Thursday 31 May 2012

I'm no scrubber.

I've mentioned before about how much I love gadgets (the slow-cooker is still in my boot, but moving on...), however, of late I have been increasingly angered by my washing machine. I can't deny that washing machines are a modern day miracle and I don't know where I would be without mine. Apart from being up til midnight grating my fingers on a washboard and getting my legs caught in a mangle. But my washing machine is possessed, I can think of no other explanation for it's strange shenanigans. It goes through phases of making every item of clothing smell of wet dog for a start. I don't know why, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, I think it just likes to humiliate me. The smell doesn't seem so bad until you iron the offending item, releasing the wet dog aroma in the steam. And of course, upon wearing when the item gets warm and we have to go about our day releasing bubbles of 'eau de damp pooch'. And despite having read the instructions from cover to cover, I can find no mention of it's ability to turn one leg of a pair of trousers, and one arm of a shirt inside out. This should be one of it's key selling points, because doing that is like the laundry equivalent of tying a cherry stalk with your tongue! How is that even possible in such a confined space?
You may ask why I stick with a washing machine that makes me smell and makes me have to wrestle with every item of clothing before I can hang it on the line. The answer lies with The Husband. We have reached loggerheads, basically. I will only be allowed one of those new shiny silver things with a door so big the entire front is practically see-through and has the capacity to wash the laundry for the whole street in one go (Oh god, I want one so badly) when The Husband is allowed a ridiculously large tv. For me, the washing machine is a necessity but the tv isn't. So long as I can watch my soaps I couldn't give a flying frick about having a tv so fancy it makes it feel like Gail Platt is shaking her jowls in my front room. In fact, I would go to any lengths to avoid that *brrrrrrrrrr*. So until the stalemate is somehow broken, I shall arm myself with a bottle of Febreze, walk upwind of the crowds, and The Husband will have to put up with wearing one shirt sleeve inside out. I wonder how much Dollytubs and mangles are on Ebay?

Sunday 27 May 2012

It's still here!

Summer, that is. Asda has been bursting at the seams with bright red people frantically buying up baps and burgers, baring their already scorched flesh in vests and determined to absorb every last sun-ray. I mustkeep missing the memo that goes round as soon as the temperature hits the high teens, informing people that it is compulsory to shed all dignity and go shopping half naked. We joined the BBQ Brigade on Friday, having been invited to a neighbours for food. Which, in a nutshell, involved us pushing the world's first BBQ (I'm not kidding, it had got fossils holding it together and dinosaur turds at the bottom of it - I was half expecting Tony Robinson and the Time Team to come running over with trowels) around the garden trying to find somewhere out of the wind. The kids were trying to drown each other in the paddling pool, while the adults fought with the BBQ and by about midnight we'd given up trying to light the stone age grill and I went home to get the frying pan. One of the elderly neighbours somehow managed, after a glass of Lambrini, to go toppling back off his chair and sliced the two varicose veins on each elbow open. It was like something out of  'The Walking Dead'.

Speaking of the elderly...when it's sweltering outside and you're already dripping with sweat, old people (aka my dad) will always offer you a cup of tea or coffee. And say "It'll cool you down". As if it will! What will cool me down is stripping naked and stick my bum in the fridge door, not drinking a hot drink for pitys sake! Yes, yes - I get the so called 'science' behind it - that it will make you perspire and therefore reduce your body temperature. But in my experience, when you're sweating like a weightwatcher in Greggs, you need a breeze or a fan to cool the sweat and feel the benefit. And if you're sitting in front of a fan, or in a breeze, well then you're not really in need of a hot drink are you? No. Have an ice lolly and stop being so silly. I'll tell you what does a fantastic job of cooling you down when all else fails - sneezing. Hayfever does have it's positives; you have a sneezing fit and hey presto! Covered in goosebumps. And possibly snot.

It has been quite nice, sitting out (covered in factor 30 I might add, unlike the majority of the sights in Asda) and enjoying the sunshine. The peace and quiet only disturbed by Britain's Oldest Chav over the back, whose quest for DIY projects is never ending. And the pervy neighbour who finds bushes to trim every time I venture out to sunbathe. Oh, and the little lad a few doors down throwing massive tantrums every ten minutes. But other than that it's been quite peaceful. I'm going a nice shade of brown, all apart from my legs which are utterly resistant to sunshine. They are a slightly darker shade than my white bits - let's call them 'magnolia' - but will soon require a coat of creosote to get them the same colour as the rest of me. We have all been enjoying a healthier diet, with the hot weather making The Childbeasts more open to eating salad, which is a bonus. Well, when I say salad I mean the Boychild's seemingly instiable appetite for coleslaw and beetroot. Which reminds me, I went for a wee last night (bear with me, this is relevant) and nearly fainted with shock when I saw red staring back at me from the toilet bowl. HOLY FRICK! I'VE BROKEN MY BLADDER!!!! Oh thank god. It's just beetroot.

Something else that I've loved about this weather, and I know I'm not alone here, is being able to get my washing dry! It's so unbelievably sad to get excited about seeing the bottom of my laundry basket, and not having to leave my washing out for four days in the hope it will will come in slightly less damp than it went out, but I don't care! I have literally been going round the house searching for things to wash just because I can - curtains, rugs, cushion covers, animals. Just kidding about the animals, all I do is leave the guinea pigs out in the rain when they start to smell.  It's still only May, which either means that this is all the Summer we're going to get, or that we have months of beetroot eating, washing drying and stubborn leg tanning to go! Cup of tea anyone??

Thursday 24 May 2012

Scorchio!

I've mentioned before that when summer comes around I get quite literally addicted to checking the weather forecast. And - People of the World - that time has arrived!!!!! If only you could see the grin on my face and hear the sigh of contentment I make as I type those words.  It is ridiculously hot outside. And inside. And it's the inside bit that's causing a problem. Chez Bobs is a bungalow with a loft conversion, and you know that heat rises? Well, that's where the Childbeasts sleep - upstairs in their princess and transport themed ovens. I've always loved the sun, it makes me feel happier and fitter and I love being able to be outside all day.
But when you have kids, it's not always easy to enjoy being outside when it's hot. Obviously I don't want them getting sunburnt or to get heatstroke so I've been sending the kids out covered in factor 50 suncream, which is so thick it looks like they're about to go off and swim the channel. I've recorded myself saying "Put your hat back on!" so I can play it back at will and don't have to repeat myself 8 million times a day. Headgear is very necessary in this weather but also mean that The Boychild is literally dripping with sweat under his ridiculous desert hat that makes him look like he's in the foreign legion. And bless him he's got terrible 'pickly heat' (as The Daughter calls it) so at the minute he looks a bit like a pimply wet beetroot. We went on the school run this afternoon after we'd been playing outside in the sandpit. Suffice it to say he was covered in sand and suncream, and five minutes down the road he stopped to pull down his shorts and tell me that he'd got "sand in bum, mummy".

After only three days of sunshine, the kids are both tired, hot and ratty; my little hot cross buns. The cats are enjoying it though, they've been outside in the sun all day everyday which is brilliant, less hoovering for a start. Bob especially seems to be enjoying his freedom and a bit more variety to his diet, having eaten three bees so far today. And Dolly (the old half blind one) has been even more sprightly. She woke me up at 4am this morning, titting about in the hallway with a cat toy. But because it was already light outside, and the sodding birds were up making a row (they were still making a row at half ten when I was going to bed, so when exactly do the little buggers sleep?), I couldn't get back off again and resorted to Flowerboard once more.

So it seems that there are more downsides to Summer than there are positives. When you add up mardy kids, pickly heat, noisy birds, insomniac cats, stupid hats, and sandy crevices, there doesn't seem much left for me to be excited about. Which is just as well really, because according to my obsessive checking of the weather, it'll be pissing it down again by Tuesday!

Monday 21 May 2012

The wonders of modern technology

I bought a slow cooker a few months ago, to join the myriad other gadgetry in the Bobs household, after some of my Facebook friends were swapping some 'lish sounding recipes. I love machines; their time-savingicity, their shinyness, the way they entice me to part with cash that could be better spent elsewhere.. To be fair, most of the gadgets we have are well used - the sandwich toaster is in need of a good sandblasting to remove the welded-on cheese from all those lunches it has kindly provided us with. Obviously the vaccum is used pretty much constantly day and night (four cats and two kids combined with my mildly OCD clean-freak tendencies means I like to follow everyone around hoovering up any crumbs or bits of fluff that may fall from them as they make their way around the house) and the microwave is heavily relied upon by The Husband when I go away. I have recently rediscovered the delights of my chrome blender to make tropical fruit ice cream smoothies for the Childbeasts in an attempt to stop them growing up with scurvy and rickets. I bought it a few years ago to blend our meals up for babyfood, but the noise so frightened The Daughter that it had to remain silent and unused on the worktop (it would have gone into a cupboard but they're full of sandwich toasters and George Formby grills).
One thing I have ALWAYS wanted, right since childhood, is a Mr Frosty - those overpriced plastic snowmen shaped things that turn crushed ice into slush drinks. I WILL own one of those badboys one day, assuming they still make them*makes mental note to look on Ebay*. Actually, there are two things I always wanted, the second being a donut maker. Imagine - mini donuts at your fingertips, literally! And a Dyson cordless vacuum, which is the coolest thing in the world. So three things I've always wanted.
There is one gadget we haven't got, which is actually the only thing we really need - a lawnmower. Ours went to the great meadow in the sky - the Rag and Bone man, that is - after a little accident. When I say accident, I mean that one of our elderly neighbours whose name is unknown to us (so we call her "Oo-Oooooh!" as that's what she shouts when she wants to get your attention) was entirely to blame. "Oo-Oooooh" shouted "Oo-Oooooh!" while I was mowing one day, distracting me from my gardening and before I knew it - HODUDUDUDUH - I'd mowed right over the bloody power cable. So since then we have been relying on the kindness and mowers of neighbours, and the hunger of the guinea pigs to keep the lawn in check. The Husband has promised that this payday will bring a new mower, so hurrah! Gadget shopping for me this weekend! That reminds me, I must get the slow-cooker out of the boot of my car...

Thursday 17 May 2012

Farmer Giles and wonky willies

I love programmes like Embarrassing Bodies, Supersize vs Superskinny and the like. Nothing pleases me more than settling down with a box of Maltesers and a 'share' (yeah, cos that's going to happen!) bag of crisps to watch fat people show us their piles and vaginal prolapses. I can't help but be mesmerised when John whops his bent willy out in front of Dr Christian and Beryl bemoans her excessive sweating to Dr Pixie (Dr Pixie - seriously?). What is wrong with these people, that they've put up with spotty bums, teeth like hillbillys and scrotums the size of melons for years rather than see their GP, but they're quite happy to bare all on tv?! I would literally rather die than drop my kecks and show my reptilian scales (I don't really by the way), but some people seem perfectly happy to spread their cheeks and show the world their bunches of grapes. However, it is the braveness of such people that provides me with my weekly "Ewwwwwwwwww!" factor so while I mock, I'm still glued to the telly. I've got a pretty strong stomach for most things, but anything to do with feet makes me squirm. When a bloke appeared on the show a few weeks ago with skin that grew so fast on the bottom of his feet that he had to cut it off with a pen-knife, I actually nearly saw my Maltesers again. Brrrrrrrr.

Supersize Vs Superskinny is just as enjoyable, and yet I cannot understand for the life of me why someone would want the world to know that they eat a multipack of Wotsits for breakfast and are still awake at 3am emptying the bins and the dogs bowl because they've finished what's in the cupboards. Or that they have the appetite of a babybird on a diet. Seeing a massively overweight person standing next to a skeleton with hair, both dressed in greying underwear, really shouldn't make for compulsive viewing, but somehow it does. And that's another programme I like to watch whilst elbow deep in popcorn and sweets. Ah, the irony. And poor Dr Christian (again) has to raise his newly-hair-transplanted-brow and congratulate the skinny person for putting on half a pound in 3 months, while I'm sitting at home shovelling cake in my mouth and thinking "I have bigger poops than that!".

Tuesday 15 May 2012

Homework

My five year old daughter gets homework! Aside from reading books she brings home 3 times a week, they have 'learning logs', which are books in which they have to complete different activities depending on what they're learning about that particular week. This week it's a bit of a mixed bag. She has to design an Olympic's poster for a competition at school, look at a map of the world and talk about where different fruits come from (oranges - Spain, wine, I mean grapes - err France? Mummy will need to consult Homeworkipedia for that one), some maths, and some spellings. So tonight we started with the Olympic's poster. We got off to a flying start, with The Daughter quite firmly telling me that she didn't need any help, but I had to sit and hand her the felt tips. It's nice to have a purpose in life don't you know. I'm ashamed to say I wasn't quite sure of the order of the Olympic rings, or the colours, so I quickly consulted Google while Her Ladyship was deciding what sports she was going to draw. The first was swimming, in which the lone swimmer was as nekked as a jaybird. Not wishing to discourage the little bean while she was in her artistic element, I stifled a smirk and let her creative juices flow. Next was running, and after she'd drawn the track and a few men, she asked me "Do they wear clothes when they're running?". This time I had to hide behind my arm as my imagination ran wild, thinking about 'Naked Olympics' and meat and two veg bouncing towards the camera during the 100m! Next came the chairs for people to sit on - "the spectators" I informed her. "They have to wear clothes don't they?" she asked, and it was all I could do to emit a squeaky "Mmm-hmm", whilst wondering where the sudden fascination with nudity in sport had come from.

After she'd drawn the winners on their podiums and a trophy, she wanted to know what other sports she could draw, so Mummy suggested cycling. She huffed and puffed through the first bike and was clearly dissatisfied with the result, so bike number 2 was.....err, what is that? "A SCOOTER!" she barked at me, like I was the world's biggest moron. The thought of naked athletes on scooters was the straw that broke the camels back and I dissolved into hysterics, at which point The husband walked past shaking his head disapprovingly at me and hissed "You beast" in my ear. He's right, I'm a terrible Mummy.

I decided we had time before bed to look at the 2d and 3d shapes they'd been learning about. Rectangle yes, hexagon - all fairly straightforward, cuboid... What the dillydickens is a cuboid?! Is that what the kids these days are calling cubes, because in my day a cube was a bloody cube?! No. According to Google it is a 3d rectangle. At this point I admit defeat, I'm just not cut out for this homework malarky and she's only in reception class. I wonder how much it is for a personal tutor?

Thursday 10 May 2012

Any rag bones?

The Boychild is frightened of a lot of things. I'm not sure where he's picked it up from as, obviously, I'm totally fearless, like Jet from the Gladiators. Apart from when it comes to moths and butterflies, and then I run shrieking like a big blouse for the safety of indoors. Unless the kids are there, in which case I just whimper quietly until it's gone, so as not to teach them that moths are the devil's work. Which they are.   And cotton wool, but that's a story for another time. The Boychild is petrified of spiders and bumble bees; even the tiniest of critters - barely visible without the aid of a microscope - have him producing the shrillest of screams and shaking like a dog taking a crap over the edge of a cliff. He is also scared of noises. But mostly he's scared of the Rag and Bone Man. This is quite unfortunate as the RBM seems to frequent our area almost daily. Our neighbourhood appears to be able to change their kitchen appliances as often as they change their pants which leads to a surplus of rags and bones (well, broken tat) ready for collection. Which means we get to hear lots of "ANYSCRAPIIIIIIIIROOOOOOOOON! ANYRAGBOOOOOOOOOOONES! ANYOL'WASHIN'CHIIIIIIIINES! " peppered with the sound of a trumpet being played through a loud-hailer. The Daughter used to be afraid of RBM, but that was mainly down to The Husband telling her he was the Child-Catcher, and thankfully Mummy has managed to convince the poor child this was all yet another example of Daddy's silliness.
To be fair, I'm a bit scared of the RBM too after an experience I had with him last year. We had an awful lot of rags and bones (broken tat) after a clear out in the garden and garage so, having heard his racket, I tracked him down and asked him to follow me. Follow me he did, and not content with taking the stuff that I'd left out for him, he then proceeded to pick up bikes and new gardening tools saying "What about this? Can I have this?". Cue hand slapping and "No*slap* you *slap* sodding-well-can't *slap*".
Here's a freaky thought - RBM are so called because in the 19th century, they used to collect all sorts of scrap - including actual bones, not like the modern day fussy beggars that want your lawnmower. Next time the loud bugger comes round with his megaphone disturbing the peace, I'm going to open the door and beckon him over. Then present him with a bin bag full of chicken carcasses and all the skeletons of our dead animals out of the garden and tell him to get back to his roots, see how he likes them apples!

Wednesday 9 May 2012

The carrot and the stick

Parents across the globe will recognise the beneficial health properties of the Reward Chart. And by that I mean beneficial to a parents sanity, which in turn helps prevent the throttling of children. We've used them for The Daughter in the past, but after a while my enthusiasm has lost momentum and the chart have remained, redundant, stuck to the fridge with hideous holiday souvenier magnets. But following a run of spectacular tantrums from The Daughter which left The Husband and I on the brink of leaving the child outside the Co-Op in the hope someone nice would find her and take her to an orphanage, we knew it was time to break out the big guns. I announced that, the very next day, I was going to buy sticker charts for both childers and as soon as the words left my lips The Daughter began behaving, which got us off to a promising start. Off Mummy went into town to find suitable ones, finding a colossal pink one in Poundland (I somehow managed to make that sound rude, what a talent!) and a vehicle themed one for The Boychild in Wilko's. I'm still not entirely sure why I bought The Boychild one, as we have enough bribery going on with the Car-pot/chocolate button malarky, and the sticker chart just seems to have blown his mind. Being from Poundland, The Daughters chart needed some clever alterations to change the categories from unecessary things like 'I must drink lots of water' (the girl pees like a racehorse, she doesn't need any more encouragement to drink) to more helpful ones like 'I must not punch daddy in the face'. Just kidding. For every category, there are a maximum amount of points available, and for every fifty points she gets to choose a small reward. Her chart takes pride of place on her bedroom wall, and every evening before bed we go through her behaviours for the day and how we think she's done, putting the stickers on and awarding points. We're on day 3, and she's doing spectacularly well; no tears or cross words (from Mummy either, which is a bonus), doing everything she's told, helping with little jobs around the house (is it too soon to get her cleaning the cat trays and handwashing my silk shirt..?) and generally being lovely. Suffice it to say it's been much nicer. There are only two small niggles on the horizon. The first is that she has already reached the first reward (a ginger cat toy please Mummy) and is halfway to her second! So we're either going to have to rethink the scoring system or risk bankruptcy. The second is keeping the enthusiasm going, but I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. So yeah, all hail the reward chart! Wonder if it works on Husbands as well?

Monday 7 May 2012

Hard times

It is serious economising time in the Bobs household! Well, aside from the £7 The Husband spent on Krispy Kremes for me today. I am trying to be a super-savvy shopper, heading out with all the right ideas - a shopping list for the week and a meal planner which I absolutely thouroughly intend to stick to, heading to Aldi for as much as I can and rifling through Home Bargains and the pound shops for those essentials. Until I see that Sainsbury's have Pringles for a pound a tube and Asda have some lovely green jeans and denim shorts in. As The Daughter would say after she's dropped pasta sauce on the carpet, "Oopsie". I didn't realise just how hard this economy drive thing was going to be to be honest; temptation lies all around, especially for someone like me. I blame my bi-polar entirely for my impulsivity, which has led to unnecessary purchases ahoy - ranging from make up I'll never wear to *ahem* cars. "Oopsie" again. The last time that happened I ended up trading in a 5 month old perfectly decent car for The Shag; a beautiful leather bubble of a car but also a bottomless moneypit. And it is in this moneypit that I realise, while I'm driving to Aldi then Asda then Home Bargains - all in the name of saving money - I've gone through about thirty quids worth of petrol. I am quickly running out of the necessary income and disposable organs (it's amazing what you can sell on ebay these days!) it takes to keep the damn thing on the road. But at least it has a massive boot for all that shopping I do...every cloud and all that!

 It was in another of my favourite thrift shops, Poundstretcher, that I came across another way to slash my shopping bill. We get through reams of loo roll and kitchen roll in our house, literally bloody florets of the stuff. And what do we use it for? Noses and bums and wiping stuff up. So why do I spend a small fortune on Plenty just because Nicholas cage tells me too?! Erm..what do you mean it's not Nicholas Cage in the Plenty adverts?? So why don't I spend mere pence on cheap grey paper products instead? Well, I'll tell you why. Because cheap toilet rolls have sheets where the layers don't match up, so you pull off half a roll trying to get the perforated seams together to make one entire sheet. And they're so thin that you risk your finger going straight through when you...well, the less said about that the better! So I'm sending The Husband out for Andrex tomorrow, and we're all rationed to one sheet per toilet trip. All unnecessary direct debits have been cancelled, the latest of which is the pet insurance which, for the inhabitants of my Cat Hotel, was costing a bomb. I figure that as least three of the cat beasts only go as far as the back garden, what harm could possibly befall them? It'll be sods law that, while having a crap in my borders, Bob will get hit by a rogue bit of meteorite shrapnel and require delicate surgery that we'll have to sell the kids to pay for. So maybe this money saving thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. And that is precisely what I'll tell myself as I'm mooching round Topshops new summer range tomorrow ;)

Saturday 5 May 2012

Potty mouth

It's that time again at Chez Bobs; the time that strikes fear into the heart of parents worldwide and that brings tears to our eyes, of both pride and frustration. I do, of course, mean potty training time. The Daughter was dry by the time she was two and a half, with barely a puddle to clean up if my memory serves me right. (Although I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday so she could actually have walked round the house dribbling wee like an incontinent old woman and I may have lost it in the depths of my mind). She was a different kettle of fish to her brother though, with brilliant speech by 18months old, and the ability to dress herself (of a sort) by 2 and a half. But the Boychild has not been so blessed. Bless him, he's the world's biggest sweetie but - shhhhhhh *whispers*he's not very bright*whispers*. I say this with nothing but love in my heart and in the hope that he won't end up being a shoplifter or even worse, on a reality tv show. He was late crawling, walking and talking, and has only very recently been open to the idea of using the 'potpot' for something other than standing in or wearing as a hat. Mummy, in her infinite wisdom, bought him a potty in the shape of a car which was supposed to inspire him to use it (along with tiny pants covered in pictures of diggers). What it actually did was encourage him to a) push it along the floor both scratching the laminate flooring and ruching up the lounge carpet as he went and b) use it to store other cars in.
Potty training began in earnest a few days ago when I caught him mid poo and launched him onto the car-pot like lightning. The Daughter and I stood applauding him in support and a choclate button was duly given as reward. I didn't need to do this with The Daughter, but I figure Pavlov knew what he was doing with his dogs, and what better incentive to empty your bowels than the promise of chocolate? I'd go for that. Only Boychild misunderstood the sentence "Everytime you wee or poo on your potty you get a chocolate button". He climbed onto Car-pot, nappy and jeans still firmly on, and made all the right noises "Nnnnnnng...coming!" and did whatever he did in the safety of his super-absorbent core. That is, if he did anything at all. Maybe I've got him all wrong and the Boychild is actually too clever for his own good!

Thursday 3 May 2012

Hair today, gone tomorrow..?

I have a lot of hair. A whole lot. Hairdressers describe it as "fine, but there's a lot of it". The reason I have a lot of hair is thus - because as often as I get the almost-compulsive urge to have it all chopped into the latest pixie crop as I'm walking past a hairdressers, I know that within 2 days I'll be regretting it and wishing I had my Timotei-swishy curtains back. And how do I know this? Because I've done it more times than I care to remember. When it comes to hair, I've made many a mistake over the years, some more than once because pigeons learn quicker than I do. I have naturally blonde hair, which has steadily gotten a bit more dishwatery with each passing year. I always remember my mum trying to dissuade me from colouring it because "people go to crazy lengths for blonde hair like yours". And she's right - because I go to crazy lengths to get it back! The first hair-mare I had was at the age of 19. My then-boyfriend and I had been invited to a 'Pulp Fiction' party, and of course I was Uma Thurman's character Mia with her black bob. Although, while I had the bob, it wasn't black. I knew nothing about colouring back then, and went straight out to buy some semi permanent hair dye. Suffice it to say, I was the only Mia Wallace with purple hair! Alas, I was only put off for a while, and a few years down the line I was lightening my poor hair to within an inch of it's life. I had my kidney removed about 8 years ago, and as worried as I was about the operation, I was equally panicky about not being able to wash my hair for days on end. I'd read that chemical processes like colouring and perming dry out the hair and stop it getting so oily. So what did I do? I had it bleached. And if that wasn't enough, a week later  had it permed. Eek. While I asked for gentle waves to achieve a surfer chick look, I actually got frizzy loops, reminiscent of Michael Jackson in the 70's. My hair sprang up from nearly waist length to up round my ears, I was utterly horrified and it's a miracle my hair didn't just decide to fall out in disgust. The bit about it getting less oily was right anyhoo - it was as dry and rough as a scourer and the only way I could manage it was to have it all chopped off into a crop. The only problem with lightening your hair is that, once you've done it, you have to carry on doing it. You get approximately a day and half of fresh blonde hair before the roots start to creep through again - the brown line of dooooooooooom!! My long suffering tresses have been through it over the years, with bleachings that have gone wrong and brown dyes that have turned it green. Many a time have I had to make a desperate trip to Asda under cover of darkness to buy semi-permanent colour whilst wearing a baseball cap with my tangerine coloured hair stuffed inside! And I've regretted having it cut so many times, having remembered that short hair actually takes more time to wash and style than long hair does to shove into a ponytail when I have 14 seconds to get myself ready of a morning. For now at least, I am avoiding all hairdressing salons in case the words "cut it all off!" slip out of my mouth like I have some kind of Tourettes. I fear even a trim may be heading into dangerous territory, so today I sat in the bathroom getting snip-happy with my split ends and a pair of nail scissors.  So if you are in close proximity when you hear me say the words "I fancy a change with my hair", you have my absolute instructions to steal my bank cards, tie my hands behind my back and lock me in the shed until the desire has passed!