Where's a gay husband when you need one...?

Stuck for anything to watch last night on TV, and too apathetic to do anything more constructive, Bill and I half-heartedly watched half of Kylie Minogue's White Diamond.

Kylie, beautiful and petite as ever, was revealed in all her, for want of a better word, 'niceness' - no star-studded tantrums, no footage of her making unreasonable demands of her gigantic hard working crew. In fact no 'warts' at all. Just sequins.

Perhaps this reflects the fact that the film was made by Kylie's very own 'gay husband', close friend and companion, who would understandably want to portray his close buddy in the best possible light as she makes her comeback after a difficult interruption by cancer. Perhaps it simply reflects that she is just a thoroughly nice girl.

But having said that, I should imagine it is much easier being a thoroughly nice girl when you have an entourage of assistants and a sprinkling of gay husbands to help you out. Exhausted after the first night of her comeback, Kylie flops, face down, onto a luxurious fluffy sheepskin. Her voice over says she was too exhausted to do anything, couldn't even open her eyes or make conversation. He darling gay husband is on hand to witness the moment for us all from behind the camera. And nobody disturbs her. It is a truly serene moment.

What joy it must be to have such undisturbed moments of peace. Ok, so she lives her life in the peculiar bubble-world that is showbiz - unable to do her own shopping or order a round at the local pub for fear of being spotted and crushed in a clammer of well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning people eager to get close. And she is recovering from a serious, horrific and life-threatening illness. But to be able to literally stop the world by just closing you eyes and lying face down in a rug commands a control over the everyday that is beyond the reach of most ordinary mortals whatever our circumstances.

So I've decided the solution to all my problems would be a gay husband - or perhaps a small collection of them. I will have a gay husband in the kitchen to prepare fantastically exciting meals for me and do the washing up afterwards (ok, so I have a straight husband who does this, but he does tend to expect me to do it occassionally). I will have a gay husband in the bedroom who will be on hand to bring me my morning cuppa and always respect my unquestionable need to wrap myself in the duvet like a swiss roll (he will bring his own duvet). I will have a general gay man-about-the-house husband, who will keep the place looking lovely and give me encouraging smiles and hugs whenever we meet. I will have a gay husband at work to keep all those troublesome problems at bay without me ever having to know about them.

And most importantly I will have a bubble-gay-husband. It will be the important job of my bubble-gay-husband to allow me to collapse at the end of a busy day, face down into my not so fluffy rug and ignore the world completely. He will act as a barrier between me and the kids, between me and my real husband, and between me and my other gay husbands who may be flocking around trying to do helpful things for me. He will siphon off unwanted interruptions from telephones, email, door-to-door canvassers and work. And he will do all this whilst gazing adoringly at me from a safe distance.

Yes, I think with the help of my band of gay husbands, the world might look a much more manageable place.

And Bill, well he agrees too and can't wait for them to start work. Says they'll make his life a lot easier too.

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...

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Precious parcels

So they've managed to lose the details of 25 million child benefit claims in the postal system. The big questions now seem to be should we change our bank accounts, or just the passwords? Should Alistair Darling go or is the resignation of Paul Gray sufficient?

But the big question in my mind is what about our children? Somewhere out there are all of their details - their names, their dates of birth, addresses and National Insurance numbers. My children are far more precious to me than the non-existent contents of my bank account, and the thought of anybody other than doctors, their school and my family having those details feels more invasive than the possible threat of bank account details being at large.

But talking of precious packages, I must tell you the priceless thing one of my precious little parcels came out with the other day. Bill was driving them back from ballet one morning. Lily had won the Ballet Bear for trying extra hard at the box splits, and he was squashed in between her and Poppy on the back seat.

Stuck in the perpetual roadworks that seem to be dotted around our town at the moment, Lily stared vacantly out of the window and fiddled with Ballet Bear's paw:
'Daddy?' she started...
'Yes?'
'What's a fraggle?'
'A fraggle?' Bill's mind working overtime as he tried to make sense of this latest in a never ending list of bizarre questions that emanate from our two.
'Yes. A fraggle.'
'Well, it's sort of like a muppet.'
'A muppet? What's a muppet?'
'Well a kind of puppet.'
'So a fraggle is like a muppet which is a sort of puppet?'
'That's right.'

Pause.

Why's it called a fraggle?'
'Well, it was a TV show in the 'eighties. It was based on the muppets and they were called fraggles.'
'Oh.'

Silence for a little while as Bill inched his way forwards in the traffic and remembered fondly the days of Fraggle Rock when children's popular culture seemed somehow more innocent.

'Why do you ask?'
'Well, whatever they are, there's one on the side of that lorry. Look - F-R-A-G-I-L-E. Fraggle.'

Even Ballet Bear looked confused...

Perhaps the muppets at HM Revenue and Customs could do with going back to basics and asking someone what 'data protection' means, and why it is an important part of our contemporary information-driven culture. It's just a thought...

Master of the Dark oops...!

As the rain and wind have been battering the windows all day, Bill, Lily, Poppy and I have hidden ourselves away in the front room with the fire on and the curtains drawn. The real world safely hidden away, we have entered our own little magical wonderland. Our well-worn copy of The Philosopher's Stone has been on the video about six times in a row, and the afternoon has been spent re-enacting various aspects of life at Hogwarts.

Lily usually takes charge as Hermione, Poppy variously bringing up the rear as Harry, Ron, or some imaginary character they have added. I am usually Professor McGonagall - unless my mother is with us - when she takes this part and I am relegated to Madam Hooch (I personally find her much more fun anyway; I've always had a penchant for broomstick flying). Bill invariably ends up as Professor Snape. He likes nothing more than striding round the house shouting instructions at the children in a booming dramatic voice, so the part suits him down to the ground.




Introducing a new plot to the game, in a cunning attempt to get Lily to close the dining room curtains for me, I said: 'Quick! Miss Granger, close those curtains before the Master of the Dark Arts catches us!' Lily dutifully sped over to the curtains and used her plastic 'Hermione wand' to drag the curtains together.


Then she looked at Poppy - at this moment playing Ron;

she looked at me - busy in the part of Professor McGonagall;

she looked towards the kitchen where she could hear Professor Snape conjuring up some magic potions for tea....

'Mummy,' she asked, her mind trying to work our where the extra actor was coming from 'who is the Master of the Dark Arse?'


I think I'll have to check with JK Rowling about that one...

Have yourself a decadent Christmas...

Prompted by the umpteenth advert for half price sofas in the run-up to Christmas, my dear Sweet William and I were discussing present wish-lists last night.

Lily has already co-ordinated the production of lists for her and Poppy. Poppy managed to write some of her own ideas down - Igglepiggle from the Night Garden being in the number 1 spot. But Lily in her usual bossy style managed to commandeer both lists in the end and added a few 'extras' to Poppy's which she hadn't managed to squeeze onto her own. The DVD of The Goblet of Fire for a start, which looked rather incongruous in amongst the baby dolls and Night Garden characters Poppy was actually interested in.

Personally I never write a list. I just enjoy anything that comes my way and love the element of surprise, besides, Bill is usually very good at choosing something suitable. I think the girls will be experiencing the element of surprise a bit this year too, because Lily is most definitely NOT having wheelies...

Mind you, they may end up with nothing from their lists. The problem remains how to get them to Santa. Lily knows you are meant to burn them and let your wishes drift up the chimney to Santa in the smoke. But I'm not sure the communication channel is open if you use a living-flame gas fire... Any solutions gladly received...

So what did I ask for from Bill? Well, I suggested something decadent I wouldn't buy for myself that I would only use very rarely on special occassions. So what was his response?: 'A pair of fluffy pink girlie washing-up gloves!'

Hmph...and those half price sofas? Anybody seen Armstrong and Miller's half-price pots? Well you do know that's the real price, don't you...? (Ok, so I couldn't find a link to the pots, but the RAF sketch is even better!!)

The main man...!

He's back again - and me too. Like a phoenix from the flames, we both rise again from our apparent demises. Patrick, only last week, with another airing of Ghost, and me after two years of silence - I'M BACK! (Although as my last posting showed, unlike me, I guess Patrick never really went away).

No longer officially certified mad by my doctor, I am back at work and fully hurled back into the rat race, though this time perhaps with a slightly greater sense of self-preservation than before my meltdown. But the prescription for Prozac remains open, and it took two sittings (a week apart) to feel strong enough to sit through Ghost without bursting into tears every five minutes. And I still cry whenever I hear Dolly Parton sing Jolene - Bill finds this highly amuzing and likes to share it with his friends for entertainment value. I guess it is kind of strange...

So clearly official certification isn't a necessary part of being on the edge... And perhaps finding myself back here once more is an indication of a much needed safety valve to let my madness out somewhere safely... ;)

It's good to be back! Daisy x