Archive for the 'Laughter' Category

Too Pikey for Paris

Last night I found a very eloquent little poem I wrote about my first trip to Paris, which took place in March 2008.

Paris is lovely to look at.

Paris was meant to be romantic.

Paris was a rip off.

Knowing your pint cost you a tenner drains the magic out of drinking it:


Too Pikey for Paris

too tired to care

L’amour, bonjour

nice to breakfast you

My hotel has a view

of La Tour Eiffel

And each romantic rue


But no wine bottle has a screwcap.

I found a rose’, but screw that

I ain’t gonna pay ten quid for that.

There’s Depeche Mode on German MTV.



A rather charming little billet-doux to a city which, in my experience, rings the death knell to any ailing relationship. Don’t you agree?  Ah, I knew you would.

This is me in Paris:

Well classy.


Swings and Roundabouts

I am very aware that I am making no new claim when I say that motherhood is a condition filled with woe and wonder.

You draw amazing strength from your children, and in return, they leave you drained.

I thank my lucky stars every day for my beautiful, happy, healthy little boy but I still think how beautiful, healthy and happy I might look sprawled across a beach chair in Thailand with a giant bucket in front of me.

My dear son was the main reason I managed to get out of bed in the mornings after my father’s recent death, and all my friends know how grateful I am to him for that. What I failed to tell them is that I meant it literally:

‘Get up mummya! GEEEET UPPP!

‘Uhhn…? Whaaaaaa…?’


‘Just a minute darling, *yawn*  mummy is a little bit sleepy…’

‘I WANT CEREEEEAAAAALLLLL!!!! Nooooooooowwwwwwww!!!!!!!’

A quick glance at my phone would confirm that this was 5:50am. Cbeebies wasn’t even on yet. That’s how you know it’s too early for your child to be awake.

Nevertheless, the age of three is a pretty magnificent time, there’s so much going on:

The acquisition of speech is remarkable and often incredibly funny and cute, and there’s this persistent drive toward independence, this desire to be a ‘big’ boy or girl. Unfortunately you don’t often get to choose which task your offspring wants to perform on their own. Cue milk all over your carpets, broken plates, broken bones. While you appreciate their kind offer to help you with the housework, it’s always *a little bit unfortunate* when they clip an expensive picture frame with the end of the broomstick.

Yet one thing I can never understand is how my toddler son decides that he’s perfectly capable of diving headfirst into a swimming pool with no arm bands on, because he wants to swim ‘all by myself‘, but whenever he goes to the loo he shouts tyrannically at me from the end of the corridor:


And I wonder what his last slave died of.

This particular phase of (ahem) motor development is something I would, frankly, rather speed up. But then even that has elements of cuteness.

After a long bed wetting spree, I started doing the clever mum’s trick of picking up their child late at night in their sleep and taking them to the toilet.

As the sun rises I invariably hear the ‘MUUUUUMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYAAAA‘ calls coming from his bedroom, but this time he is smiling proudly, absolutely beaming, and he announces,

Mummyaaa??‘ (that’s how he pronounces ‘mummy’)

Yes, dear‘,

‘I didn’t wet myself tonight!!!!’

I am tempted to let the incontinent little rascal into my secret, that this is actually all due to the astuteness of his very clever and talented mother,  but decide I’ll be gracious and let him bask in the glory of this achievement all by himself.

Especially as he flings his arms around my neck, kisses my cheek, and says

‘Mummya, I love you SOOOOO much…’

It’s a Fine Line Between Pleasure and Pain…

There is joy in picking up random publications abandoned by other commuters on the Underground. This week I picked up the Guardian’s G2 supplement (Wednesday 18th March, 2009) with a sort of disinterested apathy that was quickly replaced by serious pondering.


Have you ever heard a group of newly-birthed mothers talk? It often works like this:


I was in labour for 52 hours! 52 hours! She was completely stuck in there, poor thing! The surgeon kept hovering over me with a scalpel but I threatened to disembowel him if he dared come within 20ft of my bed. Thank God for the Epidural, though. Did you tear?’



‘Yah, I tore a whole 6 inches but I was soooo not going to have an Epidural, darling. I wanted my birth to be sacred, little Hermione was born sans anaesthesia. We had Annabel Karmel come in person to my water birth to stir-fry the placenta with Tofu! So nutritious! Really the BEST for breastfeeding, darling. How about you, Dotty, how was your labour?



‘It was really, really hard… Unlike anything else…  I pushed so hard  that I shat myself.’


It is said that childbirth requires as much energy as running a marathon, so it’s no wonder we treat it like a race. Women can get more competitive about it than they would about the girth of their thighs. But Viv Groskop reports a whole new trend in one-upwomanship about to sweep the planet: THE ORGASMIC BIRTH.


YES! Women, you no longer need to be afraid of genital mutilation or protracted pain! We now have people who want women ‘to break through their fear and have a beautiful experience of birthing’. Well, birth IS a beautiful experience, although for some this beauty is not dissimilar to that of Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Most of us will come back home with a child we do not wish to flush down the toilet straight away.


According to Marsden Wagner MD (should that read ‘Male Douchebag?), ‘It’s got to be how it is when you make love with someone. It’s got to be safe, secure and uninterrupted.’ I am guessing his sex life is an insufferable bore.


Humour aside for a moment, I can almost see how this phenomena could be more than a myth created by smug Earth mother types. Contractions rise, peak and wane  just like orgasms, and trust me, leave your eyes just as watery and your head just as fuzzy. And it is true that ‘the noises women make are similar to those of love-making – which can embarrass their partners.’ Maybe some EXTREMELY FORTUNATE women have a little switch in their brains that makes all these feral sensations shift from excrutiating pain into excrutiating pleasure. Remember Barbarella, when she is in the ‘Excessive Machine’(thanks, Posie for reminding me of that one. Good thing old Barbie showed Durand Durand who is boss)? Hmmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.  And who doesn’t like a gentle little bite on the nape of the neck? Or a little crack of the whip? Or like, when something hurts but it’s a nice kind of pain, a really nice kind of pain? Or when… Ah, I digress.


I just know that when the Epidural kicked in, the feeling of pain sweeping away from my body was like being on cloud 9 with a battery operated Johnny Depp and beautiful sunsets and wonderful music and exploding ecstasy for ever and ever and ever.



Until the bloody thing wore off, of course.

Andre Jordan Strikes Again. (bastard).

Eskimo Woe: A tale of despair, isolation, global warming, urban deprivation and chilly willies

Eskimo Woe (2)


Eskimo Woe (3)


Eskimo Woe  (4)


Continued on

Not that he needs any more advertising or anything. ‘All art aspires to the condition of music’ and all that. He doesn’t need any more advertising, but you might like his stuff, IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY HEARD OF HIM.                       

   *note to self: must try harder*

That Cold-Hearted Tyrant, the Yummy Mummy.

Oh, postmodern parenthood, where do you eclipse those enduring voices of Capitalism and Mysoginy?

Although not all of us professional housegirlfriends and wives will experience these issues with such intensity, I have found an article that examines what appears to be a new cultural phenomenon, but to me is just yet another case of old wine being poured into shiny new bottles. This is all rather serious brain-grinding, folks, so if you were looking for a bit of ha-ha-ha-ha today instead, I suggest you look here.

Now, if you’re feeling a little like you’ve been failing miserably in your tireless pursuit of the Joneses, have a look here.

Pimenta nos Olhos dos Outros…

The Boyf is addicted to ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here‘. Yes.

And I, disgraceful facebook addict, justify the egotistical pornography with the fact that I wouldn’t have anyone over the age of two to speak to until at least 7.30pm(‘Honey, I’m home!‘)for five days a week. Nevertheless, since the advent of Big Brother I have remained steadfast in my dislike for reality television, with a pride and sense of self-righteousness that has often bordered on snobbery.

So imagine my despair when I found myself in hysterics watching celebrities I have never heard of being forced to be covered in insects, reptiles and rodents, or having to ingest an appetising selection of jungle Tapas such as live scorpions and kangaroos’ penises(including balls, which on mastication apparently ejected streams of you-know-what).

I am now a rainforest rubbernecker.

What has become of me?

Dreaming a Little Dream

Every now and then I’ll daydream that I am an international rock star and supermodel and I am being interviewed by someone for a magazine. In my head, the interview will go something like this:

GLOSSYMAG: So, Professional Housegirlfriend, clearly we all cannot get enough of your rocking new album, but you look even better in the flesh. What is the secret to a physique like yours?

… and I’ll reply something like…

PROFHOUSE: Ah, you know, I eat what I want, when I want and never put on any weight, but I guess I just make sure I get plenty of sex. It’s the best kind of exercise. I enjoy cooking in the nude.

GLOSSYMAG: But your skin, it looks so radiant! It glows with such gorgeous natural lustre! What products do you use?

PROFHOUSE: Oh wow, thanks! I don’t wear any make up. I get tonnes of stuff through the post from all these beauty PR companies but I give it all away. I like the natural look, you know? I’ll let you in on my little secret, though.  I never leave the house without having had an orgasm…


… and then the kettle will boil, or the door bell will ring and I’ll snap out of my reverie, like someone just slapped me round the face.

Reality sucks.