I've been censored!

I’ve been censored.  No, really. Not quite banned, like Marek’s book (which Kindle refuse to publish in the UK – Yes, really!), but censored.  I’m so excited I may just hyperventilate. 

As you possibly know, I write a blog for The Lady magazine. I’m not entirely sure why but hey, why not?  

Anyhow, the Ann Summers and vibrators in Bath story was still making me chuckle (not least because the offending item, having been dispatched to said friend, didn’t work so she sent it back to me and I sent it on to Ann Summers who insisted it was working and sent it back – to me - but no, it patently wasn't doing anything so I figured maybe it was just me being inept so so I passed it round the pub and nobody, no, not nobody could get the darn thing even to wriggle, let alone vibrate so I sent a stroppy email to Ann Summers but haven’t heard a dicky-bird) hence I thought I’d reprise it with a few juicy added extra bits for The Lady. And yes, that was one hell of a Ciceronian sentence – blame it on the child as I’ve just been doing Latin prep with him.

Anyhow, I sent it off (the blog post; not the vibrator, I've given up on that and I'll get her a nice juicer instead) this morning and back came an email from the lovely Katie. 

'I think it’s hilarious but it may be too risqué for the site.’ 

Get that…I’m too risque.  I tell you, my life is complete. Except, the email continued. ‘Do you have anything else you could send over…today.’

Today?  As in this day? As in now? So I went on Twitter and bleated.  And then I asked my good followers, what should I write about, for The Lady?

@AnneWareham: [firmly] ‘Gardens. You have to be sweet and kind about gardens.’

- But mine is full of thistles and weeds (spot the song reference). 

@kitschyanna: ‘Doilies and Labradors.’

- But the one I wrote had a springer spaniel in it.  And a colonel. *sigh*

@frankiesachs: ‘Write about blow jobs. Then whatever you wrote about before will seem tame in comparison.’ 

- Nice thinking, Frankie..except…

@frankiesachs: ‘Hahaha. It was already about blowjobs?’

- *wince*  Not quite.

@kitschyanna: ‘What? Between the colonel and the springer? :O’

- Nooooo.

@CatParrott: ‘Bread/moss/kittens/jigsaws.’

- Hmm, there's a challenge. Could I weave all of those into one post? 

@RenWarom: ‘Making crotchless panties from doilies?’

At which point poor Gordon in the US spluttered all over the screen that he'd just woken up and the first thing he'd seen on Twitter was crocheting crotchless panties. 

http://naughtyneedlesknitting.com

Oh really. And off they went off on a long riff about needlecrafting deeply unLadylike garments and *dashes over and has a quick look* yup, they're still debating it several hours later.  Seriously I do wonder about the people I follow on Twitter sometimes. J

Anyhow, the thought about blogging for The Lady on crocheting G-strings or knitting whips made me laugh so much I missed lunch entirely and realised it was midway through the afternoon and I still hadn’t come up with an alternative.  Then another tweet caught my eye and I sighed with pleasure. That’s what I’d write about. Not a hint, not even a whiff of sex involved.  And, oh so suitable for Hallowe’en.  

Blood sacrifice.

Should children play rugby?

So, look at the picture and three guesses where I spent my Sunday morning? Bondage fashion show? Outdoor shopfitting workshop? Oh, alright, so we were at Sandyway, the rugby ground of the Exeter Chiefs.

Yup, it’s rugger season again and I’m resigned to giving up large chunks of my life to stand, shivering, at the side of the pitch, while my son hurls boys into the mud and is then duly hurled into the mud in return.

I have a love-hate relationship with rugby. It’s one thing when vast man mountain strangers brawl in gladiatorial fashion; quite another when it’s your own precious breakable eleven-year old who is somewhere at the bottom of a melee of writhing limbs and kicking boots.

I do sometimes wonder: should children really play rugby? Every atom of my mothering heart screams Nooooooo, don’t be so bloody stupid; of course they shouldn’t. Let me count the reasons.
#1 = visit to A&E for suspected concussion.
#2 = suspected broken wrist.
#3 = other wrist being fractured.
#4 = neck injury.
There may have been #5 and #6 but I have started losing track really.

Bottom line: it’s brutal and downright dangerous.

I’m the kind of mother refs dread. The kind who watches beadily, narrows her eyes and reproves: ‘That tackle was way too high, ref’ or who glares at small boys and mutters ‘get off his neck, you little toad.’ Yet, curiously, I’m also the one shouting ‘Rip it out’ or ‘Heave!’ or ‘Down the line!’ Jumping up and down with glee as James makes a break or fells some boy-tree hybrid. Punching the air in triumph when he makes a try.

It’s a game of strategy and speed as much as brute force and when the team works together, it’s a joy to watch, like quick-moving chess. I also love the fact that it’s a sport in which the most unlikely boys can shine. For once it’s not just the slim and speedy who get the breaks – there are roles for the solid and chunky too. When you want to move a maul, you need a bit of weight. Truly, I missed my calling.

Yesterday I was chatting to one mum who said she was over-the-moon when her son took to rugby. ‘He’s a solid child,’ she said. ‘The type who normally gets labelled as ‘non-sporty’. Yet he really loves that he can make a difference in the scrum, and be one of the team. It’s getting him fitter and healthier too.’

I once talked about it with the headmaster of James’ old school and he said that there are good psychological reasons for promoting rugby too. It doesn’t just get boys fit, strong and agile; it also gives them a safe outlet for their natural thuggishness; lets them burn off a bit of the excess testosterone.

‘Do you really enjoy tackling?’ I asked James after one match, genuinely puzzled.
‘Heck yes, I love it,’ he replied, eyes shining. ‘Sometimes you feel like you just want to thump someone but if you did that normally you’d get told off. In rugby, you bring ‘em down and get praised to the sky.’

I tell you, boys are an alien species sometimes.

There’s this weird preconception that rugby is some kind of ‘posh boy’ game but, actually it’s played in around 10,000 state schools and local clubs up and down the country teach rugby to children from all walks of life.  Discipline is tight on the pitch and in the club-house afterwards when the children change into shirts and club ties for their after-match tea. It’s a far cry from football’s yob culture and you have to wonder whether, if rugby were played in every school, we might have less problems on the streets?

Would be interested to see what you think. Is rugby the Right Stuff or Total Insanity (or maybe a bit of both?)


Totally changing the subject, I was deeply chuffed to read a lovely review of this blog....do have a read by clicking here.

And please don't forget that I also blog for The Lady as Mrs Muck (get me!) - have a butcher's here (and do leave comments if you feel so inclined.  Or, indeed, write to that august publication and demand more of Mrs Muck (that would be fab!).  Latest post is Mrs Muck's Guide for Lonely Hearts..  :) 

In the real world.....

Oh dear. So much for all my good intentions. Nearly a week later and the clutter has crept back, my mood has sunk down and I am sitting metaphorically banging my head on the table.
‘I think you need a break,’ said Adrian. ‘Let’s raid the funds and send you on a week at a spa or something.’

Oh dear, dear soul – what a lovely thought but really it’s not the answer. The funds are stretched to the point where they will soon ping back in our faces and, anyhow, a week wouldn’t even scratch the surface of my malaise. I’ve been reading about Eat, Pray, Love – the bestselling book now a film with Julia Roberts (note I say reading about – I’m not sure I could actually read it without getting Extremely Cross). If you don’t already know it’s about a woman who falls out of love with her life (and her husband) and wafts off for a year to ‘find herself’ – in Italy, India and Bali (as you do). Well bloody great for her. Whoop-di-whoop. But oh, just COME ON. Get real. How many of us can afford to take off for a year? How many of us can even take a year off (even without the wafting round the world bit?) It’s so bloody unrealistic it makes me sick.

Okay, rant over. But seriously, if I’m going to make things change, I’m going to have to do it right here, within my normal everyday life. Like the rest of the world.

I’m not going to go into All The Things That Have Gone Wrong this week. Suffice to say it’s been pretty crap (literally as well as metaphorically) as the Soul Puppy has decided that his favourite poo place is right in front of the bus queue. Yes, I poop scoop. No, I don’t really mind doing it. But doing it in front of a line of people who make helpful comments like, ‘Ooh, you missed a bit over there’ or ‘He’s a bit loose this morning, isn’t he?’ is not ideal.

However, on a cheerier note, my talk to the Brushford Ladies (a splinter group of the WI – ‘we broke away – it was very liberating’) went down better than I expected. We went a bit off-topic and got caught up in a debate about alpacas humming and why men like the colour red. I had a nice cup of tea and they gave me a gorgeous bunch of flowers.

Then I came home to find an email from my friend Gill.
‘Hey, wanna come along to fatties’club?’ she said cheerily. It seems WeightWatchers has just started up meetings in Dulverton.
‘Do we get to go for chips and red wine in Woods afterwards?’ I replied.
She didn’t answer so I’m guessing the answer is no.

And you know what? I’m going to go. Because in the real world, we don’t have the option of wafting off to a fancy spa to lose weight and sort out our heads. We do it at WeightWatchers and with our mates, right here, right now.



PS - Haven't read anything fabulous this week, I fear...
PPS - you can read my blog for The Lady here: 

Growing up and blogging for The Lady

I’m all at sea, all discombobulated, haven’t been able to settle. Not that unusual a state of affairs of course but this is something more. My boy is off on a school trip tomorrow – a five day rugby tour involving a plane flight (and a 3.30am start to boot). I’m not the clingy mummy type (far from it) but I’ve been finding myself holding on for a few extra seconds of hug this last week, snuggling up closer on the sofa and even watching Top Gear while kissing the top of his head (to the point where he turned and said, ‘You’re going to give me a bald spot at this rate’).

He’ll have a ball (literally and metaphorically) and I know he’ll be fine but – oh – I can’t help but worry and just know I will miss him like fury. So, I’ll get a lie-in on Sunday. So, I will have the time to crack on with the new novel without constant interruption. But, crikey, it feels strange. We’ve been parted for this long before but usually it’s me doing the going away. This is him branching out on his own, starting the road to independence that is so necessary and right for a child and such a mix of pain and joy for a parent.

It seems barely five minutes ago that he was being born (all 12lbs 8oz of him), having his first day at school, having his first sleepover....

That’s it really. Nothing more to be said. Brace up, Alexander old girl....could be packing him off to boarding school, I suppose. You know I couldn't even think about watching that TV programme - even the trailer with the mother crying got me going. I dunno...I don't believe in criticising other people's parenting methods but surely eight years old is too young by far to be away from home for a whole term?

On other matters... I have just started doing a blog for The Lady. Don’t laugh – it’s not just posh peeps any more (well, hardly, with me on board). Do take a look and, if you don’t mind signing up (I don’t think it means you’ll be bombarded with prospective nannies – they’re far too polite for spam), would love to have your comments on it.
http://www.lady.co.uk/drupal-6.14/?q=node/7675