A seasick spoodle on the Norfolk Broads

Having lived within a stones throw of the Norfolk Broads for a year and not ventured down there,  we decided at the end  of the school holidays to throw caution to the wind and turn our hand to sailing. When I say ‘sailing’ I do of course mean rent a small boat and trundle along the river at 5 mph, but in our rather nautically challenged family, that’s as close to proper sailing as we’re ever likely to get.

Not wanting to leave Charlie at home alone for the day, he was duly packed into the car along with far too many sandwiches, a flask of green tea, 4 large bottles of water, a bird book, binoculars, a picnic rug, spare jumpers and several rain coats. I think subconsciously I was preparing for all possible worse case scenarios, including being swept away in a freak squall and left stranded far from civilisation on a floating polar ice cap. Surrounded by a flock of incredibly tiny unidentifiable birds.

Considering the average temperature last summer just about managed to reach ‘tepid degrees’, it was rather lucky for us that the day in question turned out to be the hottest we’d had since Spring. Perfect weather for messing about the river in fact, but rather too hot (as we soon found out) for four people dressed to keep warm with just one child-sized sun hat between them.

Arriving at the river we discovered one rather unsettling fact about sailing on the Broads: they really will hire out a boat to just about anyone who turns up and pays. Including, it appears, a family with not one ounce of river-going know-how between them. How scary for the water fowl indeed.

He looked nervous when approaching the boat, clueless when it came to mastering the controls and positively panic-stricken when untied and told we were free to go.  In fact, I believe our last words to the man in charge were “But what happens if we hit something?”  Of course he laughed.  Fool, little did he know.

Once we’d successfully navigated our way out through the waterways and onto the river we were relieved to find out that steering a boat is much like riding a bike. My son donned his full pirate outfit within minutes of setting off and both kids were in their element as they took it in turns at the wheel. The final member of our party however wasn’t quite so happy; he was clearly having difficulty finding his sea legs. Which does of course raise the question of why old sailors are often referred to as ‘Sea Dogs’.

Having been incredibly tentative about setting a paw onboard, Charlie became even less enamoured with the whole idea as we headed off down river. He whined at the passing boats, barked at every passing duck and positively howled when a swan dared flap nearby. And then, as if to really drive his point home, he pooed all over the floor. In lots of little brown, liquidity puddles. It’s amazing how fast doggy diarrhoea spreads when travelling across an uneven surface. And how much it smells when out in the fresh air. And how many wet wipes are required to mop up the mess.

Feeling rather sorry for himself (and possibly embarrassed) pooch took himself off to the back of the boat, laid on the cushion and peered rather gloomily over into the water. Every so often he looked our way with a hangdog expression that clearly said: ‘I didn’t ask to be brought along on this bloody boat you know’.

Forward onto the return journey – after a semi-successful mooring for lunch and the only sun hat somehow making its way into the water – and all seemed to be going fine. So fine in fact that my daughter was now in charge of steering the boat and both responsible adults were sat at the back, feet up, admiring the view and drinking a cup of tea.

Well when I say all was fine, I mean except for that small incident when my husbands (very expensive) sunglasses somehow took it upon themselves to leap from his face, onto the canvas awning and into the murky depths of the river. I would have been more surprised at this rather unfortunate happening, but the memory of him managing to dropping our camera (with a weeks worth of holiday snaps) into Sydney Harbour the last time we were on water is still fairly fresh in my mind.

Approaching the narrowing waterways as we came into land/park/moor up, my husband thought it wise to take control of the boat, so sent my daughter back to sit with the sea-sick dog. Suddenly Charlie’s bowels opened more, this time all over the cushion and then, as he was pushed off that, all over the floor of the boat. He then skidded around in it a bit and tried to clamber back on the cushion, trailing the mess from all 4 paws and rather matted, manky looking tail. This led to a rather rapid chain of events that involved my daughter letting out a squeal of horror and disgust, my husband turning around to see what the hell was going on, the boat banging straight into the side of the river, me flying backwards inside of the cabin and my son falling head first off the seat. It wasn’t the best 15 seconds of the trip it has to be said.

It took a fair few minutes to take stock, mop up, scrub the dog and rectify the damage – all with the few remaining wet wipes. It took quite a few minutes more before my husband managed to prise our boat off the wall … and straight into the path of another, much larger boat that was speeding towards us on our side of the river. To say it got a little bit tense would be an understatement, especially when I didn’t immediately offer to throw myself over the edge of the boat to push us off the wall. Something to do with the fact I was still up to my wrists in poo.

By the time we limped into our mooring space the owner was already there waiting, and the next family were ready to hop on board with their picnic. I’m rather hoping they never noticed the rather suspicious looking stain on the underside of the cushion, or the multiple bags of liquid mess I was holding as I clambered off. I’m pretty sure however (based on the fact they were busy mopping out the boat) that they did notice us hanging around the car park for another 2o minutes, as Charlie continued to drip out his business from one patch of grass to the next. And then throw up all over the nice (new) leather seats when he was finally loaded into the car.

All in all it was a great day out. Slighty messy and rather smelly, but fun nevertheless. Look forward to doing the same again next year, though it obviously goes without saying we’ll be leaving Charlie at home on dry land and I’ll be in charge of the wheel when we’re coming in to dock the boat.

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How to fly round the world and survive

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Normally the worst thing about a holiday (apart from flying with small children) is when it comes to an end. But when you have to fly all the way back around the world just to arrive at your own front door, it’s even worse. A healthy dose of jet lag is enough to make you look and feel like you’ve never even been away.

Our epic trip began last Sunday – starting with the pleasure of a two and a half hour trip on a jam-packed National Express coach, where I passed the time pinning a hyper 3 year-old to his seat and listening to the woeful bleating of a driver who felt his job description shouldn’t actually involve any driving. Especially on a Sunday.

Next came the lipstick coated power freak at check-in, who demanded we extract 2kgs worth of stuff from one ‘too heavy for the conveyor belt’ suitcase. Have conveyor belts suddenly grown weaker over the years or are they now simply exercising their civil rights? The 2 kg was of course simply added to the already overloaded hand luggage. Right there on the floor. In front of the power freak. The logic of this blatant redistributing is lost on me.

Having already completed the lengthy flight at the start of the holiday, what now lay ahead of us was hardly much of a surprise. But, just like child-birth, the mind has a habit of erasing the true extent of the ordeal involved, just to make sure that you will ever contemplate doing it again. Quite a handy thing, when you have a return ticket to use up.

For the first 11 hours I sat wedged between 2 children – covered in the crumbs of a rock-hard bread roll and wrapped from head-to-toe in the wires of 6 headsets. Why we even had 6 I’m not sure, there were, after all, only 4 of us.

As a flying parent you are faced with 2 possible scenarios, neither of which it has to be said are particularly pleasant.

The first option is to make the most of each and every inch of your seat, and to achieve the maximum level of comfort – granted, this isn’t much, given the blood clot inducing foetal position you are now in, with your knees wedged into your rib cage and your feet tucked into the magazine holder in front. This does however allow for the possibility of a few hours sleep for yourself, if the restless and wriggling children on either side of you would allow it. Which, as a general rule, they don’t.

The second option – the more selfless and painful one – is relinquish both arm rests and allow your uncomfortable children to stretch themselves out across both your seat and your lap. So resigning yourself to the knowledge that you will get no rest at all. Like I said, neither option is designed to really appeal.

I went with the second, though more out of necessity than choice I admit. When faced with a choice between crying, whingeing children, and a mind-numbing night of pain, I opted for the lesser of 2 evils.

By the time we had located our lost stroller at Hong Kong airport, walked several kms through duty free (without even getting within sniffing distance of any shopping), gotten lost and caught the necessary train to find our connecting flight, I was quite happy to snap the head off the unhelpful ground staff who told us off for being late. If I’d had the energy or a free hand I’d have smacked him round the face. Like I said, I was tired.

Within minutes of the next plane taking off I went into self-preservation mode, pulled on the blindfold and went to sleep – until I felt the eyes of my tired husband boring into me, so resigned myself to waking up and giving him a chance to pass out.

Arriving back in Perth would have been a welcome relief, if we’d actually come back to the comfort of our own home. But we couldn’t and we didn’t.  Instead we had to stay in a hot and basic rental for a week, battling jet lag and fighting flies. With mornings starting around 2.30am, 2 over-tired kids to entertain and no car to even escape the cabin fever, I think it’s safe to say the end of the holiday was far from perfect.

Post holiday blues wouldn’t even begin to cover how I felt. I was in a completely different colour spectrum all together.

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Demon children and saintly spoodles

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Taking your child away on holiday can sometimes be a very dangerous thing to do. In only a few short weeks they can morph into a human being barely recognisable from the one you once knew. As routine, balanced diet and consistency goes out the window, everything you ever taught them seems to follow, including good manners, eating habits and general all round intelligence.

In the case of my 3 year-old, this certainly seemed to be the case. He left Perth a mild-mannered, book loving, happy eater, and arrived in England a screeching, uncontrollable terror. Who wouldn’t eat a single vegetable. Including beans. Coated in tomato sauce. Made by Heinz. Heavens above, what child refuses those?

What the hell happened up there at 33,000 feet you might ask? I’m still pondering the very same question myself – but looking back it’s easy to see where it all went so wrong.

A stranger to sugar and capable of sleeping for up to 4 hours in his afternoon nap, my son found his world being tipped upside down as he was dragged from his bed and shoe horned into the car on the way to the airport. There we were, in the middle of the night, singing to try to keep him awake. Dragging him behind us at speed, force feeding him cookies (albeit low-fat ones) to coax him on a plane he didn’t want to go on, and then telling him he must then lie down and go back to sleep, with bright lights and dinner trays clattering all around him.

It was a recipe for disaster from the start, and the rest of the holiday carried on in much the same vein. Erratic bed times, long stretches in the car, sporadic mealtimes containing all the wrong foods and a difference set of people every time he woke up. To say he was a fish out of water was an understatement. More like a little boy in a parallel universe.

As a direct result of this holiday madness, and so not really his fault at all, his behaviour often veered on the side of manic. Energy levels went through the roof, ears sealed off to reasoning and his mouth went into screeching overdrive. And all in a country where you are no longer allowed to ‘discipline’ your child in public … tricky.

He now saw eating – unless the food in question came under the food group ‘treat’ – as an unncessary inconvenience, and as mentioned before, anything that had once grown up from, across or dropped to the ground was now met with a pursed mouth and muffled cries of “Don’t like it”. A tad frustrating, especially as the week before he’d happily opened up for aubergine and olives.

The ‘highlight’ of this out-of-control behaviour came however, at perhaps the very worst time possible of our entire holiday. I’d go as far as to say, that in the collective 12 years my offspring have been alive, never have I wanted to hang my head so low in shame.

While visiting a potential school for my daughter, my son reached deep into his inner demon and pulled out quite possibly the worst behaviour that the inside of the headmasters office has ever seen. He spread crumbs far and wide (from a biscuit off the tea-tray he’d launched himself at), squeezed his juice box across the polished table and pulled himself back and forwards across the floor like the member of a crack commando team. He climbed on the window seats, threw cushions on the floor and very nearly pulled down the curtains – 4 times. He struggled when I picked him up, pulled at me when I put him down and slithered to the ground when I put him back in his seat. The entire time he screeched and shrieked and laughed like a nutter possessed.

It was pretty toe-curling stuff, as any parent could well imagine.

There we were, talking about school reports and untapped potential and trying to give a good impression. And there was  my little monster – who would also be eligible to go there in a years time – bouncing off the walls like Tiger on a mixture of crack cocaine and speed.

The only saving grace in this whole embarrassing ordeal was that the headmaster knew better than to judge the entire family based off of the actions of its smallest member. As well as being a parent,  he was also my old English teacher – the teacher who had in fact inspired me to start writing in the first place, many light years ago.

Should this worrying tale of holiday woe begin to put off any parent thinking of taking a break, then fear not, it does have a happy ending.

After the episode at the school, sugar was abruptly cut out of his diet (which was unfortunate for him as this happened before Christmas). Within days he started to ease off his high and calm down again – apparently it takes at least 2 weeks for somebody to go cold turkey where the sweet stuff is involved. Now back in Perth, my son is already back to his old self, and get this, better than before. His manners are perfect, he’s calm and controllable and best of all, he’s eating vegetables faster than I can get them on his plate.

Not that I’d ever recommend killing your child’s routine and dragging them round the world to help knock them into shape, but on this occasion, it seems to have done the job.

Incidentally, the same also seems to be true of Charlie. He went into the kennels as a naughty, barking, escape artist, and come out a changed dog. He is now well-behaved, quiet and far more obedient than the 2 year-old Spoodle that went in. He didn’t even make a run for it the other day, when I accidently opened the garage door without shutting him inside first.

Now, if my daughter had gone in the same direction as my son and the dog, I could have said I had a hat trick on my hands. Unfortunately the excellent behaviour she showed when away (which was enough to get her offered a place at the school) has worn off some, and been replaced with the somewhat emotional and pouting little girl of before.

Still, can’t win them all, and 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

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Planes, trains and watery accidents

My 2 1/2 year old son has been undergoing toilet training for about 6 weeks now, and I have to say he’s doing a lot better than I ever expected him to. Boys are, after all, meant to be a lot slower on the uptake when it comes to the learning about when to poop and pee, and when to clench and hold.

Of course there have been accidents. One next to the sofa, one in the bedroom where he shut the door on himself and couldn’t get out, and a handful around the bathroom – normally as a result of him misjudging the volume of wee in his bladder and shooting off the potty before he’s completed the job.

Trying to shoo the dog away as I re-dress, empty, bleach and wipe is the hardest part of all.

Unfortunately my sons days at nursery do set him back sometimes. Whether it’s the excitement of finger painting or the 15 or so other kids queuing up for the potty, some days I go to collect him and am met with a bag of wet clothes and a rather nasty smelling teddy. The washing machine never had such a good work out for so few clothes. One day, when he had gotten through all 3 sets of spare clothes in his Bob the Builder backpack, I arrived to find him wafting around the room wearing nothing more than a kimono from the dressing up box. That was one of those occasions when you wish you had a camera to hand.

As with many things in life, thinking about doing something is often worse than actually doing the deed. The very idea of replacing nappies with pants on a leaking child is one such time. I found the only way to really stay one step of the game in the beginning was to spend every 4th minute asking him if he needed to go, and then ferrying him backwards and forwards to the potty, armed with 16 books and a thermos of tea (for me). It was monotonous and repetitive, but it did the trick. After a while, and probably because he got so damn sick of being asked, he started to tell  me when he needed to go. Or rather he’d screech “Poo Mummy” as he scurried towards me, with one hand behind his back clutching his bottom.

Seeing that I would drop everything and leap to attention when he needed to go, he quickly realised that the whole process could be manipulated into something of a game. I’d run to get him to the bathroom, peel off the layers, sit him down and then he’d laugh. “No Poo Mummy”. Hmmmmm. That one soon wears very thin, particularly when you’re in the shower, eating your breakfast or halfway up a mountain..

A Blue Mountain to be exact. Let me explain.

We’ve just got back from spending a week in Sydney. A week in Sydney in the rain. Who knew it would be so cold, or so wet at this time of year. Everyone but us apparently. Typically, the weather forecast for the week changed upon our arrival. It went from sun and a spot of cloud every day, to rain with a touch of rain every day.

Damp weather aside, holidaying with children is always a test – a test of a parent’s patience, stamina and will to live. Air travel in particular can be stressful at the best of times (something I wrote about before),  but throw in a couple of kids and several tonnes of ‘can’t get by without you’ luggage and you can find yourself half way to a nervous breakdown at 30,000 feet.

It’s always hard to know how your children will react to leaving the ground in a vacuum packed can. My son wasn’t amused. At all. Watching the aeroplanes through the terminal window – great fun. Walking down the air-slip onto the plane – not so fun. Sitting in his seat for take off – simply not going to happen.

So what does he call out in a desperate bid for freedom? “Poo Mummy”.

Yes, just what all the passengers around us wanted to hear. I’m sure some actually recoiled and held their nose in fear. So, with the fasten seat belt sign lit up and the plane doors already closed, he was whisked up the aisle to the toilet with potty in hand. Did he need to go? Of course he didn’t, but it would have been a pretty brave parent to take the risk.

And so followed a week of untimely potty stops. In the bushes in front of the Opera House. In the undergrowth next to the museum. Sat inside the land train going around Darling Harbour. Behind the seal enclosure at Taronga zoo. On a grassy knoll overlooking Botany Bay. On the train into the shops, and around the back of the Police Station in the CBD. There was no where he didn’t go. And there was no where we could go without a potty, wet wipes and spare clothes at the ready. It really is amazing how the bowels of a small child can shape and dictate your day.

The mountains, as previously discussed, were probably the worst. When he decided he needed to go, the rain was coming in at us diagonally from both sides – with the force of Niagara Falls. We happened to be out on a nature trail at that moment, trying to take at least one photo of the view to prove we had enjoyed the grey and misty scenery. We ended up in the car pack, huddled over him with umbrellas, as he sat on the ground to give it a go. Did anything materialise?  Nope, not even with the encouraging sound of gushing water hitting his parent’s heads.

Same story in the Jenolan caves, and then twice on the way back up the mountain at night, in thick and surprisingly spooky fog. At times like this it is definitely tempting to ignore the little voice from the back seat, but the car seat was hired and the excess for damage to the car was $3000. No pee is worth that much. This time he sat perched on his potty in the boot of the car, smiling up at us, as if it were all perfectly normal.

All pit stops aside, the biggest and most costly accident that occurred during the week, was not by my toddler, but by my husband instead. We were on the ferry traveling from Circular Quay to Darling Harbour, and had decided to sit outside in the spitting rain, to take some pictures of the Opera House as we went past.

Somehow, and don’t ask me how, the camera leaped out of his pocket, dropped onto the ferry floor and slid 2 foot across to the edge of the boat. As it happened (does it ever happen any other way?), there was a gap in the side of the boat. About, oh lets say, camera sized in width. The only bloody hole, I might add, that there was down our side of the boat.

The camera then proceeded to slide through the hole and sit on the outside rim. I’m sure the camera lenses winked at me. We both looked at it in disbelief – I know I was certainly wondering what the hell is it doing down there. Having a child on my lap I couldn’t move. My husband, who swears it all happened in seconds, apparently has the reaction times of a snail on speed.

PLOP, over it went. All of our photos sank right to the bottom of the harbour. I’m not embarrassed to say I burst into tears. My husband did what any intelligent man in the same situation should do. He kept very quiet and looked at the floor. After several minutes of watching my tears mixing with the rain, my daughter helpfully piped up.

“Now you’ve lost all of my photos.” Followed by. “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d sat inside you know.” I believe she received quite a glare.

We all left the ferry in silence. Even my son knew better than to say he needed a poo. Half an hour later, when we were standing underneath the sharks inside the aquarium, my husband ventured to speak to me. “Well obviously we’ll buy a new camera tomorrow.”

And so we did.

He did feel marginally better when told in the camera shop that he was the 3rd person that week to drop their camera into the water. Had our home contents insurance actually covered us for the camera outside of the house, then he might have redeemed himself a little more. But of course, despite trotting along to the Police Station to report it’s loss (hence the potty stop), it didn’t. Now had he dropped it into a mug of tea at home, we’d be quids in – go figure.

The new camera is shatterproof, waterproof, snow-proof and husband-proof. That of course means it comes with a manual thick enough to sit on at the breakfast bar. By the next holiday I might just have worked out which setting goes with which, and how to use the ‘Beauty Mode’. Till then, it’s safe to say my dearest husband will be remaining on the other side of the lens, and paying for his act of clumsiness through the public humiliation on this blog.

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I’m sniffing, I must have Swine Flu

The whole house is sick at the moment. Or should I say the inhabitants of the house are sick at the moment. The bricks, mortar and roof tiles are doing just fine.

An assortment of coughs, colds, sniffs, sore throats, blocked and dribbling noses are running a riot through the family right now, resulting in a never-ending stream of half used tissues that the dog keeps fishing out of the bin and shredding all over the floor. Horrible sticky spots have also been springing up all over the kitchen counter, where the medicine hasn’t quite made it fast enough from the plastic spoon to it’s unwilling final destination.

Of course all of this sniveling misery can only mean one thing. Winter has come. Aside from the calender telling me so, the arrival of this rather unwelcome season is evident for a number of different reasons.

Firstly the most obvious, it’s cold. Secondly the most expected, I’m cold. And thirdly, all the confirmation I needed, the dog is cold. Well I gauge this from the fact that despite his now thick rug like fur, he is spending more time hunting out a heat source to sleep in front of, and less time skulking around outside, waiting to ambush next doors cat.

So given the indisputable evidence above, I decided that this year I absolutely refuse to suffer the cold for as long as I did last year. I would say suffer in silence, but as my husband would be quick to point out, I never like to keep my suffering to myself. Far to damaging to the Yin and Yang of my well being I think – better out than in, and all that jazz.

So how does one prepare for the long months of shivering that lay ahead? That would be adding to, increasing and stock piling the various heat supplies in our home.  First stop, the log basket. Running dangerously low, with only 2 logs, a few scraps of bark and 4 firelighters left over from last year.  Panic over, another trailer load has now been delivered, and the new logs are stacked all the way up the side of the house. Asking for an invasion of termites of course. These logs, in the eyes of a hungry white ant, equate to a 5 star hotel, with complimentary breakfast, lunch and dinner laid on for a year. Never mind, a risk worth taking.

Next it was time to buy a new heater to go by my desk. Save me getting all scrunched up in my seat as I sit and type away for hours a day, with hunched shoulders and bright blue nail beds. The open grill on the front does mean Charlie is likely to go up like a furry fire ball if he gets to close, but if it’s a choice between my cold bones or his singed fur, sadly he loses.

Now for the bed. Last year, as I mentioned in my previous post, I ended up climbing in with half my wardrobe on, and my hoodie firmly zipped up and over my head. While this is undeniably a brilliant form of contraception, it was far from ideal. So this year, despite my husbands initial protests, I AM going to get an electric blanket. We may well wake up to find the feathers inside the duvet caked together with sweat, but at least my toes won’t need to curl up in shock as they hit the cold sheet.

Yes, I admit I am incredibly soft when it comes to the cold. I don’t deal with it well, and I definitely comment on it far more than is necessary – especially given that it is a yearly event and has been since time began. Well except for the Ice Age. Brrrrr… now that wasn’t a good time to be alive.

What can I say, I am English. It’s programmed into our DNA to hate the cold, talk about the cold and complain about the cold. Particularly, dare I say, those ‘less hardy’ people, like myself, who are born anywhere south of Birmingham.

I admit that I am that person who opens their front door in the middle of a freezing UK winter, wearing nothing but T-shirt and shorts, then proceeds to blast the person clear off the front door step with the scorching gust of central heating that escapes from my beautifully over-heated house.

So this said,  I am obviously not that person who would consider an Ice Hotel as a suitable holiday destination. I don’t care how warm the reindeer skin sheets and elk fur blankets are supposed to be. I am also not the sort of person who has, up until now at least, ventured anywhere near a ski slope. Though to be truthful, this is probably more to do with my incredible inability to balance on anything other than a flat, solid, stable surface. I would be that person who breaks their leg before even making it out of the ski hire shop.

Anyway, I digress somewhat. As I was saying, we’re all sick and sniffy right now. And I thought nothing of it until my daughter brought home a letter from school yesterday. I say a letter, what I mean is a ‘lets induce panic and clear our classrooms so the teachers don’t have to work’ announcement.

According to the WA Health Authorities, children showing any signs or symptoms linked with Swine Flu should not only stay off school, they should also remain tucked up at home until they are completely better.

So lets run through a few of those possible symptoms.

Fever, yes, we’re all slightly warm – Tick. Cough, yes, both kids sound like asthmatic dogs – Tick. Runny nose, well like I said we’re running and blocked – Tick, Tick.

Righty then. Given how long we were all sick for last winter, I’m calculating that according to the Health Authorities, we should all remain in quarantine until around about October time. Seriously, is this for real? We haven’t been, or even know anyone who’s been near Mexico, the US, Canada, Japan or Panama in the last 7 days. We don’t live near the one confirmed case in Western Australia. And neither I, nor any of my family suddenly feel the urge to eat from a pail or start rolling around in mud.

Maybe I’m just numb from the media always trying to fan the flames of panic, just to sell papers and fill headlines. Perhaps, after living through the SARS in Singapore, I am now somewhat unfazed by such a potential ‘threat’ to mankind. Either way, I refuse to get my tissues in a knot, hide away and hyperventilate over the very worst case scenario.

I don’t believe you can live in fear of every runny nose and cough. Swine Flu is just that – a type of flu. Just one of the many types of viruses that spreads around the world in seasonal epidemics, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of thousands annually. It’s been a while since the big 3 influenza pandemics of the 20th century killed tens of millions of people. Medical science has progressed, vaccinations are now available, and according to the doctors I have spoken to, it is no longer the death sentence the media likes to portray. The emergency services here are apparently already under siege with people calling for ambulance with suspected Pig Flu. That’ll really help with those long, long waiting times at the A&E.

Call me completely irresponsible, but my daughter needs to learn and I need to work, so she’s not camping out in front of the TV all winter with a red nose and a box of tissues.  She’s had a flu jab and can wear a face mask if need be. So unless she suddenly grows a curly tail and starts to squeal, she is going to keep going to school.

And finally, before you tell me I’m being flippant, I’m not making light of the situation, merely questioning how the situation is being dealt with in the press. And to prove my point, here are some Swine Flu facts for those who are panicking, coughing or just curious.

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Shop till you fly

Recently I was lucky enough to find myself ambling around Duty Free, passing time before boarding and trying to pump some extra blood around my body in the hope of preventing a bout of DVT. Having checked in early, my husband informed me that this time we were NOT to be the last people to board.

Over the years we do seem to have made something of a habit of leaving things till the last minute, and as a result finding ourselves running across terminals and creeping through the cabin with a red face – brought on by both the unexpected exercise and the embarrassment of being the last to arrive.

The most memorable of all was our trip to Venice – a surprise for my 30th birthday. Obviously the holiday wasn’t a surprise, but the destination was – right up until the point when our names were called out over the tannoy, as I sat on the loo. As an airline, Easy Jet aren’t the most accommodating at the best of times, and straggling passengers are not appreciated. We were severely reprimanded as we skulked on-board.

Our reoccurring lateness to board is normally caused either by a family member who refuses to say goodbye, or by the fact that we love Duty Free. A wonderful no-mans land between one country and the next, where you can browse amongst products that you would never normally encounter, and dabble with things that you could never hope to afford. A place where the bright shiny lights and colourful displays draw you in and leave you suddenly feeling compelled to buy something you don’t really need.

Yes, in Duty Free it seems there really are no laws to govern those impulsive and overwhelming urges to spend money, and none to control the common sense that normally keeps your wallet firmly zipped up and out of harms way. I don’t know if this short lived spending insanity is down to being trapped in a windowless environment with time on your hands, or because the powers that be pump something through the air ducts that momentarily addles your brain.

I suspect it may have something to do with the many hideously overpriced restaurants – the ones that offer up 4 day old pre-wrapped ciabattas and muffins, that if used in a sling shot, could easily bring down a plane. These sort of places undoubtedly make it cheaper to keep on walking in circles, than it is to sit and eat.

Anyway, this recent visit of mine went off as expected. After stocking up with the necessary water, Pringles, chocolate, 3 books and a stack of magazines to last the 5 hour flight, I thought I would keep us entertained by trying on at least 30 pairs of sunglasses. I say entertained, as most of them did make me look like a bug eyed bee. Of course we knew we wouldn’t actually be buying a pair, given that they each equated to a months car repayment, but the sales girl, bless her, saw a commission opportunity with every pair. So each time that I picked some up she would, without fail, say, “You want to try those?”.

Having worked out that the best pair for me were also the most pricey, we headed off in search of perfume. Buying perfume is of course compulsory when in Duty Free. All boarding cards do in fact state, in very, very small print, that no person is allowed to fly without first buying at least 50ml of something expensive and smelly.

Having already done the necessary perfume research beforehand, it was chosen, bought and paid for in quick succession. There was a slight ‘discussion’ with the sales assistant regarding the free toiletry bag and CK ONE perfume that was advertised to go along with every $100 spent, but apparently the wording on the ‘Get a FREE perfume’ sign was slightly ‘misleading’, and only the bag was on offer. Strange that, how the free incentive always seems to magically disappear at the 11th hour of purchase.

With my husband being left to buy the perfume, it was finally my time to browse. First to the nail varnishes, where a rather nice bright pink colour was selected, appreciated and then put back down. Too late. The shop assistant had already spotted my moment of weakness – made easy of course by the fact she was practically perched on my shoulder at the time. She scurried across to my husband to ask if he wanted to buy the said nail varnish. Being the lovely husband that he is, of course he said yes. So it was fetched, bagged and paid for before I could even open my mouth.  Give her her dues, this assistant certainly won points for stalking her prey and going in for the kill.

With my smell and nails in the bag,  I went off to prepare my skin for the 5 dehydrating hours ahead. This of course entailed much sampling of everything on offer, and moisturising myself to within an inch of my life. Or until I had become such a human oil slick that I could easily glide across the floor. 3 face creams, an eye-lift gel and a body shimmer powder later, I headed towards the brand that I would/could never buy – La Prairie. Can’t say I know much about the range, except that it features heavily in glossy magazines and has less chance of appearing by my toothbrush than an enormous pink elephant.

First there was the Skin Caviar Eye Lift. At just under $500 a tub, that seemed to be an awfully overpriced pot of pureed fish eggs. Still, it went on well and without even a whiff of fish. Then I rounded the corner, and found out that the caviar cream was actually reasonably priced, when compared to the Cellular Radiance Concentrate Pure Gold – at around $900 for 30 ml. Is it me, or does that seem a tad excessive for a face cream, even one that contains specks of gold?

Not wanting to dismiss what I didn’t know, I thought it only fair to give it a go. So I pumped out around $50 worth and rubbed it into my arm (my face by this stage was already well loaded up with caviar). Now I can’t say I spotted any gold specks, but I do know that my arm now had a faint whiff of what smelt to me like cat’s pee. Not just my imagination, my husband confirmed that I smelt disgusting.

Disappointed with the result, the offending $50′s worth was scrubbed off with a wet wipe and I walked away safe in the knowledge that Garnier and L’Oreal were quite good enough for me. To make myself feel better, I splashed out on an Elizabeth Arden 8 hour lip balm. With a built in sunscreen, it is an absolute necessary for Perth, so would have seemed a crime not to get one.

All shopped out and creamed up, there was barely enough time to neck a hot chocolate (the ratio of 70% froth to 30% liquid turned out to be a good thing) before setting off for the plane. By this time the final boarding sign was flashing and we were forced to move at a brisk trot. Once again my husband didn’t get his wish, and I didn’t even get a chance to duck into the toilet.

What’s a girl to do. After all, as the name itself implies, it is ones DUTY to make sure that you personally test everything that is laid out for you for FREE.

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Cooked to perfection

Anyone planning to move Perth and pass their days rotating slowly on a beach towel like a rotisserie chicken should think again. Forget the myths about safe tanning – the sun is not your friend.

Over exposing your pale and vulnerable flesh to the harsh Australian sun, can and will leave you burnt to a crisp, not unlike a piece of blackened rump steak on the barbie. And just as that burnt steak can be a carcinogenic, so too can obsessive sun worshiping fast track you straight into the nearest oncology department.

Sunbathing here can equal baking – in a 40 degree fan forced oven. So unless you fancy looking like a Sunday joint in a roasting tin, then I’d suggest you think more along the lines of spray tans and bronzing balls, than lapping up the UV rays in your bikini.

Admittedly it does seem odd that in a country famed for it’s buffed lifeguards and beach life image, many people choose to stay away from beaches during the summer months. Unlike Brighton or Bournemouth on an August Bank Holiday, where pink flesh is laid out row after row, on a public holiday here many of the beaches are virtually deserted. As a socially phobic beach goer who doesn’t like having to suck my stomach in for long periods of time or listening to someone else’s music, I see this as a bonus.

There are some who will always buck this trend and lay out in the sun, regardless of how high the temperature gets. These include dogs and cats, tourists (who have limited time to achieve their holiday tan) and the older, die hard sunbathing fanatics. These in particular are easily distinguished by their rhino hide skin and the overpowering aroma of pork crackling that surrounds them.

It is not until you experience the sheer heat of the midday sun (particularly in the summer months) that you realise sun cream should never be just an after thought or something that you put on if you find the time. Sun cream is something you put on every time you come into contact with fresh air – whether you’re going for a walk, spending a morning at the beach or just mooching around in your own backyard.

Actually from painful experience I have learnt the hard way that your own garden is possibly the easiest place of all to get burnt. This can happen when you pop outside ‘just for 5 mintues’ to tidy up something in the garden. 6 hours later, after an impromptu full scale pruning operation, you look in the mirror and find yourself to be the same vibrant shade as Elmo and limited to loose, bag shaped clothes for the rest of the week.

The sheer size of the hole in the Ozone right above our heads is reflected in both the human and financial toll that it is taking on society. Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer in the world, accounting for around 80% of all new cancers diagnosed each year. Australians are four times more likely to develop a common skin cancer than any other form of cancer, a fact reflected in the 380,000 people treated everyday – over 1,000 people a day, and the 1,600 deaths that are a result of this. Skin cancer also costs the health system around $300 million annually, the highest cost of all cancers.

Such high numbers indicate the extreme severity of this problem – a problem that the Australian government does not take lighty. As well as the gruesome shock tactics press and TV ads that appear during the summer months, the ‘Slip, Slap, Slosh’ sun wise campaign is promoted everywhere that you turn.

This highlights the recommended methods of protection – SLIP on a top, SLAP on a hat and SLOSH on some cream. In addition, it is also recommended to wear wrap around glasses and stay in the shade during the hottest part of the day.

Keeping children creamed and covered up is especially important. Exposure to the sun in childhood and adolescence is an important factor in the development of skin cancer later in life. For children here, learning to put on cream is just a way of life and if they don’t have their hat at schools, they won’t be allowed to play outside. New born babies in particular shouldn’t be out in the sun at all. Most people use black UV nets over their prams – also good for keeping pesky flies away.

So if the dangers of sunbathing are so high, why has having a tan long been associated with wealth, health and superficial good looks?

Long before the Hiltons, Lohans and Jordons of this world began worshiping at the temple of St. Tropez, people believed that having a tan indicated good breeding and class – and the money to be able to travel.

A recent onslaught of budget airlines allowing anyone with a passport and an overdraft limit to fly, has well and truly knocked that perception on the head. On the contrary now, being a similar shade to an Umpa Lumpa is now a trait associated with the countless wannabe stars of the tabloids and celebrity magazines.

The perception that a ‘tan = wealth’ has however always been one reserved solely for the Western word. In Asia, it is a pale skin that is deemed more beautiful, with ‘whitening’ not self tanning creams in hot demand.

Unfortunately with so many models still promoting a sun kissed ‘healthy’ glow on the pages of glossy women’s magazines, the use of a tan remains a fashion accessory. An accessory that destroys your skin. How ironic that whilst tanning may give you an outer appearance of good health, it can also kill.

Not wanting to be seen to be promoting this health risk, many beauty companies do go into overdrive in the summer months, with their ‘responsible’ advertising of their safer, self tanning products. But don’t these just further enforce the idea that brown is still best? If big cosmetic companies really wanted to save people’s skins, then like on cigarette packets, they would advertise the terrible risks of sunbathing with hard hitting photos of melanomas, along side the sun creams they sell. But I’m guessing that stomach churning imagery doesn’t really help to shift beauty products of the shelves.

Having grown up in a succession of sunny climates, I know I have already fried my way through countless layers of skin, in the search of the perfect tan. Back in my teens and early 20’s, the mission was to get as brown as humanly possible, without actually having to undergo an ethnic transplant. Whether that meant dousing myself in Hawaiian Tropic or laying in a pool of my own sweat on a human griddle for half an hour at time, there was nothing I was not naively prepared to do. Back then, being pale did not equate to being beautiful, it simply meant you were coming down with the flu.

It has taken me a long, long time to finally get it into my head that having that ‘oh another half an hour won’t kill me’ mentality is really just playing Russian roulette with your health. The older I get and the more rigorous I am with the L’Oreal Wrinkle Decrease every night (which incidentally does exactly what it says on the tin), the more stupid it seems to then go out the next morning and undo all that hard work.

It has also taken a long time for the world to start pulling together to face up to this issue. One big step in the right direction will be taken at The 12th World Congress on Cancers of the Skin, held in Israel in May 2009. Dermatologists, plastic surgeons and oncologists from around the world will come together to learn about and discuss the latest breakthroughs in the world of cancer.

Until a cure is hopefully one day found, ignorance can no longer be used as an excuse when it comes to the sun. If you live somewhere where the risks run higher and you don’t slap on your slop, you will be treated like an masochistic idiot who ultimately deserves the consequence’s they might face. Unlike many others, this is one disease that can be prevented with a little common sense. So using some is essential.

If after reading this you still can’t resist lying out in the sun for hours, then here’s a way to achieve the same look in half the time. Simply baste yourself down with some good quality virgin olive oil, roll around in some fresh herbs and chuck yourself onto the barbie. It’s always been a look that’s worked well for a chicken drumstick, and at the end of the day cooked meat is just cooked meat.

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Houston, we have a problem

I

It is a temporarily insane and somewhat delusional parent who books a holiday, takes their pint sized child on board an aeroplane and thinks that they will actually be able to sit back and enjoy their peanuts.

Air travel can be testing on the nerves at the best of times. Try to maintain an advanced yoga position for hours on end while simultaneously battling with a bagged and sealed headset and a renegade tray table, and fun will never be a word that springs to mind. Add a fractious squirming eel into the equation and you may well be wishing you’d just stayed at home and had a spray tan instead.

Traveling with children is never intended to be a pleasant experience, from the moment you drag them tired and grumpy from their beds and shoe horn them into a packed and waiting car. But it is what comes next that is as near to any military operation as found in downtown Baghdad.

First comes the careful manoeuvring of the overloaded trolleys, out of the car park and through the revolving terminal doors (the ones that either go too slow or literally threaten to cut your family in half). Then, once you have dug out your flight details from the bottom of the bag at the bottom of the trolley, you still need to negotiate your way through the dangerous hairpin bends of the swinging red ropes at check in. And all of this to then be greeted by a member of staff, who so obviously doesn’t want to be there and is simply spoiling for a fight. Namely over the said overloaded trolleys lurking behind you.

Airport security is now incredibly strict. Not a bad thing of course, but it does have the tendency to make you feel unnecessarily guilty and doubting whether you did actually pack your own bags or not. Cuticle clippers and bottled water now come under the category ‘potential deadly weapon’, and if I had a dollar for every pair of nail scissors taken off me under silent protest, I would almost be rich enough to fly First Class.

So, what I have always wondered about is this. If an undisclosed aerosol in your carry on can be enough to have you branded a terrorist, why, when asking whether your bags contain any dangerous items, do they (thankfully) fail to notice the most obvious item of all – the angelic looking little time bomb sat in a pram by your feet?

It is after all a known fact that a child in an vacuum sealed capsule can sometimes be as annoying and potentially hazardous as a mosquito trapped in your sleeping bag.

As you settle your fifty essential bags in around you and note that the amount of leg room has obviously been reduced since you last flew, the enormity of what lies ahead can hit you like a cold hard slap in the face. Concerned neighbouring passengers will start eyeing up your child, trying to determine whether they are a screamer or a kicker, and then subtly scan the plane for any empty seats. And who can really blame them. Every child free person, whether they admit it or not, has at some point wished a hasty rubbish shoot exit on some nearby spawn of Satan who has screeched for hours and bruised the small of their spine.

By the time the novelty of the window blind has worn off, the seat covers have been re-branded with washable markers and the ink has been sucked from the in-flight magazine, (all of this before even leaving the jet way) then comes the real test of a parent’s patience and inner strength. As you start taxing towards the runway and the flight stretches out before you, you will wonder why this trip ever seemed a good idea and if you are flying half way around the world, how on earth are you going to keep a bored and restless child seated, entertained and quiet in a space barely large enough to swing a hamster.

By the time they have grown bored of their toys, lost half of their Lego and suitably irritated both the people behind and in front, it is easy for murderous thoughts to start creeping in. These thoughts are often accompanied by cold sweats, tears and a silent vow to never fly again.

While most socially conscious parents vow that they would never let their child roam the aisles like a pack of hungry wolves, when it becomes a choice between that or DVT, you may well hoist junior off your lap and turn a blind eye. You are, after all safe in the knowledge that all the doors are child locked and every route will eventually bring them back to you. The only time when this is probably not advisable is around meal times, when there is a likelihood of them being mowed down by a renegade cart of chicken and beef.

For many parents mealtimes at home can be a daily battle field, leaving physical and mental scars for all involved. When trying to enforce the same principles of a clean plate, a well balanced diet and an ‘eat not throw’ policy’ at 2am, the result can be nearer on a bloodbath. More often than not the bread roll is the only thing on offer that will grab their attention. Unfortunately the roll is also the only thing on the tray that would also kill a passerby if dropped off a two storey building.

Pre-ordering a child’s meal does mean they are served first, giving you an iota of a chance of supervising and possibly controlling the scale of the inevitable fall out. On the downside however, the meal can also be loaded down with so many sugar filled treats that you may as well just hold their head back and pour blue smarties down their throat. The administering of E numbers in such a confined space is only advisable upon leaving the plane, when you need your child to walk on their own two feet.

Newborn babies probably make the best travelling companions of all. They can be put to sleep (not literally of course) in a bassinet, or if you forget to book one, they are still small enough to be held without the fear of pulling any major back muscles. If breastfeeding is still on the menu life is much easier still. It can help to combat the changing cabin pressure and stop their small ear from popping during take off and landing. It is very tempting however to make yourself the in-flight buffet in exchange for peace and potential sleep, but be warned by one who has tried this method before. Not only will you eventually stagger off the aeroplane feeling like a deflated cow, you are also very likely to overfill their small stomach. If this happens you run the risk of having your hours of your hard work returned in force all over you, your clothes, the seat and the passenger in the chair next to you.

If your child is sick (and the laws of probability say it will happen at some point), it can be a totally and utterly mortifying experience, enough to make you want to crawl under your seat and hide. But as widespread as the destruction and overpowering smell can be, and let me tell you waves of vomit or curdled milk sweeping through economy class can be pretty horrendous, there is absolutely nothing you can do but control and contain. At this point you better be hoping you had the foresight to pack spare clothes, otherwise your already upset child may well be leaving in an aircraft pillow case.

So how do you survive a flight and have the courage to face the same again on your return journey? The answer is patience, inner calm, acceptance and above all a sense of humour. Remember that from a child’s perspective, having their parent trapped in a seat next to them is actually a dream come true. So as much as you may want to finish your book or watch the in flight movie, if you can find the inner strength and energy to give your child your undivided attention, they might just surprise you and act like an angel. Of course if none of these options work then thinly veiled threats, bribery or Benadryl usually do the trick.

Finally, a word for all those passengers who fly with nothing more than a backpack, handbag or computer in tow.

If you don’t want to help a nearby parent by picking up a runaway beaker, playing peek-a-boo with their baby or even offering a pair of arms when the mother simply can’t keep her knees crossed any longer, then at least hold off with the hostile muttering and murderous looks. What you have before you is probably a parent who, short of knocking their child over the head and stuffing them in bag, has very little control over the situation. They are no doubt all ready stressed to breaking point and covered in hives, so you making them feel worse about their child’s behaviour is really not going to help matters at all.

And if you can’t be nice – buy Business.

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