Sunday, 8 June 2014

Nobody puts Baby in the corner

This is a blog of unconditional love. Even I have to roll my eyes and gag a little. So if you are at all like me, I urge you stop reading. Help me save the reputation of this blog site and please STOP.  Move  along, nothing to read, nothing to say.. MOVE ALONG I URGE YOU!

If you are at all on the soppy, 'water spurting out of your eyes at the drop of a hat' type, then by all means read on.....if I bring a tear to your eye then I may have just salvaged my reputation and this blog, and blog site.

I have been so caught up in the mundane and the day to day that an entire year has gone by since having the Baby and I feel cheated. 

Don't get me wrong. I have spent every waking hour and more often than not every half sleeping hour with her. I celebrate her existence with each and every breath but still, I feel cheated. 

She sleeps in her own room. She is almost walking. She has seven teeth. She wants to feed herself. We no longer sterilise or boil water. She dances to music, sends kisses, waves goodbye and hello.  She is no longer a baby.

She has the sweetest cry.  Sometimes I let her cry it out a little bit more because she looks so cute when she cries and the sound is music to my ears. 

We spent the first month of her life in hospital. She loved the plastic crib and somehow managed to rock herself to sleep in it.  The nurses warned me she would have trouble transitioning to her real cot. She didnt.

While desperate to get home to Little Miss and Mr Lucky, The Baby and I used that month to bond. We cuddled and talked and cried and laughed. We slept, we didnt care what time it was. We just hung out.  I have largely wiped the pain and suffering from that memory month. That month was special.

When we got home and Little Miss pulled out her drama costume to push, pinch, bite, or throw things in the cot all to the beat of the song 'What about Me.' But at the one year mark now, The Baby is a force to be reckoned with. 

She can cry for help and push out a tear in a second. She can do this so quickly that Little Miss hasn't  had an opportunity to transition from drama queen to doting big sister.

The Baby is a great eater. Like her parents she can almost swallow a steak in one gulp.  The rolls on her thighs, her protruding belly and big cheeks are constantly adorned with food, food parts or kisses. 

We've thrown sleep training out the window. She sleeps in her cot when she wants to but when she wants us, we comply. There is nothing, and I mean nothing like cuddling up to this warm bundle of sweetness at night (ok nothing until Little Miss insists on headlocking me into submission so our king size bed starts to feel a little cramped.

This smiling dimply bundle of joy has made herself a very much wanted, needed and enjoyed member of our now family of four. Its been an exhausting but fantastic year.  

Wednesday, 7 May 2014

Show tunes gone flat.

So yesterday Little Miss decided she wanted to walk home from the park wearing one shoe and despite the elements refused to wear her coat.

I transitioned from gentle coach, encouraging coach, firm mummy, scowling mummy to I can’t take the screaming any more, let her win this one mummy.
Determined to draw more attention to us, she sang loudly, belting out her show tunes with the determination of a performer auditioning for that one role that was theirs since birth.

Ok, she's not belting out her show tunes, they are mine.  The very show tunes that replace frowns, tiredness and scowls with sunshine, smiles, hope and Grease style dancing. 
After she worked her way through Hairspray’s soundtrack (at only 3, her version is generally quite short. She doesn’t know all the words) She turned her attention to the Sound of Music. All the while, she carried her pack of cheese sticks in one hand as though they were fragile chicks.
Each person we walked by smiled  or patted her head.  So taken with the attention, Little Miss began to  skip.
As I watched her happily make her way down the street a few things struck me as this stubborn little mite splashed her way through puddles not worrying about her now soaked sock.
Hearing her laugh unselfconsciously, seeing her smile, having her cuddle give me a hug to last for eternity makes even the best show tune flat. 
She is pure sunshine. She brings warmth, and giggles and magic and fun.  I can’t wait to watch her grow up and go on crazy funfilled adventures only to come home with a fulfilled exhausted smile.
My heart breaks however a little every time I think she is inching closer to the realisation that some people and children can be cruel and hurtful.
I want to hold her hand when she wakes up to the commercial, materialistic competitive world we have created that is judgemental, competitive and money orientated.
Each time I witness an older child or kids in general tell her ‘she cant’’ or ‘ you’re too little’ or ‘ I don’t want to play with you’  I feel as though I have punched in the face about 1000 times.  I don’t  intervene. 
She has to learn to stand her ground. It doesn’t happen often – like all children, she is mostly well liked and plays easily with others. She is also very happy to play on her own or with her sister.
If there is nasty snatching, pulling, punching, name calling – of course I get involved. I want her to be empowered enough to say ‘Stop’ or  ‘ Don’t’ or ‘Go away’. 
How to do this  when all I want to do is wrap her  in cotton wool or bubble wrap – whatever it takes to prevent her from having to deal with any sadness, nastiness or rejection.  Impossible I know.
I relish in the short time I have with her where she:
·         gives cuddles and kisses to consistently throughout the day and doesn’t care who is looking,

·         wants to hold my hand everytime we leave our home

·         she turns and waves to me every so often at the park

·         she seeks our company

·         doesn’t allow anyone , not even me to stop her from doing just what she wants to do. Be it stand barefoot in the street, sing at the top of her lungs or laugh happily on her way to the corner store.
I will be there for her when she needs a cuddle, kiss or talk to take away any doubt, confusion or hurt. I simply pray that that day will never happen. 
What is your favorite show tune?

Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Sleep depraved and deprived

Ok, who was that soft around the waist and head mummy moron that uploaded a blog of unconditional love and baby blah blah 'she is so cute I just can't get enough of her'?

Call the doctor. Really - I don't know that woman. Today I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and aside from the 'softness around the waist' issue - I was terrified. There was nothing soft about the woman staring blankly at me.

I will never be able to erase that image from my mind...

That woman (yes, in this sleep depraved and deprived state I speak in the third person) has consulted Gina Ford, Tizzie's 'Save our Sleep', and tried controlled (and uncontrolled - oops that is me, back to first person) crying.   I have watched The Nanny. I have consulted the Baby Whisperer. I have read and researched.   I have tried 'The Deep End Approach' (no dirty jokes here please, am too tired to laugh) - all have failed. I now use the 'No Approach.'

That cute chubby cherub just won't sleep. So much so is her determination to stay awake - that even I am beginning to question how cute she is. Something changed. She just woke up one day and thought, 'No, I am not going to sleep when I am told to. I refuse routine.'

Add Little Miss to the equation.  A stranger at restaurant recently called her Diva.  Not far from the truth I quietly mused.  Last night, or rather this morning Little Miss put on her best show performance. Between 1 am and 3 am our neighbors' had the pleasure of hearing the world's loudest tantrum.  I expect The Baby's refusal to sleep disturbed Diva and this set her off.

So back to The Baby Whisperer, back to Gina and Tizzie and of course The Nanny......great books, well done, thanks for printing and sharing but your techniques DON"T WORK.

I have joined that sorry group of mums on mummy websites sharing painful sleep deprived stories asking or begging for help. I have tried and tested different techniques for weeks and weeks on end (yes I know consistency is key). All have failed. 

If I had the energy I would throw myself a huge tantrum and scream it all out. If I weren't typing I would be raiding the cupboards looking for some gin, or scotch. If only they would sleep,  then I could stop moaning, boring myself and you and write something new!

Some people want world peace, others want money, I want 8 full uninterrupted hours of deep, restful sleep, so I can start to think about anything else other than sleeping.

Are you sleep deprived? What is your story?

Wednesday, 26 March 2014

Missed Calling

Another early morning blog attributed to my mind racing through a cocktail of issues.

The usual obsessions flow through me. Little Miss' tantrums. Am I too soft or too hard? Am I applying appropriate discipline techniques?

It's The Baby's first birthday next week - where has the year gone? How has my precious cherub grown so quickly and right under my nose? Why can't I buy a version of WD 40 that will oil and mute my noisy joints? After running my nightly 'are they hot or cold' checks, those silly creaks wake the girls each time I creep out of their bedroom. 

I have accepted these issues and many more (mundane to others but critical to me).  A range of new issues however have invaded my thoughts.

Where is that Malaysian plane? What are the real implications of the Ukraine crisis? Will I ever stop obsessing about what is going on in the world?

What will I watch when my nightly fix of a Turkish TV drama (with Greek subtitles) ends?  This drama has helped me escape all of the above thoughts for a little while. The drama is bad, but addictive.

Continuing on my path of inward reflection - I have started to wonder whether I have missed a calling to be a private investigator (P.I).

This thought gives me flashbacks.

A flashback to my teenage years when my sisters took me on a stake out.  I don't remember the details why we were spying on a man and lady that had driven to a parking lot with ocean views (well that says it all doesn't it?) but it was exhilarating.
The law abiding speed limit car chase to the parking lot, the getting out of the car and hiding behind trees trying to peer into the car was the highlight of my stunted social outing year. 

Nothing came of our investigation other than a quick prayer of thanks to God that nobody noticed us and called the police. The very idea of explaining to my parents why we skipped an aerobics class (yes this was the '80's) to hide behind trees near a car park terrified me more than a night in the slammer.

When I was old enough to coordinate my own stake out, a friend and I decided to drive past a particular  house about 1000 times ducking down low in our seats, to check out an older man as he mowed the lawn. He was in our minds was the local Richard Gere (good looking older gentleman type).

We wanted to investigate just what it was that made us giggle like school girls when we saw him. He must have noticed us (who wouldn't, it was a dead end street). He never told his friends (our parents) but he would always give us a special smile.

We never solved that case but the excitement during each drive by still makes me catch my breath.

In my more mature years, I helped a friend track her straying partner. This time our surveillance moved online.  After a fair amount of snooping - we worked out the friend's online behavior, payments to a discrete business that men patronised, accessed telephone and text messages.

This was the real deal. We snooped and got dirt. The relationship ended once we, ok, I was too scared to -  but once my friend presented the evidence and demanded an explanation.

This case bought genuine satisfaction.

I ignore the fact that being a P.I can be dangerous, it requires wit, secrecy, you can never really talk about work can you? A good investigator would need to work out - admit it, a fat, unfit P.I would never get a good gig, and it's not a 9 to 5 , Monday to Friday type of job.

Not at all practical if you have two cubs and a Mr. Lucky to care for so, in retrospect am glad I didn't pursue this career path.

I wonder if I should turn my thoughts to my next career move. Personal trainer? Wine maker? Personal shopper? Property mogul?

What calling have you missed (career wise) and are you planning on making a career change now?

Tuesday, 18 March 2014

Regarding Henry

I have always considered myself a one man woman. But like a heroine in a romance novel, my world has been turned upside down.  I don't think it's love. I don't think it's lust. It's  an obsession that just wont pass.

I know it's not right.  There is not much I can do about it.  Like a smitten boy-crazed school girl, I just cant stop thinking or talking about him.

His name is Henry. A nice strong traditional English (I think)  name. A name I wouldnt normally be attracted to - but these things often suprise even the best of heroines.
I first noticed him on  a construction site. I couldnt help but be drawn to him. He looked so in control, he knew he had a lot of work to do, he was going to get dirty and didnt care.  He had a focussed determination - a force to be reckoned with.

No job was too small or big for this strong but friendly brute. What really won me over was his warm smile.

Just when I thought I had my obsession (or fantasy) under control, as luck would have it - Henry charged through my office one day.  A construction and office type!  My fantasy / obsession couldnt get any better, could it? He met every girls dream including those that prefer that their Henry stay at home with the kids. That's right ladies,  I later saw him at a friend's house, getting stuck into the housework, again with that lovely smile.

I was beside myself. I couldnt sleep, I couldnt eat (well that's not entirely true).

I had to talk to somebody about Henry. I had little choice, I had to fess up to Mr Lucky. He knew something was up anyhow. He is the only person in the world that truly understands me. He is my best friend, my partner in crime, my everything. So I took a risk and told him.
He wasnt happy. He yelled, he stomped, he slamed a door or two - but later he calmed down and suggested something I would never ever have thought possible.

'Let's bring Henry home, and see what happens' he said warily.

I was nervous, but didnt waste a second.  I wasnt going to risk Mr  Lucky changing his mind.  Henry came over the next day - and hasnt left.  Well, truth be known,  we left him temporarily and oh how I miss him!!!  While we're holidaying in Greece, he stayed on in London. It would be too weird and costly for him to come with us.

The time we spent together was special.  While I promised Mr Lucky that I would  dance with Henry  once or twice a week  - I couldnt help it,  we tangoed every day. I was happy. He was happy - that lovely smile never left him. And strangely, Mr Lucky was unusually happy. Perhaps because he realised i was finally satisfied.

Now in Greece I pine for him, I cant wait to be reunited.  I think Mr Lucky can't wait too - it will certainly  put me at ease.

To help me cope, I carry a photo of him with me around. Here he is ladies.... my darling Henry. My Henry who meets my sad, hidden obsession with....... vacuming. And yes, we have tried Dyson, he just wont do for me.

Friday, 7 February 2014

It’s a Wrap People.

Break open the bubbly! Today is the last day of the 30 day blog a day challenge. Time to celebrate an achievement.

It’s a mixed bag of feelings and awakenings.  I am:

Ecstatic that I stuck to it, and got through it.

Amazed that I managed to juggle a blog a day with two kids under three and Mr. Lucky.
In addition to the mundane, I have spent the last 30 days looking for alternative accommodation in Greece and the UK. We are moving to another short stay apartment – so am packing up to move house. AND we’re looking at apartments to move in to for when we go back to London, am packing up what we currently don’t need to ship that back to London. FUN!!

Thrilled that I managed to reconnect with Ms. Lintern.

Sad that the challenge is over – I enjoyed dusting off my brain, and giving the fingers a workout.

Relieved that it’s come to an end, the pressure is off.  It got tough towards the end.

Liberated.  I have managed to expel a range of random thoughts; I now have space for more.

Conscious of friends that have actively supported the process and those that haven’t.

Touched to have heard from people I hadn't heard from for years who have been supportive or who have shared their stories or perspectives

Happy that I have met other bloggers, who have provided tips, advice and support.

OK, I haven’t saved lives, lost a few kilos, and changed the world.  But it has been fun.  In 30 days I have managed to clear a whole range of data, ideas that have been floating around in my noggin.

It’s been a great learning experience. I am now better connected with how I write, when I write, and what ends up on screen.

So what is next?  Stay tuned. I won’t be blogging daily – but will continue to blog.

After a break I am sure I will be up for another blog challenges. Who’s in?

Thank you following me, but don’t go away, watch this space.

This blog is the final installment of Lisa Lintern's blog a day challenge. Visit Melodramatic Me.

Follow me at: @mummyfried

Image: Explosion Of Champagne Bottle Cork" by digitalart /

Thursday, 6 February 2014

Teasing and bullying.

I often don’t write about things that make my blood boil or things that upset me. I take all that out on Mr. Lucky, and I pity my keyboard. It has already lost the TAB button and I don’t think I could bear it if I lost any other key.

Being in Greece for some time now I have seen shops close, people lose their jobs, and homes. The Greek financial crisis has created a fear that has dented Greece’s normally euphoric,’ live and love life to the fullest ‘state of being.

There is a growing divide between those who have, and those who have not.

We were in a taverna the other day. A young man came in selling candles. Nobody bought any. He left looking devastated, desperate and lost. 

After lunch, we walked to a children’s play cafe to let Little Miss run around. While we sat there, the same young man came in this time without his bag of candles and asked the proprietor for work. 

Without even looking at him, the proprietor asked him to leave.  As he escorted him towards the door, the proprietor noticed me watching the exchange. The proprietor began pulling faces and imitated the young man's walk. I couldn't believe it.

Here was a desperate young man searching for work, being teased.  I was too shocked to say or do anything.  A few days on, I still feel sick when I think about it.  

The only saving grace is that the young man didn't see what was going on behind his back. He looked so desperate and devastated at being turned away that I shudder to think of the consequences had he realised what was going on.

I grew up in a country town. Being a minority we were like hurricane chasers. We would chase after any Greek gathering within 200 km of our town  just so see, hear, eat and absorb all things Greek.

We went to a Greek dance. I was 9. My parent’s friend’s son, let’s called him Mr. NOT Darcy was being courted by all family members for my cousin. As law student, he was a sound marriage prospect a nearly educated man demanding respect.

Well, he teased me about my big brown eyes. Not in an endearing or flattering way.  Mr. NOT. Darcy was cruel. He was outright nasty.  The other kids my age heard him, and started to tease me. This continued at each gathering. I hated it.

Whenever I saw Mr. NOT Darcy, I put my big brown eyes to use by glaring at him with contempt OR I ignored him. Blatantly. It was uncomfortably noticeable to all that I did not like him. 

Thankfully he didn't marry my cousin. She married a nice, well... lawyer.

When I was about 18 I bumped into him, and to my absolute surprise, he apologised.  I was gob smacked. I swallowed my surprise and simply said, ‘It’s too late, I don’t accept your apology’. 

I have not seen him since but have often wondered if my refusal to accept his apology made a difference to him. It certainly didn't make a difference to me. 

Bullying and teasing affects a victim’s decision making, their confidence, and their sense of self. It impacts how and when a victim makes friends, how one enters a room, walks down the street, meets people. It affects how a victim relates to people. The list goes on.

As an adult I have revisited key moments in my life where my behavior and reactions to situations and people have been less than ideal. I have questioned (but not excused) whether the teasing / bullying was in any way responsible 

Of course education is key.  Cafe proprietors, adults, employers and leader’s must stop being bully’s. Even the most subtle kind of teasing can cause serious damage. These individuals in positions of power, authority should know better. They need to be made accountable.  

But there is more. Victims need support, guidance and direction so that they can turn that damage into something positive.  If a victim survives the bullying they need time to heal. But it’s important to ensure their wounds heal in the right way, so that the bullying ends with them, and that they do not become a bully themselves.

Can you imagine what further damage the teasing would have done to this poor desperate boy had he realised what was going on behind his back?

This blog forms part of Lisa Lintern's blog a day challenge. Visit Melodramatic Me.

Follow me: @mummyfried

Image "Loud Hailer Character Shows Shouting Yelling And Bullying" by Stuart Miles /

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

What is in a name?

Last night we met up with some new friends. In typical Mr. Lucky and Mummyfried style, we didn't know their names.

They must have told us their names the first time we met, but of course it was summer, we had just arrived in Greece and were drunk on sun, good food and tsipouro (a rocket fueled version of ouzo). 

To be honest for a while I thought their names were Baby and Sweetie. When they started to call each other ‘Cutie’ or ‘Lovey’ I realised I had missed the initial name exchange.

I had a rare moment of genius and asked the husband whether his name was pronounced differently in Portuguese as opposed to Greek. So now we know the man’s name.

Mr. Lucky and I have names for each other Mr. Lucky being one, and more descriptive names when we have very very loud conversations.  He also goes by Mr. Cranky, Mr. Messy, Mr. Funny, Mr. I am in so much trouble, but I can’t say he ever goes by Mr. All Loved Up, or Mr. Baby.

Do people grow into the names or nicknames they are given? 

My girls are named after their grandparents. When I look at them, I don’t think of their grandparents. They have made their names their own.  

When I was younger my sister called me Ellie Belly.  Mr. Lucky calls me Kung Fu Panda for largely the same reason. I have a pot belly. Always did.  Today it looks more like a deflated balloon. I have spent many a night awake worrying about it, exacerbating the dark circles under my eyes. I am not sure I like this nickname.

Why I didn't get a nice nickname to grow into? Something like Barbie. I could have had an exciting career(s) Barbie Doctor, Barbie Life Guard, Barbie Rock Star, I would have a dream home, mobile home, jet, and oh what a wardrobe!! Talk about being cheated.

Do parents allocate flower names like Rose, Violet, and Jasmine because they want their kids to grow and blossom, or smell nice?  If it’s the latter perhaps these names should have been boy names. I have rarely met a boy that has grown into a nice smelling teenager.  

Nicknames for children, with the exclusion of Ellie Belly (thanks sis) are understandable. Nicknames for friends can be fun, if harmless. 

But for loved up adults... well, I prefer not to be within earshot of the exchange.  I draw the line at Baby. That is it. I just can't stomach loved up adult nickname exchanges.

I am a loved up adult nicknamephobic.  In my study of people that allocate cutsie names for their loved one, I have found that they are most likely to talk to each other using high pitched baby talk. People, like your dirty talk, please please keep the baby talk at home.

Hearing baby talk between adults makes me, a normally peaceful loving (OK lazy) person become ill with exhaustion. After hearing baby talk my panda eyes are ready to fall out. They just can't take it after seriously intense and sweaty session of eye rolling. 

Do you think you grow into your name or nickname?
If you have a nickname do you like it?
And finally, do you cringe when you hear loved up couples call each other cutsie names?

This blog forms part of Lisa Lintern's blog a day challenge. Visit Melodramatic Me for more.

Follow me: @mummyfried

Image: Panda" by tiverylucky /

Tuesday, 4 February 2014

Crappy Day

As a new parent, you find yourself paying attention to things or dealing with things you would much rather avoid… like poo.

You are wiping it off baby or his / her clothes after those little soft cheeks have parted to erupt.

You are wiping it off your leg after it has seeped through his / her onsie and clothes.

You are observing it, Is it soft, hard, runny, green, black, yellow?

The color and consistency means something. There are websites with pictures that explains whether baby needs more veg, or if he / she is eating well, or not.

It’s not pleasant. 

Well,yesterday, I had had enough of it. After cleaning baby for what felt like the 100th time, I popped her and her clean butt into the pushchair and went for a walk.

No prizes for guessing what I rolled over. My nose could do with some work but its engine is working fine. In this case, I didn’t feel it. I smelt it.  And it smelt BAD.

I looked around for a puddle or long grass to roll over, nothing.

My worst nightmare.  I didn’t have a bottle of water to try to wash it off. I pulled out my wet wipes, antibacterial hand gel and held my breath.  I had walked a good distance trying to get the poo off the wheels, but this was one was a stubborn little so and so.

I cursed the owner that failed to pick it up.

I got as much off as possible while holding my breath. I washed my hands and returned home glum.

I couldn’t shake the smell. I wondered whether my nose needed a complete overhaul rather than just  a cosmetic nip and tuck?

The pushchair wheels were clean, but I discovered a different color and consistency on the sole of my shoe. A different dog perhaps?

I took my shoes off and left them outside hoping somebody would either steal them or clean them.

As I closed the door I had two thoughts.  

1. Do dog owners obsess about their dog’s poo the same way parents do with their child’s? 
2. How do you get poo off your shoe?

This blog forms part of Lisa Lintern's blog a day challenge. Visit Melodramatic Me.  

Follow me @mummyfried

Image courtesy of Grant Cochrane /

Monday, 3 February 2014

TOTPAS and balloons

Mr. Lucky plans to out try new recipe today. Yesterday he left the ingredients out on the kitchen bench in preparation. Like theatre staff prepping the surgeon’s tools before a big operation, I arranged his purchases, pulled out saucepans and chopping boards. I then searched high and low for it, and with a sinking fearful realisation, I discovered yet again, that the peeler was missing. 

I am afflicted with repetitive TOTPAS. For those ignorant to illnesses of the domestic kind, TOTPAS is short for Throwing out the Peeler Again Syndrome. I haven’t met anyone else with this serious disease.

I skipped out to the corner store to find a replacement peeler. . Sunday trading in this Greek Home and Away town is non-existent. It’s the corner store or nothing.

I told Mr. Right that I had to buy  Little Miss a treat as she had been a very very good girl over the weekend (that part of my cover story was true).

I must be the only person in this sleepy town with TOTPAS, as they didn’t stock peelers. I quickly focused my attention on getting Little Miss a treat.  Treats must be rare in this town too, the selection was dire.

I spotted a packet of 8 balloons. I sniggered my filthy thoughts aside and focused on the Greek text describing the balloons as 'animal shaped.' I paid for them and left for home. 

Check out the packaging.

Little Miss was ecstatic. I blew up the first balloon. She got scared.

I blew up the second balloon – I got scared.

I blew up the third balloon. We agreed it would be more fun to play with something else.

I rechecked the packaging to check that I hadn’t bought a blow up sex game. This is a small town after all and word gets around.  I also had a mild panic attack remembering that I told the lady at the corner store I was buying the balloons for my two year old. I certainly didn’t want child protection services knocking on my door.

I was in the clear. In addition to confirming that they were simply animal shaped balloons, the small print advised that they were made out of natural product (no information as to what that really means) and that they (the balloons I guess) respect me and the environment.

Despite being environmentally friendly and respectful, I still threw them and their fantasy packaging out.

I better hurry up. Retail trading today is from 8 am to 2 pm. I need to get my butt out to the shops to buy a replacement peeler before Mr Right discovers ours is missing.  Of course I will buy an appropriate treat for Little Miss. 

I then need to get back home and tell Mr. Lucky about my illness.  I don’t know if it’s hereditary, so no doubt he will worry.

This blog forms part of Lisa Lintern's blog a day challenge. Visit Melodramatic Me for more. 

Follow me @mummyfried Go on, be the first to sign up!