Once upon a time...

Once upon a time I was a Chalet Girl!

That’s right.

I was.

Me? The Chalet Girl?

Yep, this girl woman you see before you with baby sick on her jeans and a mascara smudge on her cheek, once upon a time lived the dream in The Three Vallies…

Once upon time I lived in France (and never spoke French); my boss was a Lady (as in the title); cleaned the bogs of the rich and famous (well someone off Corrie and the drummer from Status Quo); necked a toffee vodka shot daily (warmed you up); skied whenever I wanted (not THAT much) and woke up to this…

That fresh air did wonders for a hangover.



Me and Soph; Chalet Girls!

 And I got to share it all with my best mate!

The chalet we worked in was beautiful! And an absolute bitch to clean. It slept twelve, not including the two bedraggled and inebriated chalet girls who slept in the cloak room.

(Seriously, when the chalet was out of season the family who owned it used our bedroom as a “Cloakroom”). 

Thankfully we had been best friends since we were 11 and knew each other very well, as that small space tested us, our friendship and our sanity!

But that tiny room was for just for sleeping. We were in Meribel baby! The rest of the time we partied… And skied… Of course! Oh and cleaned and cooked – we did that A LOT!



There I am - ski jumping!

 But what I remember most was the freedom… The freedom of the cold, thin air against your face as the skyline raced past as a blurry snow-topped mountain. The freedom of space, space that can only be found when the world around you is trapped under snow. Freedom from deadlines, bills and paper. Freedom from magazines, Television and fashion. Freedom gained by being frozen in a time, a place and a moment. We were frozen from when we arrived and the first snow fell till it melted away and we left.

Once upon a time I was a chalet girl… I watched decent live music every night of the week, I had great skin that only a high altitude can give, spent my free time on a pair of skies, ate the rarest steak known to a Briton, danced in ski boots, snogged a stranger in salopettes, laughed hysterically in a cable car, found friends in strange places, came home with the bread van, went to a bin bag ball and watched the world from a mountain top!

 Once upon a time that Chalet Girl was me!

Check out the brains behind the badge for "Once upon a time..." at Older Mum in a Muddle.

The Torch!

The Olympics are in London this year. Yes really they are - did you not know? How could you have missed that?

Of course you know. EVERYBODY knows. You can't even pop out for a loaf of bread without bumping into Team GB wrist strap, or a Team GB mug, or a Team GB T shirt... or a Team GB rubber duck. RUBBER DUCK? Really? Yes. Really.

Yes, every one knows about the Olympics. Especially my 4yo. He knows EVERYTHING!

He knows about all the races, running AND jumping ones, and he knows that they are in London where the Queen lives (The Queen who just had a party). He knows all about Wenlock and Mandeville, in fact Wenlock came for a sleepover. He knows all about The Union Jack AND he knows about The Torch! Oh yes he knows all about The Torch.

That Torch

Yes that Torch. The one that was coming to our sleepy little town and lighting it up. Yes his school were very excited about the torch. They've been watching videos, mapping its progress, making paper mache torches, doing a torch collage, drawing in it charcoal, making a display... they had done it all.

They had a torch calendar to count down the days and they were even putting on a family Olympic breakfast on Torch Day

So there was no way we could not go to watch the procession. No way. All weekend O was rabbiting on about it and then on the morning of Torch Day the first thing he said when he woke up was: "I'm so excited to see the torch"

But it was OK because I had prepared for it. It didn't matter that we had to be on the main road at 7.50 am when on most school mornings it's an achievement to get there at 8.50am. Or that The FH would be leaving even earlier because of possible road closures. No that didn't matter because I could do this. I washed my hair the night before. I had everyones' outfits ready and I would just get up an hour earlier. Simple!

Every thing was going so well. The predicted down pour was in fact bright blue skies and brilliant sunshine, my hair was done, the boys were dressed...  I had even found a black shirt dress in my wardrobe that I hadn't worn since having kids, which was once a size "too small" and now fit with "room to spare".We did have a moment when we thought there may be a "missing shoe" disaster, but alas, it was under the couch. I'd even had time to put on make up - lipstick too, which I never wear, but it's a once-in-a-life-time event huh?

I quickly rang my sister and mum to see if they were going and planned to meet them there. It was on these phone calls I discovered that The Torch was not actually arriving at the church till 8.05. But I poo-pooed this; I would aim for 7.50 regardless, just to be safe.

But it only takes one thing doesn't it

Just one.

Turns out our "one thing" was poo! Runny poo running out the side of middle child's nappy and into his shorts and shoes. Runny poo up his back and on his T shirt. Runny poo I had to clean whilst he squirmed and wriggled off the mat and around the living room. Runny poo that trailed behind him. Runny poo that took two thirds of a packet of wipes to clean. Runny poo that took so long to clean the baby screamed and screamed. Runny poo that meant a new out fit, new shoes and a new changing mat were needed. Runny poo that darling little O tried his hardest to help me clean up so he wouldn't miss the torch...

Runny fucking poo!

But it was OK. Because the whole time I was thinking "It's OK, It's not expected till 5 past"

So at just before eight, we left the house, the two little ones strapped in the double buggy. Both red faced with hot tears and Little O frantically running ahead. 30 metres down the road  I spotted my friend casually strolling down and I this filled me with hope -"Great we must be on time". It failed to register with me that said friend is notoriously late. Then...When the main road was in sight... And the crowds and flags could be seen in force... Just at that moment when the stress started to trickle away... I saw them all fall backwards, like rats deserting a ship and my heart dropped out of my size-14-shirt-dress and smashed on the floor!

My friend stopped, turned, caught sight of me and smiled "I think we've missed it". I looked at O. His face crumpled. He tried not to cry. But he did.  Next thing I was hugging him, apologising into his ear as he wiped snot, tears and anger into my black shirt dress.

This is what we missed.

Look at the blue skies! Have that Cumbria!

We pretty much saw every one we knew on that road, as I stood hugging him feeling like the worst parent on the planet, looking surprisingly over-dressed and made up for that time in the morning. And everyone who stopped to see what the matter with sobbing O was looked at me accusingly when I explained we had missed it. I read their thoughts :"I see you had time to put lipstick on though"

We headed up to the school, for the celebratory breakfast but the deflated Samsung advertising batons had more enthusiasm than us.

When we got there, the rats were fleeing again; the school's gas was off and there was no bacon butties! We didn't bother going in. We just waited for the gates to open. The boys ran about, O was pretty much over it, where as me... I just stood there, letting the guilt nibble away.

I couldn't go on FB that day. It was full of updates an pictures of how fabulous it had been. It was like missing Christmas all over again!

I texted the FH. You know, being a PE teacher and all, I thought he would have something to say about it. But he didn't. Instead he fixed it. And this is why I love him.

A lad he teaches had been a torch bearer the previous day and he would bring his torch into school so Oscar could go and see it and get his picture taken with it. Our hero.

My bacon (or should I say beacon) was saved...

Middle child holding up an equally important packet of Walkers Ready Salted.

And we all stood there, admiring O and the torch. Us, the torch bearer and half the staff. The FH takes this moment to ask him "Is it good to hold the torch?"

Do you know what he said...

"Yeah. But it's just like the one like the one that came into my school!"

Anyway we got our first photograph of the five us - sorry six, let's not forget the fucking torch!



 I actually look a lot better in real life. The torch looks the same.



Doing our bit!

Dear Recycling bags,

You know I think the world of you. Your predecessor was more than a bit crap. It blew away every week and rarely managed to keep a plastic bottle or cardboard tube contained. But then you arrived. Easy to use, easy to tie in a knot to keep all the contents enclosed (even on the windiest of days), and if you blew off that was fine too. The collectors would pick you up, I didn't have to helplessly try to retrieve you from a neighbour's garden or from under a car. Recycling bags, you make recycling a joy, not a chore.

I know every borough has its own methods of tackling recycling, but I have to say I like the way Redcar and Cleveland do it! I like the fact they have provided you, recycling bags.

We (by which I mean our council) have always seemed to  be at the forefront of recycling initiatives. I base this knowledge purely on the fact that when visiting friends/relatives around the country we could say things like !"What you don't recycle plastics yet?" and when they proudly showed us their newly council delivered recycling utensil we could say "yeah we've had one of those for ages". To put it bluntly, we were smug. Smug recylcists.

But no other boroughs I visited had quite managed to cotton on to how brilliant the see through roll of recycling bags were. And you are brilliant aren't you?

It was so easy. We religiously used you fortnightly. No drama. And just when we were running out, there you were - a new role - delivered by the friendly recycling men.

But then they stopped that.

It was too high risk. It appeared there was a household somewhere, probably, who wasn't recycling and just had rolls of you popping up every month and they would just keep putting you in a forgotten cupboard somewhere.

So we had to ring a number when we needed you. And the kind recycling men would drop you off. But they stopped that too, as it seemed some thrifty-but-naughty people were using you as bin bags to try and save a few quid.

So then we had to go to the Library to get you. But that was still a bit easy for the sneaky-but-thrifty people to do.

So they gave the library a spreadsheet and we had to tell them our address every time we got you.

And, it seemed, finally,  everything was going ok...

But then the Tories came into power and they said "MAKE THEM PAY!"

So they started charging £2 a roll and The FH said "no more" And our lovely love affair was over.

So I tried to replace you. I tried using Charity bags, like many others, because we have SO many of them I just wanted to use them. But quite rightly, they wouldn't take the charity bags. I mean it wasn't fair on that poor charity worker who thought his look was in one morning and bounded to the depot with a full van only to discover every single was full of milk cartons and toilet roll inners.

Then I tried black bin bags. But they wouldn't take those either. Because they have to be able to see your contents. Heaven forbid a rogue tin can or a newspaper gets inside and the pedantic recycling man unknowingly takes it away with the plastics!

So I went behind The FH's back and I went to library and I bought you. But it wasn't that flimsy little roll for £2 - it was a MEGA roll! Two years worth to be exact! The FH couldn't complain about that. You were a bargain!

So to all the  people who are no using you because those pesky Tories started charging... It's not that bad really, £2 every 2 years to help save the planet - I mean you pay a lot more that to have your regular rubbish shipped off to a landfill to sit and barely decompose for, like... FOREVER!

And finally, to end on a high I just wanted to let you know recycling bags, you have made difference. When I was at school a friend's dad would collect tin cans and take them hom to crush and send off to be recycled. We thought he was  wierdo. He was just ahead of his time. Before I left teaching I saw some school kids set up and run the school's recycling system as they were astonished the school didn't have one in place when they were all recycling at home.

I think you've pretty single-handedly  much changed the outlook of the youth. Ok the green box and the blue bag have played their part, but we know who's the brains of the operation.

Much Love

Your number 1 fan.


For more of my letters click here. For a blog that contains ONLY letters click here.

Today I baked... That'll show him.

We were in Tesco. On a Saturday. Living the dream.

Two aisles from the end he heel turns, with the trolley, and declares "we're done".
"What about the last two? I ask, even though I know exactly what he's playing at.
"There's only biscuits and wine down there." he shrugs
"They are only my two favourite things" I reply. And when he continued in the wrong direction I added:"And you've been jumping on the sweet tooth band-wagon recently. " he stalled "only yesterday you were hunting for a biscuit crumb to have with your tea".
He turned. I had him. And then he twitched and said: "I know Fran. But with all this spare time you've got I've been expecting you to bake"

He smiled.

I smiled.

And time stood still.

There we were, in front of the Bernard Matthew's Turkey Burgers, having a smile off.
Oh I knew he was joking. But it was one of those clever jokes. He was dangling that fishing line just above my smiling lips.

"I'll show him." I thought. "Just you wait sunshine. I'm going to bake like no ones baked before. Bake till his sons know the difference between a torte and a tart... Till those burly boys can make a souffle and decorate cupcakes with iced roses..I'm gonna bake till I take get a rosette for best in show... Till Kirsty Allsop is ringing me up for advice on how to make the perfect scone... Till... "

Well that was the plan.

Until today when me and big child made these.

And we put the choc chips in the flapjack mix before the syrup cooled, so they all melted into a goop. And then slightly overcooked them so I had to "divide them into squares" with a bread knife and a saw action.

But the Victoria Sponge was nice (renamed "strawberry cake" by Little O as that's a much better name for it, obvs).





But, alas, I'm bored of baking now.

It's a bit of a faff on.

And I passed on to big child all my "licking the bowl" techniques, to ensure you get every last scrap of mixture. So I felt my work here was done.

Not to mention how bloody expensive it is! I mean you can pick up a 4 pack of basic biscuits for a quid.

So glad I took his credit card to the shop to buy the flour which had been sifted by angels and the gold flecked cooking chocolate.

That'll show him.

If my mum had been a mummy blogger

Picture borrowed from HERE

These would have been in the archives:

• Well that shut her up

                 (Middle child has a tantrum about fried egg, till she gets one flung in her face)

• The hour long stick dance

                  (Middle child decides she wants to perform a dance with a stick to the whole campsite at the annual campsite meal. It lasts nearly an hour. Lots of politely smiling French people. Cringing parents)

• Heil Hitler

                  (I told my son (4) son to go to bed. He made a Nazi Salute and shouted "Heil Hitler". I bollocked him and then realised we've probably been watching too much 'Allo 'Allo)

• How not to pack a caravan

                 (We set off to France in new Caravan. End up on the side of a Motorway, Caravan in a thousand pieces. Badly packed apparently.)

• There's a rat in the kitchen

                 (Well in the bedroom actually. But, A RAT in our house!. Big drama!)

Will my kids like my blog?

Ok, so here's the usual blurb... I don't write this blog for anyone else, I write it for myself... blah blah blah... you know the drill.

However... do you think my kids will like it?

Because if that was me, all grown up and 18 and THE blog still existed, I'd probably be like, "Why didn't you do on like AKA MUMA? That's really cool.".

And when they ask me questions about their childhood will they get sick of me saying "I dunno, check the blog" - when really it's just about all the ridiculous things I did.

And they're boys, so they might be all "it's a bit WORDY isn't it? Didn't you ever think of uploading any pictures or those - video things you had back then?"

Maybe I just won't ever show them.

Maybe the Tories will have abolished Blogging, Twitter and all things fun by then.

If you believe...

If you believe Twitter, some Mums get up and float around a tidy house where their children get themselves ready for school whilst they make homemade porridge for breakfast. Then they spend the morning looking in recipe books for inspiration on what to do with their homegrown veg for lunch.

If you believe Facebook, people you went to school with, who couldn't tie their own shoelaces, have the most AMAZING lives and are now totally, drop dead GORGEOUS.

I think there's a little bit of BS going on here aand there. That is all.