And For Dessert?

Now I don't want anyone to get the impression that Yummy Mummy and I are the kind of ladies that lunch all the time, but yesterday, with a last minute day off, we went for lunch again - SomewhereNormal this time, after last month's experience.

YM is bemoaning the pressures on the local Chlamydia Coordinator, in the current climate of public sector targets, not to mention what's expected of the Condom Coordinator*.

I am struggling with the very fact that these are real job titles and ponder the interesting conversation stoppers they could provide at dinner parties, when the inevitable 'and what line of work are you in?' question is raised.

Her work life is so much more interesting than mine, as I keep pointing out. The sexual universe of the under 25s is an utterly alien world, as becomes clearer every time we discuss this.

She then fishes in her handbag and hands me a small, bright orange tube. Now, I don't generally wear my glasses outside work, so I'm holding it aloft and peering closely to read the words on the side, when the waitress appears to clear our plates and then smiles.

At this point, the words 'Fresh Peach-flavoured Water-based Lubricating Gel' finally come into focus.



Hastily, I thrust the tube behind my back. 'God, you're behaving like a naughty schoolgirl,' - YM teases. 'It's perfectly normal'.

'There's 12 flavours including Bubblegum Blast, but that's in a pillow, not in a reusable tube, so it's not very environmentally friendly.'

'Yes, I can see why that would be important, with the Government's green agenda' - I reply, not actually seeing at all. In truth, I haven't yet gone beyond why there needs to be 12 flavours.

* Remind me to tell you one day about the Postman and the Trail of Condoms.

Are You Pondering What I'm Pondering?

It was the usual Sunday morning Match Of The Day ritual. JP commenting in a stream of factual yet inconsequential narrative and Tiddler gawping idiotically, with one hand down the front of his pyjamas.

JP plots, plans and exercises his rather scary intellect memorising the Periodic Table and remembering exactly what he has eaten for the past 7.5 years. Tiddler giggles when someone says the word fart and is fascinated with his willie.

'Who wants Flake icecream?' I asked yesterday. Tiddler's two hands shoot up.

JP then waves his legs in the air as well. 'I've got 4 legs up, so I want more than Tiddler'.

'I've got 5 up including my widgie', announces Tiddler, trumping JP and earning himself an extra scoop.

'They're Pinky and the Brain!' remarked Mr Duck in a perfect, revelatory moment of clarity.

Virginity #2

Losing your virginity has been covered by me before, and yesterday, I'm proud to say, was Tiddler's turn.

For the last home game of the season, Tiddler came with me to OT for his very first game. He has been going to see the Mersey Reds with Mr. Duck and JP of late and has been sporting a Gerrard shirt and singing 'Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number 9' in lieu of 'we all know that Johnny is going to score'.

This was effectively damning me to a life sentence of going to the Theatre of Dreams alone. Not exactly a stretch in Strangeways, I know, but sharing the experience with my son and not having to rely on Amazing Dave to take me when I'm an OAP, was something I have been dreaming of since JP and Tiddler were born. I grew up in a family of Mersey Reds and then married one. It couldn't be my misfortune to rear two as well, could it?

It was utterly brilliant. He pored over his programme, munched his way through a big picnic and it was my delight to thrust him aloft in his United shirt for each of the four goals. My fellow fans welcomed him, tousled his hair and shook his hand, as we marched imperiously towards retaining the Premiership crown.

I took him pitchside for the lap of honour. The proximity of the Great and the Good, smiling and waving just for us, or so it seemed, hopefully secured a corner of his Tiddler heart for the future. He may never share my passion and OT may never be the one place in the world where he feels truly alive, as I do, but as we walked back to the car, eating chips and gravy and singing Viva Ronaldo, I felt a small flicker of what I recognised as hope. Life is good.

Run Tiddler Run

The Great Manchester Run is now just over 2 weeks away. Cancer Relief have sent me a running vest, a plastic warm up top and some tattoos for the occasion. The running is going ok again, although my knee is a bit twingy today. I suspect it has a lot to do with me jumping up and down like a mad eejit, when Paul Scholes found the net last night.

He scores goals galore,
he scores goals.
Paul Scholes,
he scores goals.

The Good News - I have a ticket for Moscow

The Bad News - I can't go due to work commitments. Not kidding.

Tiddler's football training has moved back outside for the summer. He's coming along nicely as a defender and occasional keeper. The only problem is that he can't run. He does this skippy-dancy thing on tiptoes that makes him look like Michael Flatley, preparing to break into Riverdance at any moment.

This has to be sorted out if my pension plan is to bear fruit.

I hatched a plan to resolve this, by entering him and JP in the Great Manchester Mini Run, a one mile race for 3000 tiddlers, the day before the main event on the 18th*

We have been out training - the full one mile. This currently requires at least one rest stop and major league complaining by Tiddler; whereas running with JP is like having Motty with you - constant commentary, no substance.

I now know why I run alone, with just my iPod for company.

They have just been sent special T-shirts, running numbers and sponsor forms to raise money for the local children's hospital. JP has already taken £5 from his piggybank for the fund. It is starting to dawn on them that this is a big deal, and they are feeling proud.

As am I.

*BBC 5pm if you want to catch a glimpse of me collapsing over the finish line. They will also be showing highlights from the mini run.

Bodies and Bacteria

It being our Friday off, Yummy Mummy and I decided to lunch out. We were due for a treat so we went to a LittlePoshPlace in SomewherePosh.

Chocolate leather, marble tables and an unctious, slightly strange owner. It's a beard thing. It was too perfect, too trimmed, too softly-spoken-yet-utterly-mad-scientist-plotting-to-take-over-the-world.

From the black-clad waitress, Yummy ordered tap water, and I ordered sparkling, as I really know how to live.

We were tucking into scallops and calves' livers respectively, when we became aware that the wallpapered panels behind us were in fact collages of photographs of naked men.



I paused on my offal to look more closely. Yes - definitely buttocks and chests and hints of hairy crotches - albeit tastefully captured in sepia.

We chewed on in silence for a while.

Until Madbeard started a discourse on bacteria, when the couple at the next table ordered a bottle of still mineral water.

According to him, the bacterial levels in sparkling mineral water are only surpassed by the levels present in the still version. In drinking such poison, not only do you not cleanse your palate, but you coat it in bacteria, preventing you from the full enjoyment of food and more particularly wine. Tap water, by all accounts isn't very much better, due to chemicals. As he detailed one particularly vicious bacterium, I stole fearful glances at the bottle of Lowland Glen beside me.

Suddenly, the risotto breseola with parmesan crust seemed less appetising.

The couple trying to order still water nodded politely and hurried to the wine list.

'I always wash my mouth out with wine before I drink wine' - announced Madbeard.

I looked up, sharply. Had he really tossed that one in the air? Just put it up there to be shot down?

'So if you always drink wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine, what do you drink to wash your mouth out, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine? If it's wine, do you drink wine before you drink the wine, before you drink the wine to wash your mouth out before you drink wine?' - I enquired.

He charged me £5 for the sparkling water.

Littering with Intent

Warning. Look away now if you are of a sensitive disposition.

Our local residential estates are linked by a network of ginnels, so you can reach school, park and friends without taking the car or using the main road. Going green in the suburbs! Yay.

I was heading up our ginnel to a PTA fundraiser at school, when some litter caught my eye. Propped up against a dandelion was a vacuum pack for a Finger Rabbit.

'What an unfortunate name for a child's toy', I thought - particularly after this misunderstanding.

Then I spotted the 'Ann Summers' label at the top.

Two yards on - discarded packaging for a Sex Pistol - and not a Johnny Rotten action figure*.

I carried on walking, only to encounter an empty package for Jumbo Jelly Thai Beads**.

After checking for hidden cameras to ensure I hadn't been set up, I set off once more for school. Without marigolds, and with no wombles in sight to admonish me, I was not a good citizen and could not bring myself to pick up the litter. (Although, on reflection, arriving at school carrying the items, greeting the committee with a cheery 'Everyone had a good weekend?', might have been worth it.)

Is it a little weird that I was secretly rather more impressed than shocked, as I reflected on the level of intent and preparation for the tryst en plein air that clearly had taken place?

Yes, you can pant 'Oh Good Thinking', as a condom is produced at the appropriate moment, when passions overtake reason and it's right here, right now, and hurry up about it!

But is a round of applause at minimum, or some judges' scorecards with 10 printed in bold in order, when the object of your desire produces not one, but three thoughtful gifts for your public-private party?***

* Spits and swears with a choice of nose rings.
** If you're thinking 'wtf' as I was, please don't google it. Trust me, let it lie. You'll thank me later.
*** No sign of condom detritus - perhaps they were the edible kind?

Star Struck

I have been lucky enough through work to meet some of my personal heroes over the years, but I still get star struck when confronted with a familar face off the TV, and god forbid I encounter United players, when I just become impossibly giggly and girly; or stand boggle-eyed and open-mouthed like a fish staring into the gaping maws of a deep fat fryer.

I came across Ian Botham on one of his charity runs once, pounding out the miles in pouring rain in Shropshire; just a single car following, no crowds or cameras. Bearing in mind that he has been a hero and heartthrob of mine since my early teens, I stopped the car ahead of him and waited to make a donation. My heart was thumping, as I held out my hand with some money and he ran up to me. He smiled, said thanks and ran on.

And then it happened, I just couldn't stop myself. 'I love you' - I shouted after him.

He didn't turn around.

Some old git pushed past me at Old Trafford the other week in the programme queue. I turned crossly to confront him, when I spotted that it was Bernard Hill. I couldn’t risk the headbutt or the assault with the Sword of Rohan that might have ensued, so I let it go and swung back round, only to accidentally punch Marlon from Emmerdale, who was following behind him.

I'm so the opposite of cool, there isn't even a word for it.