What's the worst picture anyone has ever taken of you ever?

Anyhow.  I took a look at Facebook yesterday and saw someone had posted a pic of a pal of mine.  ‘Shit,’ I thought. ‘That’s a rotten picture. She never looks that mank.  Not in real life.’

And, within a pulse-beat, said friend posted. ‘REMOVE.’

And the poster did that really annoying thing of…’Oh, sorry. I would.  I will.  Oooh, I can’t work my phone…blether blether blether.’

Which actually was quite funny as it was a bit of a case of the biter bit…

‘REMOVE IT NOW.’

Ouch. I felt her pain.  I mean nobody likes having unflattering pictures plastered over the Internet, do they?  As I think I’ve said before, you kinda get used to it as a journalist cos picture editors delight in picking The Very Worst pic they can of the manky writers (why? Basically it’s an old war – picture eds never get taken out to lunch). 

But anyhow.  I figured, as it’s Christmas, I would give you a laugh by posting up the worst picture of me ever taken by anyone anywhere anyhow.  As far as I know.  

Actually I originally posted a Top Ten but then decided that, really, I didn't want to put your off your mince pies and, anyhow...less is more, right? 

So here you go.  The picture that makes me laugh like a drain every time I see it.  From my trip to Walt Disney World with Linda, Becky (yeah, that's the jammy bitch next to me looking cool as a cucumber and bloody gorgeous), Alice, Lulu, Erica, Laura and Mary Poppins.  And I have been promising them for the longest time that I'd post it - but I couldn't find it. Honestly!  But then I did.  

Now. Honestly.  Can you top that?  Cos frankly I doubt it.  But if you think you can, I double dare you to post on your blog and link back to me so I can have a snigger.  

Oh God, am I a pushy parent?

Should you push children? That thorny old question. Gloom has descended upon the Bonkers House because the end of the holidays is looming and with the new term comes entrance exams. James has been set a pile of practice papers and getting him to tackle them has been akin to making a terrier avoid rats.

Part of me thinks, oh for heaven’s sake, he’s eleven. Surely it’s an eleven-year old’s god-given right to lounge around during the holidays, watching TV; hanging out with his mates; lobbing snowballs and so on. But another part of me thinks, shit, I’m working my socks off to keep you at this school and I’d like just a tad of commitment in return.

Aha, I hear you say, clambering onto the moral high ground and gazing down disapprovingly – well, if you will send your child to independent (ie fat fee-paying) school, then it’s your lookout. And, yes, it is. But let’s not go into that one right now – I seriously haven’t the energy.

James will pass his exams, of that I have no doubt. It’s the scholarship thing that bugs me. Let’s be honest, anything that would help with fees would be a blessing from on high. The annoying thing is that he could do it. He’s a bright lad but, by heck, he’s lazy.

‘I’ve finished my English paper,’ he says.
‘But you’ve only done half an hour.’
‘But I finished.’
‘Well, write more.’
‘My hand hurts.’

Ah, it is a sad thing for two writers when their offspring finds writing a story a chore. But such is the sheer nastiness of fate.
‘But isn’t it fabulous, making up stories, letting your imagination go wild?’
He just looks at me as if I am a complete imbecile.

So I figured I’ll resort to bribery.
‘Look, no pressure okay, but just saying...if you were to get a scholarship, we’d save so much money that maybe we could afford to go on a really great holiday.’
‘Portugal?’
Why he is fixated on Portugal, I have no idea. He hates seafood. Maybe it’s the golf. He caught the quizzical look.
‘Okay, not Portugal. DisneyWorld. Florida.’
Gulp. Disney was fabulous but, having tasted the high life there, I don’t think I could bear to do it budget fashion. This time he caught the look of sheer panic-stricken rabbit in headlights and, bless him, took pity on me.
‘Disney Paris then. With a friend.’

So it was agreed. Has it worked? Nope. Not even the charms of Mickey and the thrill of the roller coaster has lured him away from the Xbox and the snow. The papers sit, gathering dust, and wistful dreams of skinnier fees have been put sadly to one side.

Because maybe, just maybe, my heart isn’t really in it either.

Reality bites (and no, it's not Asbo)

Back to reality. After a week here…….

I'm back here....

The contrast couldn’t be more extreme really. Having slept for ten hours’ straight something seemed profoundly wrong about being woken up by a child yelling. My bed had shrunk and there was something large and snoring in it. I couldn’t flick a switch and watch CNN on a vast plasma screen. Wrong, just wrong.
Even more wrong was the fact that someone had taken away sun and warmth and replaced it with dull, cold and windy.
Breakfast? Bowl of Morrisons No Added Sugar Muesli and a mug of stewed tea. What happened to Mickey Mouse waffles and maple syrup? Freshly squeezed orange juice? Where is the nice waiter refilling my coffee cup every five minutes? Why aren’t there vast Disney characters with big white hands patting my head?
Sure it’s great to be home and lovely to see my boys. James was ridiculously and rather pathetically pleased with his Disney goodie bag (though mostly impressed with the Mickey Mouse pen and the straw that changes colour when you drink through it and which doubles up as a whistle). ‘Did you buy this, Mum?’
Crosses fingers behind back and blithely lies. ‘Yes, of course, darling.’
‘Where’s the price tag in dollars?’
Eeek.
He looked even more suspicious when he got to the soap, mouth wash and toothbrush. ‘There’s no Mickey on this toothbrush, Mum. Did this come from your room?’
God the child is sussed. ‘Yup. It certainly did.’
Honesty in small matters allows much greater lies to pass unnoticed.

I was given the tenth degree on which rides I’d been on. He got incredibly excited when I told him about the Hell which was Expedition Everest (a rollercoaster type terror experience which make me shake and – yup – cry. Not with joy, let me hasten to add).
‘Show me on Youtube.’
Good plan. So we clicked and watched and, I ask you, what is WRONG with the world that the most seriously frightening thing I’ve ever done looked totally tame.
‘People are screaming.’ I pointed out.
‘Yeah, you do that when you’re on a ride. It’s part of the fun.’
I told them about the shows and the films and the rides and the animals and James was positively fizzing with excitement.
‘When can we go?’
Adrian had the look of someone about to put to death by firing squad.
‘That sounds like the most revolting thing in the entire world. Do you really mean to say that vast Disney characters accost you when you’re EATING?’ He shuddered.
‘Would you go Mummy?’
Would I? If you’d asked me that a week ago, I’d have been firmly with Adrian in the Over My Dead Body stance. Now, I’m not so sure. I’ll admit I was impressed by a lot of it and it wasn’t as plastic as I’d been expecting. Magic Kingdom is a bit too much for me (very crowded and cute on cute) but Animal Kingdom was immaculately done and the water parks were deeply tempting. The shows are top-notch and the fireworks are breathtaking. If you can afford to stay in the deluxe hotels, the accommodation is impressive too (we stayed in the Beach Club Resort which was very relaxed and comfortable). If you want uber-smart the Grand Floridian is your place while I was pretty knocked out by the Lodge at Animal Kingdom). We had some superb food in some top-notch restaurants and much of the merchandising is – and here I worry about myself – very discrete and desirable. So, in a nutshell, yes I would (given the budget to do it top dollar). Not for me, I hasten to add, but for James who would, without a shadow of a doubt, adore every goddamn magical moment.
I say, not for me, but – if you offered me the chance to go back to Disney with my band of bloggers, I’d bite off your hand (actually, I’d be jumping up and down at the thought of a weekend in Croydon with this lot). These women are seriously brilliant. I haven’t laughed so much in years (certainly not since becoming a mother). I won’t go into the in jokes and mad silly things that happened (mainly because I promised I wouldn’t be libellous and this blog is intended for general, not X-rated, consumption) but I would urge you to check out their blogs. Don’t be misled by the grown-up nature of some of their writing – they are all totally certifiably crackers.

Little Mummy
Are we there yet, Mummy?
You’ve got your hands full
Family Affairs
Dulwich Divorcee
English Mum in Ireland

Hanging out in the rest rooms.....

I’m sitting on the loo going off into a reverie about how much better American loos are than British ones when a small voice pipes up from the next cubicle.
‘I need to see your feet.’
Eh? My head snaps round like the girl in The Exorcist. Why does a small child want to see my feet? Then, halleluyah, an older voice (obviously, hopefully, her mother) replies.
‘I’m right here.’
‘I need to see your feet,’ the child repeats firmly. Clearly the kind who won’t be fobbed off in any way.
‘But I’m here. I’ll never leave you.’
It’s said with a kind of almost scary intensity. What’s the story, you wonder.
‘I need to see your feet.’
Oh for Pete’s sake, stick your foot under the door, lady. But no, the discussion continues.
‘You are my life.’
‘I NEED to see your feet.’
‘You are the reason I wake up in the morning.’
What’s this got to do with the poor child seeing her mother’s foot under the cubicle?
‘But I woke up before you.’
You’ve got to hand it to the kid. I couldn’t really hang around all day eavesdropping in (however entertaining) so I got up and the loo obligingly flushed for me (SO much more hygienic).

The major reason people come to Walt Disney World apparently is because they want to see their children having fun. Forget the scary brides and the college student get-togethers and the anniversary celebrations, it all makes a lot more sense when you focus on the children. When you travel without your own child, you become hyper-aware of other people’s and, on the whole, children here do seem to be having a ball. Even my cynical soul couldn’t argue with a child’s face lighting up when they see a favourite film come to life. So, OK, hands up, this was the day when I smiled.

I hate rollercoasters but I’m charmed by sweet pretty rides. So Peter Pan’s flight, where you float over London (with a very weird-looking Tower Bridge) and Neverland was very cute. Ditto It’s a Small World. James would have loved the Buzz Lightyear shoot-out ride while I was totally entranced by the Haunted House ride with pretty incredible visual effects – at one point you’re looking down onto a huge ballroom with holographic dancers – mesmeric.

The entertainment outside is impressive too. I jigged a bit to the Move It, Shake It, Celebrate It! Street party (yeah, thanks a bunch littlemummy for catching that on video) and oohed and aahed over the Wishes firework display (a little girl next to me nearly fell off her chair when Tinkerbell flew down from the Magic Castle. But the loveliest moment came during the SpectroMagic Parade (a sort of carnival with lit-up floats) when a little girl couldn’t believe her eyes when Snow White rushed over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.
Pint-sized princesses wander around with tiaras and frothy dresses, having been ‘bibbidi bobbidi booed’ with a mini-makeover.

The sane cynical part of me says that this is all too unreal. Is this how it starts? How children grow up to become teenagers who think that they will walk straight into a job as a pop star, a model, a TV ‘celebrity’? That they can have everything they want with a snap of the fingers (and the flexing of a credit card)? Part of me still worries about a holiday in which nothing goes wrong – where there is no duff day when everyone gets bored and irritable and shouts at each other. When there’s no nasty waitress or rude beach attendant to bond you together in family hatred solidarity? Is this reality? No, of course not. But then, is it wrong to have a perfect holiday? Is it just my puritanical Britishness that thinks that a bit of grot, a bit of grim and grime, is character-building and necessary? Dunno.

Still, there is hope for Disney. When my supper at the Magical Kingdom comes, the whole shebang is stone cold. Fantastic. Excellent. Just what I needed to bring me back down to earth (I really was floating off for a moment there). Hmm, maybe Disney has researched this too and it was all planned. A little imperfection to highlight the general perfection? Am I getting paranoid here?

It's a perfect (mouse-shaped) world - except for swine flu

‘Hey, shall we take the stairs? They’re just there, honey.’
‘I don’t think so. Let’s wait for the elevator.’
‘OK, honey.’
Now let’s get this straight. There are sixteen stairs and they go DOWN. And we wonder why Americans get fat? Not that I can talk but, hey you lot were right – I DO feel nearly svelte over here. Disney is apparently keen on ‘healthy choices’ but when one of the ‘must-tries’ is a bucket of ice cream, and when a strawberry daiquiri comes, not just with a strawberry on top but strawberry and CREAM, well – you get the picture.

I’m trying hard but it’s tough to resist fresh waffles and hot maple syrup, particularly when the waffles come in Mickey Mouse shapes with the obligatory ears. I know, I know – am I cracking? Am I turning into a Mouseperson? We were joined at breakfast by Goofy, Minnie and Donald (no, no, stop it Jane, I mean we were joined by people dressed up in big costumes) who posed for photographs and gave us their autographs.
Then we headed out to Typhoon Island, one of the two water parks on the complex. You have to hand it to Disney, it’s immaculate. They’ve thought of the lot. Children don’t ‘get lost’ (which could sound frightening) they’re told their silly parents are lost and get taken to a point where they can identify the errant idiots who lost their offspring. You forgot your towel? You can rent one. Want to keep your stuff safe? Rent a locker. Get thirsty? Buy a refillable mug for just over ten dollars.

I have this thing about the perfect beach day. In my head there is clean pure white sand, soft balmy water and we don’t have to trek for three miles to get from the car park to the beach. In my dreams, there are no sharp rocks, no jellyfish and no cod to nibble your toes as you swim (it happened to me once, I swear it did). OK, well this is it. This is beach perfect. A huge sweep of sand, warm blue water and hey, every 90 seconds a four foot high mega wave swoops out (but fades to ripples by the time it reaches the shallow water where the tinies play).
Early morning or late at night you can learn to surf here, without any of the vagaries of the real sea. You can even learn how to snorkel and scuba dive in a ten foot deep snorkelling tank, looking down at stingrays, leopard sharks and tropical fish.

It’s all so easy, it’s almost scary. The sun is shining and this is a perfect world. It’s safe and the only crimes committed are those against good taste. People swoosh slowly round in rubber rings down the Lazy River which takes them to the next attraction (saves walking). And if you’re feeling too lazy to walk up to the top of the water rollercoaster, hey, don’t worry about it, there’s an elevator to take you to the top. People shoot through tubes and are spat out at the bottom at something ridiculous like 30 mph. Only thing that worried me was if some of them might get stuck and stay jammed in the tube. Maybe they need a width restriction.

I was seduced by Typhoon Island, much to the amusement of the other bloggers. ‘She’s cracking…’ ‘She’s smiling…’ And yes I was. If you want to veg out in the sun with your children right royally entertained by endless slides and waves and amusements, this is the place to come. Is it real? By heck no. It’s a bubble, protected from everything dangerous and nasty and dirty. Except of course, swine flu. Lying in bed this morning, watching the news I heard that several students in Carolina have flu-like symptoms having been to, yup, Walt Disney World in Florida. Just great. Not sure even Disney can find a way around this one. Hmm, masks with ears maybe.



Aaagh, picture won't load. Ah well, you can just imagine the picture of me being cuddled by Minnie Mouse. And laugh. A lot.

Desperate in the House of Mouse

The whole thing is surreal. I am so tired I can barely think straight and my body is complaining that it’s 4am so what the puck am I doing wandering around a lake mingling with people Having A Good Time? Why are all these children up and running around (OK, so it’s 10.30pm on Florida time but still……)? And, while I’m at it, this is term-time even here and these aren’t all toddlers so…. Oh stop being so darn judgemental, Jane. This is Walt Disney World. It’s Magical.

Trouble is it’s hard to feel magical when you’ve got a thudding headache and are still feeling slightly bilious after being force-fed food by Virgin Atlantic. An eight-hour flight and we never seemed to stop eating. Not that I’m complaining – it staves off the boredom. I watched Twilight, which was rather fabulous in a somewhat inane way (miles of footage of meaningful looks and yearning stares – but then, hey, it’s a teen movie). Then caught half of Vicky Cristina Barcelona which was perplexing until Laura told me it was Woody Allen at which point I stopped quite liking it and became irritated. Then endured Revolutionary Road which, while madly intelligent and subtle, was just vein-openingly grim.

At Orlando airport we were met by Sarah, the Disney PR (did I mention that this is a trip for UK ‘mummy’ bloggers – something that perplexed all my fellow bloggers as much as it did me) and sidekick Eddie (who has possibly the scariest smile I’ve ever encountered – flashed on and off like a light switch).
‘Anyone need help with their bags?’ asked Sarah.
‘Yes, please,’ I yelled with fervant gratitude, having stupidly brought the kit bag without the wheels which was digging a two inch trench into my shoulder.
I was expecting Eddie to dash forward but no – he hung back and clutched his folder. Sarah, bless her, offered but that hardly seemed fair. So I lugged it up stair and down escalator, huffing and puffing, with scary spooky Eddie blithely unaware of the concept of gentlemanly behaviour. Either that or he was thinking, evily, ‘ha ha, stupid fat English cow….let her carry her own bag. I shouldn’t be here…..I should be in LA being Discovered.’

As we drove to Disney, Sarah explained why Disney were funding this all-expenses paid trip. ‘While print media is great, a piece appears in a paper and is read once and that’s it. But a blog sends out ripples, it develops a life of its own and spreads through the web.’
Why mothers? ‘Women are the ones who usually pick out the family holiday.’ Fair point.
But aren’t they taking a bit of a chance? While journalists can and often do write glowing reports (on magazines, travel freebies are considered perks and so half the time you’re not getting the opinion of a travel journalist, but of the picture researcher, the sub-editor, the receptionist). Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but they’re so darn grateful to be away from the office that anything looks good. But bloggers are pretty anarchic. We can say what we want and the consensus amongst our group is that as a blogger you have a duty to your readers to cut the bullshit.

Anyhow, we drove through bland flat central Florida and gradually the signs started becoming dominated by Disney. The complex is huge – about the size of Manchester, according to Erica (littlemummy) and I started feeling a bit queasy. This is an entirely fake city – built for nothing but pleasure. As we drove through the famous gates I wasn’t sure if I was heading for paradise or voluntarily incarcerating myself in a cult complex, albeit ‘magical’.

Walking alongside the lake the feeling became compounded. People were smiley, happy, having fun, being magical. One couple wandered by in matching Mouse baseball caps with ears – his plain black; hers white with a diddy veil.

‘Ahhh, wedding mice.’

What?? Oh God, people actually come here to get MARRIED. And, even worse, are happy to advertise the fact by wearing his n’ hers mouse hats. I don’t get it, I really don’t.

My room is fabulous. The food was gorgeous (and I’d forgotten how gargantuan American portions are). The people seem great. But, but, but…..can I enjoy this unreal world? Ah well, time to find out.

Er, Disney....

Last week Blackden, next week Walt Disney World. The contrast couldn’t be greater really. I’ve been invited (along with a band of other bloggers) as a member of Think Parents Network. I always do a double-take on being described as a parent as it’s not a label I think of applying to myself (likewise ‘mother’). I’ve never been archetypal parent material and never really ever imagined I’d become a mother. My mind and body went into severe shock when I was pregnant and neither has ever really recovered. I have blundered through parenthood by applying my standard response to any new challenge – a crash course of reading the textbooks then bluff like fury. It’s always worked in journalism. I don’t think I’m a bad parent (I don’t write books shaming my son – at least, not yet) but I hardly think I’m representative.
Also, and here’s the irony – I don’t really like theme parks. Part of being an odd parent is that we have never really done the parks – have never made the pilgrimage to Paris, have never faced up to Alton Towers. My odd excursions (to Legoland and Chessington) have been to accompany friends and their children. I get vertigo and motion sickness and have a very low fear threshold. Consequently I screamed all the way round the baby roller coaster at Legoland and got off (shaking) to a barrage of abuse from parents who had been patiently queuing for an hour only to find that now their children were all sobbing and refusing to do the ride. ‘That mummy was scared – me not doing it’ was the bottom line. Wise me.
I succeeded in getting round Chessington without setting foot on a single ride.

Given this antipathy, I’ve been reluctant to tell people about my forthcoming trip. But the response has been extraordinary. Seems the most unlikely people go gooey-eyed over Disney.
‘Oh, it’s fabulous, absolutely fabulous. You’ll love it!’ gushed one of the mothers from school, who I’d always had down as the ‘trekking across Patagonia by llama type’.
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ said a friend at the pub, rolling her eyes. ‘Suspend your critical faculties and you’ll have a ball. Ah, you’re soooo lucky.’ She went dreamy-eyed and floated off into fond memories of Mickey and the Magic Kingdom.

Even my mother-in-law went into full-on gush mode. Turns out she’s been to Disneyland, Disneyworld, Florida, Paris and Outer Mongolia with her friends (not a child in sight) and LOVED it every time. Now there’s the weird thing. Like MIL and crew, we bloggers (mothers all) are going without a child between us which, to my mind, rather defeats the object. But no. It seems that people (lots of people, adult people) go to the ‘worlds’ sans children. Strange but true.
‘We went without children,’ said another friend on the phone last night.
‘We did?’
‘Yup. Don’t you remember? We were in Florida and felt we ought to have a look. It was full of children screaming, ‘I wanna burger, I wanna nicecream, I wanna ka-ka.’
Silence. Did we really? Ah yes, it’s coming slowly back. I was twenty-something and lean as a reed, wearing cut-offs, a t-shirt and a baseball cap over cropped peroxide blonde hair. We walked down the beach and I noticed that three months of working out had paid off – my leg muscles were actually rippling. Full-on panic mode set in. Can I lose three stone in a week? Florida = sun + coast = swimming = costume = ritual humiliation. Having spent last week writing about the latest Hollywood beauty trends I am suddenly painfully conscious of my:
a) rippling flab
b) eerie gleaming white skin, pockmarked with cellulite
c) two inch grey roots
d) sprouting hair (sorry Milla)
e) grubby finger and toenails.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ said my pal at the pub. ‘This is Florida, not LA. You’ll be the skinniest there by a mile.’ Flicking through my photo album, refreshing my memory, I take comfort in the pics I took of the largest bodies in the world, standing like megaliths, fat-swathed ankle-deep in water, gazing out to sea. Let’s just pray that Florida hasn’t gone on a health kick in the last thirty years.


PS – have to say, full brownie points to Disney for taking along a self-confessed sceptic. ‘Can I write what I like?’ I asked. ‘Yes, providing it’s not libellous,’ came the reply. So that’s OK then. Of course, when someone is paying for everything it takes a hard nut to be totally and utterly rude but I will try my hardest to be honest and objective. Yup, even if hanging upside down vomiting. Whether that would be on Thunder Mountain or at the sight of a giant Mickey Mouse cosying up to small truculent children is yet to be decided.

PPS - image shows me and my fellow bloggers - see, I'm getting into the mood already....(he he)