When I am nervous I can talk for England. Someone asks me a question and I just babble an answer and carry on. In fact often I am so nervous I do not answer the question because I have not heard it and so I am babbling on some wierd tangent of my own. For some reason (probably because I know I’m being stupid) my babble is interespersed with loud laughter. Nobody knows what I mean but they all laugh back, encouraging me to babble further.

Those that phone at the most inconvenient times will always have this. They start to tell you something, veer off at the first fork in the conversation to tell you something, connected with the first something, veer again at an extremely fascinating thought connected to the second something, veer again as they remember something about the original something which is also connected to something that is not connected to any of the original somethings but which leads to further fascinating somethings.

Why do these people always phone when you are unwinding, cooking (and now burning) a lovely meal, eating (and now gulping down) a wonderful dinner, bathing, or sleeping. Why are they always sensitive types so you can’t just be honest and get rid of them but have to pretend you are absolutely riveted by them and their conversation …blah blah.

I have a tendency to worry which,worries me, especially as Chloe has inherited the same tendency and worries about everything.

She does her homework and worries about marks she may get or getting it in on time. If we go shopping she worries beforehand the we might not find anything that suits her. When we’ve found the perfect garment she worries that her friends may not like it or that I might shrink it in the wash. Meanwhile I also worry that I might shrink it or accidentally dye it in the wash.

I worry that she is a worrier and there is nothing I can do to help her. She worries that she worries me and tries not to worry, or at least to tell me about it.

The extra worry in having someone you love worrying is exhausting!

I’ve dried washing on radiators, clothes horses in front of gas and log fires, strung up on a line in the kitchen or bathroom, in driers at the launderette, and in one I owned when I had a larger kitchen.

Hanging them out on a washing line in town makes them smell of petrol or diesel; they are more likely to be cleaner and fresher if dried and freshened indoors.

The best way to dry clothes is hanging them on a washing line to blow in the wind, provided you live in the country or the sea where the scents of flowers, herbs and grass, or the salty sea can waft through them, making them smell sweeter than any fabric conditioner.

I am starting to find the odd grey hair hiding amongst the rest. They are sneaky and just lie unobtrusively until I go out to a party on somewhere where I want to look my best and suddenly they start glistening at me from among the mousy brown and dark blonde tresses.

I pulled the odd one out but one grey hair seems to beget another so it probably isn’t such a great idea unless I’ll be happier with bald patches than grey hairs.

Obviously neither is the answer and while I do occasionally get my hair coloured or highlighted, it’s one thing to do it out of choice but depressing to have to do it. I’m not old enough for grey hairs, my psyche stopped at eighteen and although I am way, way, wayhay, past that my heart isn’t. It took me years to realise other adults (of a similar age) weren’t the only grown ups but that I was one too. Now I’ll be passing grey haired people knowing that even though my hair is disguised, I’m now one of them (Weep!)

Nobody fancies me anyway so what’s the point.

I don’t currently fancy anybody so what’s the point.

If somebody did fancy me then they would be fancying me as I am, with the lumpy bits.

If I fancied somebody and they didn’t respond, if it was because of my weight, they are shallow and it would never work; and if it wasn’t then dieting wouldn’t make a difference.

Skinny women can look old and haggard.

A bit of weight in the winter acts as insulation and saves on heating bills.

My kids like me cuddly.

I can’t be assed.

Why is it that I can wake up perfectly happy and feeling trim, energetic and happy on some days and on others feel like hippopotamus. It doesn’t matter if I have eaten lots, or not or whether I am slimming  or not. Some days are fine, other days are fat days which I waddle through feeling as heavy and ugly as a old tyre.

People who know me must be bewildered because on happy bouncy thin days I am so friendly and cheerful while on fat days I sludge around keeping my head down and saying as little as possible because I feel so lumpy. The thing is, they don’t know I’m having a fat day so they must feel I’m a moody cow which makes me feel even worse.

I am a bit of a yo-yo dieter and while not fat, am not skinny either and tend to go between ok and slightly overweight, but nothing like the great obese mass that I feel in my head.

The thing is, that other women also have fat days so what causes them and is there a cure? Apart from chocolate that is.

Impromptu face paint for a clown smile

To leave a message on glass or mirror

Rouge

Feigning an allergy or the start of an infectious llness such as measles

To create a target for archery or an impromptu dartboard

Red shoe polish

Writing a giant birthday message on a sheet

Tinting white candles

The state of being without a handbag. This is not a word, but it should be because it is a definite state of being. Recently I left my bag at work and in order to get it would have had to had the caretaker come and re-open the building.

I decided that because I had my keys (car, house) I could manage without the bag for one night as I had not planned to go to the shops, would not need money (unless there was an emergency) and had some make up at home so I could look reasonably presentable the next morning.

However the empy disorientated feeling made me realise that the need for a handbag is not just the stuff it contains but the security of having a kit that makes sure we are prepared for almost anything. That’s why women’s handbags contain so much . Feeling as though we might be in any situation without the right equipment is scary, and that’s what a handbag is all about. Providing adequate tools for any situation life throws up.

Offer a prize if your children can go a week without asking you to buy them something.

Pretend that the stress of shopping makes you deaf.

Agree that they can only ask for the same thing three times. If they ask a fourth it means you will never ever get it for them. This has the effect of making sure each time is a really good, reasoned argument for the item in question and not just a whine.

Pester them back! ‘Oh pleeeeease pleeeeeeease buy me some chocolate with your pocket money! ‘

Start singing loudly or dancing every time they ask for something in public, the embarrassment shuts them up immediately.

Start a sticker chart and add one every time they pester you. Every time they reach five, they have to pay a penalty, for instance losing pocket money or doing chores.

If they are over 9 run away from them, down the supermarket aisles. When they find you again explain that this is what will happen every time they ask for something.

Have a pester list. Every time they want something they write it down on the list. Provided they have not whinged and whined for it (in which case it gets removed) the list is used by family and friends to choose Christmas and birthday presents.

We all know that producers employ psychologists who know exactly which buttons to press to ensure children pester their parents for the toy, trainers, cereal or food product that they want.

McDonalds have honed child manipulation to perfection by the use of their Ronald McDonald clown character and their happy meals. How they can get away with the title ‘happy meal’ without being sued for misrepresentation, when regular happy meals would lead to anything but, is beyond most of us.

It’s up to mums and dads not to give in ,.say the ‘experts’ who are obviously not parents themselves.

Pestering is big business in the world of children and the best know that they can get what they need to trump whatever their friends have got.

Mums and/or dads can either give in, or be the ‘meanest, nastiest, most selfish uncaring parent in the world.’ It takes a strong parent not to try to prove that they aren’t.