Beware PMT (men - you might want to look away now).

If you are a man and particularly if you are a man related to me in some way, either by blood or marriage, you might want to look away now because today I'm going to talk about women's things. In particular I'm going to talk about PMT. I know! This is how to spot the signs...

You know you have PMT when the mother in front of you, innocently dawdling into the playground in the morning, walks just a little too slowly for your liking causing you to think - WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU HURRY UP, YOU STUPID BAG!

You know you have PMT when you realise you have forgotten something at the till in Waitrose (I make no apologies) and you politely turn to the man behind to say - "I'm so sorry, I've forgotten something, I won't be a 
tick," and he turns his head away from you to indicate that he is annoyed and this makes you want to SLAP HIM IN THE FACE.

You know when you have PMT when your youngest child says: "Are you sad, Mummy, that I'm leaving primary school and you won't see your friends any more?" and you want to BURST INTO TEARS. 

You know you have PMT when you come back from taking same child to a club/tutor/playdate and it's your tenth trip in the car somewhere that day and you left the kitchen immaculately tidy (it took you hours) and someone has made a sandwich and in the process scattered breadcrumbs and ham and lettuce and God-knows-what all over the kitchen work top and the floor and so you scream at the top of your voice - WHO DID THIS! And then you make the two eldest children clean up while actually timing them with the cooker timer: "You have four minutes! I'm going to sit here and drink my tea," and the eldest one shouts - "Do you have PMT or something!"

You know when you have PMT when UNICEF call you on your mobile in the middle of timed clearing-up session and the conversation goes: "We're just calling to tell you about our work in Syria..."

"That's great. I fully support your work in Syria, which is why I texted so you could buy warm blankets for freezing children, but I don't think you should then use my number to call me in the middle of the day."

"Oh I'm sorry would you prefer me to phone in the evening?"

"Not really, I would prefer you not to phone me at all. I would like to decide when and how I donate. I don't agree with cold calling."

"This isn't cold calling, we're just ringing to tell you..."

"...and I don't think you should argue with me when I say I don't want to talk to you."

"Well, madam, I think you should just relax." 

And you think - RELAX! YOU WANT ME TO RELAX! HOW CAN I RELAX! MY KITCHEN FLOOR IS COVERED WITH CRAP! but you can't say this because the person has hung up on you and consequently you would like to KILL THAT PERSON, if only you knew who that person was, or had any idea how to ring them back.

And then, finally, you really know you have PMT when your new phone app, called Pink Pad by the way, which tracks your menstrual cycle and is jolly useful, sends you a message that says: "Aunty Flow is coming" and you think...

Oh!

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

The Last Sports Day.

It should be my chest the teacher is pinning a 'well done' sticker on to, not the kids'. What have they done that's so special? Turn up as instructed and run and hop about a bit and throw a foam javelin? Pah! Piece of cake. They want to try being a mother and planning for sports day every year like it's a military operation. Trying to find something that resembles P.E. kit out of the bottom of a festering dirty washing basket at 11 o'clock the night before to a symphony of "Where are my trainers Mummy? You've moved them!" whistling down your lug holes. 

I don't know where your sodding trainers are, why can't you look after your own Goddam stuff, like I have to do? (That's in my head, not out loud.)

And now I can't speak. My heart is pounding like the proverbial percussion instrument. It takes a full five minutes before I'm able to utter the blasphemy forming from somewhere deep within, because I've just done the parents race again, for the last time. Ever. 

Well I had to, didn't I? Even though it's exhausting and exhilarating and excruciating and embarrassing all mixed into one  - like one massive big E.

Did my boobs swing about with a life of their own? Did I look as ungainly as a gangly goose? The sheer terror of it all is hardly worth the candle. But really, does anyone give a ****? No. I should just embrace experience whenever it comes my way - any experience, even if it is flailing around on an athletics track in south London with a load of other puffed-out middle-aged parents.

This is what I tell myself, it's my new philosophy. One brought on by mid-life and the realisation that it's the beginning of the end, full-time parenting wise. The prospect of no longer being there for them ALL THE TIME is flickering at me like a very dim nightlight at the end of a winding toy-strewn plastic play tunnel. From IKEA. Plus I'd hate myself if I didn't do it.

To be honest, I'm full of mixed emotions. Thirteen years of primary sports days. In a row. The child/children in question always needing an extra special protein-filled packed lunch. Me always needing an extra special protein-filled packed lunch. And a flask of tea, and lots of water and snacks, and some gin wouldn't go amiss. 

Every year with the massive rucksack, weighed down with food and liquid and sun block and rain mac/umbrella/sun hat, depending on which extreme weather is being thrown at us, and it always is extreme weather down there on that baking/sodden/windswept athletics track with a microclimate all its very own. 

It might be slightly chilly out in the real world, "Drizzly day with a light wind," perhaps, but once in the middle of that track this suddenly translates into "Howling wind, rain, sleet, expect to be swept off your feet with hypothermia". Only they don't tell you that on the weather forecast on the Today programme on Radio 4 in the morning. Oh no.

Ditto a pleasant day: "Fine and sunny, 19 degrees..." Not once we get down there, it isn't. Then the sun will be beating down on us like we're hapless ants trapped in a plant pot, silently frying to death. "Boiling sun that will peel the skin off your neck like it's cling-film the very next morning... while you're listening to the Radio 4 weather forecast". That's more like it, and that was this year - Wednesday. Hot. As. Hell.

But I shouldn't moan because I actually love it. You heard me. Loathe to admit it as I am. Because the track in question is just down the road from us, nestled among beautiful mature trees, a pleasant stroll across the Common. And now I don't have to spend the whole day there because I don't have children running in the morning session and the afternoon session, or at exactly the same time on different parts of the track, or a toddler to chase after, and I'm not pregnant, or dragging a laden buggy across a lumpy field while chasing after said toddler, it's actually rather nice. At last.

And sports day is one those occasions primary schools give to us to mark the passing of time. You know: Ah! It's summer now, it must be, never mind the crap weather because it's sports day - see! And then, it's actually Autumn now because it's parent's evening. Oh yes! It's Christmas now because it's the carol concert and the early years play...

I'm going to miss it all like hell.

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Wash day.

Who does the washing in your house? Do you share it? Is it all your responsibility? Or do your clothes smell of rancid old cheese because nobody gets round to it? 

I like to think we're a fairly equal and forward thinking household here in Tooting. Husband does his fair share of chores, possibly even more than his fair share at times and he loves, I mean really loves, putting a wash on. It's kind of weird. 

I'll often get up on a Saturday morning to find he's already put a load in. He's an early riser you see. It won't necessarily be the load that needs to go in, of course. You can bet it's not the school shirts or that P.E. kit that would benefit from a jolly good sterilisation at an extremely high temperature but there'll be a load in nevertheless, usually his own stuff, some shirts or running gear or something, but often with other bits and bobs out of the washing bin as well. 

Oh and he loves stripping a bed and putting that in. "Shall we do the boys' beds?" he'll say and before you can say Ariel, he's denuded all three down to the mattress covers and got the whole lot whirring around in some suds. And then there's stain remover. Don't get him started on stain remover...

(I should point out that this photograph is merely for illustrative purposes and in no way represents an accurate portrayal of my husband.)

If he spots a wine stain or a bit of ground-in grass on the knees he's in heaven. "That needs pre-soaking," he'll say, or, "You are going to spray that with Vanish before it goes in aren't you?" He loves Vanish. So much so that I've started to go down the "You love it so much, you do it" line of thinking. 

Then there's hanging it out on the line, he loves that too. Adores it. He'll even go out there late in the afternoon in winter and peg it all out in that last hour of daylight. Consequently I'll sometimes accidentally-on-purpose leave a wet load by the back door. "Does that need to go on the line?" he'll say, tripping over it, all unsuspecting like. 

"Oh yes!" I'll say, "Did I leave it there? I just haven't got round to it..." Because I hate it, I've got to be certain it's a warm sunny dry day before I'll venture out there. I mean, pegging it all out properly? Bit by bit? Shirts upside down, sleeves the right way out with socks paired together? Jeeez! I have much more important stuff to be getting on with, like reading the paper or updating my status on Facebook. And what if the weather turns? I might have to bring it all in again and hang it inside. No thanks.

Recently he's got into extra spin cycles as well. I'm not allowed to take towels out or the duvet cover unless it's had that extra spin. "Aren't these things build into the wash cycle already?" I ask. 

"Oh no!' he replies, "You must spin heavy things like towels again to get all the water out." Apparently he read it in the manual. He loves the manual. I would rather stick pins in my eyes than read a washing machine manual. I'm funny like that.

He's not so keen on putting clean clothes away though. Not likely. In fact he never does it. Ever. Show me a man who actually puts piles of clean clothes away and I'll... Well, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll be very surprised that's for sure. They'll even step over a pile of clean washing in this house, if it's left at the bottom of the stairs to go up, all three of the blighters. They're collectively clothes blind the lot of them. 

But I do have to concede Husband is a bit of a whizz with the washing. And the ironing. I never do any of that. He irons all his own shirts without a word of complaint. But we all make mistakes, don't we? I've never let him forget that time on holiday in Italy when he took control of the top loader in the villa we were renting and did a great big white wash along with something very, very green that was left behind the lid. 

My sexy white shorts have never been quite the same since.

Here's some washing he did earlier, on Saturday...

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Feeling sick.

Youngest has his secondary school interview. I say interview, really it's just a chat to welcome him to the school and tell him what to expect in September. As we walk through the gates he says he feels sick. "It's just nerves," I say, "You'll be okay in a minute."

I don't tell him that on my first day at secondary school I threw up on the front steps as I left home. I was terrified. We had just moved to a new house in a new area and I didn't know anyone. I'd never set foot in the school. It was to be the fourth different school I went to in five years because we had lived abroad. I wouldn't recommend it. Going to four different schools in five years, that is. The school was okay.  

I do tell Youngest that he is lucky to be going to a school where his two brothers are and lots of his friends will be going, and lucky to be invited in for a chat and an induction day later in the summer.

I remember when it was Middle One's interview a few years back. "Welcome to the school," said the teacher. I was waiting for her to ask him what he was looking forward to. He was all prepared to say that he wanted to learn German and couldn't wait to do experiments in a real science lab. But she didn't ask him what he was looking forward to, at least not at first. She said, "Hello. Our Lethal Weapons Policy is not to bring knives in school..." 

Youngest had to write a personal statement to take with him. I'm not sure anyone ever reads these things. His was all about penguins. He loves penguins. Then down at the bottom there was a lonely little line: "I hope I don't get bullied when I come to this school". All his friends tell him he will be bullied because he's so small. So that's nice.

When I read his personal statement with the penguins and the line about bullying I decide to send the school an email to suggest that they don't mention the Lethal Weapons Policy this time, at least not as an opening gambit. I cut and paste the personal statement about penguins to add at the bottom by way of explanation. I don't get a reply.

"I really do feel sick," says Youngest as we sit in the reception area waiting. His skinny legs swing back on forth on the too-high shabby chair and we chat to the boys who have been charged with looking after us. One has a lazy eye and the other has a gold earring, but they're very friendly.

A senior member of staff passes and stops to talk. She kneels down to get to his level and Youngest tells her all about the two penguins he sponsors. She says she likes penguins too. I'm impressed.

Youngest goes in for his chat. The teacher doesn't mention the Lethal Weapons Policy. Not once. She is gentle and friendly and charming and helpful. She couldn't be nicer. She takes his personal statement from him to "read later".

When we come out we bump into the Head. Well, one of them. "I sent you an email yesterday," I say. 

"Yes," he says, "I shared it with all the senior staff this morning." 

"That was okay, wasn't it?" I say to Youngest as we walk out. Are you happy?" 

"Yes," he says, "But I do still feel sick."

I take him back to his primary school. Later they ring me to say he has stomachache and will I take him home? I go and collect him. At bedtime he starts to throw up.

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

The Disco.

We're having a birthday party at the house. Again. Unfortunately there's a six foot sofa currently stuck in the living room doorway, which is going to make things rather tricky when a load of 11 year-old children arrive.

I've ordered the sofa over the internet. This is because a previous sofa purchased locally, back in April last year, failed to arrive and we failed to get any of our money back for it, but that's another story, much too painful to get into now. Suffice to say we eventually moved on from that debacle and bought an almost identical sofa in January, much more cheaply, and sight unseen, and we've been waiting for it to arrive ever since - for six long months. It was meant to arrive on Monday and didn't and here it is today... Two hours before a birthday party.

We've had a few birthday parties at the house before. Wait a moment while and try and do the maths, not my strong point... 

So, that's three boys, Eldest now nearly 17, they've all had had a party every year since they were born until about three years ago when Eldest announced that he didn't want one anymore, but Middle One still has one, at least he did last year but we weren't allowed to call it a party, it was just 'hanging out'. Certainly Youngest has always had one, so, that's three children with combined ages of 41 years... I  make that 157 parties, at least.* 

But then, as I say, maths isn't my strong point and that might be just what it feels like, not the actual number. 

Anyway, here we are on Friday about to have another one. We have it down to a fine art. We're lucky to have a big basement, nothing fancy, exposed brickwork and no heating down there, but there is carpet and it's all painted white and there's a door/window thing for some daylight and spotlights dotted around. I've borrowed some disco lights and a party iPod from a friend who DJs part-time and we're all set. Looks great.

I've almost got quite casual about the whole thing. I know what I need - balloons, something for them to do when they arrive, a few more games to scatter between the dancing, some prizes, a piñata and a cake. That's it. I don't do party bags anymore because, a.) I am morally opposed and, b.) too stingy. They all get a Kinder Surprise to take home and a piece of cake. Like the good old days. Almost.

I've planned the party for after school, 5 - 7 pm, because it's half-term next week and lots of families will be going away for the week on Saturday. More exhausting on a Friday night, of course, with less time to prepare, but at least it will get it over with and then we can crack open a few beers and collapse. That's the great thing about having it at home and not carting 13 children off to a bowling alley or a swimming pool or something. We've done all that in the past and it's hell. The go-karting in particular is etched in my mind as a party horriblis - 10 boys, screaming tyres on tarmac, one kid who cried the whole time (why is there always one kid who cries the whole time?) and a windowless cell in which to feed them all pizza afterwards, which was 40 minutes late arriving. Oh yes, and then one parent failed to collect his kid so we couldn't drive home for an hour.

But this time I have the food (pizza) and I have the cake (not homemade this time, sod it) and I have the balloons and all I need now is to go out in the rain to the party shop at Clapham Junction to get the piñata that I've pre-ordered. It's a dragon. I just need these two clowns/delivery boys to get the sofa through the door into the living room because its current position is right in front of the basement door. 

"How about we take the packaging off?" I suggest. So together we tear and rip at the plastic and the cardboard protecting it. Then the 'delivery boys' haul it through the door, pulling half the paintwork off in the process, but at least it's through, and it looks magnificent. I'm thrilled.

We have the party and it goes like a dream. The kids are all lovely, they dance, they play all the silly games in good part, they bring lovely presents for Youngest and they leave on time, everything you could possibly ask for. Fab.

At ten past seven precisely we crack open the beers and collapse on the fabulous new sofa. Only problem is... turns out it's bloody uncomfortable. 

Well you can't have everything.

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

* This is a joke.

Ashamed.

There's a cold wind blowing down Marylebone High Street, but I can hardly feel it because I have an appointment at Fired Earth to see a kitchen plan the lovely designer has done and so I'm excited.

We sit side by side on stools at a kitchen island in the basement of the shop. Its marble top is cool and grey and beautiful. She shows me a sophisticated 3D image of what the new kitchen might look like. I sip Earl Grey tea. We pore over the design and the catalogue. We look at colour swatches. We compare samples of wood. I feel the grain. She brings out a tile with a glaze so lustrous, it looks exactly as if someone has poured thick farmhouse cream all over it. The whole thing is total heaven.

After an hour and a half I come out of Fired Earth back into the cold wind. I cross the road quickly and dive into the Conran shop. I stroke a long wooden kitchen table top with a ludicrous price tag of £5,000. I take photographs of hanging pendant lights with my iPhone. I touch the soft, deep wool rugs that hang side by side by the wall.

I leave the Conran shop and pop along to Skandium. I leaf through wallpaper samples and ask them if they'll order me one, just to see. It has foliage in blues and greens with bright orange and yellow flowers in between. It's £75 a roll.

I go into Divertimenti and look at the hand painted crockery like the set I have at home. Azure paint strokes, fat red plums, swirling chicken motifs - it's as if the warm Italian sunshine is bouncing off each plate and cup and bowl. The largest bowl is £75. I head back for the Tube.

It's so bitter that I stop to do up both my cardigan and my jacket and get out my scarf and gloves. Then I walk briskly, as all the while cosy images of my possible future New England-style kitchen play out in my head.

At Bond Street Tube I dodge the milling crowd at the entrance, heading for the left-hand side to descend, just where the sharper gusts of wind catch there on the corner, and nearly trip over something on the ground: it's a boy. 

He's young. No older than my Eldest who is, right this minute, still tucked up in his warm bed at home recovering from his exams and from having a nasty infection.

The boy is huddled. I can almost feel the cold unforgiving ground creeping up through his bones. He has an empty, upturned cap in his hand and a sign that says: 'Hungry and homeless, please help'. He looks utterly frozen and so pale that as he looks up, it strikes me his face is the exact same colour as the beautiful creamy tile I held in my hand a short while ago. 

I give him a pound coin from my pocket as I whiz by, and I feel completely ashamed.

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Things you shouldn't say out loud.

You need to be careful about the things you say out loud. I'll give you two examples.

One: 

On Saturday night Husband and I went out. I know! Very unusual. I think he doesn't dare object when I suggest something now and some talented musician friends of ours were playing at Kings Place, near Kings Cross, so we got tickets and went.  We had to meet up with our French friends first, who were visiting London for the weekend, and ended up having a very speedy drink with them in the cafe upstairs at The London Transport Museum but, as the Americans say, God bless 'em, that is a whole other story.

We arrived at Kings Place in the nick of time to see the 'band' who were playing before our friends. I say band but that's possibly giving you the wrong impression. They were the New Radiophonic Workshop and they were playing (and again that's possibly giving the wrong impression) in the dark. 

Their set consisted of a series of random sounds accompanied by a group of lightbulbs, suspended on strings on stage, which came on and off to the 'music'. To say it was challenging is an understatement. I was worried Husband would be cross with me for dragging him all the way across London to listen to a series of random noises with accompanying lightbulbs and that he would want to get up and leave but luckily he was fine about it, but only because he was asleep.

At the end of this performance, before our friends came on, a woman behind us said very loudly what those of us remaining in the audience were merely thinking: "I just can't believe how bad that was!" And then she said it again for good measure. 

Two: 

Afterwards we met up with our friends in the bar. I was introduced to someone I had been told a story about that has stuck in my mind like glue ever since, probably because it's about sex. This is the story -

Heartbroken woman is being pursued by male friend - the male friend in question being the man I was introduced to - but the girl is in pieces over a love affair that has just ended and can't contemplate starting another relationship and doesn't fancy this male friend anyway. Not one bit. But somehow he persuades her to go camping with him and while camping they somehow have the most amazing sex in a tent. It is so amazing that she immediately and completely falls in love with him - the man I am currently being introduced to - and they have been together ever since, in fact they are married, and she was there with him, smiling, a lot.

Good story eh? Actually it reminds me of another good getting-it-together story that involves a friend of mine who was also recently heartbroken (what is it with people who are recently heartbroken?) who went to a play and saw a handsome young actor up on stage and thought, 'oh my God, that is the man I must be with' and so wrote him a letter to say so, and then they went for a coffee and now they have four children. I love that story, both because it's improbable and romantic. The best sort.

Anyway, I digress, back to the couple in the tent. So, on Saturday night, after the challenging random noises and the lightbulbs in the dark and listening to our friends play (they were SO good, which was a blessed relief), I was introduced to aforementioned man and suddenly it all clicked and I remembered the story...

"Oh yes! I've heard all about you!" I say, and I am about to add, "You're the guy who gave that girl the amazing orgasm in the tent!" because I have just had two beers and a large glass of red wine in quick succession in a desperate attempt to forget all about the New Radiophonic Workshop. But, thank God, the edit fairy was actually on duty for a change and I didn't say that. I thought it, oh yes I thought it, but I merely said, "Yes! I remember all about you!" 

And so Orgasm Guy looks me straight in the eyes, holding my gaze with his piercing blue peepers for slightly longer than is strictly necessary and there is definitely, most definitely, a little twinkle in them. 

Well, there would be wouldn't there.

Twitter @DOESNOTDOIT

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-Dont-Know-How-She-Doesnt-Do-It/547812378582001

Kitchen news: fallen in love with Fired Earth kitchen. Probably can't afford it.

http://pinterest.com/doesnotdoit