The Space Race

Parenting. No-one ever said it was going to be easy, but then neither did they explain quite how much trouble your children can get you into.

Our minds turned this week to the upcoming theme of this year’s Camp Bestival  – which is ‘Space’, and specifically, to what costumes we could devise to make us look 1. more stupid than normal, and 2. more stupid than everyone else there. I think we might have settled on a Futurama theme. The upside of this from my point of view is that my Leela costume is going to be pretty easy – remove an eye, purple wig: GOLD.


The downside is that since we showed them the characters, the eldest child has taken to affectionately calling the youngest one by the new nickname ‘BENDER’. Loudly. In public.

Clearly by this she means Bender, The Space Robot. Pretty obvious when you know what you’re dealing with really; a little less obvious to bystanders in Tesco when it is yelled at full volume as a means of getting his attention from the far end of the biscuit aisle, but that’s parenting for you.

BENDER. You try shouting it in public.

So myself, husband, Rose and the little bender are really looking forward to the summer, if we make it that far before being arrested for inadvertent hate crimes etc.

I’m also counting the seconds until my snowboard holiday next week, although the anxiety about being away from the children is building – will I be able to wee without anyone watching? How will I know it’s time to get up unless someone inches from my face lifts up my eyelids whilst telling me they need a poo? Whose NOSES am I going to wipe all week long?? I’m sure all of these services could be arranged for a specialist fee, but this is a budget holiday, and I’m not sure if the Austrians are as deviant as, say, your average British mother of two. Who knows. Fortunately for me the budget flight time means I’ll be getting up at 3am, so with any luck I’ll be too tired to notice they’re not with me until at least halfway through the trip, by which time I intend to be either a. drunk on ham or b. eating expensive mountainside frites in a deckchair whilst wearing ski gear, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.

Packing will commence the literal minute I get home from the hen party I’m at the day before we leave. (A-star for planning, me). Luckily this one will not involve fancy dress, but may well involve the last train home from London after thirteen consecutive hours of champagne, so it’s anyone’s guess as to whether I will even be alive enough to go on holiday actually. Watch this space.

Next week: My aching brain, goggle-tans and death by bratwurst. Probably.


If you likey like my idiotic ramblings, why not join my sinister cult on Facebook, so you’ll get notified every time there’s a new post. Cult membership this way.

Dicking about on Twitter here

Pictures of my breakfast on Instagram here.



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