cheesy grin filling most of page eleven.

Then people were telling me how proud I must be, I tried to ignore them but it was getting harder. She was still my mum and I loved her – even if she was the female equivalent of Chubby Brown.

Now she’s stopped typing away while I’m in bed. I suspect she’s lost interest. She even went away for a weekend last month.She went without Dad. When I pressed her on where she had been, she mumbled something about ‘an appointment’.

I’m worried sick; Mum’d never had a weekend without Dad and me. I’ve told her she should enough times – she could go away with her mates from work, but she shrugs and says she sees enough of groups of women in her ‘night job’.

’What’s happening to our family? I begin to suspect something is wrong and tonight will be her last gig.

Now I feel guilty, guilty and selfish, my mum has been working herself into the ground to keep this family together.But she loves performing. She says it’s like a drug.

“I may not be Julie Andrews but I am Lady Muck’, she says.“Are you coming or what? Hurry up slowcoach,” she chides as I silently carry her stage gear to the car.

We don’t speak as we head to the venue. No doubt it’ll be another Working Men’s Club, perhaps it won’t be a birthday party after all, maybe it’s a hen night.Those are even worse – women in grotesque costumes made out of bin bags, L-plates and pictures from porn magazines, with snaps of their own heads stuck on by their so-called mates.

But we take a different turn. We head into the city and soon we’re in the ‘arty’ quarter. We pass the music shop that bought my clarinet.I’m pleased to see it’s no longer in the window. ‘At least someone’s enjoying it,’ I think.

And then I forget about the clarinet. We’re stopping outside the TV studios and I am gripped by a strange fear: “Oh God no, Mum’s going to audition for Big Brother, or even worse The X Factor –she wants to be the next YMCA girl.”

“What are you doing mum?” I ask, panic rising in my voice.“You’ll see, now hurry up, we have to meet Dad. He’s gone into town to get a new T-shirt done but he said he’d see us here.”

We are soon outside Studio Three and here’s Dad, waiting. He pulls his T-shirt out of the carrier.It says PAF on it. “Proud as F*ck”, he explains gingerly. “Had enough of BLUFF. Sorry ‘bout the language Amy,” he says.

“I’ve got you one too.”Then he produces another bag – Tony’s Musical Supplies it’s from – and here’s Dad beaming, as he unwraps my clarinet.For a split second I’m lost for words, I just can’t take in what is happening.“This is for you sweetheart,” says Mum softly. “This is what it has all been for, there’ll be no more Working Men’s Clubs for us.”

I take in the sign on the studio door: “Dirty talk with Lady Muck”.Mum tells me she recorded a pilot last month. “Went down a storm,” she says. “They’ve commissioned a 12-week run – it’s going out at 10pm on a Saturday night and I’ve got soap stars and singers as special guests.

“They’ve paid me a few grand up front – and I’ve contacted that music college you’ve set your heart on.It’s enough for the first term – my fees for the series will pay for the rest.

“Where do I change?” I ask for the first time in my life.

Twelve stories in 12 months

2006-02-22T20:29:00.000-08:00

There I've said it. That's my target. A short story a month until December. Then I'll have a collection. Its name? 'I wish my wife was this dirty' We'll see.

Short story: Ann Summers party

2006-02-19T16:11:00.000-08:00

Still a work in progress. Please don't read it if you are offended by swearing. :-)

Ann Summers party
The last time Alison was at an Ann Summers party, she disgraced herself with one of the gadgets. It was called an ‘Orgasm Feast’ and one look had made the room full of women shriek – whether out of nerves, horror or lust, no-one could really say.
She’d sat on its little gyrating ‘bullet’ as it jigged about and buzzed across a chair.
None of the other party-goers had been brave – or was it drunk – enough to give it a go, especially in Jackie’s front room while on-lookers chewed reduced fat sausage rolls and swigged back tumblers of Lambrusco.
Either way, Alison liked to stress she was fully clothed and only doing it for the laugh. She wanted to say ‘only for the crack’ but held herself back in case she caused more outrage.
Trouble is, she’d laughed and sat a bit too hard – breaking the whizzy plastic ball into tiny pieces and landing herself with a bill for £40.
Some of the girls at the party, Alison included, had laughed until they cried.
But Jackie, whose party it was, couldn’t see the funny side. She was disgusted at her friend for ‘making a show of her’ – especially when she was surrounded by girls from work.
“How could you?” she whined.
“I bet this lot’ll tell Mr Wilkes what a stupid mate I’ve got and have a good laugh about it behind my back.”
“Well holding an evening of edible c*ck rings and see through nighties is hardly the way to go to get in with your boss in the first place, mate, ” Alison answered.
There’d been another Ann Summers party at Jackie’s since. Alison wasn’t invited.
But tonight all had been forgiven. Here they were the two of them, at Alison’s house, getting ready for another one, this time at Lauren’s place.
Lauren was also a regular. She’d lost five stone in the last 12 months. As her weight diminished, her collection of ‘fun stuff’ had grown.
“No wonder Gary always looks so knackered,” Alison said as they headed through the door.
“Stop it. You’d better bloody behave tonight Missus,” said Jackie, smiling as they headed for the car.
“Oh I’ll be fine,” said Alison.
“Sometimes though, I think I’ve got tourettes – how many times have I won the rude alphabet game now?”
“Dread to think. Hope you’ll let someone else get a word in tonight.”
“Yeah, so long as it’s a filthy word,” Alison laughed.
Also at the party was Shirley, an old mate from when Lauren was a Saturday girl at Somerfield, who’d never been to such a party before.
Then there was Penny, a girl from Jackie’s work . She was getting stuck into the wine, as her mum Sue, looked on disapprovingly.
Gina, who was new to the area, had been invited by Lauren as she knew her from Superslimmers.
She surprised the girls she hadn’t met before by announcing she was six months pregnant.

Jackie nearly choked on her Chardonnay.

“Jesus, you can’t even tell,” she whispered to Alison.

Even Lauren looked surprised.

“No wonder you haven’t been losing any!” she said.

“Have you heard that joke, I’d rather keep the bus seat to myself than make the fat girl standing up cry?” added Jackie unkindly.

“Oh that’s lovely, a little brother or sister for Josh,” Alison told Gina, ignoring her friend’s catty laughter.

“You must be so pleased with how he’s getting on.”

“Yeah, he’s just started a new school, he says it’s great,” said Gina.

“He loves English best, says his teacher’s great – really in touch with the children, not standoff-ish like some of the others he’s had.”

“It’s so important…” Alison started to tell Gina. She wanted to say it’s so important that kids loved language, but was interrupted by Lauren.

“Sshh!” said Lauren – “They’re gonna start the games in a minute.”

The hostess’s name was Muriel.

A stocky woman with red hair cut into a bob, she had a white blouse covered in badges awarded for her excellence in sales. But she said she wanted to be an undertaker.

“I like working with people,” she shrugged by way of explanation.

For a minute, this revelation stopped the conversation dead.

Then there was uproar.

Raucous comments about ‘stiffs’ began, followed by peals of laughter. Muriel was forced to call the house to order.

“Who’s played the rude alphabet game before?” she shouted, holding her right hand up, palm out, like Simon Cowell opposite a tuneless wannabe.

“Not me,” slurred Penny.

Sue looked at her like she’d just sniffed a particularly rancid smell, then she chipped in “I have.”

More giggles followed from the rest of the girls. Except for Penny who looked like she was about to cry.

‘Shut up mother!” she snapped, her face reddening.

“Well,” began Muriel, “It’s quite simple, I’m gonna show you all a letter on a card and you have to call out a rude word beginning with that letter.

“Whoever shouts out a winning word first gets to keep the card. Whoever has the most at the end has won the game and will get a prize.”

Everyone nodded. “Sounds easy enough, but it’s all new to me,” said Gina.

“A” said Muriel, holding up the card.

"Arse" shouted Alison, beating a couple of 'arseholes’ and one 'arousal’ into second and third place. Somebody shouted ‘arse bandit’ but everyone ignored them.

“Arousal? That’s hardly a dirty word,” sniffed Alison.

“It is in our house,” laughed Shirley.
The game continued apace through Alison’s offerings of ‘b*ll*ks’, ‘c***’ and ‘dildo' , while more wine was sipped and the laughs got throatier.

At 'f' the general consensus was it should be 'f*ck' and Alison’s suggestion of 'fisting' caused some confusion.

"What's that?" Asked a couple of the girls and when Alison explained they looked distinctly unimpressed.

“You should have pretended you didn’t know,” said Jackie, sensing the mood changing.

Muriel made a mental note not to promote the ‘anal probe.’

And so the game went on. Alison was gripped by the urge to shout dirtier and dirtier words, then immediately lower her gaze and mutter 'sorry' more than once.
Looks of horror and bewilderment abounded, not to mention a few choking sounds, as Alison offered: "j*** knob, lezza, minge, nuts, orgasm, p***flaps and quim” in machine gun-like, cathartic succession.
Lauren decided to pretend she didn’t know her – quite a feat when she’d invited her into her home for an Ann Summers party. More worryingly, Jackie also appeared to be making out she wasn’t with her.

‘Uh-oh’ thought Alison. “Looks like I’ve blown it again’

Then Jackie laughed.

“Look, I know you’ve got a competitive streak but this is ridiculous,’ she told her friend through gritted teeth.

By the time Muriel got to ‘t’ ( most of the girls shouted ‘tits’, while there was a solitary 'tw*t' from Alison), she was romping ahead. At ‘v’, people seemed a little stumped except for the rather obvious 'vagina'.

Alison cried 'vulva' triumphantly before apologising profusely and taking another gulp of wine - not to mention preparing herself for a very loud and a little jerky 'w****r'.
Alison sensed the atmosphere worsening. Nobody likes a smart arse. Dirty looks were coming her way. "But I work with work with words!" she protested.

It didn’t wash. The other women had made a mental note that she was a pervert.

Nobody wanted to talk about work and they weren’t really interested in Alison’s excuse for a foul mouth.

“If you were my daughter, I’d wash your mouth out with soap,” said Sue as Penny shot her another embarrassed glance.

“Mother, honestly” tutted Penny.

But Sue was unrepentant.

“You must have been dragged up,” she scowled.

“I can’t see my mum at an Ann Summers party,” Alison told her, laughing.

A rather muted Muriel congratulated Alison on her victory.

“Can we see the Rampant Rabbit now?” Asked Sue.

Alison’s prize was a pack of cards with blokes in various states of undress.

“We’ll have hours of fun with these. We can play 'guess the year' the pictures were taken, ” she said.
”Judging by the straw hat and the handlebar moustache it was the same year the Village People made it big, ”added Alison, in a fruitless attempt to thaw the icy atmosphere.

Everyone was looking at her.

She couldn’t make out if they were disgusted or baffled by her behaviour.

Jackie could – they were disgusted.

“Time to go,” she announced.

“What d’you mean?” protested Alison, ‘it’s only nine o’clock.”

“Yeah but don’t you remember you’ve got work to do?” mouthed Lauren, raising her eyebrows.

“Spose I could make a start on all that marking,” she answered, grabbing her coat from a kitchen chair.

“Still Josh is such a good boy Gina, I won’t have much to put right, I’m sure.”

“Can’t wait for parents' evening,” giggled Jackie as they headed for the car, a trail of open mouths behind them.

Short story: The life and soul

2006-01-22T13:48:00.000-08:00

“Who’s the old bloke over there?”It was Alan’s first day at the Meltham Comet and he was intrigued by the sight of ‘veteran’ reporter Digger fiddling with his shoelaces in the corner.

He was slumped over at his desk, huffing and puffing - muttering something about ‘bloody corner shops.’ Then he looked up and smiled at the new boy.“Is he okay?” Alan asked Liz Welch, the reporter assigned to take him under her wing.

“Oh that’s just Digger, you have to take him with a pinch of salt.”Digger’s grey hair and beard, not to mention an emerging beer belly, made him look ripe for retirement.His shirt and tie were also grey and his trousers and jacket were a grubby shade of oatmeal.

A slither of congealed egg yolk glistened on his lapel and crumbs from his thickly buttered white toast speckled his whiskers.

Alan soon learned that he ordered a fried egg sandwich from the same greasy spoon most days.Or, if he was off to magistrates’ court, he’d opt for a pastie gulped down on the way – a habit Alan soon came to share.

And so months later, Digger started to comment on his new mate’s weight.

“Hey Alan, you’re turning into a bit of a gutbucket,” he joked.

“Charming," said Alan. “Shouldn’t I say something about pots and kettles?”“Well the work experience boy called you the ‘The Fat One,’” said Digger.Then Digger screwed up his eyes, and did a most politically incorrect impression of the Chinese student on work experience, pronouncing Alan as ‘Alan’ as ‘A-rran’.

He was never going to win any prizes for race relations but he made him laugh.When it was his turn to cover court, he’d settle into the press bench to do his Telegraph crossword, as the parade of petty thieves and joyriders got under way.

He’d only bother to send back any copy when something cropped up that could earn him a few extra quid from the nationals.

Digger was there the day Alan got clobbered by a prostitute for reporting on her earlier remand hearing.

Nothing would’ve been written if it hadn’t been for the solicitor launching into a crusading speech about how the system was stacked against “vice girls”.

He only said it because the press were there.“Why not check with your client that she agrees she should be identified to publicise such injustice next time?” Thought Alan.

“Bit scruffy for a reporter, aren’t you mate?” the prostitute’d teased before she punched Alan in the face.

Alan was mortified - not only by being hit by a woman but by being insulted about his ‘lack of’ style – especially when he weighed up his attacker’s shell suit.“These trousers and shoes are from Next!” he’d spat back.

“Yeah but that must be your Grandad’s coat!”Then Digger stepped in, hearing the kerfuffle as he shared a coffee with an usher.”

F*** off!” he shouted at the assailant and her earnest looking women’s refuge worker companion.

Alan rang the newsdesk to report the assault.The news editor Alan spoke to, Ginny Yates, got a bit confused. Rumour was she had a hearing problem.

“A prozzy walloped me,” said Alan.

“The Prosector walloped you? That’s disgusting!” answered Ginny.

Soon Alan found out Digger was only 44.

“F*ck me!” he exclaimed. He couldn’t believe it.

“How very gentlemanly!” said Digger. “How old did you think I was?”

“Ooh about 40,” he lied, not wanting to upset him.

A year later, they were as thick as thieves – sharing the same ‘ambulance chaser’ mentality and childish sense of humour.

Alan really respected Digger and hoped he felt the same way.

“There’s only you and Digger would do that,” Ginny Yates told him when Alan scavenged through a bin outside a raid victim’s home to find out his name. The police had refused to give it out.

Alan took that as praise indeed.But Digger was non-plussed: “That’s disgusting behaviour. Isn’t it against the law?”

“And what the hell is that in your pocket? My God, it’s full of chicken bones – that jacket’ll stink now.”

Outside work, Alan and Digger were getting on like a house on fire.The stripogram at his 45th party was legendary.

“She so wants me!” he said, looking very pleased with himself.

“Er, no, she’s given you her number for more bookings,” said Alan.

Still, he kept her raunchy picture in his office drawer for years.

But Digger was also one hell of a mentor.

He taught Alan how to cover a lot of ground quickly, how to be charm itself on any doorstep - even in the most tragic circumstances - and crucially, how to get one over on their rival local newspaper.

Butter wouldn’t melt. His warmth and ease could get even the frostiest of interviewees ‘on side’.

Years before Jeremy Paxman was on the scene, his dogged questioning made senior officials and policemen divulge things they really shouldn’t.

Alan lost count of the ‘exclusive’ by-lines Digger enjoyed.

He was regularly reprimanded for using frowned upon words such as ‘bizarre’ in an intro.

But Digger also did a cracking impression of the district news editor and after a while he used the “barred” words deliberately to cause more mischief.

The phone’d ring and Digger would answer silently. After the receiver went down, the rigorously rehearsed mimicry began.

His voice turned to a high-pitched wail:“Digger,” he’d scream.

“Yes Boss?”

“B-I-Z-A-R-R-E, Digger!”

“And Boss?”

“Thirty-two times in the last two years! F*cking 32 times. It’s f*cking banned.

"No more B-I-Z-A-R-R-E Digger, no more!"

Tears of laughter rolled down Alan’s cheeks. His impression was spot on.

Or he’d cover his ears as Digger described his latest sexual exploits.

The most memorable involved a woman from Tesco’s She’d done something very unsavoury when she climaxed.

It wouldn’t have been so bad but Digger kept emphasizing the fact that she worked on the delicatessen.

“Last time I go near the meat counter in there,” sighed Alan and the office descended into more fits of giggles.

Digger was the life and soul of the office.

Once he was confronted with evidence of a burglary at work.The raiders had discovered a stash of porn – magazines called Shaven Ravers - in the gents’ loos and had stuck them up all over the walls in the distribution department.

That unforgettable sight greeted Digger when he turned up for early morning calls as close to 7am as he could muster.It was up to Digger to call head office and break the news to the newsdesk.

Ginny Yates answered.”SHA-VEN RA-VERS, I said SHAVEN RAVERS ” he shouted at the top of his voice, repeating every syllable until Ginny cottoned on.

Two years after joining the district office, Alan was moved to another one, 15 miles away.

Digger told him he was gutted.

Another year passed – a year where Digger and Alan would still meet in the Colliers’ Arms after work – and then he quit the Meltham Comet.

He’d been offered a newsdesk position on a rival evening title.

His name was mud at the Comet, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t wait around to fill ‘dead men’s shoes’.

Five years later, Digger and Alan had lost touch. Alan had married Sue, a policewoman.

Then, when Sue was in hospital having their son, Digger rang the special care unit and left a message for him.

“Please tell him that Cameron is a very strange name for a girl,” he told the nurse.It was typical Digger – a surreal message, which made Alan smile, even if he couldn’t organise himself to visit.

Alan started to freelance around bringing up Cameron and his younger sister, Ellie. Then he began to do some public relations work.

He felt awkward when he had to ring Digger about any press releases he’d sent to the Comet.
He couldn’t stand it if he of all people thought he’d ‘lost it’.

“You’ve written far too much about this,” Digger told him once. The criticism stung but he knew he was right.

“PR messes with the brain,” Alan joked.

“You bloody PR people wouldn’t know a story if it smacked you on the arse,” said Digger.

Once Alan was at an industry awards ceremony that he’d helped organise when Digger turned up.

He wore a grey shirt and tie (could it really be the same one?) and definitely the same, definitely tighter, oatmeal suit.”How’s it going mate?” asked Alan.

“I’m far too busy to talk to you now, I’ve got to speak to Andy Horsfield,” said Digger.

Andy was a local football hero and charity patron.

Alan was disappointed but understood – Digger had to grab Andy else he’d be in deep trouble.

Especially as Andy’s ex-girlfriend had left him for a soap star the week before.

Alan had little time to reflect on his disappointment.

Work was getting a lot busier. Word was getting out he needed help. Freelances came and went and soon Alan had built a team of four staff.

Then, 12 years after Alan met Digger, the call came.

He had no idea how he’d feel. He’d dealt with similar calls, concerning other ex colleagues but he’d never prepared for Digger’s.

A message was left in hushed tones: “Can you call me? It’s Digger,” he whispered.

Hesitantly, he called the number back.“Hello, it’s Alan he said. “That was a very polite message.”

He knew what was coming and it broke his heart.

Digger took a deep breath and then blurted out:“Thing is I’m off with stress, they’ve moved me to Haffington.

“My doc’s told me I’ve got a blood disorder too – all them bloody fried eggs.

Have you got any jobs going?”

Part of Alan wanted to answer: “Who could refuse such an impressive offer?” But he stopped himself.

“No mate, I haven’t. But we are in the market for magazine stories – Pass it On and Wow! That sort of thing. You could go freelance.”

“Oh yes, Wow!, I’ve heard of that,” Digger said quietly.“

But who’s going to take me on in my condition?”

“They don’t need to take you on, just send them a brilliant pitch."

"Hang on, I’m frying some sausages,” said Digger as a timer went off.

“Haven’t got the knack of this healthy eating yet”And so they chatted until the timer pinged again.

They agreed what bastards the news desk were and tutted over the fate of more colleagues who’d gone off with stress. Six they counted.

Alan promised to call Digger back if he had any work.

He never did.

Would you give work to this woman?

2005-12-04T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am putting together a new website. At the moment there is a 'short and to the point' profile. I wanted to replace it with the following. I sent it to a couple of people to get their feedback. One, very professionally, pointed out that I a) shouldn't admit my efforts weren't always appreciated, b) I once walked out of a job after two weeks c) I once worked on a mag that only lasted one issue and d) I failed to ignite my freelance career in a foreign land 11 years ago because I was too scared of editors. The second said it made him laugh out loud.
I think I prefer the second response.

(Please note the original effort had the right names in. 'Throb' is not the real name of the publication in Russia and many other names have been taken out because, well because I'm embarrassed frankly.)

From detailing the horror of receiving big pants for Christmas off her mum in Bella to reporting on the heinous crimes of Fred and Rose West for regional media, Shirley's career has spanned a decade and a half and seen work published in dozens of publications.
She has written for (posh mag) , (women's weekly), (women's weekly), (women's weekly) and (oh, women's weekly) She has also reported for the (posh Sunday paper) and been a contributing editor on careers and education and family, friends and faith, for (monthly internet mag) . She is a former staff journalist for (news agency) where she helped pupils write and sell features to publications including The Observer, Guardian and Evening Mail.
Shirley has worked as news editor on regional evening titles (big one and little one) and was chief reporter at the (regional title) in (somewhere).
In 1995 she spent much of the summer working on background material on Fred and Rose West for the (another local paper). The same year she’d spent an impressive two weeks working for The (another, but bigger local paper) in (ooh guess where) gaining her first ‘splash’ (on a local snooker ‘star’ blowing his cash) in her first week before quitting for (very nice place), leaving an exasperated editor muttering ‘awkward sod’ under his breath. Some three years later a former colleague revealed her ‘record’ for walking out quicker than anyone else had still stood. It was at this point that Shirley began to joke her CV looked like a patchwork quilt, confirming her suspicion she was a freelance at heart.
She particularly enjoyed a stint as a TV reviewer for the (hmmn, where could that be?) at the start of the new millennium and an all too brief spell standing in for the impossibly glamorous women’s editor. Her efforts to introduce ‘real women’ to the issues she was responsible for, were not entirely appreciated. It was around this time that she left her ‘diet column’ by mutual agreement after not losing any weight. (Ed’s note – better not admit she put a stone and a half one while it lasted.)
Shirley is now also part of the DVD reviewing team at http://www.iofilm.co.uk/ and has reviewed books for various media.
She edited We've got lots of kids magazine from 2002-2004 and has contributed to various guides for parents such as Lots of kids, the First Year, A Health Visitor's guide to Lots of kids, A Teacher's Guide to Lots of kids, Lots of kids Factsheet and Expecting Lots of kids . Media interviews about having lots of kids have included several appearances on Sky TV, Radio Five Live, Saga Radio, Central’s Lifeline programme, Central News, Radio Shropshire, BBC WM, Prima Baby, and BBC Online.
She was responsible for supplying a whole section on lots of kids in the early days of http://www.babyworld.co.uk/ and a younger and slimmer version of her with her partner and daughters can be seen there to this day. Features on lots of kids have also appeared in UK Parents, www.raisingkids.co.uk and the Birmingham Post. From 2000-2001 she edited Social Care magazine.
Regional publications Business Report and Midlands Business both turned to Shirley to help shape editorial content when they launched. It’s a shame the former then went down the route of advertorials and the latter only lasted a single issue.

Back in 1994, in Russia, Shirley joined the St Russian city as a reporter and was editor within a year. She was also a founding editor of the lifestyle publication Throb, published in both English and Russian. Click here to read what the Lonely Planet Guide to St Petersburg had to say about these papers. Shirley first caught the freelancing bug in Russia where she gained her one and only by-line in the Moscow Times and helped research a World in Action programme on the city’s gangsters. Her first feature ever sold as a freelance article was ‘All you need is love’ – an interview with Oleg Vasin who had set up a ‘living shrine’ to John Lennon, which was snapped up by an international syndicated features agency. Attempts to sell more stuff to UK-based national papers were somewhat hampered when she chickened out of ever ringing up to see what they thought of her ideas.

Eleven years on, recent commissions, include work for My Child, Sec Ed and (another one I don't want to mention) magazines and features for The Journalist and Press Gazette. Shirley has also recently become a contributor to Channel 4’s Ideas Factory website and is a feature writer for the glossy regional magazine Properties, Homes and Gardens.

My blog, it's a changin'

2005-10-25T14:38:00.000-07:00

I saw two "famous" people in Blackpool. One was Lisa Riley - she looked hard as nails in the Pleasure Beach. The other was a bloke knocked off X Factor some time back. Saw him in a pub. Am not counting Mooky the Clown, The Krankies, Stu Francis or Bucks Fizz - as I didn't see them by accident.
Far too busy to blog much now. I observed in a recent newspaper article much of what is written on blogs is 'self indulgent twaddle' . I'm not keen on clogging up the blogosphere with my ramblings any more.
Still I can't bring myself to stop completely, too much of a writeaholic for that. Instead I'm hoping to post about just that - writing. Others do, with varying levels of success, so why not me?

‘So down to earth’

2005-10-08T03:39:00.000-07:00

Well that was fun. Draining but fun.
Bradley didn’t show but Jane, otherwise known as Leanne did.
It all went great. No pics in the Sundays but hey you can’t have everything.
They were lovely girls – perfectly pleasant and professional to all concerned. Debra had more to say than Jane – who was preoccupied with whether her dress was showing too much cleavage – but that’s no surprise considering she hauled her a*se round working men’s clubs since the age of 13.
I hate the way people describe ‘celebs’ as ‘down to earth’ – as if it’s a major shock.
Why shouldn’t these two warm, talented but completely normal women be ‘down to earth’?
The way they put up with fans of all shapes, sizes, ages and states of mental stability was admirable.
We got a great shot of Nicky between them as they pretended to batter each other over the head with a rolling pin. (Hell, Nicky bought the rolling pin.)
I tell you what mate me and you have come a long way from ******* *** Co-op!

A big day tomorrow

2005-10-07T21:13:00.000-07:00

“D’you want the good news or the bad news?’ I teased Nicky on the phone.
“Better make it the good news – can’t be doing with any bad news right now,”she said.
“Leanne Battersby’s coming,” I replied and listened while she giggled and answered: “Wow that’s great..hang on, what’s the bad news?”
“Bradley Walsh may not make it.”
Boy is that a downer, I’ve been so excited all day. I love Bradley – was really disappointed he won’t be in Blackpool when we are.
Still Debra Stephenson (Frankie Baldwin and previously ‘Chelle Dockley in Bad Girls) is safe as houses. Of course I love her too – voted a fair few times for her on Fame Academy. Think I’ll keep that to myself, the PR woman isn’t supposed to come over all ‘Avid Merrion’ to the celebs.
Apparently Bradley has the sh*ts.
That’s bye bye to Nicky’s mum’s signed photo. Sorry what was that I was saying about Avid Merrion?
Still our client is giving Debra a lift to the venue and is really looking forward to it. I was just about to ring him and tell him to make sure he watches Corrie so he can chat about it in the morning when he rang me at home to break the news about the possible no-show.
Me and Nicky are travelling up at 8am. That means Hannah will get a lift off Nina to pottery, she’ll love that.
There’s gonna be champagne, which Nicky is most excited about and some agency snappers coming, which I am.
They reckon it’ll be a sure thing for the Sundays. I’ll have to have a good chat with them as I’m holding out for Heat – I’m hoping we can get one of those ‘scratching your bum’ shots right in front of our client’s sign – although maybe not such a good idea if Bradley’s does show and he's still got the sh*ts.

Of course it was the evil twin

2005-10-04T22:42:00.000-07:00

Note to self: Must write more.
If this is the sort of codswallop that passes for top TV drama then I have to be in with a shout.
Last night I could hardly sleep as I was so scared after watching the first part of Class of 76.
Now it's all been revealed. It was the evil twin whodunnit, traumatised into psychopathy by the death of her sibling.
Utter bollocks and only about the 10th such denouement I've had the misfortune to watch in the last six years.

Oh Mother

2005-10-04T12:23:00.000-07:00

My mum and me don’t always get on.
We love each other dearly but we have a sometimes (okay mostly) strained relationship. Half the time I think this is because we are too similar – emotionally needy, messy yo-yo dieters, - and half the time it’s because we’re so different.
“Does Dave want a cup of tea,” she asks me every time we visit. “I don’t know, why don’t you ask him?” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Why don’t you do Dave a cup of tea,” she offers when she comes to visit.
“Sure Mum,” I say. My face is red from the steam in the kitchen, my T-shirt is covered in beef fat, I’ve scolded my finger on the meat pan and narrowly avoided chopping off half my finger along with a piece of carrot. But hey ho Dave may want a cup of tea so I’ll get on with it before I lay the table – which Dave has been promising to do all morning.
Then she looks me up and down, taking in the leggings and said black T shirt with splashes of beef fat on it.
“Well you could have made yourself tidy,” she chides. “Still you’re looking slimmer.”
“Thanks Mum, I say, that’s because I am slimmer.” (I am lying. I must have put half a stone back on in the last two weeks.)

What's the story?

2005-10-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

Been swapping memories of some of the best stories we've read in local papers with some other reporters.
When I say 'best' I don't mean the often overlooked fantastic accomplishments of colleagues in the regions - I mean the most ridiculous and inconsequential tales ever to take up column inches.
I spotted my favourite on a billboard in New Quay, West Wales: "New Quay man in broken tap row."
Before that, there was also a time when a reader wrote to the Shropshire Star: "Thanks for the story on page one about a TV being stolen from a house in Harlescott Lane, I should just like you to know that when I opened my fridge last night, the light didn't come on and wondered if you would like to report on that."
Jo wrote that her first interview with a Midlands weekly took place the week they led on: "Town poodle savaged by neighbour's dog."

Keeping the magic alive

2005-10-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Lauren and Hannah are finding it hard to get to sleep tonight because they are too excited. They have made their own little version of an advent calendar – but they are ticking off the days until their birthday and when we head off for Blackpool.
I have booked this afternoon to go and see Rock with Laughter on their birthday – http://www.pmpfr.co.uk/blackpool-tickets/BNY-rock-with-laughter.html it stars Stu Francis (‘I could crush a grape’), The Krankies (Janette has recovered from her fall) plus Chris Hyde from Pop Idol – came about fourth the year Will Young won, and Bucks Fizz – which I think is the version with the bloke out of Dollar in it. Of course Dave hasn’t heard of any of these people. Still he’s impressed that the kids get in for free.
It’s been a very profitable weekend for Hannah and Lauren. We went into town to buy bikes for their birthday yesterday and the Tooth Fairy turned up last night.
Actually she has to come to mine and Dave’s room as Hannah is too scared if she thinks she’s coming to her room, despite Lauren insisting she’s only an inch or so tall. ( I blame that really awful Tooth film we went to see about two years ago.)
We found 60p under Dave’s pillow when Lauren came bounding into our room at 7am this morning. God help me if I ever forgot.The lengths parents go to keep the magic alive can be quite impressive. We have had a few ‘near misses’ with questions about Father Christmas – once he dropped some chocolates for Lauren in the utility room.

Cat’ll teach you

2005-09-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

Have invited Mum and Dad for Sunday dinner.
Only problem is they will see precisely how much weight I’ve failed to lose so far. Dave of course is as supportive as ever – but he didn’t see me polish off that packet of cakes just now.
This has got me thinking about men who taunt their partners about their weight – and remembering the time I was called ‘scum’ by a woman I wrote a story about. She’d cooked her husband a cat food pie and put a chilli in his y-fronts, oh and laxative in his tea.
And why had she done this? It was after he called her a fat cow.
She went on to lose a few stone but wanted to get her own back, as you do. Never mind telling him: “Look love, I think you were a bit harsh there and you’re not exactly Twiggy yourself.”
The story made quite an impact. The picture of the tin of Kit-e-Kat with the headline ‘Cat’ll teach you’ above the tale of the ‘roly poly nurse’ was a brilliant result, even if I say so myself.
But then the phone calls started. Thing was she’d been spat at in the street. Thing was, she’d had a warning at work – she was a cook see, in a hospital and not really a nurse see, and it really wasn’t the best to be splashed all over the paper for doing anything with cat food, chilli or oh laxative for that matter.
The photographer and me had stopped off at the corner shop to buy the cans of Kit-e-Kat. Hope was we would be able to persuade her to have her picture taken spooning the cat food into a pastry case – it'd make for a daily and a women's weekly then too - never mind that the corner shop didn’t have a pastry case, we’d think of something – and we had a paltry sum in used notes in my handbag to help her round to our way of thinking.
But it didn’t turn out that way. We had a few quick words – yes we could definitely do the story – but no she couldn’t say anymore – but hey I’d already been round to see her twice so we had plenty. Then she scarpered.
It was the lady from the slimming club who accused me of ‘pretending to be a ‘nice person’ – that was the bit that has stayed with me –like the time a prostitute attacked me at magistrates court. It wasn’t the punches that hurt – it was when she said: “Bit scruffy for a reporter, aren’t you love?’
Hmmn. See I find that last bit midly amusing - the story about the poor lady who was spat at because of my story hardly covers me in glory though does it? I still worry about it to this day.
I probably shouldn't - she's most likely back on the pork scratchings like me.

Like mother like daughter

2005-09-27T14:40:00.000-07:00

The girls have to make up prayers for tonight's homework.
Isn't that lovely?
Unfortunately Lauren is playing for laughs. I won't go into detail but I've never heard a prayer with the line: 'My butt stinks' in it before. Cheers Lauren, I'm sure your teacher will love it.
Last week there was another telling nugget revealed of a personality being formed. Lauren was worried she wouldn't read as many books as a boy in her class - as there was a prize for whoever read the most.
She insisted on reading 15 over the weekend - or at least making it look as if she had.
She's far too young to understand 'winging it', 'taking a flyer' or what 'bullshit' is. But somehow I think she's already got an inkling.
That's my girl.

Pulling the ladder up

2005-09-25T13:37:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing to think I was bullied.
For three months after leaving a job back in the late '90s I didn’t have the confidence to apply for a job, let alone pick up the phone and ‘pitch’ a freelance feature.
So I ended up back where I started in a junior role on the evening paper that trained me. But I didn’t care, it gave me the ‘grounding’ I needed to rebuild my confidence and eight years on, I’ve not looked back.
I'm not saying I've found wonderful success since then professionally but I'm doing okay - and if anything at work gets me down, I think back to that time and thank my lucky stars it'll never be that bad again.
My experience of bullying really did change my life. Up until that point I was one of the hordes of senior journalists who ‘judged’ people on how they fared at their job – as if their ability to persuade a grieving relative to speak or turn round a front page story right on deadline defined their whole being. Mention someone’s name and the same question always came up in hushed tones: “Are they a good operator?”
Depending on the answer, they could be admired or reviled, invited to the pub or left alone to wonder why they weren’t in the gang.
News editors who were 'hard bastards' were to be looked up to, weren't they? So-called 'victims' of bullying must've brought it on themselves.
Up until that point it’s also fair to say I’d lived to work. But the mental mauling I received in that particular newsroom coupled with meeting my partner at around the same time, changed me beyond recognition – learning to work to live.
It was the first time I hated a job. I’d wake with a knot in my stomach and a bigger one in my throat. I comfort ate for England – a different takeaway every night in my flat miles from home and I wept with despair and shame that I could have been reduced to such a state. I ended up in front of a GP who told me I was depressed – ‘reactive depression’ he called it, due to stress.
I kept that quiet for years. Because of the nature of the abuse I suffered, with my boss claiming I was ‘mentally unstable’, I didn’t think admitting I did actually become ill, would do me any favours - no smoke without fire and all that.
But now I’m strong enough to say ‘bollocks to that’, there’s no wonder I ended up at the doctor’s when I think about the daily tirade I was battling against, all the time trying to function in a new job in a new town, separated from friends and family.
Years later I even found the courage to write about my experiences in a women’s weekly. I felt liberated– not only because I’d ‘cracked’ that market but also because I happened to know my tormentor read that very mag as part of her new job. It also gave my ex-colleagues, who’d also suffered in silence a bloody good laugh.
Today I’m thinking about that time again. I’ve just found a photocopy of a statement I supplied to personnel after leaving– so I’m going to reproduce it here.
I should’ve know something was wrong. In my first two weeks in that office, six people left.
It also became increasingly galling that every time I had a good idea, this woman would claim it as hers and every time she f*cked up, she’d say that was me. I just couldn’t win.
I'll never forget the words of one of my colleagues - he told me she was 'pulling the ladder up' and that as a successful woman she chose to stop any other reaching her giddy heights of achievement. I would love to say I disagreed with him - but he was right.
So right in fact that the same phrase has popped into my head after encountering a couple of other women since. There was the editor who told me, two weeks into a trial period, if I didn't get a 'splash' out of a district office that afternoon, there'd be 'blood on the carpet' and it 'wouldn't be hers' (thankfully I walked away from that opportunity) and there was the PR woman whom I worked with briefly. I gave her a load of contacts and she gave me nothing but grief.
The story of this first bully did not stop with this statement. I also ended up giving evidence in defence of an ex colleague who stuck up for me, wrongly accused of theft.He was acquitted and the judge called me an ‘exemplary witness’. The trial was surreal. My colleague’s barrister told the jury the newsroom was like ‘open warfare’. He was right of course.
All names have been changed.

Re: Conduct of Alison Mildman

Following our telephone conversation, I wish to make the following statement.

From the moment I arrived at the Ellesbury Gazette, I was amazed at the conduct of Ms Mildman. She was deeply offensive to myself and other members of staff on a daily basis.
Alison refused to give me any responsibility whatsoever. Having been ‘in charge’ of a team of 12 reporters on another title, I was more than capable of coping with the demands of this paper.
Two days after joining Alison Mildman told me: “I don’t know who you think you are but everything you’ve ever done or learned before you came here was sh*t”. After that she called me either a ‘tart’ or a ‘talentless bitch’ every day. On top of this she would swear at me and tell me to ‘f*ck off’.
Whenever I sat in her chair to access the newsdesk computer, she’d call me a ‘power crazed bitch’. Once I was amazed to see her take a bottle of gin from her bag to take a sip. When I asked her what she was doing, she replied: “What the f*ck has it got to do with you?’
Two weeks into my new job. My brother was in a serious road accident, which left him unable to walk. The editor allowed me a week off on compassionate grounds to be with him. On my return, I discovered Ms Mildman had told my colleagues I was suffering ‘mental problems’. The day I got back, she said: “I can’t give you anything to do, you might have a nervous breakdown, anyway I don’t know if I can trust you, you might p*ss off in six months.”
More than once she told me: “Just remember, I’m the (title omitted!) I could ‘have’ any one of you if I wanted, I only tell the editor what he needs to know.”
Ms Mildman often claimed credit for my work, she would pretend she had to rewrite it and tell me it was ‘sh*t’.
Once she told the editor she had to stay in the office until 12.45am to ‘rewrite Shirley’s sh*t’ because all I’d ‘bothered’ to do was to prepare some notes. I was reprimanded by the editor despite protesting that these were her specific instructions and I myself had been in the office until gone 10pm.
It was the personal abuse that was hardest to take. Repeated references to an alleged ‘mental breakdown’ were deeply hurtful. She also told me I had a ‘face like a slapped arse’ (no surprise there then - 2005 note!) and that working with me was like working with a ‘schizophrenic.’ She told me my colleagues were ‘sick of me’ and that ‘my miserable face was ruining office morale.”
She made comments about my dress, my hair and my make up saying I looked as if I didn't wash.
Concerned colleagues would ask me if I was okay as she had told them I was suffering from ‘mental problems.’
She also made comments about my personal life. Referring to the fact that I’d spend time with my boyfriend, she told me: “If you were anywhere near a professional, you’d be coming up with stuff for conference, not sh*gging all weekend.”
She told me it was my job to make reporters cry. She would often ‘tear a strip’ off junior members of staff and ask me to join in. When I offered them words of support as I saw fit she told me I ‘wasn’t the journalist she’d been told I was.’ When I stuck up for reporters in meetings with the editor, I was asked if I was ‘their agent or something.’
She’d say ‘I’m working in a f*cking kindergarten, I’m surrounded by f*cking kids. If you don’t like it, f*ck off and work in Boots.”
I gave my notice in after she told me: “Give your f*cking notice in, I’ll give you a sh*t reference.”
There was no way I could continue. I have been advised I could launch proceedings for constructive dismissal but as a young professional in a highly-competitive industry, there is no way I can afford the potential damage to my reputation.

Party Girls

2005-09-25T10:29:00.000-07:00

“You look frazzled,” says Fussy Missy.
“Bog off,” I want to shout back but instead offer a lame grin.
I’m standing in the middle of a community centre at 8pm on a Friday, wrapped in toilet paper.
Unsurprisingly I look like sh*t.
Hannah had pulled me up when they announced the ‘Best Mummy’ competition.
It’s not going well. My daughter and four of her friends have the economy loo roll wrapped round one of Fussy Missy’s magic wands and are attempting to cover me up.
“Do my face,” I’m shouting and I put my glasses over the paper for maximum comedic effect.
But it doesn’t wash. People are looking at me with a mix of horror and sympathy.
Perhaps it’s the big splodge of curry sauce still on my T-shirt from where I nipped out for tea from a Chinese up the road and missed Fussy Missy’s marvellous act earlier.
I hate this party. The girl who's marking her sixth birthday is a spoilt brat.
I took her to Pizza Hut once after school with Lauren and Hannah and she was so rude I wanted to confide in the waitress: ‘She’s not mine you know.’
Far too much of my time is taken up debating whether you can tell off other people’s kids. Now I just go for it and if the mum wants to get bolshie, let her.
When I was little, there was no shame greater than being reprimanded by someone else’s mum…
"That wasn't very nice now was it?" my mate Sam's mum had scolded after I let out a fulsome burp and giggled triumphantly. Devastated, my cheeks burned red, I could have been no more than ten but the shame has stayed with me to this day. I can remember the colour and make of the car we were in (yellow Cortina) and the exact road in my home town we were driving along.
It was the one and only time I was told off by someone else's mum and I hated it. Today my own six-year-olds are warned to be as good as gold for their mates' parents..or else! But what do I do, when little Chloe or Amelia is trying my patience?
Now I relax and let them have it.
According to parenting experts, it's a common dilemma - different families have different tolerance levels and varying approaches to discipline - but are fearful of making an issue of it in case it causes a row with the other parents, or can still feel awkward applying their 'rules' to someone else's family.
Still for now I have the ‘Best Mummy’ contest to think about.
I fail miserably. It’s between Keith and Steve in the end.

‘I’m all right Jack’

2005-09-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

Held a demo at school this afternoon. There was about 100 of us in the end – a fair turn-out if not still a little disappointing given the amount of people milling around at home time.
We’re fighting against proposed nursery cuts which could see even the kids with big brothers and sisters at the school, not get a place.
Still ‘I’m all right Jack’ is the prevailing attitude of many – always has been, always will be – so I shouldn’t really be surprised, let alone disappointed.
Media interest was strong. Regional telly, radio evening paper and weeklies were all there. I chatted easily to the local reporters but ducked out of sight when the cameras appeared.
Lauren and Hannah couldn’t understand why they were called on to pin a ‘45’ and ‘46’ on their T-shirts and chant: “We are not a number!” but I gave them a full ‘you have to think of other people’ talk which seemed to work.
We’re currently awaiting the news at 6.30 to see how much they show.
The headmaster and chair of governors are meeting the director of education tomorrow. Have everything crossed. Watch this space.

‘Awareness? Don’t make me laugh

2005-09-21T12:37:00.000-07:00

Was there ever a lamer excuse for a deluded PR to seek media coverage than an ‘awareness day’?
I’ve just finished an article for a journalists’ mag about this very subject – and to say some hacks are fed up of being bombarded with calls and emails about these daft initiatives would be like saying Andy Fordham liked the odd pork pie.
Some may argue that an‘exclusive' new survey’ commissioned by a firm of roofers may have a lesser effect – but ‘awareness’ cracks me up as often as it makes me think.
For every hugely successful campaign such as Breast Cancer Awareness Month (currently backed by a series of national telly ads which reduces me to tears) there’s a ‘hoof it for horses’ day (October 1) and International Herpes Week which rather fittingly starts on Halloween. (Bet there’s lots of willing case studies for that one.)
The following article:
http://www.lsj.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050918/LIFE/509180415/1079/life
gives a great insight into some of the ‘special’ days in America. My personal favourite is
Someday We’ll Laugh About This Week, which could apply to much of my life never mind just seven days.

'Case study' adventures

2005-09-18T12:41:00.000-07:00

Standing by the satsumas in Sainsbury’s yelling ‘I want to **** your ****’ into my mobile while Hannah fetches the bananas is just one of the challenges of working for a Sunday paper.
I never thought it’d be possible to combine the demands of a young family with those of a busy newsdesk (hence my 'descent' into PR) so to find myself thinking about both on a Saturday morning has come as quite a shock.
This week I was contacted help find not one, not two but three case studies. Knowing so many people – mums, slimmers and entrepreneurs included, means, touch wood, there’s usually a way of sourcing what’s needed.
On Thursday they wanted an overweight 15-year-old and then a woman in her 40s or 50s. That was easy enough, give or take the stress of the time between finding them and actually interviewing them – I always assume the worst and think they will ‘drop out’.
Then at around 3pm on Friday I got the call to say they wanted someone who had been ‘stalked’ by text.
I must have had something in the back of mind telling me ‘Tessa’ was my girl and just 20 minutes later, having confirmed cursory details and her willingness to be pictured I was phoning back to say I’d got someone.
So there I was the next morning re-iterating the sinister details as the desk worked my copy, submitted the day before, into what was being prepared in London.
Other shoppers, I kid you are not, are rooted to the spot, listening to my every word.
“I want to **** your ****,” I repeat at the top of my voice. The newsdesk couldn’t hear me the first time as the tannoy was announcing a need for more cashiers.
“She’s 30, I sent a note,” I say. “Yes he did threaten violence, he said he’d drug her, you've got that, haven't you?”
“No I can’t I’m in the supermarket,” I say as the news ed asks me to send an ‘add’ over by email. As he now has to write in the further example of an abusive text message himself, I’m forced to repeat the four-letter words while avoiding the gaze of the elderly lady who’s hovering by the grapes. I've often had to admit to myself I've got a 'mouth like a sewer' but never in front of the kids!
This time I also repeat another of the texts: “I saw you at the bar, looked straight into your eyes,” I say and this is enough to convince my audience that I am stark raving mad and they quickly turn their backs to continue to fill their trolleys.
Hannah's also back with the bananas. “All right Darlin’,” I say and we carry on towards the stock of Lauren’s favourite mushroom soup.
‘So that’s what they mean by juggling’ I laugh to myself and continue with the weekly shop – and avoiding the shocked gazes of the other customers. Perhaps we'll get some soap next, to wash my mouth out.

Not writing about the G******* re-design

2005-09-12T18:59:00.000-07:00

Dave has always read the G******. I haven’t.
Now everyone is talking about its redesign and I’m not.
In all honesty, it’s because I haven’t seen it. Nicky nipped out for one at lunchtime but she didn’t really know what she was looking for – so she just came back with the Media section. Good one Nicky. WH Smiths in our town was sorely lacking in broadsheets, no surprise there then.
We made do with our usual Take a Break, Full House and Pick Me Up.
Still, people seem to like it…
But that’s enough about that. I’m NOT writing about it, see. Even if I have read that its new very important senior journalist-type person is a man I made a complete fool of myself over. (Not literally ‘over’ you understand – just a mild form of infatuation before he told me there was no chance and bought me some chips to cheer me up. That wouldn’t have been so bad except it happened once a week. For a year.)
Perhaps I'll get in touch and say well done on the new job. And perhaps I'd better not.

Spiked column: Save our nursery places

2005-09-12T10:56:00.000-07:00

News that the county's top education official is set to meet concerned parents in Milford Dean has not come a day too soon.
Parents were told just a handful of days before the long summer holidays about plans to halve the nursery places available at Milford Dean Primary School – and that was only because of some brief announcement on a council website, hardly a triumph of communication.
Since then Mountingshire County Council’s director of education has been asked to attend a meeting to discuss the future of children at the school, either through the summer or at the start of term. Now a date has been set: October 14.
Local MP Sir Oliver Britton meanwhile, was diligent and swift in his response. Many parents wrote to him as soon as they heard the news – and he wrote straight back, as well as meeting Emily Hatwell – a campaigning mum who faces being told that her youngest daughter can’t now go to the same school as her big sister.
Local Councillor Dave Towers also attended two meetings about the enforced reduction of pupil numbers and offered sound advice on what ‘proof’ was needed to illustrate the swell of support for this wonderful Ofsted-praised nursery.
It’s a real shame that the only communication Emily has had from the council is a letter retracing the whole sorry saga and offering no solutions– a letter that has left Emily ‘devastated’ and on the verge of complaining to the local government ombudsman. It also appears from that letter that parents’ views will be ignored and it’s up to the governors to make their voices heard.
The progress of the ‘campaign’ to save the nursery places has been well documented in the pages of this newspaper. But there’s still much that has gone unsaid.
Why is it for example that moves to dramatically slash the number of nursery places available come just a couple of years after the school was instructed by the council to market itself – to attract pupils from out of the area, across the whole of East Entington even?
Now it has done just that and is a victim of its own success.
And there’s a second element to the county council’s plans that has gone so far largely unreported – moves to cut the number of children allowed into the school across the board from next year. Similar plans are under way for other schools in the area.
At Milford Dean, this will mean children will have to share their classes with older or younger pupils throughout their time at the school – as there will only be enough pupils to make up a ‘class and a half’ in each year.
As schools are funded by the number of pupils attending, this may well mean that teachers’ jobs will face the axe.
Like Emily I am devastated at the potentially tumultuous effect on this brilliant school. You only have to spend a couple of hours with headteacher Ian Harper and his team to see how its caring and disciplined ethos is having a wonderful effect on the children.
Frankly the children and parents deserve better. That’s better than a message posted on a council website less than a week before the end of term and better than a director of education who finds time to come and see them three months later.

Home and away

2005-09-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

I stopped working from home about two years ago, so it’s odd to be back.
Feeling a bit rough, I’m sat in my back bedroom tinkering with articles, faffing on forums and using my mobile phone far too much. I’d get much more done if I was in the office.
I found an office as there was no way I was going to ask business associates back to a (very messy) family home for appointments – they would have to negotiate a path through headless Barbies and various bits of tat out of long discarded party bags.
Tidying up was possible but an extreme makeover was out of the question.
That’s why if at all possible I used to arrange to meet them on ‘neutral’ ground – say a pub, café or garden centre. But my sense of direction soon put paid to that. I turned up late far too many times due to getting completely lost for my stress levels to cope. Even with a ‘virtual secretary’ telling them I was stuck in traffic, it just wasn’t doing my blood pressure any good.
Once I arrived 45 minutes early. I was so pleased with myself, I rang my friend to thank her for her brilliant directions – then reversed into a jag in the car park. The fact that the owner of the jag was the bloke I had gone to see to get some work off, was a bit of a problem. Oh how we laughed. Still £1,000 worth of damage is a great ice beaker and I’m happy to say I’m still working for him three years later.
When I first started out everyone asked how I was going to ‘manage’ working from home – wouldn’t I just want to switch on Trisha and relax? Well no actually it was never a problem. Either I had a lot of work on or I was working my a*se off to get some more. Watching DNA test results was never going to get a look in.
And everything had to be fit in before I picked the girls up. Any businessman paying good money for ‘time management’ sessions should just face the prospect of finding a parking space at school at 3pm, that would soon sort them out.

Women in business? We must be comedians

2005-05-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve worked hard over the last two years to build up a business. Turnover in the first year was respectable – not the biggest turnover in the world granted - but when you consider I’ve been able to work part-time round my family, I happen to think it is quite an achievement.
Even more so when I remember that this time three years ago I was billing out the princely sum of £160 a month.
We are an all-woman firm. There are five of us and we are all mums. I now work full-time as does my fellow director whom I met at antenatal classes. Two other members of staff work part time and another is on maternity leave.
As we head to the end of our second year, turnover is set to surpass the six-figure mark and we have laid plans to really ‘fly’ in year three – with a realistic target of bringing home enough bacon to help give us and our families a better standard of living.
Imagine my delight then when we welcome an expert financial adviser into our office to explain setting up a company pension scheme and he tells us he understands we need the ‘mental stimulation’ when we are away from our children – a nice ‘little job’ to keep us busy. But don’t get him wrong, he loves kids. "I don’t want to patronise you but here’s a diagram of a bucket," he says as outlines how pensions work.
But this adviser is not the first to treat us like our minds really must be elsewhere. The financial whizz we turned to explain options for possibly re-mortgaging our homes to invest money in our business, was a gem. He told us we should lie and tell our building societies we each wanted a new kitchen.
And when we protested, what did he suggest? Why discuss it with the men in our lives of course.
We have had the misfortune to meet all sorts of business advisers over the last two years – all men - and to say I have been disappointed with their attitude is like saying George Best is partial to the odd tipple.
My personal favourite is the business growth ‘expert’ who told me with a straight face that when I was feeling ‘snowed under’ I should put a baseball cap on and turn it backwards as code for ‘do not disturb.’
Our bank manager, to his credit has always been hugely supportive. Although we did wonder about the suggested rate of interest on a possible business loan – even more so when he told us: "It’s always good to see you, you make me laugh.".
How lovely to be seen as so welcoming – but would he really say that to two men who’d started their own business? That’s other than Mat Lucas and David Walliams, of course.

Bostin ay it?

2005-05-25T09:26:00.000-07:00

Is there any more bostin’ phrase in a hit parade of regional dialects than: "Ow am ya cock?"
It’s a question that makes me glow inside. I remember my granddad uttering those very words while pressing a bar of Caramac into my eager hand circa 1976.
And when he told me I was a ‘roight bobby dazzler’ I felt like a princess.
There’s a beautiful, sing-song quality to the Wolverhampton accent, also heard in other questions like ‘ aw-roight am-ya?’ that anyone south of Willenhall may fail to appreciate.
Yet according to academics, these cheery greetings (‘ow am ya cock is roughly translated as ‘how you doing?’) are in danger of vanishing forever, along with ‘aer kid’, bostin' (brilliant), ‘wik’ meaning week and ‘tarra a bit’.
Noddy Holder says his accent held him back in the US (nothing to do with the music then Noddy?) and the latest Lonely Planet Guide sneers: "If you thought Brummies sounded funny just wait til you get to Wolverhampton."
Now the city’s mayor is calling on Wulfrunians to treasure their distinctive dialect. And who can blame him? Are we really ready to lose such gems as ‘foggits un pays’ (faggots and peas), ‘any road up’ (anyway) and ‘at wum’ (at home)?
A new study called Now Y’am Talking comes as no surprise. They really didn’t have to go ‘all round the Wrekin’ to discover this gorgeous accent is being used less and less.
Round these parts we call a bus a ‘buzz’, and say ‘yow’ for ‘you’ - but anyone daring to speak loud enough to be heard when not on home turf, is met with derision.
Both Black Country and Birmingham dialects have their own vocabulary. But it’s a cardinal sin to confuse someone from the Black Country as coming from ‘Brummagem’. You just end up a right taerter.

The things they say: The 'olden days'

2005-05-23T00:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Lauren asked Dave if he worked down the chimney when he was a boy.
I burst out laughing and tried to explain that Mum and Dad also learned about child labour when they were at school, but she was having none of it.
She also wanted to know if instead of going places with our parents, we had a 'nurse' to look after us.
I tried to explain that not everyone lived like the children in books by E Nesbit in days gone by, but she's a little young to grasp the effects of poverty, disease and social injustice.

So now I'm a 'writer'.

2005-05-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

Okay so I make my living from writing, have done for the last 15 years.
But gifted wordsmiths who crop up in the broadsheets are a different 'breed' to me, let alone those middle class author mums with their dinner party shenanigans.
I’m more of a 'grafter' - definitely a reporter rather than a 'writer'.
I remember in Russia, we used to rip the p*ss out of the Americans for calling themselves ‘journalists’ - I was a reporter, simple as that. None of this ‘got to have two sources for a story’ nonsense.
Then I was an editor, still hated the ‘journalist’ tag – far too grand for a girl from the Walsall office of the Express & Star.
There’s such a different skill set needed in covering a lot of ground on a news story and giving editors what they want compared to having a great idea that captures the moment and writing
brilliantly about it.
The former can take a lot of training and experience, the latter, I believe is down to pure talent.
That’s why up until last month I had never dared pitch the likes of the Guardian.
But a month is a long time in the life of a working mum – and now I’ve had a complete change of heart.
What’s the worst that can happen? I can take rejection. Which is more difficult, bringing two little girls into the world or coping when an editor in London says "thanks but no thanks”?
I have avoided pushing this part of my career because I was held back by fear – not that I wasn’t up to the job, but because I was worried the demands of a news desk would compromise time with Lauren and Hannah.
Now I’m back!
I’ve written two pieces for a Sunday broadsheet and been published in UKPG not to mention something called Freelance Market News.
The latest twist in my writing life has come about thanks to the generosity of spirit of a handful of women who have inspired me more than they’ll know.
Jan Murray set up a forum and Kelly Rose Bradford shared her tips on short story writing. Andrea Wren has greatly boosted my confidence (Thanks ‘buddy’!) and Cath Janes says she has laughed out loud at my stuff.
And so I have written a short story. It took me all of an hour. Since then Kelly has invited me to join an online writers’ support group, and I was scared as anything.
Still, figuring I has nothing to lose I posted my short story and have had great feedback from a wonderful group of women – writers from the UK, South Africa and Oz. I have taken on the points raised. It's now three hours' of moody contemplation and two hours of reading it, back and back and back again later. Now I am currently wondering what the hell to do with a story peppered with a liberal use of ‘f*ck’, ‘f*nny’ and c*ck.’
And my mum will kill me.

The diet's not so good...

2005-05-14T06:45:00.000-07:00

"I've got a gland problem," goes the old joke. "There's a gland in my neck that makes me a greedy bastard."
Well I can't stop eating - pasties, chocolate, crisps, you name it. Bananas, salad, cereal, fresh fish etc - just has no appeal. Like a young woman going for the 'bad guys' I just can't fancy the good stuff.
Not good when I have a letter off my doctor telling me to lose weight and when I'm supposed to be getting married next year. Seem to be avoiding it. Illness and pressure of work means I haven't set foot in the gym for more than a month.
Still I'm half a stone lighter still than I was a few months back so it's time to get back on track. Am feeling pretty determined at this precise nanosecond - but then I do have a belly full of chicken pastie and Rocky bars.

Lucky me to be loved

2005-05-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

Feeling a bit down. Watching the news about the Tsunami memorial this afternoon and crying my eyes out.
Got a lot to do and better get on with it.
Got a lot of people wanting to know how I got on at the hospital this morning so had better tell them. Lucky me to be loved.
Shame I've got to wait 'til July to find out more.

Save the apostrophe!

2005-05-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

(Best Victor Meldrew impression voice.) I don't believe it! What is it with apostrophes? Spend too much of my day stressing over the 'abuse' of these little blighters. Have contacted the Apostrophe Protection Society to apply to join and await their answer!

Yes I've got my hands full, yes they are twins and no they are not identical!

2005-05-03T14:40:00.000-07:00

From 'double trouble eh?' to 'did you buy one and get one free?' Parents of baby twins run a daily gauntlet of well-meaning but tiresome comments from onlookers who peer into the pushchair and ask if little Keir and Grace are identical...and for the nth time in a week you patiently explain that there is actually just 'a little' difference between your son and daughter.

I personally am also fed up of reading that twins means twice the work, twice the mess and twice the cost. They also mean twice the cuddles and twice the laughs - not to mention peace and quiet when they play together.

There is actually a twins book on the market called Double Trouble and a recent article in the Times was also called Double Trouble. Am gonna start a 'double trouble' watch to count up the headlines, there's bound to be plenty more. It's a bit like 'From Russia with Love' - hate that too.

Perhaps we could have a story about twins from Moscow - Double Trouble from Russia with Love.

That would be fab.

Waving 'bye bye'

2005-05-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

Nicky said Sarah was beside herself this morning when she dropped her off at nursery.
She came to the window, waving ‘bye bye’ and had tears streaming down her face.
Poor Nicky is beside herself now.
She rings once an hour after getting to the office and once at lunchtime, to make sure her daughter is okay. Of course she is fine – she is munching happily on a yoghurt and has been listening to a story.
Usually two-year-old Sarah is happy at nursery. She only goes two days a week, and has lots of friends there. But today it has been Nicky rather than her husband who has dropped her off and you can tell her mind is elsewhere.
Nicky is obviously feeling guilty – for momentarily turning her back on her child and walking away.
But why should she feel guilty? She loves her daughter but still has to work –and has chosen to do so just two days a week, making all sorts of sacrifices along the way (money for a start!)
Observing Nicky, brings it all back for me. I didn’t feel guilty if I was away from Lauren and Hannah when they were smaller – I just missed them terribly.
I worked one day a week by the time they were one, then up to two days, then three and then back down to two because I was missing them too much and finding it hard going.
On the days I was working I would see women with pushchairs heading for the duck pond and wish I could join them. On days at home when I did battle with finger food, plates, washing up, washing line and mop, I sometimes wished I was ‘working’ elsewhere – and getting paid for it.
I feel as if I have fought to hang on to a job in my chosen profession. I often said I would have worked on a check-out if it had meant I could work round them – and many was the time that option would have been a damn sight easier.
What really riles me is the attitude a woman should be racked with guilt for leaving their kids to go out and earn a living – full or part-time – but it would be okay to plonk them in front of a video while she busies herself with housework.
There’s absolutely no danger of that in our house.
When it comes to cleaning, I'm with JK Rowling. Asked how she had managed to write the first Harry Potter book, while also caring for a young son, she replied: "Because I didn't do any cleaning for four years." I know how she feels. As far as I am concerned, life is too short to dust..or to iron or scrub a hob more than once in a blue moon. This is especially true when you have two toddlers to take to a soft play area, or to the park or even to the supermarket on an afternoon off.
Yet still, I have two happy little girls, a decent job and a loving partner – and I’m still judged on the state of my lounge.

Dyke Eye for the Straight Girl

2005-05-03T09:58:00.000-07:00

You had to be there. We ended up laughing so much, it hurt. Nicky said that even the next day, at home in the garden, she was doubled up, her sides aching, just from thinking about it.
We were working on a press release for a local charity at the time. They were being honoured by a visit from someone called Jools and Lulu - a camp presenter apparently, from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and his sausage dog Lulu - who were launching a new TV makeover show - in the heart of our patch - hardly the most cosmopolitan of arenas.
That got us giggling in the first place, especially when Kirsty rang the local newspapers to tell them of Jools and Lulu's immiment arrival.
"The ****** Gazette is dead excited," said Kirsty - and don't forget Rustie Lee will be down the road. "******* is going to be 'celeb central!'
And then we had a brainwave. Pondering the current trend for reality shows with presenters of a more 'flamboyant' style I suggested coming up with our own 'pitch' - "What about Dyke Eye for the Straight Girl?
For the next hour we mused over whether tempting women to cut off their locks, ditch the mascara and don clothes that didn't 'exploit' their bodies would make good telly - or to go completely 'the other way' and persuade them to squeeze into micro skirts and low-cut tops. Not that any of us are that way inclined at all, oh no no no. It was Caroline who remarked 'doesn't everyone have those thoughts?'
That's as maybe Caroline but we're all mums now so we don't want to talk about it!
Perhaps we could write to French and Saunders with our idea - that would be good, or Smack the Pony, or Catherine Tate.
Or perhaps Matt Lucas would be interested - he could be the 'only gay in ivillage.'

Not such a Diamond Geezer

2005-05-03T06:23:00.000-07:00

So there's this bloke called Dominik Diamond holding forth on a programme called 'Britain's Most Watched TV'.
Where do they get these people from? I thought that miserable sod David Quantick was bad enough.
"Heartbeat is like peeing in the bath," says Dominik. "You just can't be arsed to get out of it."
Before the end of the same show, on Only Fools and Horses when they strike it rich he says: "Watching it was like having pee after a really long car journey - you knew what was coming but the relief was still tremendous."
Apparently these so-called 'pundits' earn £75 a shot.
If that's the level of expertise offered, Channel 4 are taking the p*ss.

Stuff I haven't done this week

2005-05-02T15:52:00.000-07:00

I love making lists. Here is a list of some of the important stuff I haven't found time to do this week - and will no doubt lead to me coming 'unstuck' in the next few days. As they say on Strictly Dance Fever, these are in no particular order...

Tell Ava's mum the girls can come to tea on Thurs.
Get exhaust mended
Get engine something or other mended
Blood tests times two (whoops)
Get girls' haircut
Haircut
New shoes. New tights. New knickers.
Find missing office key
Tell Sophie's mum the girls can come to the party on Saturday.
Buy cards for Ava, Sophie, Linda and Jack - off all of us.
Buy nephew birthday present
Sort out self-assessment with new accountant (find form would be a start)
Buy new Flora
Get new pot for Hannah's dinner money
Pay Ange, childminder for March and April
Pay kids' club
Open five emails ref PTA
Talk to vicar re wedding
Talk to Dave re wedding
Pay papers
Sympathy card to newsagent
Thank you card to Paul
Open new papers to plan 'pitching' blitz
Write reviews of caravan park, Telford Town Park, Butlins, Pontins, Center Parcs and Tenby for sooper-dooper new website.
Plus, many many more!

The things they say: Parents' evening

2005-05-02T14:35:00.000-07:00

There was a shock in store when we read Hannah’s work. Asked to pick out something that ‘makes me sad’ she’d written: “I don’t like it when my mum smacks my bum.” Cheers Han, oh how we laughed – especially when in walked the headmaster. “Oh yes,” he guffawed when we shared our little joke. “I’ve got social services on the way round tomorrow!” I think he was kidding. They haven’t turned up yet. Still I sent Hannah to school the next day with strict instructions to let her teacher know that I had smacked her bum, three times EVER – once when she stepped into the road, once when she nearly stuck her finger in an electric socket – oh and once when we got home from last night's parent’s evening. (Yes this is a joke, I’m paranoid now!)

Ann Summers party

2005-05-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I fear I’ve got tourettes.
At an Ann Summers party, I’m left feeling more than ashamed of myself – for winning the ‘rude alphabet’ game for the third time running.
I know I’ve got a competitive streak but this is ridiculous.
“A” says the hostess (who says she is quitting the sex toys game to become an undertaker. Bit of a conversation stopper that one, apart from the odd comment about ‘stiffs.’) "A*se" I shout, as quick as a, ahem, flash, beating a couple of 'a*sholes and one (rather worrying) 'a*se bandit'' into second and third place.
The game continues apace through b*ll*cks, **** and d**do, while more wine is sipped and the laughs get throatier. At 'f' the general consensus is it should be 'f*ck' and my suggestion of 'f*sting' causes some consternation."What's that?" Ask a couple of the girls and I pretend I don't really know.(A lone reference by the hostess to bottoms did not 'go down' well. I decide ignorance is the best policy.) And so it goes on. I am gripped by the urge to shout dirtier and dirtier words, then immediately lower my gaze and mutter 'sorry' more than once.
There are looks of horror and bewilderment, not to mention a few muffled choking sounds as I offer: "****, knob, l*zza, m*nge, n****, o*****,********* and qu*m" in machine gun-like, cathartic succession.
My mate Alison is pretending she doesn't know me. By the time we get to t (t*ts, and a solitary 'tw*t' from me), I'm romping ahead. At ‘v’, people seem a little stumped except for the rather obvious 'vagina'. I shout 'v**va' triumphantly before apologising profusely and taking another gulp of Chardonnay - not to mention preparing myself for a very loud (and I would say, perhaps a little jerky) 'w*nker'.
I sense the atmosphere changing. Nobody likes a smart arse. Dirty looks are coming my way. "But I work with work with words!" I protest. It doesn't wash. The assembled stay at home mums, office and nursery workers have made a mental note that I am a pervert. My prize is a pack of cards with blokes in various states of undress. Hours of hilarious fun lie ahead as we play 'guess the year' this was taken.
Judging by the straw hat and the handlebar moustache it was the same year the Village People made it big. Bet the young studs in these pictures knew a few words that would make us all blush.

Strolling through Leningrad

2005-05-01T03:43:00.000-07:00

I've dug out my red notebook. Been thinking about Russia a fair bit lately. Mostly wondering if I could ever find the 'balls' to pitch an article as some sort of expert. I doubt it - even if a cursory trawl through the internet reveals there are such 'experts' about.

May 2 1989
(NB Have been having too good a time to write a diary - who was it said 'Good girls keep a diary, bad girls don't have time'? Wasn't it Mae West? No, actually it was someone I have never heard of. Whatever, I'm far too young to care!)
Over the last few days me 'n' Stuart got to know Valeri from Omsk quite well, although somehow his name always managed to elude us and we would revert to "Siberman"! He is lovely looking, except for his rotting teeth.
Like Sasha, who he jokingly calls 'bratan', he was more often than not in his dressing gown (khalat) dossing around. He couldn't speak English but very politely listened to us attempting to answer his many questions about Britain. "How many hours does a factory worker work?", "Do you live in a house or flat? ", "Is it okay to go out with women who are taller?"
But it's got to be said - he's a right dirty bugger, and taught us, shall we say, "useful" expressions., mainly linked with bodily functions. He really is a dead nice bloke, despite having a viciously sexist streak. "Thank God", he said, "that the Soviet Union does not have a woman prime minister - and it is not right that anywhere should!" Hmmn, for once in my life I found myself sticking up for Maggie.
Of course Stuart got to know him better as he shares a flat with him. The pair of them got on very well and Stuart is sad to see him go. He said he will try and find out about getting him a 'priglashyene' for him and Sasha to come to Britain. (Sasha is dying to see a Go Go Bar - whatever that is.) Realistically, says Stuart, it may be a little hard, due to the sums of money involved - he would have to pay all their expenses in the UK.
Valery's presence seems to have brought Sasha out of his shell a bit. Now the arrival of a young American to share Stuart's room has given them a perfect opportunity for a bit of conspiratory p*ss-taking.
As for Sergei, he's a little strange. (Though some would say strangely sexy!)
At 5am one morning Stuart couldn't sleep because of a noise coming from the kitchen. He went to see what was up and found Sergei starkers by the cooker, surrounded by a puddle of water.
The explanation was, according to Sergei, he's a 'bisexual nudist' and he will not entertain any further questions on the matter.
We've been out with Adele, Anna and Natasha, to a disco at the Dvoretz Molodozhi. We were surprised when they played Bros - dross takes no heed of geography or political borders!
There was only sok to drink but a nifty bottle of cognac in the handbag soon put that to rights.
Natasha is lovely. She's got a gorgeous son, Dima, but is going through a divorce. This week she has gone home to the Ukraine, taking our passport details so she can invite us to Kiev. By all accounts the bureaucracy involved is a nightmare - we won't realistcially get time to go as it'll take too long to sort out. I'd love to go though - chance of a lifetime and all that.
Sometimes I just can't believe it. It's amazing. There is so much going on, so much to see, learn or laugh at. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
For the rest of my life, I'll remember that 1989's May Day was spent strolling through Leningrad. Actually I know I will remember it as poor old Jackie had the sh*ts. We were okay getting to the Hermitage but she had an inevitable 'accident' on the bus back.
The night before was a massive drinking session, with Jacob playing on the mandolin. Shame every one of us puked. (All eight of us, and I was first.)
I hope there is more fruit about soon - having a hangover makes me dream of eating an orange!
Still there's plenty of stuff for sale at the pivnaya - even if half the customers are p*ssed up. They sway contentedly in line as they wait for the vodka, wine, cognac or champagne on offer. We're not liked in there - bloody Western kids dipping in and out - and I have been mistaken for a 'young man' once or twice - short hair, dark coat and no make up - a Russian girl wouldn't be seen dead like that. Some places I have been charged a schoolgirl price, no wonder I can't get into nightclubs at home.
Sometimes when people see us on the trolleybus, they exchange looks and nudge each other so anyone who has missed us, can also spot the foreigners. But these days the initial spark of interest soon dies down. They see my sallow complexion and Stuart's papirossi fags hanging out of his pocket. "Nashi," they conclude - "they're one of ours!"
(Rather disappointlingly for me 16 years later - nothing to record May Day Parade etc!)

May Day evening was exceptional. We went to see Kit who fed us, gave us wine, played us 'underground music' and sang us songs about the meaning of life/futility of war - backed only by his acoustic guitar and candlelight. Then we watched TV reports of the May Day processions throughout the USSR. Kit said he found it too boring and went off to do something else, he also said that Russia was an anarchist country - and I told him that I didn't understand him. What did 'anarchy' mean, especially in Russia? I asked and he went into a textbook definition which soon lost me.
From Kit's balcony, we could see three sets of fireworks which went off in perfect unison.
"Surreal!" said Kit and we laughed - "That's very pretentious," we told him with no thought of pots and kettles, "and in English too!"
Why wouldn't he speak Russian to us? We reckoned his English was on a par with our Russian and we were determined to learn more.
This week we also met Reno, quickly dubbed the "Italian Stallion". He is here with a whole group of about 30 colleagues, setting up an Olivetti factory. The company provides them with Marlboros and they provide themselves with young Soviet girls looking for some excitement.
All the same he hates it here and wants to go home. He said our place was like a jail - how could we stand it?
He couldn't speak any Russian and didn't want to try. We felt that yes it's easy to slag it off when you are used to your home comforts, but he wasn't even prepared to give the people a chance. Prick.
Still, we were taken for fools by two of those people this week. Katya and Lada 'dropped in' after meeting up at the Metro - and when they 'dropped out' their bags will have been a fair bit heavier - due to half of Jackie's make-up and toiletries.
Naive? Of course! We're students. We'll know better next time.
Today has been a p*sser of a day. Felt rough as hell. Went to the shop but could only get bread and carrots. Later we went into town on the off chance we may be able to phone home. We were told we would have to wait until 3am. What a ridiculous time! Even more so when you consider that's when the bridges are raised to let the ships through on the Neva.

Working? On a Sunday?

2005-05-01T03:16:00.000-07:00

Juggling family and work commitments for any mum is a tough task. Aint that the truth.
For mums of twins, triplets or more, it can seem overwhelming.
For while the mum of a single baby can afford to debate whether going back to work is the best move for her and her baby, many mums of multiples have no say - the sheer cost of childcare means it is out of the question.
Women stay at home because they cannot afford double or triple sets of childminder or nursery fees and would not consider asking relatives or friends to cope with the demands of more than one baby at a time.
Most mums of twins work part-time...because of the cost of child care and the toll of looking after two small children outside paid working hours has on your energy levels.
While they may be ambitious for career advancement, the final decision often comes down to what is realistic - and for many working full-time is not.
Tell me about it.
Now my girls are older, I am in a very lucky position and can work from home at the weekend- so long as they aren't constantly running in shouting: "Mummy's on the computer" or Dave is rolling his eyes and tutting: Working again then."
I abandoned plans to work from home in the week just over two years ago. As I was meeting more and more people for "business" I didn't think it was right to invite them to a family home, especially one where you can seldom see the floor. (And I would live in fear of them asking for the bathroom - not because the toilet is dirty, you understand, but in case I have accidentally left the bedroom doors open!)
So I found an office instead.
Yet here I am, Sunday morning, writing a feature about a new school from my back bedroom, while Hannah and Lauren are playing in the garden and Dave, bless him, is hoovering downstairs. Good on yer Dave.
Mind you if you don't do it, you know it will never happen.

The things they say: Dr Who

2005-04-30T11:47:00.000-07:00

Kids. Doncha just love them. Lauren is hiding behind the sofa, while Mummy is lusting after Christopher Eccleston.
"Can't look, can't look," she says.
"Why not darlin?" I say.
"It's the Garlics," she reveals, "they're gonna kill Rose."
"Don't worry sweetheart, the garlics won't get her - they'll probably just give her bad breath."
Puts me in mind of Hannah's remark after our last visit to the dentist.
"You'd better start brushing your teeth better, Mrs Higgins, or you'll have none left in two years," I'm told with customary brusqueness.
Hannah is not put out when I share this chav-tastic warning with her.
"Good job you've got nothing to worry about," she smiles. "Two years is ages!"

Least said soonest mended

2005-04-29T16:09:00.000-07:00

I might have had a miscarriage last week.
Don't actually know yet if I did - as my scan has thoughtfully been arranged for two weeks' time. I'm sure that will mean I will never know - considering I have been losing bright red blood for two months solid now, won't it all be gone by then?
Is this stating the 'bleeding obvious'?
Finding out you may have lost a baby when you weren't trying for one throws up all sorts of emotions. (That definitely is!)
In casualty last week, the nurse subtly suggested I have a pregnancy test. Of course it came back negative - but was I imagining meaningful looks beforehand between the nurse and the doctor as they prodded my overweight tummy? (The nurse said I was voluptuous and kept calling me 'honey'. She just wasn't my type...)
For all of 20 minutes I sat numb with worry that I WAS pregnant. It never occurred to me that I had been but wasn't any longer. Sure I had gone to casualty in the dead of night with sharp tummy pains - but I did actually fail biology 'O' level. So too it would appear did the 'gatekeeper' receptionist. When I told her my symptoms she said I should have considered going to my GP the next day. Oh how very naive of me to think I was an emergency - obviously as someone who had to get two kids to school in the morning, I just fancied popping by.
"That would be strange news," I told the doc. "You're not pregnant," he said emphatically and I thought nothing of it. In hindsight I can't help going over: "Was he trying to tell me something of what night have been?"
( I remember the other pregnancy test I had in hospital seven years earlier - that came back 'strongly' pregnant - what the hell did that mean? Twins (or maybe triplets) of course!)
April Fool’s Day 1998 was one hell of a day. Just 24 hours after a home test revealed I was expecting, I underwent a scan. Different strokes for different folks.
I had gone to my GP to get the pregnancy confirmed. Instead she sent me to hospital to find out if my tummy pains were down to an ectopic pregnancy. The resulting scan showed TWO tiny heartbeats.
In that split second, I was ecstatic.
Little did I know that just seven days later I would be having another scan, in more sombre circumstances.
That weekend my partner and I sat down for a serious talk. There was no question of us not keeping the babies but money was tight. How on earth were we going to manage?
Lying down after the tough discussion, I felt a strange sensation and realised I was bleeding heavily. This was it, I thought, I was miscarrying. I collapsed in a flood of tears.
Beside himself with worry, my partner came running and gently led me to his car before driving like a maniac to the nearby hospital.
I was whisked from A&E to a ward. And then I was being examined by a doctor. I remember being struck at how kind she was. She gently quizzed me on what the “loss” had looked like.
She told me I had “passed the pregnancy” and if I had not, would have done by morning - and gave me a leaflet about a support group for women who miscarry. It was going to be hell of a night.
Back on the ward, my partner curled up on the bed with me until he had to leave. I handed him my scan pictures from the week before showing the tiny dots inside me. “You’ll have to get rid of these, ” I said, I could not bear to see them again.
I was due for a scan the next morning. It actually showed a single heartbeat. I did not know how to react. I felt like I was in limbo. .
I was sent home and booked in for another scan a week later. I spent the days fretting that the surviving heartbeat would have been snuffed out by the time I went back.
And then it was time and the scan showed TWO heartbeats again. I went into shock. Going from expecting no babies to two to none to one and back to two again in a matter of days was an emotional rollercoaster. I had to be put in a wheelchair to leave the room, as my legs went from under me.
I never relaxed until my daughters were born at 34 weeks, weighing a healthy 5lb 3oz and 5lb 10oz respectively. Depsite them being premature, I knew they were okay.
I will never find out what exactly happened on the night I was told I’d miscarried. But the sense of loss I felt as I lay weeping in that hospital bed will stay with me forever. A midwife and a clairvoyant have both told me I did lose a baby - having naturally conceived triplets - but I'll never really know.
Seven years on, looks like I'll never know if I've lost another one. I went to see the consultant a week and a bit after my trip to casualty. "There's a lot of tissue there", was about all I could get out of her when I asked her to run that past me again: "It could be a miscarriage" Yes but was she saying it might be, or probably was? "There's a lot of tissue there." she repeated and soft hearted leftie that I am, I thought "F*ck this, should have gone private!"
Today, I have been bleeding for two months solid now. How the hell do you explain that? What do I say when people gently chide: "You look tired, Shirl, is anything the matter?' What do I do when I think I'm gonna be okay and then the flood starts again in the midst of a work engagement and I sit there - not daring to move, lest everyone see the evidence in all its technicolour glory, not just on my trousers but on the chair too?
'Thank God it's my office,' I think. Then for some strange reason the same schoolboy joke won't leave my head: "Why do women have legs? Have you SEEN the mess snails make?"
Because I am keeping my 'problem' to myself, or the extent of it at least, there's not much sympathy at home.
'What do you mean you can't pick the kids up just because your car's broken down. It's only half a mile down the road?"
"Sorry babe, I've just got no energy - and have you seen the mess snails make?"

It's not a competition!

2005-04-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

At least once a week when I drop my kids off at school, Billie's mum is there; sitting on the classroom doorstep, book in hand, her daughter reading from it in hushed tones.

But this is not just any book you understand. At this moment in time, it's a Level Three Ginn Reader - and I'm reliably informed this is pretty good going for one so tender in years as Billie.

Once at a children's tea party, Billie's mum collared me. "Did you know," she hissed, "there is a free reader in Billie's class?"She almost spat the words.

She could not contain her jealousy for a little girl who had the audacity to be more advanced in her reading than her precious daughter.I had never actually heard the expression 'free reader' before but took it to mean this extremely bright four-year-old could actually properly try and read anything put in front of her.

How marvellous for her and her parents, how proud they must be.Billie's mum had my card marked as a fellow 'competitive mum', someone whose main function in life is to push their daughters forward academically - even when they have yet to learn to tie their own shoelaces.But I was aghast at her behaviour."You daft idiot," I wanted to yell. "Don't you know it's not a competition?"

But of course that is not what I said. Instead I heard myself tell her that actually one of my daughters was on exactly the same book as Billie, while my other daughter was catching up fast.In fact the teacher had praised my youngest daughter (who is just 10 minutes junior to her sister!) for her 'super' discussion skills earlier that very week. For some reason, I felt compelled to also reveal this particular nugget of praise to Billie's mum.

Allowing myself to boast in this way was a moment of sheer unadulterated horror. It was the first and last time I was going to attempt to keep up with the likes of Billie's mum -and its memory will never fade.

For, not only did I feel a complete fraud by allowing myself to be swept up in her petty superiority complex, I also left myself wide open for a lengthy and detailed description of what an articulate, mathematically competent and all round wonderful human being Billie's older sister was.

This woman is one of a long line of boastful and pushy mothers I have met in my five years as a parent.There's Alison who gave me a birthday card when her son was not yet two, claiming he had written it - "Sorry about his writing," she said. I looked closer - she had obviously done it with her own (very shaky) left hand.

Then there's Martine whose daughter Jayde (sic) was attending dancing, gymnastics, and swimming lessons before she was out of nappies.Jayde was enrolled into a private school, chosen because of its sporting prowess, at the age of three, and has now progressed to ballet dancing and gym on a Saturday, swimming after school on a Monday, trampolining on a Tuesday and French club on a Wednesday.

She has also 'tried out' tap dancing, horse riding, drama classes, skiing and athletics.I am not exaggerating and the child is not yet six. I gave up listening when Martine insisted, before my girls had set foot in a classroom, on showing me the files and files of her 'homework' she had kept. (It was in fact little more than a collection of beautiful and colourful childish pictures you see pinned on any family fridge.)

Once at the swimming baths when Jayde was just turned two, Martine insisted she no longer needed arm bands. Five minutes later the little girl was spewing strawberry yoghurt from swallowing too much water after 'going under' so much.But Martine is still at it. At a mutual friend's house recently, she opened Jayde's 'book bag' in front of at least four other deeply embarrassed mums, to inspect what words she had been given to learn that week, so she could bemoan the teachers for giving her some she already knew.Jayde at this point in time was sat in a huff in the kitchen while her contemporaries whooped and laughed in a bedroom, playing with a Baby Born dolly who could do a 'real wee.'I could have wept for the poor little mite.So this is a heartfelt plea to all those mums and dads out there with their own little Billies and Jaydes. Stop it now! It's not big and it's not clever!

Can't you see what we are all doing to our children by putting so much pressure on them at such an early age?Don't you want their memories to be filled with laughter, fun and friendship rather than a succession of 'improving' or 'stimulating' classes?I am lucky enough to know lots of happy people - we all are. Do you ever wonder where their happiness comes from? It sure as hell isn't from a childhood filled with competition.

If you ever think of your children and ask: 'what do I want for them?' Surely, it's not academic success at the expense of fun.Isn't the answer always, 'I want my children to be happy?"And if that is the case, isn't the solution simple? Let them be.

Some thoughts on snoring

2005-04-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

Another night on the sofa. Another night spent surfing the web looking for a cure for snoring -for him indoors I hasten to add, even if to look at me you'd think I could snore like a horse.
The internet tells me last week was 'Stop Snoring Week'. I never knew there was such a thing. Of course sod's law dictates I have missed it - not that there would have been anything much to miss - lots of media coverage though.
No doubt their next publicity stunt will be to list the 'top 10 celebs we wouldn't mind snoring in our bed' not to mention commission a survey of who snores most - truckers in Tyneside or ballet dancers in Barnstaple.
This is nearly on a par with National Constipation Week, though by all accounts that was pretty sh*t.

British Snoring & Sleep Apnoea Association • 52 Albert Road North • Reigate • RH2 9ELHelpline Freephone No: 0800 085 1097Tel: 01737 245638 • Fax: 01737 248744 • E-mail: info@britishsnoring.co.uk