No Spanx to Shapely Swimwear for Middle Age Spread

Try as I may, I can’t escape pictures of Kelly Brook posing poolside in a cute and frilly two-piece.

Not since Tom Daley’s flop TV show has a celeb been so desperate to show off their assets in lycra.

However, Kelly’s new swimwear collection would do little for a dimpled, dumpy, middle-aged mother with a c-section overhang and a labyrinth of stretch marks.

Finding a ‘miracle’ swimsuit that's both flattering and stylish, makes me feel like a beached whale. 

Kelly: Just your average woman next door

Visit any seaside or pool and you’ll recognise us. Droopy, rotund mums, sporting boring black swimming costumes that cling relentlessly to our pot bellies at the first splash. 

It’s a challenge to find attractive swimwear that defies gravity, sucks in the fat and avoids the “So when’s your due date?” debate. 

Some may promise to conceal a problem stomach, cover the cellulite, or uplift the bust; but there’s not one fashionable all rounder that leaves you looking and feeling fit for purpose.

What if you’re blighted by all of those middle-age, post baby body traumas?

A built in girdle and panelling are useless when your breasts are in conflict over their destinations.

That sinking feeling

Such is my despair, that I’ve considered custom making my own costume using a Wonderbra and Spanx.

Fillets, however, may float out to sea or jam the pool’s filtration system.

Perhaps I’m just bowing to what the media deems a socially acceptable beach bod.

As demonstrated in ITV2 repeat favourite, ‘Couple’s Retreat’, where a group of marrieds assess their sinking relationships. In swimwear. The husbands are overweight, yet the wives cut perfect bikini figures.

Is that realistic – or fair?

Titillating swimwear ads featuring ‘curvy’ celebs are misleading because they don’t represent the majority of normal women, either. They just amplify feelings of inadequacy.

The women in Couple's Retreat wonder why the men get to go to the all you can eat buffet

There’s an ocean of stubby, pale, 40-somethings in desperate need of, well, support.

South of the border

My quest for a costume is about more than simply hiding a few ‘wobbly’ bits and minor problem areas.

Problem? My stomach’s so delinquent it has an ASBO.

A twin pregnancy and caesarean have left me with an apron that no amount of dieting or exercise will shift. And at just 5ft 1, I need all the help I can get.

It’s not just about fatties lacking in self control, Samantha Brick. It’s about (heavily) assisting knackered and overstretched bodies that bear the battle scars of age and motherhood.

Saggy, crinkly, pot holed skin that’s plummeting south and refuses to snap back to its pre-pregnancy vigour, without a surgical mini break to Lithuania.

Nobody wants to see my bits wobbling around on the beach. I don’t even let my husband see me in underwear, so why invite a bunch of strangers to the show?

I’m not blessed with the natural beauty of beach babes like Myleene Klass or Melanie Sykes, so in everyday life I use smoke and mirrors (or make-up, big knickers and ruching; you gotta have ruching) to create the illusion of a woman with wholly proportional and symmetrical body parts.

But in the primitive costal environment, stripped of my armour and protective beach cover up, I’m forced to let it all hang out on the walk of shame down to the sea front.

Does my bum look big in this?

Oh, to just grab a £5.99 bikini and flip flops from H&M.

Instead, I must scour the high street, contorting my exhausted, wilting torso into costume after costume.

And then confront the results in the full-length mirror.

“Would madam like to try our maternity range?” the pert shop assistant enquires, as I struggle to remove the persistent costume that’s suckered to my midriff like a face hugger from 'Alien'.

There may be an overwhelming choice of swimwear, but I’m struggling to find a suitable costume that doesn’t smack of the 'Cedars Care Home'.

Some stores (Next) produce the oxymoron collection. A shapewear range for seemingly slender ladies.

Clearly, the lithe model – or any woman fortunate enough to be able wear so little - will only ever encounter an embarrassing body through Dr Christian's televised examination of some poor cow's chafing sores.  

I require a costume that firmly addresses (“You naughty backside!”) every major spillage zone. A Superwoman costume if you will, with a detachable cape for bingo wings.

But when I do locate several contenders in that stalwart of magic pants, M&S, most of these rarities are sold out. The result of  a panic frenzy of mouse clicking not seen since Kate Middleton stepped out in  a Topshop tea dress.

Doesn’t that say something about the demand?

And what of the cost? Oh yes, £39.50 for the costume I settled on. Four times as much as the two triangles of dayglo and cheesestring thong that teens can pick up in Primark.  

It’s frustrating. Surely this shouldn’t be such a task in this modern era of widely available NASA upholstered corsetry.

 If only more retailers offered such choice for the swimwear market.

My choice

Obviously I'm not confident enough to post my picture, but here's a nubile model to demonstrate.

Debenhams: Blue Floral Tummy Control Skirted Swimsuit, £39.50

http://www.debenhams.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/prod_10701_10001_064020805245_-1

Pros: Flattering on the stomach. Covers the derriere. Design is pleasant – not as modern as some - but not as Victorian as others.

Cons: Not enough support in the bust, despite the padded cups. The removable halterneck straps are most definitely needed.

I’m now on the search for a blue halterneck, underwired bikini/bra to wear underneath.

Costume Drama: How the Shapewear Swimsuits Measure up:

Bottoms and thighs

Swimskirts/dresses are the friend of thunderous thighs, orange peel cellulite and wobbly bottoms. 

But beware of costumes where the skirt fails to cover the bottom. The frill is superfluous and offers no practical purpose, other than to resemble a 6-year-old at a pool party (Frost and French’s Ditzy Floozie for Debenhams, Kelly Brook for New Look).

Swimdresses: Ideal for covering up, but look like you’re taking a dip in your nightie. Try Littlewoods or M&S.

Swimshorts: Good for thighs, but not big bottoms. Try Next’s Tummy Control Shorts, or Mantaray Board Shorts at Debenhams for extra coverage.

Swimskirts:  Fantastic coverage for bottoms and thighs, but the skirts hang low and will not pull in any midriff. Try BHS for an impressive range of colours and designs to mix and match with tankinis.

Swimskirt dresses: Great for camoflaging a multitude of sins. Try Debenhams and M&S for the most extensive ranges.

Tums  

Sculpting around the middle, distracting bold prints and non transparent material are key to concealing troublesome tums.

Tankinis: Buy extra long or a size larger, as tankinis will ride up in the water to reveal the very midriff you want to hide. Try  Elle Sport Tummy Control at Debenhams and Tummy Control V-Neck Floral Print Swimsuit or Halterneck Layered and Flared Padded Tankini Top, M&S.

Swimming costumes: From Tesco’s Magic Swimsuit, Asda’s Animal Print Bodysculpt Swimsuit, to Debenhams’ Beach Collection, there are a number of dedicated tummy controllers out there.

The ultimate in extreme stomach engineering is M&S’ Halterneck Ruched Floral Skirt Swimsuit, in red mix, £39.50.

http://www.marksandspencer.com/Halterneck-Ruched-Floral-Skirt-Swimsuit/dp/B00AX0JSAK?ie=UTF8&ref=sr_1_55&nodeId=43167030&sr=1-55&qid=1369139182&pf_rd_r=0G6N91ZT884XE5E91VY9&pf_rd_m=A2BO0OYVBKIQJM&pf_rd_t=301&pf_rd_i=0&pf_rd_p=321381407&pf_rd_s=center-3

Top points for a flattering halterneck, hot pink colour and a skirt that covers the nether regions. The strength of the tummy control is G-Force and extremely restrictive. So buy the next size up.

However, a plunging neckline - bordering on pornographic - lets this mother down.

Bust

Padding, underwiring and a halterneck are essential in hoisting and bolstering wayward chests. 

If a neckline is too low, ample cleavage could be exposed; possibly resulting in a case of “hello buoys” if you pop out, mid breast stroke.  

Try M&S’ Cheetah Print Padded Tankini Top. 

Mad Englishmen and Women go out in the Mid-Day Sun Wearing That?

It’s nearly summer, supposedly. So, quick! Let’s all dress like idiots.

A flash of sun -that’s by no way Mediterranean - and it’s in with the bright orange playsuits and off with the England shirts.  

Lobster red skin, tattoos with accessories by Carling and St. George, and platform wedges that leave the wearer stomping clumsily about like Wallace in the Wrong Trousers, are among the main offenders.

Lurid colours, luminescent enough to blind the Lollipop lady.  Or bold crop tops, vest tops and short denim dungarees.

Like a clone army of New Look shoppers auditioning for the Magaluf Weekender.

Or old obvious stalwarts: board shorts, worn with sandals and socks and maxis (with matching denim of course, which I proudly own).

Physique bears no limits. In fact, it is a rule that the fatter you are, the more flesh you should reveal. Preferably in a tight cotton mini sun dress from Primark.

The sweeping maxi may hide stubbly, pale legs, but don’t be fooled into thinking it disguises the KFC bargain bucket you’re packing underneath. Dammit!

More tell-tale signs that it’s time to strip off. Orange palms and streaky St Tropez that simply ends at the ankle and forms a film of dirt around the knees.  Chipped coral toe nail polish, or nails that are embellished with a range of patterns, including the Paul’s Boutique logo.

For men (and certain women) hairy, milk bottle legs, and feet that would benefit from a Scholl Pedi and fungal foot cream.

National Lampoons European Vacation

Why do we Brits have the knack of looking like twats in the sun?

Our continental counterparts ridicule our crude wardrobes and lack of stylish sophistication, as they appear effortlessly chic, shading from the mid-day sun, while perusing Le Figaro.

People who’ve acclimatised to the sun dress coolly and appropriately. It’s no more special to them than us waking up to rain.  To which we respond fashionably in faux UGG boots (trodden over at the back) and worn over baggy denim jeggings.

But hot days are so rare in the UK that we feel compelled to dress like we are going to Bermuda for a month.

My wardrobe's packed with summer clothes that only come out one day a year. Once temperatures hit a tepid 20 it’s a stampede to put them all on at once, like a dressing box of Timmy Mallett (look it up) cast offs.  

We can’t seem to get it right

It’s part of being British, our inability to dress suitably for the occasion. So let’s celebrate our nafness and complete lack of self respect, by grabbing a diamante baseball cap and a mullet skirt, and shout:

“Summer has arrived – and gone.”

Daze out

It’s the first glimpse of sun that has me reaching for the smelly Thermos and old takeaway containers.

A tartan picnic blanket. “With a waterproof membrane,” hubby adds. So when he’s brushing the crumbs off, presumably this is a membrane sweep?

I pack enough Sunblest cheese sandwiches to keep Greggs in business, and a congealed tube of Soltan from 1999, into a Computer Exchange carrier (well they’re sturdy, decent bags).

“We’re having a day out, right now. Like other families,” I inform Mr N, who’s enjoying Saturday Morning Kitchen; even though his signature dishe/s extend to egg a la boiled and any food in a tin.

Add on an hour to load up bikes, several detours, and a mini marital spat about directions, and we finally arrive at Kingsbury Water Park.

Any sucker knows the best pitches are swiped up by dawn. It’s like towels on sunloungers; only these towels are from Boden.

As the contents of the CEX bag (Ritz, scotch eggs, Cheese Strings and sandwiches), spill out onto the rug, I clock my fellow daytrippers.

Next to their 4x4s are extendable dining tables, leatherette recliners, the walk in freezer from Rocky and giant Jenga bricks of ice (somebody has even carved a realistic model of Blackpool Tower from theirs).

Marquees, Barbeques are smoking, groups of people are socialising. It’s like a Sainsbury’s Jamie Oliver advert.

No sad cheddar sarnies. We’re talking Rye and Goya. Salad and Kettle chips. Flutes of juice not made from concentrate.

All laid out like a healthy all you can eat for £7 buffet. Only there are no sausage fingered chavs piling extra tiers of chips on to the plate, with the (wrong) tongs that are clearly meant for the sticky coated ribs.

Contamination. It’s a vegetarian’s nightmare. Worse than carnivores eating the last vegetable samosa, when there are clearly meat options available.

This is a picnic off. Croquet sets, tennis nets. Curling. Our little football seems, well, rather deflated.

I need to step up my game. I’m hiring Anthea to prepare me a wicker hamper with bilinis, canapés and some crisp, linen napkins.

We do enjoy a day out - if we’re not quarantined by illness - and two for ones permitting.

Thrills, spills and bellyaches

To get to any event prior to noon requires leaving the house in pyjamas.

You will spend the entire day queuing. Especially if you are unfortunate enough to be stuck at the turnstiles behind the Sun token family trying to swap a gold sovereign ring for free parking.

Some websites suggest starting with the rides at the back of the park first. We tried this and ended up outside the perimeter fence by the generators.

You can no longer turn up and go on a few rides. Now, there are all kinds of priority packages.

The hotel deal. Forget a romantic mini break, when you can stay overnight at a theme park in Staffordshire, go on rides a whole hour before the plebs arrive, and smuggle in scores of bread rolls and cold bacon from the buffet breakfast.

You can beat the queues with a gizmo called a Qbot. A Dalek-esque machine that eradicates malingerers or pensioners who dare to get between you and the teacups.

If you don’t fancy re-mortgaging to purchase gallons of coke and buckets of fast food, then take your own. Note, you will put your back out lugging around the marine sized rucksack of food.

Don’t forget the waterproof poncho. Otherwise, you will end up in the rain with a Cash Converters carrier on your head.

Just as you reach the front of the ride and confirm that your child is 1.2 metres (with the aid of some Cuban heeled trainers) a boy inevitably needs a wee; but as this is the Log Flume I think we’ll get away with it.

A cuddly costumed mascot appears. Look, it’s Scrat, the loveable flying squirrel from Ice Age 9, the Birth of the Tudors:

“Mommy, what would happen if we pulled off his eye?”

By the end of the day you will look disturbed. Frizzy hair, Alice Cooper eyes from the rapids overspill, and a hunchback from the rucksack.

You’re exhausted. Now which car park are we in?

Country roads, take me home

Ah, a day on the farm.

Surrounded by the aroma of fresh manure and a load of rusty tractors, mud, and vermin, disguised as a Guinea Pig farm.

It’s enriching to be at one with nature. To not run off in terror at the butterfly farm or the birds of prey exhibition http://thenews-on.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/reasons-to-be-fearful_18.html

See how Stinky the Llama slobbers all over your hand. Then grab a handful of pellets in the same hand that you will be eating your lunch with in five minutes. Ponder about whether the boys have had the avian flu jab.

Open toe wedges and cream jeggings were clearly a mistake, as Mr N rescues me from a fly infested cow pat.

And as a beast moos behind me, I flee, screaming: “Grab the boys, before it charges!”

I‘m more Mother indoor shopping mall than Mother Earth.

Art attack

Time to enlighten the boys about the world of heritage and culture, as we visit a gallery and a museum.

“Bored!” the children declare, as I educate them on the post impressionistic masterpieces of Manet.

I relive French and Saunders’ superb skit on the Tate Modern, where they spend the entire visit looking for the tea room and gift shop.

That’s me, that is.

Next, some National Trust properties.

Cream teas, giant draughts on the lawn. What more could you want?

“Where’s the plasma?” the boys enquire.

During the guided tour, I spy a row of shops: antiques, with distressed peppermint sideboards; a farmer’s market, with quirky egg cups, rows of organic plum reserve (that’s jam); and a clothes’ shop, finally!

But unless you get turned on by Kath Kidston, it’s just rails of fleeces, nautical themed attire, and comedy retro door signs that read: ‘Keep calm and drink wine.’ 

Life’s a kitsch!

That’s entertainment

The lazy parent’s all weather favourite. Indoor amusements.

Sit on your derriere and let the children indulge in some unhealthy activities, while becoming de-sensitised to a bit of ultra violence.

The £1 cinema. The rustle of snacks as families empty a whole sweet shop of wrappers onto the floor. Baby Princess-Angel is crying the whole way through Men in Black 6, just because Tommy Lee Jones’ face was ripped off. Maybe you’ll endure another mind numbing CGI adventure, with a host of cute animals in some saccharine coated fable.

Bowling, gambling, or laser quest, with its gun toting, ammo fuelled: “die, die, die. “ 

Followed by Pizza Hut and a scrum to gorge on the buffet. Kids smearing the salad cart up the walls, adults jostling to pounce on the waitress when she re-stocks the pizza slices and couples mounting up food that they have no intention of consuming (It‘s free, you know).

We’re gonna need a bigger blog….

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside. In another country.

Please see my blog on trailer park holidays, swimming pools and Brummie-super-Mare
http://thenews-on.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/holidays-in-sun.html

Modern Parents vs Baby Boomers

PG tips.....

Ah, the 1970s and 1980s - the decades that parenting forgot.

When letting your kids cycle by twilight to an 'uncle's' house to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre with half a shandy and bag of cola cubes was perfectly acceptable.

No nanny state. No political correctness and definitely no guilt.

I want to be a mother in that sun kissed, CFC era. 

I may have an unnatural fear of Vesta meals and electricity pylons, but my childhood seemed so carefree and rule free.

Or am I looking back with a rose coloured view finder? 

The Swan Vesta social club

Then: Leave your child in the car in the pub car park with a Dr Peppers and Smiths Crisps, while your dad and uncle enjoy a few lunchtime ales.

Sometimes you may be allowed inside for a spot of light beer tasting or cigarette machine errands. 

The long lamented children's room,with its television and pool table, opened up a wealth of possibilities for alcoholics struggling with childcare. 

Now: Bored parents sit for endless tedious hours in a luminous playcentre, drinking weak juice out of plastic cups, while kids wade around in the urine stained ball pool demanding Fruit Shoots and paninis.

Environmentally unfriendly

Now: The boys are eco warriors who want to save the planet. Reduce, re-use, recycle. Give me a Blue Peter badge.

Then: Eliminate everything in sight with repetitive blasts of Elnett hairspray. Load up the Escort estate for the tip. (now renamed the household recycling centre).  No sorting, no biodegradables; just pile the plastic Action Men and Kwik Save carriers up high. 

Charity shops were not retro chic. They were all brown tank tops and girdles, and wreaked of old pants. If you were ever spotted in the vicinity of one, you would be the butt of all jokes in the playground.

Bored escorts

Then: Cram eight people in one small Mini van, including the boot, ready for the 24 hour A-road exodus to Cornwall. Pack a couple of old brown suitcases held together with an old rainbow belt, and you're done.

Now: Strap child in a 20 point harness, with a headlock, padded neck guard, sun shades, DVD players, ipods, ipads, 3DS, drinks holders, air con and a parachute. 

Chauffeur and chaperone your child everywhere. Park in a massive space, almost inside the shop. Have a rest break every five minutes and load your car like it's a metal Buckaroo with racks, pods, trailers, bike carriers and a portaloo.

Look left, look right, 

Then: Let your child play knock and run at random houses. See how your offspring plays with stilts, go carts and Swiss army knives. Teach them to swim by dropping them in at the deep end. They usually pop back up. 

Now; Do not let your child outside the front of the house unless they are tagged, labelled, micro chipped, stamped and CCTV is installed. Accompany them at all times. Preferably with a lead. Swimming lessons must start in utero and your husband will insist on watching Baywatch for tips (maybe that's just our house?)

Diet and exercise

Then: Balance your small child (helmets are for wimps) on the cross bar while negotiating a tricky off road manoeuvre involving the child falling from crossbar. Maybe that was just my dad again, but I still have the scar.

Now: Child wears a helmet, pads, a Mr Soft (look it up) style sumo suit, while you tow them around a soft, squidgy concrete playground.

Then: Coat all food in sugar and deep fry everything. Enjoy scratchings, Lard sandwiches, Fray Bentos and crispy pancakes. Encourage kids to smoke candy cigarettes in practise for adulthood.

Now: Buy organic, buy local, gluten free, superfoods!

Then: Buying local meant walking up the road to Walter Smith. Fair trade meant an equal swap for your Scratch and Sniff stickers, and a graze box was something  painful that girls had if they misjudged the Pogo Stick.  

We're gona need a bigger telly

Then: Let your child watch anything with adult content on a poo coloured TV, no matter how petrifying. The News at 10, The Cold War, Aids Kills, Where the Wind Blows and Just Say No (That song scarred me for life).

Of course, for light entertainment there was the age appropriate Mini Pops, Brian Cant or the enthralling test card.  And safety announcements: Think Once, think twice, think don't drive your car on the pavement.

Learn the art of disappointment when the Spectrum game fails to load or 'dying' on an arcade game meant no more goes and begging your parents for an extra 10pence. Cutting edge technology equalled Pong, Busby or Simon Says.

Now: Immediate gratification. Handheld games consoles, broadband, apps, Sky Plus. Toddlers You Tubing Gangnam Style while ordering a takeaway on their mobile.

Health and safety

Then: Let your child play in the mud, climb trees, eat worms and enjoy the smoke filled delights of a living room with fag ash auntie and her tracheotomy. Never play with matches, but can you pass auntie the firelighters for her JPS (not JLS, RIP).

Now: Saturate your child in hand sanitiser and make them shower twice daily. Stairgates, child locks, corner protectors, radiator covers, plug socket covers, anti-hepa filters, carbon monoxide detectors. Have a fire extinguisher on hand just incase the spark from the Thomas night light ignites an inferno.

Rock Lobster

Then: Beam as your naked child, doused in cooking oil,  turns a brighter shade of lobster while they paddle in the sewage outlet or near a cliffside location.

Wave in delight as your child floats out to sea -  waving helplessly - in a tiny dinghy before you resume the beach position with a fag, The Sun and a bottle of Fanta. 

Now: Bathe your kid in factor 1000 at least 12 times a day, cover in a UV, UF waterproof, germ proof inflatable suit. Make sure the deckchair man is CRB checked.

Educating Marmalade (just not Peanut Butter)

Then: Let your child walk to school; Support the geography field trip to the gas works or the old mine and pack their Dangermouse lunch box with nutritious Nutella sandwiches . Encourage your youngster to eliminate the competition at sports day and stone anybody who comes last place in the egg and spoon race.

Now: Drive a quarter of mile to school and take up the disabled parking space. Risk suspension if a peanut, conker, cake or stick of rock enters the building. 

Inclusive. Everybody is special and a winner. Sports day is not a competition, but a celebration of achievement. Anybody found taking photographs of their own children will have to face the wrath of the LEA.   

The verdict? Not sure. My memories are fantastic. 

As adult, I like technology, reliable cars, widescreen TVs and being able to shop 'til I drop on a Sunday. 

But I  miss the simplicity of long summer evenings playing out the front on my Grifter, hot UK holidays and gathering around the goggle box for a televisual event, like the revelation of who really shot J.R. 

Can I have a bit of everything mashed up - like my mother's Corned Beef hash?

Keep Fat

In the last blog about my aversion to exercise, here's why I'll be hitting the gin and not the gym.

An outing to the gym is rather daunting.

All that sweat and testosterone. And that's just the ladies' changing room.

Firstly, if I'm at the health club, I must swipe through security like I'm trying to enter The Whitehouse.

I unwittingly signed  a contract for life; a bit like Ghostrider's deal with the devil. Only this was a slimy marketing toad, who persuaded me exclusive membership would guarantee thin-ness (of the wallet, maybe).

I only used the facilities (coffee shop) twice yearly.

And that was just to sleep off a hangover in the jacuzzi. Far from relaxing, when a stray curly hair floats past ,mid bubble.

Or the sauna/steam rooms (don't really know the difference, but they are both debilitating and full of sweaty men fiddling under their towels and proudly flaunting Hamburgler bellies).

But today, there are people in matching shiny tracksuits, smoking outside and eating Frazzles for lunch.

This is the council gym.

Here, there are no free mini shower gels, cotton wool buds or long nozzle hairdryers.

There are no complementary towels, so I must bring a bale of my own, like a chambermaid:

One to lie/lean on.
One to wipe other people's sweat off the apparatus
one to wipe your own sweaty bits mid workout
and at least two for the shower.

It's life gym, but not as I know it.....

In the gym I'm confronted by different machines:

The rowing machine, the exercise bike, the snack machine.

"Have you had your induction?" the assistant in matching shorts and polo asks.

"Yes," I mutter, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that despite having been demonstrated these dangerous contraptions countless times, I still can't operate the damn things.

The cross-member of the public

What if I slip off the running machine, or my earphones get trapped in the conveyor belt and I'm strangled?

Death by i-pod, Generation Game style.

Programming the machine is complex. All those different courses, difficulty ratings.

Should I choose a cardio vascular workout and dart up The Alps?

Or should I simply hit 'quick start' and half-heartedly drag my feet along the flat line to the corner shop and back?

Look at me, I'm running, and watching Sky News at the same time.

I can make you feel bad

Weightlifters are all pumped up like Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.

I've not seen this many vest tops since Kavanagh was about the first time.

I'd like to see these guys carrying multiple circulation-busting Aldi carriers home on their wrists, back and head,with two kids in tow who insist on only holding a lollipop each.

I feebly attempt to lift some piece of equipment, until I realise it's simply a lever.

Some underage teen is revelling in the 1-2-1 tuition on how to use the machine that opens and closes your legs.

Chantelle, that's just asking for a trip to the delivery suite.

These instruments of torture should be avoided. Like the Wii Fit that's gathering dust under the TV.

Plus, I'm bored. I lasted 20 minutes.

I've only burnt off four calories. But I'm confused by Cals and Kilojoules. I'll take the one that looks the most. However, that's still not enough for an eclair.

Close shave

Maybe it was memories of Jiffy Jenkins blowing her whistle as she herded groups of teens with newly developing organs into the school showers, but I still have a problem with communal changing.

I don't even let my husband see my body, so why would I willingly show strangers my bits?

I don't understand why grown women feel the need to strip, parade around and bend over searching for talc.

I mean, who actually uses talcum powder - apart from babies (and me, when I was a Goth, trying to get the Robert Smith look)?

I'm surrounded by breasts, buttocks, minges, underarm hair.

It's more Leo Sayer than Kim Cattrall in Porky's, before you get excited.

I turn crimson and look at the ceiling, incase they think I fancy a bit of Kate Bush.

Even if I were that way inclined, we are not on the continent.

Is a bit of Immac, a Bic razor or Femfresh wipe too much to ask for?

I'm going to have to wash at home  I can't stroll into the shower, reach up for my Herbal Essences and discuss the Great British Bake Off, mid droop.

So I hide behind a towel, or in the family changing room, prudishly slipping my clothes off like a coy Victorian.

A precocious boy is now tugging back the curtain.

"Mommy. Fat. Mommy. Fat." 

What he spies through the gap may just scar him for life.

 A bit like Jiffy Jenkins in her y-fronts......

Slugs and snails and puppy dogs' tails

The house is over-run by boys.

I'm outnumbered by three to one.

Maybe it's the wires, toy cars or broken Lego.

Maybe it's the near misses 'round the toilet, the mud in the hallway, or the eggy aroma in the bedroom.

Maybe it's the fact that Mario toys have replaced ornaments, drawers are lined with batteries, or that my conservatory now resembles Dixons; overlooking a garden of deflated footballs and water oozies.

Either way, it's time to surrender my lavender-scented princess palace over to the tails.

And admit that it's all about willies, bottoms and bogies from now on.

Toilet humour

The gender gap is most prevalent in the bathroom.

I'll be luxuriating in Anna's deep bath.

A male will simply barge in, unannounced, and engage in a poo or a wee, while chatting to me about the latest Skylander conquest.

Then, they will scan my body in a Roswell way, and guffaw at my breasts (even though I've tried to cover them with a flannel and Matey bubbles combo).

Or, if I need a lady 'rest break' they follow me in, to show me their collection of conkers and to ask why I wee out of my bottom.

Obviously, I find it a little creepy when my husband does this.

Now the lock remains on at all times, even to the tune of:

"Mommy, I can feel the wee coming down..."

The boys find most bodily functions and bodily parts amusing.

I guess this goes back to the first few months of life when they would projectile urinate simultaneously, mid nappy change.

Burps, trumps, wee, poo , willies, boobies, bottoms. Hilarious.

"He kicked me in the peanuts,"  they say.

To the untrained ear, the word peanuts causes all kinds of confusion in public.

But if a sentence involves the words fat or sexy, then it's even funnier.

"Hey, sexy Mommy/Daddy." with Gangnam style actions.

It's a tad embarrassing in the library.

Lidl boys

I envy the mother shopping in House of Fraser with her daughter, who is only about the boys' age.

Matching faux fur coats, and handbags, trying on outfits, followed by drinks in Starbucks.

In contrast, we've only made it as far as Lidl.

The boys - who can no longer be contained in a trolley - are rolling amok in the aisles, pretending to shoot each other with the courgettes and refusing to go into town unless the shop sells video games.

"Do, do, do, come on and do the conga," they sing.

Aw, that's sweet. Mommy knows that song...

As I prepare my "Choo, choo, choos..." the boys interrupt...

"And make your willy longer.

"Make your boobies stronger....

Boys in the hoody

My clothes loving mother and I used to dress the boys in themed costumes; Victorian chimney sweeps, Edwardian gents or New Romantics.

Now, an outfit comprises of jeans and a hoody featuring a video game character.

I'm not sure what they do to the clothes (even on top of my reluctance to iron) to make themselves look dishevelled and unkempt, but I am reminded of the poem, 'Timothy Winters'.

'His belly is white, his neck is dark, and his hair is an exclamation mark. His clothes are enough to scare a crow and through his britches the blue winds blow'.

I would like to know how, during the period of leaving the house of a morning, and arriving at school, the freshly washed and laundered boys acquire:

a) A film of dirt around the mouth
b) Newly creased clothes with 'mystery' marks and stains
c) Unintentional Jedward style hair

As the preened girls walk past in their plaits, matching Persil white socks, organising their diaries on their Hello Kitty smart 'phones.

The grate outdoors

I'm not one for the outdoors.

Camping, rock climbing, insects and utility wear are best left to my husband.

I do like to visit the theme park, though.

Perhaps we could head for the Teacups or the Ladybirds?

No, it's the white knuckle rides that will invariably get me pleading for my life, or a brown bag, as the pirate ship rocks away.

Time to take a nice family snap. When I look at the photos later, I realise that the boys are sticking out their tongues or pulling a face in every one.

Beastly boys

Once, we watched In the Night Garden and old episodes of Bagpuss.

Now, if left to their own devices, it would be cartoon superhero violence, Power Rangers style.

Or farts and snot, a la Fleabag Monkeyface.

They do watch more adult programmes. But these have to be on Challenge, UK Conquest, or involve Jeremy Clarkson.

Why can't we watch a nice costume drama instead of The World's Fattest Man or Mega Shark vs Killer Whale?

Other entertainment involves marathon video games sessions or apps on my 'phone.

"Mommy, I downloaded zombies vs pumpkin heads..."

It's hardly like Holly Willoughby's ad for apps, where she is happily baking, while her kids play nice games involving flowers and cute animals.

Camouflage, things are never quite the way they seem

Is it nature or nurture?

Gender stereotyping perhaps?

It wasn't always so testosterone fuelled....

We started off well, with videos of Cinderella and trips to Disney on Ice.

But some time around school it happened. Maybe it was peer pressure, genetics or the countless ads for Bin Weevils and slime in jars, but they turned.

It was a quick kick in the peanuts between Disney Princess to Action Man.

Men are from Mars Bars festering under beds

I know as the boys get older that life will become even more male centric.

It's hard for me, because I'm a real big girl's blouse.

Torturous thoughts of freezing with the soccer moms and eating cold beans campside, fill my head.

My teenage nephews eat my brother out of house and home. Disappearing to their dark rooms for online gaming and social networking, while strange items fester under the bed.

Still, there are many benefits to being the only female (apart from Bella cat)

While copies of well worn car guides may occupy the bathroom, and while I may need to buy extra bottles of Oust, there will be minimal queueing for the smallest room, given the lack of interest in soap and water.

Boys are low maintenance when it comes to getting dressed. No complex hair formations to braid, no wrestling with tights and no big debates about whether bright orange goes with lime green.

Just wind them up and watch them go. Limited psychological warfare.

Plus, no matter how old they get, they will always be 'my boys', and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Think Peggy Mitchell. Think Ma Baker. Think Mrs Kray. Hmmm...

Reasons to be Fearful

I've always avoided adventure. 

I've never bungee jumped, swam with sharks, or partaken in any activities that might end in the loss of life or a stint in A&E.

Not just because I value my limbs, but because I'm not exactly calm and methodical. Plus, I don't wear Bodyform.

Once, my fearless cousin took to the helm of her boyfriend's fishing boat, laughing manically as she dodged the rocks and other boats in the shallow water. 

Gripping my life jacket, I said my goodbyes and thanked God I was wearing dark trousers. 

In New York, we took a helicopter ride. When the pilot revealed he was a ‘Nam veteran, I believed we would nosedive into the Hudson to the sounds of The Doors.

Danger zones

Since the boys were born my terror alert is on maximum.  

I’m even more of a neurotic scaredy cat than before; to the extent where I don't fly, and I’m convinced we’ll be in a Casualty style pile up every time we join the M6.

I see danger at every turn. 

Escalators, boats, revolving doors.

Daily Mail levels of hysteria.

Reasons to be Fearful – part one

Take the time my husband took the boys on the bouncy castle at the end of pier. I imagined the inflatable with a puncture, plunging the boys into the depths of the Channel.

Even though they were dressed in multiple float suits.

The seaside merely exacerbates my anxieties.

Rock climbing (quick, call mountain rescue)

Paddling (Alert the coastguard)  

Building sandcastles (is the ice cream vendor CRB checked?)

If it were up to me I would still have the baby reins on, even though they are now seven.

Kes it's in my nature

During a spectacular birds of prey exhibition I fled the arena incase the swooping hawk lifted me in its talons to the top of a mountain range.

At the butterfly farm, a beautiful winged creature landed on my back.

"Get it off!" I screamed, stripping off my top, leaving my husband and onlookers bemused.

And, during a ‘relaxing’ Sunday stroll around the park my guard remained. What if the boys were savaged by a Pekinese? What if a swan broke their arms?

Park strife

In the early years the playground was fraught with danger.

The fireman's pole was the sum of all my fears.

Even today, I twitch near the monkey bars.

My husband taught the boys to ride their bikes, after the incident at the skate park. One of the boys had scooted down a tiny ramp when I informed fellow parents that my nerves simply couldn’t take it.

Now the boys are older, I try to hide the terror in my eyes.

I pretend that I love spiders and jet engines, and that Branson has chosen me to be the first on his all-inclusive package holidays to the moon.  

Meet the parents

I blame the parents. I had a fear of bees and wasps after my platform heeled mother staggered off the 157, shrieking – Monty Python style – because a bumble bee had buzzed near her.

In contrast, my Dad and brother were fearless thrill seekers, who enjoy dicing with death.

In the 80s my dad thought health and safety simply meant leaving us with the car keys and a Vimto in the pub car park.

He would balance me on his cross bar as we tore through the park. I still have the scar where I bounced into the oak tree.

He would encourage my brother and me to ‘jump’ the high gaps inbetween the cliffs.

“Just don’t look down” he would cheer, as we leapt for dear life across the verge.

As a toddler, I was discovered upside down in a pond. How he chuckles about that one.

Panic on the streets of Birmingham 

I've a tendency to over-react. 

Especially on the 20^th floor of the great glass Radisson Hotel in Birmingham.

My husband had nipped down for a newspaper. He failed to inform me that he was taking the boys.

With no mobile ‘phone reception, I raced through the corridors of the 40 storey building, pounding on doors, ripping off ‘do not disturb’ signs and wailing like a banshee.

I was convinced the two-year-olds had toddled into an open lift - John Hughes’ ‘Baby’s Day Out’ style - fallen out of the sealed window, or were in the Queensway tunnel with an imposter who claimed to be Ronald McDonald.

Re-playing old DVDs of the boys' birthdays, you can hear my shrill:

"For God's sake, Mother, don't let the candles singe off their eyebrows"

Girl, afraid

Never pick me as a birthing partner, and definitely don't get me on a white knuckle ride; especially the one at Alton Towers when they feign an emergency situation.

The first sight of blood and I require smelling salts, or dial 999. 

Fortunately, my husband is the opposite. There are nurses in his family.

However, in other situations I have embraced danger.

Years spent parading around night clubs and getting the infamous cross city night bus home.

Having tattoos, piercings, two babies at the same time…

Of course, alcohol and drugs were involved.


Relax – don’t do it!

I’ve got to get a grip.

The perils will only magnify as we all grow older.

If I’m not careful, I’ll soon be hyperventilating into a Happy Meal bag.

Do the boys really want to spend every ‘summer’ in the UK wearing thermals and balaclavas?

Will they honestly believe that provisional driving licences are only issued to the over 30s?

How will they react if I follow them into a bar and announce to the rest of the lads that:

“Mommy’s little soldiers just want a J20 tonight.”

And that I’ll be parked up, reading Grazia if they need a lift home”?

Keep calm and carry on? 

More like stay stressed and run for the hills!