OH MY GOURD

This is Gourdon, the very flat headed pumpkin I hacked into existence the other day, which received zero interest from my child whatsoever. Louis couldn't give a shiny shite about pumpkins, probably because they're vegetables. Come to think of it, I would probably have had more enthusiasm from him if I'd carved a giant Laughing Cow triangle into a ghost, or whittled a bag of oven chips to create McCain's Haunted Home Fried Castle.

As I was scraping the stringy, genetically modified guts out, never had parenting felt like a more perverse and thankless task. But I'm getting quite attached to old Gourd. I like his lopsided, pointed teeth and his deep, mournful eyes. In fact, he's the only root vegetable who listens to me round here. I tell him everything - my deepest desires, random thoughts. I suppose you could say he's my sounding gourd. (sorry). The problem is he's going mouldy, and has developed a coat of rather dashing ermine fluff, so I'm going to have to put him in the compost before he starts to stink. It's a shame, really, but I'm thinking maybe I could strike up a meaningful relationship with this guy instead:

He's a bit of a hard nut, and pretty hairy, but....phworrgh.

MOST DRAMATIC BUS DRIVER IN THE WORLD

The other day I crossed the road with Louis, in front of a bus sitting at the stop. We got on, all smiles, unmaimed.

Driver: So is that how you teach your kid to cross the road?

Me: Pardon?

Driver: What kind of a way is that to cross the road? I could have hit you!

Me: Well you've got eyes. Don't you look out of the windscreen before you set off?

Driver: Aye! But that's not the way you teach your child to cross the road IS IT?

Me: (getting angry) Don't you tell me what to teach my child.

Driver: I JUST WANT HIM TO LIVE!

Eh? I got off in disgust and stood there patiently waiting for Judgy McBusfuck to depart - then got Louis to give him a little wave, just to show that despite risking his life in front of a stationary vehicle, at least my child had manners. Still, you've got to admire this guy's zeal. He could have a sideline doing parenting classes from the cab of the bus, shouting 'DON'T GIE THE BABY BUCKFAST!' and 'STOP SMACKIN THAT WEAN ITS EARS ARE BLEEDIN' through the little holes in the plexiglass. Supernanny, looks like your days are numbered...

The Wanker Who Came To Tea

I'm no stranger to frugality. I once lived in a bedsit and couldn't afford a new light bulb so I had to sit in the dark until my dole money came through. Ah, those were the days. I did have a 2 litre bottle of White Lightning and a torch, though, so it wasn't that bad. It was a bit of an adventure, really - like being in the Famous Five (if there was only one of them and they were an alcoholic).

Thanks to the Tory cuts, being a mother puts you in a similar situation. If your job allows you to afford the cost of childcare in the first place, you will probably lose that job - and after that, your tax credits and your housing benefit. What's even worse is that for the Sam Cams and Mrs Cleggs, the chill breeze of poverty won't even knock the froth off their cappuccinos. And their Bugaboos will be in your way while you're trying to shoplift Tampax.

It feels like we've all had a visit from The Wanker Who Came To Tea, an unwelcome beast called George who drinks all the water in the tap, and all Daddy's beer, and eats all the food in the fridge. You won't even be able to go to a cafe, because the cafe will have gone bust and you'll just have to huddle in front of a pile of burning tyres, eating your own hair.

Now yummy mummyhood has become a luxury only about 10 people in the UK can afford, the average mother is nothing more than a fragrant tramp, who saves up her coppers to buy chocolate buttons, rather than cider. (well, maybe a bit of cider.) And just because we're skint doesn't mean that motherhood is going to get any less shockingly expensive. People don't understand just how many Percy Pigs and cartons of juice these little monsters can get through. And that's not including pants, socks, haircuts, shoes and essential items for the mother herself, like Tunnocks tea cakes and fags.

To put things in perspective a little, here's a list of what mothers really spend to get through the average week:

THE TRUE COST OF MOTHERHOOD

Freddo bars- £15

Emergency coffee - £50

Food (from a carefully budgeted list) £80

Food (too busy to make a fucking boring list) add £50 extra

Soft play entrance fees - £10

Informal compensation payment to the parents of the child your kid injured with a large padded rectangle - £100

Haircut after child glues his own head to the table - £10

Unnecessary nursery trip to Bollocks Country Park - £20

Birthday present for some kid you've never heard of - £10

Emergency dash to the pub to talk to friends about useless husband - £20

Wine for Mummy - £40

Pornography for Daddy - £4.99

TOTAL: £500.99

A lot, isn't it? Now I know you could say that your child doesn't need to go on that nursery trip or have their hair cut (it's only a bit of glue, after all). But the rest is so essential that I don't think even the sharpest axe could find room to make cuts. Over to you George - but remember - if you touch my Freddo bar, I will hunt you down and destroy you.

the devil's playground

The play park used to be a special place. A place to have wild, abandoned fun, to slide, to jump, to be young. And then when you were 13 it was the place where you could chug Asda own brand cider and smoke and snog (not that i did any of these things - I was at home on full thermonuclear alert after reading the back of the Frankie Goes To Hollywood Two Tribes 12 inch).

Now I'm a mother it feels like the closest thing to being dead that I can imagine. Standing about while your child goes on the slide 154 times, hauling them on and off climbing frames and ladders, interminably pushing the swing, drizzle gently soaking your anorak. What a pain in the arse. What's worse is that you're meant to look like you're enjoying yourself, which is impossible when you're there every SINGLE DAY and you haven't even got any vodka or chocolate buttons to cheer yourself up. (Of course, there's always the joyful laughter of your child, but you know...whatever.) When there's nobody there, the play park cruelly echoes your loneliness, with its empty swings and unloved see-saw. And when it's full, it's like a crap party with no music, filled with people you don't like. Here are just a few of them...

1. The 'fun' parents

These crazy parents are getting stuck in and they don't care who knows it. These are parents who probably only see their children twice a week - either that or they're on brilliant meds. Whoo! Watch out Ollie! Mummy's coming down the slide! Oh no! Mummy's being cut out of the slide by paramedics! Silly Mummy! Ow! Fuck!

2. Clueless Dad

Clueless Dad would rather be on his laptop playing Fifa 2011 but his annoying life partner has turfed him out because she wants some Me Time (having bubble baths and wanking, no doubt). CD thinks nothing of putting a 3 month old baby who can't support her own neck on the death slide or walking off to write a text while his toddler toddles off the roundabout and into the jaws of a passing Rottweiler. Because he's a man though, all the ladies in the playground love him, despite the fact that he's failed to spot that his kid has just been run over by an ice cream van.

3. The Paranoid Safety Officer

Calm down, dear. Your child is on a small bouncy rocking horse 2cm off the ground, not roaring around Silverstone with The Stig.

4. The possible paedo

There are only two types of men who sit alone in playgrounds. 1. Male characters in dramas who have lost their wives and children in a car crash and are sitting on a bench looking tragic and windswept. 2. Big massive kiddie fiddlers.

5. Mums Who Know Each Other

If you're on your own with your child, Mums Who Know Each Other are like the cool girls in school who smoked and shoplifted from Chelsea Girl and were allowed to wear electric blue mascara (I am old, OK?). Oh, you think, how I wish I could be like them. So self assured. So cool. Then you realise that they're a bunch of slightly overweight women on maternity leave who are wearing big milk stained sack tunic tops from Primark and are having the most boring conversation in the world about nappy rash. But you still want to be their friend. Maybe if you ask nicely they'll give you a rice cake? Will they fuck.


WATCHING TV WITH MY PARENTS

I'm at my parent's house at the moment doing a passable imitation of a sneering 14 year old goth. As well as eating too much, I am watching loads of telly, which is great, as I'm married to someone who works for a well known British broadcasting corporation and has to watch 75 episodes of the Weakest Link all day. This means that the last thing he wants to do is watch Masterchef with me and listen to my Gregg Wallace impression: 'If I 'ad that puddin' in a restaurant I'd FINISH THAT OFF' (usually works best with a jam doughnut wedged in your mouth).

Anyway, we were watching Whitechapel, an improbable crime drama based on the Krays. The tension was mounting. The gritty gangster subplot was being unveiled. Someone went for a slash and ended up getting slashed, blood splattering all over the grimy urinal floor.

Then my Mum piped up: 'Oh, I don't like it when you see men going to the toilet on the telly.'

I'm With Stupid

Dressing your offspring in slogan t-shirts can be a minefield. I dress Louis in all manner of rock and roll paraphenalia, even though he doesn't give a toss about guitars. But be careful - some sartorial decisions could damage your child and make you look like a total moron...

1. BAD BOY T-SHIRTS

In Mothercare/Primark etc you can't move for kid's clothes that say 'MY DAD'S IN PRISON', 'I'm A LITTLE SHIT' and 'MY FIRST COURT APPEARANCE'. Clothes with the words 'Trouble', 'Noisy', 'Naughty' and 'Terror' emblazoned across them are not cute - they just re-affirm everybody's belief that your badly behaved kid is going to end up in a young offenders institute after being caught driving a stolen Vauxhall Nova through the window of William Hill.


2. BAND T-SHIRTS

Parents, ask yourself this. Does your kid actually like the Ramones? Or does he like the theme tune to Spongebob? Think for a minute and act accordingly.

'Damn you, Joey, Dee-Dee and those two other ones!'

3. DADDY'S LITTLE WHATEVER

Daddy has very little to do with the whole birthing process, but he's made to feel included after the event via the medium of children's clothing. Therefore Daddy this and Daddy that is written all over every single baby gro and burp cloth in the world. Other more pertinent slogans might include: 'Daddy, would it kill you to do the dishes once in a while?' or 'Daddy's on Chatroulette talking to dirty ladies.'

4. DESIGNER T-SHIRTS

When rich people aren't dressing their kids like characters from a Bret Easton Ellis novel or sending them to boarding school, they like to put them in 'casual' designer tees which cost £200. Note: making a ginger kid wear a yellow Ed Hardy t-shirt is child abuse.




5. FUTURE SOMETHING OR OTHER

Aspirational parents love to project their desires onto their children, sending them to an endless round of French/ballet/Suzuki violin lessons. So it's good to plant some subliminal career propaganda on a t-shirt as early as possible. 'Please don't let him be a binman' the parents of this kid are silently screaming, as their baby tries to eat yet another copy of Dear Zoo.



Or how about this? No pressure, like.

OH...GOODY

Remember when you used to get a goody bag at the end of a party, rather than a hangover and an STD? I still have feelings for a 2B pencil I got at Natalie Strugnell's party that was prematurely snatched away from me by my Mum because it contained lead (I mean, like DUH). I also remember with great affection this rubbery little yellow thing you squeezed in between your fingers and it popped across the room. (These were simpler times -back then people used to have a heart attack when the phone rang or there was more than one programme on the telly). Yes, no matter that the birthday boy or girl was a bitchy, ratty little stinker or that someone peed in the jelly or that somebody dislocated their shoulder during Pass the Parcel- the goody bag was always the saving grace.

Now, of course children's party goody bags have to be filled with guest passes for Disneyworld, Nintendo DSs and ipods emblazoned with pink or blue Swarovski crystals. Depending on how Sam Cam your friends are, you can come home with anything from a Slinky to a Swiss chalet style Wendy house in Val D'Isere with a built-in Smeg fridge. But no matter what the income bracket of the party-giver's parents, the goody bag staples of bubbles, sweets and a couple of balloons is still going strong. It's a tradition. Bit of harmless fun, isn't it?

Or is it?

The other day Louis went to a party and in his goody bag, he got this:

Now call me picky, but I wouldn't have thought a DEVIL SPERM BALLOON was particularly appropriate for a children's party. What next? Gary Glitter stickers? Comedy tits? A subscription to Asian Babes?

mo' money, mo' imaginary problems

No matter how much I try to convince myself that I want to live like a true bohemian - be more political, recycle more, produce free spirited children with wild hair, drink coffee out of jam jars in my studio, occasionally have a random exhibition of my belly button fluff in Berlin - there is always a little voice in my head which says: 'Fuck it. I want to win the lottery. I want to roll about in my private jet eating gold-plated Mars Bars with Kanye West on a rug made out of OWL BABIES.'

Yesterday I caught myself doing Lottery Maths. This always happens when I'm overdrawn, which I have been ever since Louis started demanding things like food, childcare and shoes. First, I imagine a nice chunky lottery win. This is harder than it seems. Too much and I have to give £50 million to Medicin San Frontiers before I can even start thinking about Mulberry handbags and diamond teeth. Too little and obviously I run out of cash before I can even sign the invisible deeds on the imaginary villa in Tuscany.

My perfect number is about £979,000, which means I don't have to feel guilty about having millionaire status, I can afford a house, a modest holiday home, and there'll be enough left to buy shitloads of Timorous Beasties wallpaper and Swedish designer chandeliers. It terms of social status it'll probably put me up there with a Primrose Hill Yummy Mummy. Along with the tasteful designer labels, I might even be able to afford a spot of drug/self harm hell - enough to write a tedious autobiography about it anyway. (By the way, you must read it - she manages to recount her downward spiral into heroin abuse AND boast about her en-suite at the same time).

Obviously, I won't be sprinkling smack on my Whole Foods quinoa salad and waking up covered in hemp seeds and vomit in time to collect Rollo and Pilates from the Steiner School. Money won't turn my head that much. But I might book myself the odd vigorous session with a Swedish masseur, and of course, I will be buying this and filling it with the finest Chateau Lafitte money can buy.

But then the guilt sets in. I didn't give any money to starving people. My family will still be living in their old houses, plagued by noisy neighbours and leaking taps. There will be recriminations, resentments - people will laugh at my diamond teeth! How will I look tramps in the eye as I sweep past them with my designer baubles? How will I look my friends in the eye as I tell them about that chic little wine bar in Cannes? How will Louis get on at boarding school while I'm skiing? Will he be permanently damaged and start wearing loafers and his collars turned up on his shirts?

It's a good job I never actually buy a lottery ticket.

Stretching the definition of fun

If you ever see a sign advertising a 'Family Fun Day' - run. Run in the opposite direction. Run to the offy. Run to the airport. Run to the nearest place of worship and swear to God that you will never consider attending another family fun day again. For it says in the Old Testament (King James version, Deuteronomy 22.6) 'And lo, the Lord saw the children of Israel queuing for sinful entertainments, and with a great terribleness he did smite them by charging £2 for an ice cream and seven fucking quid for a Dora The Explorer balloon.'

Of course, this stupid heathen ignored all warnings and took Louis to a family fun day which was - to paraphrase Iggy and his Stooges- NO FUN. The weather started out cold and immediately became blazing hot, meaning I was wading about in furry lined boots and thick tights in 24 degree heat. Kids everywhere were acting like unmedicated schizophrenics - wailing, pooing in the bushes and gnawing on their own legs. There was a bouncy castle that was more popular than Glastonbury, a real fire engine that kids could sit in and relentlessly press the 'nee-naw' button, a selection of lame stalls and an events 'arena' featuring a bum-numbing display of falconry. All the way through this I was clinging onto sanity like Wiley Coyote hanging off the edge of a cliff with a stick of 'ACME' dynamite up his ass. When, I wondered, would the much- touted 'fun' part of this family day begin?

Luckily the tedious birds of prey event was the highlight of the day, in that a falcon called Goose saw his chance for some real fun and fucked off. Watching the handler getting increasingly desperate and dry mouthed as his prize bird flew up into a thermal 3 miles over Glasgow was actually pretty funny. Running out of things to say apart from 'Goose? GOOOOOOOSE! I'm supposed to be going out tonight!' the crowd grew bored and he was left frantically swinging his meat for half an hour on his own. This had a knock on effect on the running order, holding up the following act, the Ducks of Hazzard. I amused myself for a while imagining the performing ducks in their dressing room wearing dicky bows and bitching about falcons ('Darling, he's so unprofessional - he's not even a real goose').

Then five minutes later, my friend's child went missing, causing even more obscenely high stress levels and much bollocking when he was found. After that my friend's other child looked like she was spoiling for an asthma attack, Louis broke out in a blotchy heat rash that made him look like he was made of Spam, and I got candy floss stuck in my teeth. Oh yeah, and then I bashed my head getting into the taxi in the way home and cracked my skull so hard thought I was having a brain haemorrhage. It still hurts. It ALL still hurts.

Fun.

And the ducks were shit.


I AM A FIRST CLASS DIV

One morning a week I start work in Edinburgh at 9am, thus I have to stumble bleary-eyed out of bed at 6 to be at the train station for 7. (In some countries, this has replaced cutting off people's hands as punishment for petty crimes). As I was not on the ball, I pressed the wrong button and when I was on the train, the guard informed me that I had stupidly paid over the odds for a first class ticket. Still, I thought I'd better make the best of my expensive faux pas and I wafted into the hallowed Scotrail 1st class compartment, feeling like Lauren Bacall in Murder On The Orient Express.

God, what a disappointment. No flunky appeared to carry my Louis Vuitton trunk, and the only perk I was offered was a pre-wrapped cinnamon bun that looked like a dog poo with raisins in it. Meanwhile, behind the glass sliding doors I could hear commuters laughing and having a whale of a time while I sat in air-conditioned silence with a Chinese tourist who was uncomprehendingly reading a copy of the Scotsman. Oh, how I longed to be back with the great unwashed! To feel what they feel, see what they see! To try out my happy hardcore ringtones with no regard for other commuters! To talk loudly into my phone about meetings! To read the Metro letters page while sitting next to someone with bad breath from Falkirk! Man, it's tough living in a gilded cage. That's what P. Diddy must feel like all the time.