Category: Uncategorized

The whole ugly brutal truth

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Adulting, parenting, Uncategorized

If you could.

If it wouldn’t mean career suicide before stepping over the unemployed threshold.

Would you dare to bare all in your cover letter?

To tell the truth.

The whole truth.

The goddamn ugly brutal truth.

Admit your pitfalls. Your shortcomings and unashamedly boast about your fucking hell-yehs?

Four to five months down the office-track they will know anyway.

They’ll know the real you by then.

I’m about to crack on with finding another job. My freelance position with the local paper is coming to an end. I bloody loved that job. Moist-eyes.

BUT.

I’m ready to flex that curiosity, and gradually I’m mustering the courage to put my 34-year-old Muma-journo self out there again.

I’m looking for The One.

That chemistry that quenches all of your desires.

Story telling. Creativity. Innovation. Feels.

Yeh. Feels. I’ll take that adjective.

I’m putting my CV together. OK…I’m lying.

I am yet to locate the file on my laptop.

I’m working up to it.

I tweeted. I sent a #journorequest tweet. Amittedly I may need to put slightly more effort into bagging The One.

But the cover letter.

Oh dear sweet cover letter.

The part where you sell yourself. First impressions for your potential boss-person.

The bit where you sing like an Smartie-infused overactive toddler banging on about winding that sod, ‘Bobbin’ up.

What if we told the whole truth…

I like praise. Sorry / not sorry.

Lunch breaks are breaks not just lunch.

Sometimes my kids throw up and need 48 hours from school. At home with a parent.

Lazy people are the epitome of pig-swill, and I have difficulty hiding contempt for them.

Often I’ll work so hard in one hit that when I eventually get up to pee it freaking hurts.

BUT.

Occasionally I’ll make a coffee – not for the caffeine hit, but to scroll facebook in peace.

I give praise. I genuinely love to shower compliments on just-deserves.

But I’ll question poor decisions. Raise the eyebrows.

I par-take in ‘view-exchange’ and ‘information sharing’. Call me inquisitive.

Periodically enquiries may be made as to ‘which scent I’m wearing’. My answer will be simple. Nit solution.

I cry fairly easily. Ok. I cry shamefully easily, I blame the kids who fought their way from my body. I was once a stoic icon of ice.

Grazing is good. Biscuits. Nuts. Crisps. Crumbs are my sin.

Imagine giving up the whole truth.

What does yours look like?

Goodbye pre-schooler

by Muma on the Edge, posted in parenting, Uncategorized

When you know, you know.

I’m ready. She’s ready.

Today was the last time I will take either of my ‘babies’ out for a day during term time.

It was odd. My baby was the tallest, oldest child at the miniature steam railway park (Yeh, we know how to roll).

Our last day before big school calls has come and gone.

We looked a bit out of place if I’m honest. Both of us walking hand in hand while Buggaboos fought for space in the icandy and Maclaren fast lane.

The lunch area resembled Heathrow bag drop. Travel light toddlers don’t. My ‘baby’ was the one having a conversation with me – and eating solids.

She’s grown up, and today I could see just how much.

But I didn’t pang for my empty buggy.

I didn’t lust over the shiny new Buffalo model next to the swings.

Dare I say I have reached a stage where the sight of a baby no longer floods me with tsunami-sized sleep-deprivation shudders. I simply smile and wave.

Appreciating their toothless balding cuteness.

And think, phew. With a sweet nostalgia rather than a sense of pity that the person before me chose to pro-create.

To top it all, I no longer have my pre-school mum gang.

We are all now back at work. The paid kind.

Today Lila and I were just two. Wading around in a sea of mum-squads doing what we used to, swapping weening tips, drinking coffee by the bucket load and playing ‘knackered Trumps’.

But.

I like it in our new place.

It’s comfortable.

Not in a ‘boring-Brenda’ way.

In a ‘I’ve-been-waiting-for-this-bit’ kind of way.

We are ready to hustle at the weekends for a piece of the park.

To compete for post-5pm Tesco delivery slots.

To juggle school trip permission slips and navigate the school’s innovative ‘parent-pay’ for the girls lunches.

However.

There is one thing I am absolutely not ready for.

Helping our youngest learn to read fills me with a dull dread.

Memories of the infamous book ‘Rat Naps’ or, ‘cat sleeps’ as Darcie used to say it (over and over and over), still haunt me.

I’ll be pouring a gin this evening and toasting the seven and a half years of pre-schooling we have had between our girls.

Here’s to the next chapter:

-Two kids at school.

-Two parents at work.

-One dog in desperate need of a walking service.

And one cat oblivious to the seismic shift that is upon us.

We are taught to question everything.

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Journalism Training, parenting, Uncategorized

From why a council-run leisure club is spending hundreds of thousands of tax payers money on new equipment, whilst running at a loss. To why a homeless man living in a tent isn’t deemed ‘homeless enough’ by the people who have the power to secure him a roof over his head.

We are taught to recognise when a case switches to ‘active’. To not disclose that the man just arrested for allegedly burgeoned his mother to death with a spoon has a history of violent crime. Or that the green grocer saw a 6”2 dark haired male with a spliff-smoking rat tattoo on his neck, fleeing the scene with said spoon. It’s a little case of TMI.

We are taught to be fair. To give the council-tax dodging councillor the opportunity to reply. To defend himself. Despite the evidence on the magistrates charge street, despite the overwhelming urge to do the complete opposite.

We are taught to be reactive. To watch a situation unfold and instinctively understand that this is news worthy, and the public gotta know.

We are taught to have a thick skin. Even when a someone wants to throw you under a bus in a public Facebook group for ‘not doing your job’ when in fact, the shoe was steadfast on the other foot.

We are taught to understand the legal restrictions and allowances placed on journalists in a court of law. To understand that we cannot include in our report the heckling cousin of the alleged murderer in the public gallery, unless Mary-sue has given evidence. We must understand a section 45, and an 11. Never forget an 11. We cannot record, but we can tweet.

We are taught to observe-only. Keeping our opinionated brains on sleep-mode. Record the facts, but more importantly, record the balanced facts. Don’t judge the woman who stakes out abortion clinics with posters of unborn foetuses to ‘help’ pregnant women. Don’t judge, but listen. And tell her tale too.

We are taught that we are the voice of a community. And we must not take advantage of that position. We must be approachable, and take the time to listen to Barbara tell us her life story. And as we listen we discover Barbara climbed Everest, blindfolded, and won the Nobel peace prize. Because you just never know.

We are taught the mechanics of the country. From how the queen is funded, to which council organises grass verge cutting. Elections and by-elections. District, county, borough and parish. Committees and Select committees. Political parties and independents. We learn it, so that we can translate the minefield of bureaucracy.

We are taught to protect our source. M15 style. Don’t give up their identity, keep mum. Article 8 of the European Court of Human Rights will back you, it backed the other guy.

We are taught that shorthand is gospel. A dictaphone can only do so much, and in court or caught out on the hop, it is useless. Teeline is gruelling. It takes dedication, and hundreds of hours of practice- just to get good enough for our CV not be ignored by potential editors. It is a mountain to climb.

We are taught accuracy, honesty and integrity. To maintain our reputation by recording the facts, just as they are. “It’s Mandy with an ‘ie’”

We are taught that donning a wig and specs combo to catch the taxi firm that has reportedly discriminated against blondes with aviators, is a last ditch resort only.

Above all we are taught to be brave. To have faith in our direction.

To tell people’s stories is a privilege, and we are taught never to loose site of that.

4,000 reasons not to ski with young kids.

by Muma on the Edge, posted in parenting, Uncategorized

Once upon a time there was a young girl who threw her salopettes and factor 50 lip balm into a case and gallivanted around the Alps on skis. She was always on the first lift up – keen as mustard. Trendy head band teamed with a minor headache just creeping into her consciousness- a satisfying memory of dancing until dawn because: Apres ski.

Not a run was left un-carved. Well perhaps the blacks and maybe most reds…

Ahem: Not a blue run was left un-ploughed.

Oh the crisp fresh air in ones lungs, mountain passes  chalked up.

***

Fast forward ten years: That young girl is now part of a knackered couple who decided to take their darling treasure-chests skiing…

“Won’t it be dreamy! Snugged up with hot choc, a roaring fire, snow capped mountains!” This Middle-age insta-porn swam around my head.

“The girls will build snowmen! They will learn to ski… Maybe they will be naturals” I mused. “And one day they will be ski-champions, all because we took them from such a young age!”

How clever we are being!

Clever is one word for it. If by clever we were infering ‘stable genius’.

Rounding up our kids to go to the supermarket is challenge enough; let along navigating our way around a mountain range in search of ski schools loaded up like abomanble snow-donkeys.

  • Four crash helmets.
  • Four (Razor sodding sharp) pairs of skis.
  • Four pairs of poles to go with those skis: That’s EIGHT meter long poles people.
  • Four jackets (it was 23+ degrees most days and jackets were redundant after 10am).
  • Two backpacks filled with enough snacks to fuel an Alaskan out-post for an entire season, possibly two.

All the while clapping one foot infront of the other in the worst creation imposed upon the human race: the snow boot.

We sweated and stumbled our way to the gondola each morning to a chorus of  “WE HATE SKI SCHOOL”.

Super.

Sounds clever so far?

Oh yes, we were feeling very clever as the sweaty panic swept over us when it became horrifyingly apparent that I was going to have to ski down four runs with a two-year-old between my legs to get to the damn-ski-school (God bless Ski-School).

At one point I had a back pack on, two helmets clipped and hanging from each hip, snow ploughing down a green. My non-toned, unprepared thighs burned quite unlike anything my gym-phobia being had experienced before.

Every fibre of my sorry-for-itself body was asking me W.H.Y was I straddling one child whilst dragging the other on the end of a pole, along a slushy white cold path… I was the very definition of a 

w i d e   l o a d.

Alpine-chic.

This was neither elegant or clever.

“At least the girls learnt a new skill – what fun!” friends asked.

The three-year-old tried to master skiing along a gradient of 2 degrees. And try she really did. With her helmet which sloped off the back of her head, a coat the swallowed her whole and my sunglasses. Because we forget hers.

She absolutely rocked those aviators.

This one time, in the eye-of-ski-hell, Dan and I took Darcie on a green slope. Easy! Just the three of us!

“Take a video! Take a photo!”

More like:

“Stay fucking upright and don’t loose the kid.”

It turns out a six-year-old needs a little more practice. Who knew!

Oh the fun we had uncrossing her skis and twisting her body back into a slightly more humane angle.

But, those child free moments, that 1.5 hours of ski time we carefully measured out each day were a joy.

I don’t want to go Karl Pilkington on you, I’m a positive person…

However our alpine-sprint to the lift from ski school was a hyperventilating shoop shoop of Michelin-man neon.

Cries of “Have we got time to go again?”

“That was over too quickly!”

And

“My legs! My fu*king legs!!”

What legs?! Apparently ten years makes quite a difference to ones flexibility, staminia and ability to control a ski at the end of each foot.

Fancy, we spent all of this wonga to make ourselves unimaginably, inexplicably exhausted. On top of the usual Parent eye-bags.

By the end of the ‘holiday’ my husband and I looked as though we had walked to the north pole.

Sill want to have a go?

  • Do ski in ski-out and save yourself the click-clack horror of juggling your ample equipment, equipment that doesn’t come with handy carry handles, and cannot be hung on the invisible snow-buggy.
  • Book with a company which collect the kids for ski club from your door. In my fantasies these exist… Mark Warner must have thought of this.
  • Be fully catered. We were, and it was blissful. My Hanger was kept well at bay and it was by far my favourite bit of each day!

Shut the front door: 2017

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Journalism Training, parenting, Uncategorized

I’ve just sent off ToddlerMonster’s ‘big school’ application.

It’s the last thing I will do with any coherent sense this year.

I didn’t consciously leave it until the dying monuments of the year before I hit send, but now I come to think about it, it’s fairly fitting to be sailing out of the year with a school place on the horizon. *Wishes teaching profession Bon chance*

The school-app thing has given me a little nudge to pause my shorthand exam revision and tap away to you for the very last time this year.

It’s an odd thing studying as a Muma; I have my first shorthand exam next week, and revision passages and exercises are taking up as much of my time as I can parentally justify.

So far this morning I have had several study breaks.

And Not to watch Neighbours like the good old uni days.

-I’ve continued my good work as toilet assistant.

-Created a sylvanian village, most notably developed a nursery extension.

-Ordered 500,000 paw patrol plates, napkins, cups, balloons and party bag alternatives in blind panic for The 4th Birthday next week.

-Prayed it will arrive in time.

-Pinned several paw patrol cakes that I don’t have a hope in hell of replicating.

Before journo-school broke up for Christmas we all quizzed our tutor on shorthand exam scenarios:

“what if someone sneezes and we miss a bit of the audio?”

“What if a police car goes by and the sirens drown out the passage we are taking down?”

But at no time did anyone ask, “What if 2 under 7’s streak through the classroom screeching “IT’S MINE, IT’S MINE, DON’T BITE ME”.

No one asked that.

And I can tell you, if that happens during the exam, then I go this.

My kids have me prepped.

An atomic bomb could go off and I’m fairly confident I will not take a blind bit of notice.

2017 has been totally bonkers and for once it’s been that way not just because I am keeper of small people.

I set off the year hoping beyond hope that I might get my writing published somewhere, anywhere.

Hoping that this might be the year I try to make a path parallel to parenting.

ToddlerMonster’s school application was looming and I wanted to set myself up for a life of writing after the full-on full-time parenting was somewhat assisted by the 9am-3pm world.

I get a bit giddy, you know, that excited pukey-pit of your stomach feeling, when I consider that I might actually pull that off.

It’s becoming more believable that one day I may just be paid to write.

And have a J O B.

Doing something that I don’t resent.

Doing something that I… kind of love.

Signing up to start my NCTJ Diploma in Journalism was a total leap of faith.

It feels quite mad to write this but as I sit here in the dying hours of 2017 I can say that I now regularly write for a newspaper, host a news show on the radio, and help out at a flipping massive radio station along side a truly inspirational journalist.

I honestly have to pinch myself.

(However, I am also still a terrible cook. I offered my husband a ‘fresh’ pizza from the freezer last week. I set fire to my kitchen last month, and continue to be unable to drive in heels. – We can’t tick all of the boxes can we now…)

Lidl’s ‘random’ aisle used to be the most unpredictable, exciting part of my week.

It’s surreal and I’ll be honest, the juggling act between wannabe-journo and Muma is incredibly tough.

The logistics of child care, alone, are mind blowing.

I had no idea what working parents were going through until now.

But 2017 has shown me that one thing’s for sure: It’s ok to be a parent AND go after a dream.

There’s room for both.

Just about.

As long as you have an understanding nursery.

And fantastic family and friends.

God only knows what 2018 has in store:

I think I’m ready.

Hang on, I’m not sure…

I want to be the Mum that let’s them decorate the tree

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Christmas, kids, parenting, Uncategorized

The trouble is…

I love my perfectly perfect pastel themed Christmas tree.

With soft lighting- you know, the glowey yellowey kind.

Carefully chosen tree trinkets hang at equidistant intervals, the pale pink is never next to a pale gold, is never next to a pale silver.

You feel me?

Yup, I’m basically Monica Geller come December 1st.

This has become a problem since having the kiddliwinks.

Because

I want to be the Mum that lets them decorate the tree.

Honestly I do.

That Mum that endorses excessive use of Tinsel inbetween the homemade Santa hat and snowman masterpieces a la nursery school.

But I love my pastel hew.

I love clearing away the family photo frames on the top of the mantel piece and selecting which of my over-priced, over-sized wreathey long foliagey things should take pride of place that year.

I want to be the Mum who, as Sarah of Unmumsey famously put it, shouts: “The theme is Christmas!”

And it is.

-In the toy room, behind a nice big closed door.

I have learnt that Christmas is allowed to throw up its sickeningly tacky, heart wrenching sentimentality in this room.

We used to go over to ‘Granny’s’ as the girls came to call her, and Christmas-up her living room every year.

We loved it.

I think she loved it too.

Our toy room now has Granny’s tree in pride of place.

And on this tree goes all of the homemade offerings that have been painstakingly crafted, not at home, over the years.

Scraps of paper with stubby bits of cotton wool hanging on for dear life are shoved into the centre of the tree with all the precision and delicacy of a hammer-throw.

Constrictor style tinsel sucks the life blood from this psychedelic fire hazard, with baubles that spell out Harrods 2010 (how posh!) stick men Santas and too many clashing baubles for my brain to process:

Shiny Red next to sparkly red next to cracked red under red tinsel with some of that purple, foiley, whispy stuff statically-stuck to every.bloody.relic.

Lines and lines of coloured lights, some even in the shape of trees, struggle to shine through the offensive layers – wrapping Granny’s tree all up in a firefighter’s nightmare.

But.

I’ve grown to love letting the kids loose in this room.

Mostly because I can close the door on it.

But occasionally I gaze at it when the kids are in bed and think ‘this is what Christmas means to them.’

Colour, chaos, and no equidistance.

How it should be?

Probably.

But Christmas.

Unattainable ‘Magazine-shoot’ Christmas.

It doesn’t exist.

It’s happiness. It’s noise. It’s finding the green triangles have all been eaten when it’s finally your turn at the quality street.

It’s squeals of delight as hoards of Poundland tat slowly take over the lounge.

It’s cheap crackers and shoddy jokes. It’s queens speech and Slade.

It’s Merry December to us, the grow-ups: the overworked, knackered elves of Christmas.

What a beauty…

Pretty much the only review I will ever do for ‘stuff’

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Christmas, parenting, Uncategorized

This is a one-off.

Which makes this a one-of-a-kind, if you will.

Because.

Christmas.

I like to get a head start on Christmas shopping. Which isn’t difficult seeing as you can sit a-la P.Jarm ‘n’ hot choc in hand, tap tapping away these days.

Ticking off those gifts one by one, without the threat of cold hands, rain-induced hair-frizz, and no moaning from my offspring as I drag them from shop to shop. Or worse – rushing around like a mother possessed to finish in time for school pick up.

No extortionate car park charges.

Need I go on about the merits of being a Sofa-Savvy-Shopper?

Probably not.

Mumas have all got this.

A few weeks ago I was approached by Personally Presented to choose something from their website and review it.

This couldn’t have been better timed.

You see, it was during my ‘list phase’ (everyone has a list phase, right?!).

Ordinarily I would have fired off a quick ‘Thanks but no thanks, I have zero time, I am training to be a journalist and am working many, many M A N Y hours for F R E E right now.’

But.

Oh the pretty things.

Oh… the one thing I desperately have been looking for. (‘Desperately’ might be a little OTT)

Was right there.

On their website.

(A really lovely, pretty and easy-to-use website.)

Jewellery boxes. Personalised jewellery boxes. Matching personalised jewellery boxes.

Anyone out there with daughters who share my pain if one of them should acquire an item (something important like, say, a jelly bean) and the other one doesn’t?

All hell lets loose.

They must have exactly.the.same Everything.

Or “It’s not F A I R” fills the air at grenade decibels.

I can’t handle that. So it’s matchy-matchy all round for us.

Anyway, back to the jewellery boxes…

Not twee. Not childish. But, not grown-up either.

My requirements were specific, but there were plenty of options to scroll through and choose from.

Glass ones. Painted ones. All could be personalised.

The website is a little like Not On The High Street actually, but it’s a family run business which I just think is rather nice.

There was free shipping, and as soon as my order was received I had a confirmation email, and then another when the boxes were dispatched.

I had them in my hand just two days later.

You can’t argue with that.

Beautiful quality, and matching – all but their names on the top.

A big tick for my gift list, and I really cannot wait to give them their special presents in a months time.

Keepsakes for their precious things.

Personally Presented have given me a code for you to get 10% off of your orders until the end of November, so put your (slouch-sock) feet up, cuppa in hand and add to cart a few personal gifties this Christmas.

Your10% off code: muma10 at Personally Presented

Enjoy!

Happy shopping! Xx

*This is a sponsored post and Muma on the Edge received goods in exchange for this review.

** If they had been awful goods I would have sent them back and not reviewed.

*** Therefore, this isn’t a load of BS.

 Until you walk in her shoes… 

by Muma on the Edge, posted in parenting, pregnancy, Uncategorized

It’s an undercurrent, it bubbles away just below the surface of society. 

It rarely makes it’s way into coffee shop chat, actually it rarely makes it way into the darkest secret swap. 
This word is loaded.
Fewer words can draw out as much emotion in us.
Abortion. 
I am currently on my journalism ‘journey’. 

Cringe if you must.
Our remit is to always be looking for stories:
Angles, mostly. 
I came across a story last week: Ealing Borough council were to vote on granting an ‘exclusion zone’ otherwise known as, a Public Spaces Protection Order, around a Marie Stopes abortion clinic. 
A group, Sister Support, had launched a petition which gathered thousands of signatures. 
Crucially enough signatures to get the council to sit up and consider their wishes. 
These wishes were simple. 
Allow women seeking medical help the dignity and right to walk into the abortion clinic without being taunted by people chanting prayers outside the entrance.
Allegations of women being streamed on Facebook-live entering or leaving the clinic had been made. Being confronted by the protesters had left many patients of the clinic deeply upset. 
For 20 years. 
How many women, possibly wracked with confusion and despair, have had to walk past these protesters just to reach the treatment they are legally entitled too?
Come on Ealing. Make a stand. 
Shocked over the images of these ‘chanting elders’ I felt the need to investigate on a more local level. On the south coast we have a clinic in Brighton and Eastbourne run by BPAS. 
A charitable organisation. 
I contacted their spokesperson and asked how important this exclusion zone is, and why it is needed. 
The response was chilling. 
Brighton was by far the most targeted of the two clinics. Placards baring images of aborted foetuses, shouting indignities, attempts to humiliate and ‘call out’ any woman who dare to cross their path. 
Often the chanting of prayer and the shouting can be heard in the waiting rooms of these clinics. 
Women who are vulnerable. 
Women who are making one of the toughest decisions of their lives. 
Do they deserve this? 
Ealing council doesn’t think so. 
They ruled in favour of implementing the exclusion zone on Tuesday, October 10. 
A landmark decision that could, should, create a domino effect nationwide. 
Not wanting to be unbalanced I also contacted Abort 67. 
Abort 67 define themselves as being a ‘pro-life’ organisation who seek to educate women about abortion. 
I wasn’t sure how I would feel speaking to someone who organises ‘Public Education Displays’ as they are so-called. 
As a trainee Journalist and not yet a bonafide, experience-savvy Journo, I knew this would be a real test. 
One must remain neutral. 
I am merely reporting the facts. 
Don’t get emotionally involved. 
Their argument was surprisingly compelling. I listened while this passionate woman explained that her group see themselves as educators, and not protesters. 
Abort 67 are filling an education-void by showing images and sharing information: 
Abortion ‘The Untold Facts’. 
Not quite a blockbuster. 
Nonetheless it was fascinating listening to the other side of such an emotive argument. 
With such conviction. 
I asked what her thoughts were on the proposed exclusion zone around the Marie Stopes clinic in Ealing.
Citing ‘freedom of speech’ as one of her fundamental human rights in this country, she felt appalled that they may be silenced. 
      * * *

Abortion has been legal in this country since 1967. 
Fifty years later, one clinic can now ensure that their patients can arrive in peace.  
Free of judgement.
A fundamental human right?

This Muma Went To Court…

by Muma on the Edge, posted in Adult, Journalism Training, parenting, Uncategorized

“I sentence you to 10 years imprisonment… Take him down!”
I shit you not, real life judges actually utter those words. Not just the ones off the telly box! Obviously those amongst us that have ever graced a court will be familiar with the Netflix-esq setting and those loaded setentenses which go hand in hand with the slightly overdone wood panelling. 

I on the other hand,I am ‘just a mum’. I’ve never received the golden ticket calling me up for jury duty (as much as I have willed that summons to drop through the letter box – especially in those early years of motherhood. A legitimate break from Mumming? Yella.) I have never been naughty enough to find myself in the goldfish bowl of a dock, and never has it ever occurred to me to exercise my right to witness justice being done, to pop along to our local court and take a pew. 

Until now of course. 

Part of my journalism training is based around court room reporting. Basically learning what you can and can’t write. Pretty crucial as a little slip up could see this muma enjoying a child free break on the inside… (However tempting that might be during my kids’ rabid slagging matches mostly thanks to multiple Sylvanian family custody battles). 

Well I wasn’t going to wait until our class were escorted to a magistrates court for a speeding find or the like. I thought I’d go in big guns: so last week I headed over to Crown Court. 
Bold, right?!

This posed a number of issues; smart clothes were suggested on the website so I dug out my funeral coat and decided that putting on lip gloss was fundamentally ticking that ‘smart’ box. 

The Crown court in our town has been there since the year dot. Wondering if I looked more Crim or barrister I asked the kindly security guards where I might find the ‘menu’ for the days proceedings. (Menu?! This isn’t the sodding Harvester! Why did I say that?! Running order, list, itinerary! Any of those would have better helped mask the blaitnet imposter syndrome plastered all over my face). 
Anyway, I chose a court after being given the options like I was ordering a fry up:

 “Well there’s a murder starting in Court A, a Sexual assault in court B, and if your quick you’ll catch the beginning of the rape trial in C!”
Christ. 
Proper baddies, sorry, alledged baddies, were everywhere. 
On the other side of what can only be described as the BFG’s mahogany double door was one of the most elaborate court room movie sets I’ve ever seen. Men in wigs, dark wood panelling, ladies in wigs, a Judge, capes, and a mahoosive glass dock right in the middle of it all. With an alledged baddie inside.
This is probably the right time to tell you that I love drama. A drama magnet if you will. I love nothing more than ‘information sharing’ with my friends, and getting the inside scoop on anything I can. 
Suddenly here I was, hearing the ultimate secret. 
The usher of the court did give me a slight death stare, but we quickly moved passed that as I asked her 101 questions during the ‘rise’ (when the judge left to hang out in his chamber, how Game of Thrones of him!)



My jaw dropped as the judge summarised this particular man’s crimes (this was a quickie before the main trail of the day, stack ‘m high…) He described how this alledged baddie had injured another so badly that the victim would need care for the rest of his life. How not only had he committed this crime and pleaded guilty (which he got a pat on the back for), he offered no explanation as to why he stabbed another, and showed no remourse. 

The accused just stood there in a hoodie, slouched to one side when the judge asked him to stand for sentencing. How could a fellow human be that evil? 
He had not one member of his family there, not one friend. What must his mother think! 
No one else watched him get sentenced to 10 years inprisonment. I was the only joe bloggs to see him meet his fate that morning.

 

I felt sick. (Point taken that I need to harden up before I take to the press bench!). 
I just couldn’t believe my eyes. Or ears. 
I watch endless crime programs, a good court room drama is always a particular favourite of mine. But this was real life. I wasn’t wrapped up in my blankly with my old slippers on the sofa. This baddie’s next 10 years was being served up right in front of me.
I did spot the judge notice my astonishment. I have been blessed (?!?) with THE most expressive of faces. 

Nothing is hidden amongst my fine lines and acne scars. Which is a major problem when playing poker. Or in court… 
As fast as he was taken down (literally, they took him down the stairs in the dock!) and the barristers switched over it was time for another. In walked the next one. Up to the dock he went. And another after him. 
It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be hard pressed to find a story in these parts.  
I saw a jury sworn in. They looked just like the jury from broadchurch. How realistic I thought!

***

The school playground that afternoon felt like willy wonker’s chocolate factory by comparison. 
Fluffy marsh mellows floated past as innocent giggles wafted by. 
And then the toddler daughter started to demand a third snack whilst we waited in the drizzle, and cried when I couldn’t produce a rabbit out of a hat. My school daughter cried becasue it was ballet day for toddler daughter. Toddler daughter didn’t want to go to ballet either.
 I put on my best judge voice, and marched them up the road – still in my funeral coat. 
I went back for more the following day. .


“Did you eat popcorn there Muma?”

“No darling, I barely breathed”

Secrets of a Reception Veteran

by Muma on the Edge, posted in parenting, Uncategorized

I’ve done the time..
Darcie and I began ‘big school’ last year. We were rookie novices back then; eyes wide, shoes polished (her) make up always on (me) all ready and uncreased for every drop-off. Well my friends, times have changed, let me tell you. We are now old hands, reception veterans, if you will. And, as we are coming to the dying days of the summer term I am getting ready to pass the Newbie baton on to those unsuspecting preschoolers.
As part of this reception graduation I’ve compiled a list of my 5 essentials every Muma needs when entering the murky world of BIG SCHOOL…
1) Sharpie Marker pen
Yes, I did it too: ordered meters and meters of fabric and Iron on name tape. Of course when I was getting ebay-happy with my order I never once stopped to consider that I have never sewn anything in my life (the frog in yr 4 doesn’t count). I was trying to be The Perfect Muma. How I intended to sew on a name tape to every pinafore, polo shirt, jumper, PE kit, and apparently pants and socks too, I’ll never know! But I didn’t sweat the small stuff. Surely these Muma skills arrive with the name tapes. They didn’t and the result wasn’t pretty. Don’t fall for the ‘easy’ iron-on variety either. They peel, burn a bit and don’t survive the spin cycle. You heard it here first!
So step away from the bastard name tapes. This is all you need:
It’s Sharpie to the rescue.
2) Costume design degree
As you can tell from the above point, I am not a dab hand with a needle and thread. However you are about to enter a 10 month stretch of your life when you will be regularly challenged, often at short notice (that’s their favourite) to make some sort of costume. And of course ‘the children’ get a prize for the best one. What the actual F?! I sat up and safety pin a costume together while dream boat sleeps on and SHE gets the prize. Ok then…
I made an entire angel costume using just safety pins for the oh-so-sweet Nativity: thank you very much.
Please Note: World Book Day is the biggie, this is the Met Ball of the Primary school world. Big prizes are at stake here. Do not be fooled by any facebook chit chat which might suggest Jimmy’s Muma is just ‘throwing something together last minute’. NO SHE AIN’T. You know the story about the shoe maker’s elves… uh huh.
Find out the date your school is showcasing it’s World Book Catwalk and get over to ebay or Amazon pronto. (Unless of course you are blessed with talents like my amazing friend Holly at Oh Sew Dinky check her page out!)
3) Sunglasses
I’m not sure how to break this to you, but you’re going to cry. Possibly within the first few minutes of meeting the parents you are about to share 7 years’ worth of school runs with. Actually it took me a couple of weeks to shed a tear. I may have been in a euphoric state at first, as a result of relinquishing control of our little girl who was by all accounts a teensy bit of a handful: something along the lines of GOOD LUCK MISS SCOTT. After a couple of weeks it dawned on Darcie that this school gig was pretty repetitive and showed no signs of fading away. It made her bottom lip tremble, her face screw up and big tears fell from both of our eyes as we realised we would be saying goodbye at the same time everyday for a very very long time.
Anyway as luck would have it I was caught completely off guard no sunglasses- or my toddler to hide behind. I had to walk through the playground, thankfully flanked by my Muma Squad, sobbing. Save yourselves the ugly cry face, take sunglasses, ALL TERM!
4) Patience
This is a bit of a tricky one as you can’t just ‘add to basket’. Particularly for someone like me who lacks patience with ya know – most things. So this is an important one to practice over the summer hols: your patient face.

Here is mine. What do you think? You’d never know that inside I’m screaming any of the following,
“It says RAT EFFING NAPS not MOUSE SLEEPS. Please, for the love of god attempt to sound out the words before I loose the will to live”
Or
“I have marker penned several 4 letter words across your forehead with my eyes and If I have to listen to you harp on about how little Zachariah is far too clever for the class or that little flossychops is just plain bored due to her natural level of intellect I will reach for the Sharpie. And I will not be accountable for my actions.
5) Flexibility
I’m not talking leg above your head stuff, it’s trickier than that. I’m talking diaries. All of a sudden one of 20 Parentmail emails will hit the inbox inviting us to attend a once in a lifetime rendition of Jack and the Beanstalk, or a ‘recital’ (in the loosest sense of the word) of various shaky hitty noisy instruments. Of course you don’t want to miss such delights. It’s a drop everything situation. An understanding boss / Toddler / friends and family is what’s required here.
So Reception sounds super fun right? Bet you can’t wait…!!