So today I bring you this, something that MIGHT have happened when I was off work on Tuesday on ‘pox watch’;

Yesterday I might have gone to the dining room to get a banana.

On the way to the kitchen I might have unpeeled the banana and remarked to the 4 year old ‘Ooh what a big banana’.

Once in the kitchen I might have put the banana in my mouth, to free up my hands, so that I could open the bin which is in a cupboard.

I might have then swung round to face the window, with the banana still in my mouth, to wash my hands in the sink which is under the window.

I might have then been greeted by the two workman in next doors back yard who were damp proofing the cellar, all wide eyed.

Wide eyed because they were looking at the woman next door going handsfree with a big banana.

After the interrogation by the receptionist as to whether or not I am sixty years old, a doubt that secretly pleases me, we are given a wrist band which the granddaughter takes to a screen in the wall to receive the code number of the locker we have been allocated.

We always share the same family cubicle in the communal changing rooms and chat while changing into our respective swim wear. The conversation has a decidedly schizophrenic flavour. One minute I am discussing the planet and stars with a teenager then it lurches to a 30 year old telling me how untidy her mother is (this to deflect my criticism of the way she throws her clothes in a heap on the floor), followed by a five year old earnestly explaining how she has brought her imaginary dogs and dinosaurs with her to the pool.

Once in the pool she remains in the role of the 5 year old where I teach her to swim and I am taught how to catch a miniature football. We have the same coaching methods which involve a lot of shouting insults and encouragement under the gaze of five Labradors and three Dinosaurs, which I understand watch from the pool edge.

Next time the smug receptionist will be told; 1 Adult over 60, 1 five year old child, 5 Labradors and 3 dinosaurs. Please.

The swimming is progressing well. She can swim almost a breadth of the pool, albeit at a forty five degree angle in the water.

As I stand over her giving noisy support I recall the time I taught her mother, a little older at the time. I had given her the goal of swimming a whole length. Approaching the final few yards, watched by her proud father and encouraged by shouts of encouragement and probably insults she slowly submerged. I remember the difficult decision; to stop her before she drowned or wait until she had succeeded by touching the end of the pool then perform a rescue and mouth to mouth resuscitation.

A mental note has been made not to do this with my granddaughter; her colourful description of such unconventional coaching methods will result in an equally colourful phone call from her parents.

We are always the last to be herded from the pool by the earnest attendants (Herded being the operative word in view of my granddaughters imaginary pets) then, after a hot shower we continue our bizarre conversations in the family changing room.

Later, as I drive away after delivering my slightly damp and shiny granddaughter with her relieved parents I am sure I can feel the warm breath of the three dinosaurs that are sat in a row on the back seat.

Any incidents that stick in my mind seem to involve one of the five churches in the village.

Every year there is a Scarecrow walk around the village, the local shop keepers, churches, pubs and the golf club make a scarecrow or scarecrows and display them.

It’s a very popular even, last year there were over 120 scarecrows.  The villagers pay money to wander round spotting scarecrows, the shopkeepers get more custom, there’s a prize for the best  scarecrow and all the money raised goes to charity.

Sadly, last year we didn’t attend.  Sadly, because there was a resurrection of Michael Jackson coming out of the C of E church graveyard. I drove past early in the morning before the scarecrow walk had started and nearly crashed as I saw Michael and his friends in the morning sunshine.

At this years scarecrow walk, I’m hoping to see Patrick Swayze doing ‘The Lift’ from Dirty Dancing with Mollie Sugden in the community garden.

Where we live, at the bottom of the village, there’s another church, recently renovated, it’s a white wooden church, very Little House on the Prairie.

A couple of months ago there was an incident where someone tried to burn the church down and daubed satanic symbols and something about god, hate and a few swear words on the side of the church.

The reverend decided to leave the writing on the side for a few weeks to show the congregation what had happened in the hope of uncovering the culprits.

… and to teach the local children how to spell ‘F*CK’ and how to draw a pretty star in a circle, which was nice.

The church is now being extra vigilant about any odd behaviour in the surrounding area and considering having CCTV installed

Yesterday my car wouldn’t start so we tried to bump start it.  As I ran behind pushing and panting,  The Husband sat in the car trying to start it.  We went quite a way with no joy.  Eventually we gave in and nearing the bottom of the hill The Husband swung the car into the Little House on the Prarie church car park.

It is still there, abandoned, and will be until we get round to getting it fixed in the next few days.

As I sit here with my poorly, chicken pox ridden, boy telling him not to scratch I keep having visions of the Reverend and the OAP congregation calling the Police or even the bomb disposal experts to come and check out our car.

My nervousness was prompted by a trip to Brussels a few months ago on a 32 seater. Like a paper airplane, it felt as though we were being propelled through the air using only an elastic band.

On the return leg as we came in to land the plane started lurching all over the place. It was a bit like being on The Tower of Terror at Walt Disney World.  It was so bad that when the plane landed I had to crowbar open my eyes, peel my fingers off the armrests and unclench my buttocks.

As the plane came to a standstill the passengers, who were still able to move their hands freely, burst into applause as the Captain admitted over the tannoy ‘I wasn’t sure how that was going to turn out’. I think that was the moment that I decided I didn’t like flying anymore.

I recently took a trip to London on another small ‘joke’ aircraft.

Just before we set off the Captain announced that he needed 6 volunteers to move to the back of the plane to even out the distribution as there had been an error with seat allocation.

… and clench.

As the plane took off in a rattly fashion I realised that, in my haste, I hadn’t looked in on my sleeping children when I’d left early that morning. If I had been starring in a film or an episode of Casualty my lack of parental concern would mean that my card was marked. I would have, at most, enough time to burn my tongue on my boiling hot in-flight drink before something terrible happened.

On my return flight from London I had a seat right at the front with excellent leg room.

Just as I was settling down to read my book the air hostess came over and said that as I was sat next to the emergency exit it would be my responsibility to open the door in an emergency situation.

She gave a brief demonstration of said door removal and told me to read the laminated card that no one ever reads as well as the detailed instructions on the door.

The instructions were in cartoon form;

With a moustache (not that I have a fascination with facial hair), I had to twist the two handles at the same time and pull the door towards me, then throw the door out of the plane to my right.

I looked at her like a rabbit caught in the headlights and said OK.

After our little chat I read and re-read the laminated leaflet and, for the first time since I first flew aged 7, took notice when she did the life jacket ‘pull here, tie this and blow the whistle here’ speech to everyone.

As the plane took off I eyed the emergency exit suspiciously. As my chair rattled I looked down. My chair looked like it was secured to the floor with staples. I clenched my buttocks a little tighter.

Once the seat-belt sign went off the air hostess asked me if I had familiarised myself with the instructions. As I tightened the strap on my seat-belt I told her that when … I mean, if, I was required to open the door would she give me the nod?  She must have thought I was on day release from the home for the terminally bewildered.

I realised that I was taking my ‘door duties’ far too seriously when it dawned on me that this was a UK flight, London to Leeds. The chances of us landing, in a crash situation, in any sort of water were slim to none. A canal or a babbling brook just wouldn’t cut it.

I would not be getting the nod from the air hostess any time soon; Nor would I be needing to use the whistle on my life jacket to bring attention to myself doing a spot of synchronised swimming in the sea.

As my emergency exit duty pressure lifted I went back to thinking about more interesting on-land crash situations … with my buttocks clenched, one hand clutching the arm rest and the other stirring the boiling hot in-flight drink which would burn my tongue five minutes later when I took my first sip too early.

We are taking our holidays in Italy this year so will have to undergo hypnotherapy or take A LOT of valium before I fly.

Sharon from Three Kids and the Cat and I were matched and the rest is history.

Now, what is good about guest post day is that I’ve found a new blog to add to my blogroll and you, my readers, get something a bit different. In fact Sharon has made something. I never make anything other than a mess and I have terrible sewing skills. This one is good though because you can use glue. Even I can use glue!

When you’ve finished here you could go over to Sharon’s to see my guest post.

So, over to Sharon …

How to make a felt owl brooch

What you need:

Coloured felt

 Thread

 Scissors

 Fabric glue

 Buttons

 Wadding or cotton wool

 Safety pin

Now depending on your crafty abilities you can either sew or stick your little feathered friend together.

I prefer to sew, but for quickness (especially if you’re making this with children), I’ve illustrated the glue version.

First download an owl template and cut it out. There are tons online and it just depends on what kind of style you would like.

Fold over a piece of felt and pin your template onto it.

Cut it out. You should now have two pieces.

Then cut a triangle for the beak, an oval shape for the breast, and two circles for the eyes.

The more colourful and contrasting the colours the better it looks.

Stick a button on the felt circles for the eyes.

Attach the eyes onto one side of your owl template.

Then glue on the oval piece, and the beak on top of that.

Sew up the two sides of the template but leave a gap for the stuffing.

Stuff your owl with either wadding or cotton wool.

Attach safety pin on the back.

Ta da! One owl ready to fly.

Twit twoo – get you.

Not that’s what we call Tweet Chic.

Teacher Friend Mother of 3, who may now be renamed ‘Bargain Hunter of the Century’ managed to get an Alien dressing up outfit for a fabulous £2 … yes that’s right, 2 golden coins. 

It also comes with some gloves but as we were getting ready to leave the house the 5 year old took them off. She also had a pair of underpants to go over her leggings, but they are in a bag ready for school.

I present to you an Alien not wearing her underpants and Batman …

So there I was, sipping my Diet Coke like a lady whilst trying to endear myself to the group by joining in a conversation about CBeebies (which would be my chosen subject on Mastermind, especially if the humming of theme tunes was also included). 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Did you see the bedtime story on CBeebies tonight? 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Oh yes, it was lovely wasn’t it. 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Who was it reading the story? … Kathy … erm … Kathy 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Yes, Kathy … oh what is her name? 

At this point I saw an opening and I leapt in to their conversation enthusiastically. 

Me - I know, I know …. KATHY BATES! 

Silence fell as they looked at me and then at each other. Tumbleweed rolled through the door, under the table, circled my feet thrice and left through the fire exit as they continued their conversation. 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Kathy Burke, that’s who it was! 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady – Ah yes, that’s it. J really enjoyed it. 

What a tit.  It was a classic ‘I carried a watermelon*‘ moment. 

Are you ready for your bedtime story?

* For those of you who don’t know what an ‘I carried a watermelon’ moment is read definition here.  And, what do you mean you’ve never watched Dirty Dancing?!

World Book Day is this Thursday.  Every year the school gives the kids a theme for fancy dress, the parents are told not obsess over it and not to spend any money.  This is fine if you are all creative and able to sew … and have lots of fabric hanging about … and clothes in every colour of the rainbow … and have a wealth of accessories from nursery rhymes to woodland creatures and back over the hill to TV characters from the 80’s.

I have none of these things.

Our fancy dress comprises a donkey (aged 2-3), Rudolf (aged 2-3), a Cinderella dress (aged 4-5) and let’s not forget the strap-on Baloo head from the Jungle Book (one size fits all).

I am stuffed.

Yesterday morning in the playground I heard a vicious rumour that the theme was ‘hedgehogs’. I had panicked thoughts at work all day of making a hedgehog outfit.  Then I realised it was easy, the 5 year old could wear brown, which is fine if you have any brown clothing, and then I would stuff several brown socks with I don’t know what and sew them onto the back of her top to make spikes.

But, then I realised that my daughter would look less hedgehog and more like Mummy Poo giving her baby poos a piggy back to school.

The vicious rumour turned out to be true, but for Year 2 pupils.  My daughter is in Year 1 *insert raucous cackle*.

So last night a letter arrived home saying they had finally decided on the theme and it would be … Aliens in Underpants.  So now I am looking for head boppers and some large y-fronts.

The only good thing I can think about that theme is that at least it isn’t hedgehogs. That could scar a child for life. Having said that, I can’t wait to see all the Year 2 Mummy poos giving their babies a piggy back to school.

You were probably about four or five years old and we were on a mission to buy you new shoes.

As we walked into the department, the assistant, who I thought was sat behind the counter stepped out to reveal that he was not very tall, in fact to be truly accurate he was very small. As a very tall person, finding myself in this sort of situation, I always feel for the smaller person and I quickly folded myself into one of the chairs leaving your mother to the lengthy task of negotiating the purchase of the shoes. Of course, this process involved endless numbers of shoes in infinite sizes, styles and colours. This in turn involved numerous trips to the shelves where the shoes were stored.

The unfortunate vertically challenged sales assistant needing to move a ladder to and fro to retrieve the shoe boxes from the shelves that lined the wall opposite turned the already unbearably long process into an excruciating experience.

I had to restrain myself from helping the poor man; I could have bypassed the need for the ladder and could simply pass him the various boxes. But that would have been a thoughtless cruel act.

Like economic recessions and bouts of swine flu the shoe buying process eventually drew to and end. Instructed to pay for the shoes I stood at the counter towering above the sales assistant only to hear my daughter, as she walked towards the exit proud of her glossy new shoes, proclaim in the unrestrained loud voice of young children “ Mummy, wasn’t he a nice small man”

I was, and still am, terrible with money. In a bid to help my problem with saving I have started a spreadsheet with our monthly finances in it so that I can make sure I put some to one side in our savings account.

Recently I’ve decided to give the 5 year old pocket money. She gets £2 a week to spend on whatever she wants. However, rather than spend it on an immediate sweet fix, which is what I would have done at her age, she has chosen to save it which makes me really proud.

She currently saves her money in a money box on her windowsill. Every so often she gets it out to count. At the moment she’s saving for a ‘Sam Doll’ which is, I think, a scary toddler sized doll. She already has a Sally Doll, Sam’s scary, stary eyed sister.

She’s starting to understand the value of money which is good because up until recently she thought she could buy a horse, a REAL horse, for around 40 pence.

If only life were that simple … I’d be rich.

Tesco have a range of savings accounts to suit your needs … be it a Sam Doll, a real horse or an immediate sweet fix!