flossing the cat

The other day, my six-year-old found an antiquated travel iron, still in its box, in the sideboard. “Mammy, can I play with that boat?” he asked, studying the picture. Now I am the first to admit that basic object recognition has never been one of my son’s strengths, but in this case, the explanation is simpler. The fact of the matter is this: I. NEVER. EVER . DO. THE. FUCKING. IRONING. Ironing is pointless. Ironing is neurotic. Ironing is boring. Ironing is a pursuit carried out by maniacs like: The Amish Pingu’s dad (Listen up, you featherheaded chump, nobody in your family wears clothes, even, so why the fuck are you ironing?) Anthea Turner. Atrocious Freak.   Oh look. Pingu's dad is using a wicker basket to store linens. I'm guessing he must have seen the show where Anthea Turner tells everyone how "wicker baskets are good for storage". Wow Anthea! We didn't know that! Perhaps what I’m trying to say is this, folks. If you happe

Look, I know I’ve probably mentioned it before - once or twice at the absolute most   - but here’s the thing guys: DRIVING. SUCKS. ASS. TO. THE. MAX  Driving sucks ass so badly that I’d rather be doing any or all of the following, all of which also suck ass: 1) Housework – Doing housework is like being trapped in an eternity of hellish unending frustrations of the kind meted out to that bastard Sisyphus in the Underworld.  And yet, compared with driving, housework is Pure Unadulterated Joy. For example, if someone came up to me and said, “Would you mind awfully scooping out the gungy hairballs from the shower plugholes with your bare tongue whilst I nip to the shops in the car?” I so would. Like, totally . Moreover, I would be so stupidly grateful not to be driving to the shops in a farkin death trap of a vehicle that I would also lick out the sludge from their  flange, and eat the bits caught in their trap, all of which are parts of a domestic bathroom or kitch

A couple of months ago we acquired two baby guinea pigs - my eight-year-old daughter's reward for learning her times tables.  For a hutch, we bought an adorable Bavarian-style des res  with an attractive tongue and grove exterior, an enclosed sleeping area, large recreational/ living spaces, and extensive views. Every day, we prepared vibrant medleys of organic cucumbers, peppers, and cherry tomatoes, served with oodles of aromatic chamomile grass. We even bought a pigloo to die for, ffs.   But then, a couple of weeks ago, on one of the hottest days of the year, the little fuckers escaped. At first, I was kind of relaxed, partly because I could hear them speed-talking in the flower border, congratulating each other on their escape, comparing it with the great historic escapes of Colditz and Alcatraz. And in spite of having a whole day’s work ahead of me, a couple of deadlines, and a pile of shitty housework, I figured that a food trail of cunningly placed cucu

(No, obviously not you Beyonce, ffs ... *rolls eyes*) The summer holidays may be just around the corner, but for those suffering from a devastating, poorly understood condition called Bikini-Shyness, frolicking around on the beach in front of a gazillion dribbling strangers won't be an option. Although there are no precise figures available, it is estimated that this summer, the vast majority of women, including all those who are over size 6 and don't spend the entire day munching grapes, will avoid the itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie two-pieces available on today's high street,  preferring to keep their nipples, aureoles, vaginas, and frankly, the whole region around their vulva to themselves. (Thanks. All. The. Fucking. Same.) But according to fashion experts (whose views we should never dismiss as the unceasing prattle of a bunch of nonces and knobheads), sufferers of bikini-shyness are  denying themselves crucial opportunities for self-expression and sel

 (from The Extremely Over-Protective Mummy's Handbook)  There was a time, not so long ago, when I didn’t give a fu@k about air quality; a time when I’d gad about the place, just breathing normally, like some reckless demi-god. But then, eight weeks after the birth of my Precious First Born, when an opportunity to sleep came my way, my mind suddenly landed on a single, terrifying idea. Which was this: What if there is a carbon monoxide leak in the house? AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! "Salad, darlings? I washed it in Milton's."  Now, I’m not normally the kind of gal to go into a Blind Fucking Panic for no reason, oh no no no!! *suppresses horrible facial twitches, puts on weirdly superficial grin*. Neither am I the type to worry myself into an early fucking grave about a gazillion things that are all statistically extremely unlikely to happen, whilst at the same time doing precisely NOTHING about any of them. But if I were, these are the ki

Hey, here's another extract from the Extremely Over-Protective Mummy's Handbook.  The world of food is full of strange unsettling facts, like the fact that Worcestershire sauce is made from dissolved fish guts, or that a jar of peanut butter contains a big bunch of rat hairs, or that infant formula milk (blow me down with a fucking feather ladies, you’re not gonna believe this one) is NOT, I repeat NOT, actually poisonous!!! WHAAAA…..! I, for one, am a little pissed off. You see, for three months prior to the birth of my first child, I was told that feeding my daughter any kind of formula milk - even as an emergency measure - was exactly the same as feeding her a ginormous bottle of raw sewage. Bottle-feeding, explained the NCT lady, would condemn my daughter to a life of constant shitting (caused by massive gastro-intestinal dysfunction) as well as (prepare to grow pale with fear at this next idea) turn her into a Totally. Fat. Fucking. Dufus.   

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of writing an epic novel. The kind of novel that spans three generations of the same family, three continents, three tumultuous events in history; the kind of novel that addresses (with subtle eloquence) universal themes like the indomitable nature of the human spirit, or the enduring power of love, etcetera etcetera . But then, when I grew up, I realised I was much better suited to swearing, ranting, and writing a whole load of deranged hormonal drivel. Like 'The Extremely Over-Protective Mummy's Handbook: An A-Z of Neurotic Mummy Shit' . Ta dah! Yes, this genre-bending debut of mine will probably hit the shelves in about, oh, let me see, a gazillion fucking lightyears, largely because I am unable to write during a) PMS episodes; b) whilst looking for keys or mobile phones; or c) whilst collapsed under the weight of adrenal fatigue, which leaves me with a writing 'window' of twenty minutes a month. In the meantime, I do h