Drowning - If your summer holiday involves water, read this...

3 years ago, Boy #1 nearly drowned in a friend's pool. I can't actually bring myself to write about what happened; 36 months on it's still too raw. Consequently, I found this article in MumsRock hard going - it's much too close for comfort - but I still did to remind myself of what to look out for, and urge you to, too.

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

A speedy update this morning. A post on this week's British Mummy Blogger of the Week puts me in mind of something I did when I was a young and callow student, and really should have known better...

My boyfriend of the time (previously referred to as Sporty Boy on this blog) was just about to move into a new house with some of his friends. Bearing mind that we were all students, you can imagine the standard of accommodation I'm talking about; mould on the shower curtains, rats in the bins outside, slugs on the kitchen floor. Basically, it was the pits. My girlfriends and I, two of whom I lived with and who's boyfriends were also part of this new house set-up (so far, so 'Friends') in Disgusting-on-Thames, held a war cabinet.

There was no way, we decided, that we were going to spend any time in a conditions like those. But that meant our boyfriends would then spend all their time at ours, and that wasn't going to fly either; a flat that just about held 4 of us would not reasonably hold 8. What to do?

Well, there was only one thing to do. We offered to clean the new house from top to bottom. On a one-off basis, for a fee (I believe it was the princely sum of £20 each - which 20-odd years ago was actually not so bad...). Of course these boys jumped at the chance, and as they moved all their kit and caboodle in, we put pegs on our noses and set to.

Dear internet, it was disgusting - and I say that having had a job cleaning caravans after they had been occupied by groups of fishermen, as a teenager. It's Monday so I won't make you dry-heave into your morning coffee, but I'm sure you can imagine the filth we had to deal with. The most horrific part, however? Dealing with the smug look on our boyfriends faces when they told us they would pay us 'tomorrow'...

This week's BMB of the Week would, I'm sure, never do anything as foolish as willingly clean out a student loo. Unless, of course, the student in question happened to be her son. Ladybird World Mother writes of herself:

'Am a Mother. To four children. Am a Wife. To one Husband. Live a chaotic, task-filled life, where nothing is ever tidy enough, clean enough or paid enough. Despite that, there are moments of great contentment. I try to write about the things in my life that make me spit out my tea. And any biscuit lurking. I LOVE this life. But sometimes I yearn for a clean and tidy one.'

Check out her posts about student loos and chicken-lovin' rabbits if you need to raise a smile this - or any other - morning...

For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning click here (Note; it says 'mummy', but dads can be members too...)

John Lewis; sheepskin-lined bovver boots and dresses worth die(t)ing for...

I'm not a natural shopper. It's a big effort for me to go out and spend on stuff that I don't need yesterday (other than on clothes for the Boys, where for some reason money trickles through my fingers like water...). I suspect this is based on some deep-seated subconscious memory of there not being a lot of cash to spare whilst growing up (credit cards? What were they?) and painful shopping trips with my mum, looking for clothes for me and where we had vastly differing expectations of the outcome...

I'm not one to hold a grudge, you understand, but to give you an example there was that time she had one idea about what I was going to wear to the 3rd year end of term party (involving taffeta and burgundy), and I had another (involving funky knickerbockers, high heeled boots and a tinsel-threaded scarf, with possibly a glittery band worn Adam Ant-style around my forehead). No need to say who won, I suspect - but I remember the slippery feel of that taffeta to this day...

One of the few shops that seems to escape this unconscious embargo however, and which I am happy to wander around in is Peter Jones, the John Lewis flagship store on the Kings Road. For some reason it seems to be one of the few places where I can almost always find what I need, so when JL offered bloggers the chance to get a preview of their Autumn/Winter Christmas range last Thursday I jumped at it.

Can I just say now that it's a good thing I'm spending most of my time in Russia at the moment? Otherwise I think most of my disposable income would be headed straight for the JL Partners pockets. In the kitchenware department I saw an ingenious soup maker that also blends and crushes ice (Cuisinart, £139), a bread maker that also bakes cakes and makes jam (John Lewis, £60), a cup-cake maker that resembles nothing so much as breville sandwich toaster in the way that it works, and a speaker system that streams from it's own console or alternatively from your i-phone, internet or for all I know, the kitchen sink (Sonos S5, £349).

Then the nice people giving the tour took us down to where the fashion buyers had assembled a limited range of the gorgeous numbers they'll be selling this winter, where I had dark and lustful thoughts about Barbours with English Eccentric linings, a Celia Birtwell dress that looked like it could stylishly disguise the evidence of any pre-Christmas mince-pie excess (£80), and any number of pieces in their Russian Military range (but especially the sheepskin lined Dr Martens which sound awful but aren't, and which would be PERFECT for the snow and ice of the school run in down-town Moscow in January...)

And that's not all. There was a new line by Mint Velvet, some gorgeous 'lounging about' lingerie (which of course has no place in my life but I can dream, can't I?), and lots of reasonably priced evening wear that would even be worth die(t)ing for. Not to mention the 'casual sparkle' pieces to spice up JL's Rebel Rebel themed line which should probably be worn by fresh-faced teenagers and 20-somethings, but which definitely will appear in the wardrobes of some 40+ ladies who should know better (myself included), and a pair of Henry Holland-designed JL tights which feature Big Ben as a motif. (I am a London girl at heart, after all).

And then - and then - they took us to the home-wares section where bloggers from across the land made plans to acquire an Allegra bedspread which was a thing of great beauty (at £60), various pieces of gorgeous Ercol furniture, and a skinny artificial Christmas tree to show-case some Nordic themed tree-decorations.

I would love to have some fantastic photos or footage of all this stuff, but whilst I didn't lie when I told the lovely ladies at reception that I do know how to use the Flip Mino camera they so kindly gave me on my arrival, it turns out - on viewing what I did film - that I'm not actually very good at recording anything worth seeing. Instead I've lifted this photo off it as the best I can offer, which whilst it isn't moving pictures is at least a good illustration of how easy it is to get high quality stills off the hd movies that the Flip takes. Sorry JL - I'm sure that's not at all what you had in mind when you handed it over...

Oh well; maybe by next year I'll have learnt how to use it. And look at the pretty colours!

Anyone for Tennis?

I've had an exhausting day. Not because I spent 3 hours alongside some other bloggers in the company of the lovely people at John Lewis as they showed us their Christmas range, which by the way was fabulous, and some of the clothes were even worth die(t)ing for (see what I did there? I'm not an ancient blogger for nothing, you know...). Nor because I followed that up with a trip on the London Eye with Boys #1 and #2 and Mother-in-Law. And not even because today I wore far-too-high wedges that whilst they are perfectly comfortable in the 'standing still and looking tall' department, are a little precarious and require some concentration when it comes to the 'walking down-hill in the rain on the way to the tube first thing in the morning' department.

No, I'm knackered because after we got back home, Boy#1 and I had a game of 'Boy#2 Tennis'.

Boy #1, you see, has been inspired by Wimbledon. Now, personally I'm not a tennis player. Actually, that's something of an understatement; I am SO bad at it that at school the sports teachers used to walk past the court I was attempting to play on, sadly shaking their heads. So you can imagine how delighted I was when my older son insisted we dig out my mother-in-law's state of the art tennis kit (2 plastic bats and a number of plastic balls sent over the wall by the adjacent school) and play so he could pretend to be a Wimbledon champion.

As expected, my son did not take to the game like a duck to water. The look of confusion on his face when he realised that this is a game that takes just a little practice took me right back to our school playing fields circa 1979 when I made the same discovery. However, the day was saved and any looming tantrums were cut off by Boy #2 happening upon us, and deciding that whilst he might not want to play himself, he was damned well going to be in charge of those of us who did.

He appointed himself Umpire, and installed himself on a deckchair to one side of our 3 metre wide court, but not before he had set the game up the way he wanted it. The rules? Well, they changed slightly from the ones you might know. We had no net, so instead a line of plastic skittles was set up across the middle of the court. Then, Boy #1 and I were informed that the new aim of the game was to hit the skittles and knock them over rather than to hit over the top of them. Points were to be awarded based on the number of skittles knocked over, and whoever had accumulated the most points by the end of the game (or bath-time, whichever came first) was to be the winner.

But this was not all, oh no...

No; before each and every ball was hit (because let's be honest, managing to return a serve that is meant to skim along the grass and knock the skittles over is highly unlikely), we had to wait for permission from the umpire. To grant that, the Umpire had to stomp to the middle of the court, count to 5 (or 4, or 6, depending on how he felt or how high he could remember), and then blow a short blast on an old wooden recorder as loudly as he could. Then - and only then - were Boy #1 or I allowed to hit the ball. Failure to wait for permission could result in general huffiness, some shouting, and a threat to knock the skittles over himself before being placated and starting the whole process all over again.

Sounds awful, doesn't it?

Dear Internet, I enjoyed this game of 'Boy #2 Tennis' more than any other game of normal tennis that I've ever played in my life.

Have they finally broken me, do you think?

Potski and the road to Cybermummy...

At the parent's in law, still in London. The sounds of 'Chitty Chitty Bang-Bang' drift out from the sitting room where the boys are spending a glorious morning ensconced in front of the box... (don't judge me; it's week 3 of the school holidays. WEEK 3! And it's only July 6th!) Every now and again Boy #1 bursts out into the dining room where I'm tapping away on the lap top to ask pertinent questions like 'It's the same man in this as in Mary Poppins. Does that mean that Bert has two jobs?' and to exclaim 'No! No!' when the pirates sail over the horizon. I'm currently on standby for when the odious Child Catcher appears since I have no doubt my presence will be required to ward off his advances...

It's all a very long way from Saturday when I joined 200 other delegates at the Cybermummy event in Earl's Court.

Nixdminx summed up the day pretty well for me in a post yesterday when she asked the question 'Cybermummy or Womanhood?' So many different women, so many different lifestyles, but all part of this phenomen and all giving a voice to their experiences of being a woman and a mother.

Before I started blogging I have to admit that I thought of bloggers as people who sought solace and companionship in cyberspace because they couldn't find it in the real world. Bloggers, I thought, probably didn't wash very much. The curtains on their homes were usually shut. They played fantasy games on the internet, and ate a lot of take-aways. They certainly didn't do the laundry, the school run, hold down a job,or juggle a family's schedule. Then - almost by mistake and entirely thanks to Pig in the Kitchen - I became a blogger myself, and suddenly the preconceptions that I had previously had became those of others about me, others who knew nothing about this new and vibrant world that I had stumbled into.

To start with, I didn't really tell anyone about my on-line life. I was worried what they might think of me (given my own previous prejudices, for example), I was worried that they might - the horror! - read what I wrote. But over time, I gained confidence and started to share with close friends what I was doing. I even told my Husband the address after a close friend of his took the trouble to find the blog on google (never forget; you might think your blog is anonymous but if it contains even a kernel of truth about your life, you're not. Bear that in mind when you hit publish...).

And then I took the final leap into linking my real-life with my on-line life; I met another blogger.

As I stood and waited for her to arrive I have to admit that I did wonder what the hell I was doing. One of the issues that seems to come up time and again for bloggers is the hypocrisy of repeatedly warning your older children about 'the weirdo's on the internet' and the absolute no-go of ever meeting them in person - and then going to do exactly that yourself. What if she turned out to be some sort of psycopath who bore no resemblance to the warm and witty person I knew online? What if she turned out to be some kind of internet stalker? What if this meeting turned into a special feature in The Daily Mail, a tale of horror, the apparently sympathetic tone of the article heavily underscored with the unspoken suggestion that 'she should have known better; no good can ever come from the interweb?'

Of course, that's not how it turned it out at all. Frog in the Field and I had a great time; so great in fact that when she roped me in to a special screening for mummy bloggers of 'Chuggington' a few weeks later I didn't hesitate to say yes. And that's where I met 'A Modern Mother', and Jo Beaufoix amongst others. A couple of weeks later when the former asked us to be part of a new ning she was setting up, instead of replying 'what on earth is a ning?' I answered yes, and that's how I ended up in Earl's Court on Saturday, surrounded by yet more warm and witty people who I had also met on the internet.

It was wonderful. For a start, everybody there had washed. There were no drawn curtains, no take-away cartons (at least, not during the day. I can't speak for later after a few glasses of wine had been consumed, obviously...) And I can't sum up my feelings about the day better than to quote something from an e-mail that a good friend of mine - who, whilst I had never met her in person before Saturday most definitely fits that description - sent afterwards, and which I think applies to just about everyone I spoke to at Cybermummy;

'I loved meeting you. You are so very YOU!'

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

I'm in London, recovering after a flight over here on my own with the Boys on Friday, and yesterday's Cybermummy event in Earl's Court. This is a British Mummy Blogger of the week post, I promise, but first two other things...

1. Friday's noteable quote came from Boy #2 on the plane, when he was introducing me to a four-year old flame-haired almond-eyed temptress who had ensnared him in a game of mutual tongue sticking out and tummy flashing. (She started it. I swear). Once the courtship ritual I described above was completed (and is it really so different from what happens when we get older, I wonder?), he decided to introduce me to her. We eyed each other warily, as Boy #2 said "And this, this is my mummy. But her stage name is Clare*."

My stage name? I was torn. Part of me wanted to ask where on earth he heard that expression. And the other part wanted to say "Oh darling. That's not right. My stage name is Potty..."

* Clare is of course not my real name, as you will know if you were actually at yesterday's fabulous Cybermummy event, and which leads me neatly onto the second thing I wanted to note...

2. Whilst there will no doubt be a 'proper post' on my Cybermummy experience on The Potty Diaries in the near future, it's not today. Instead, I just want to say that I am inordinately proud of myself for not running up to any number of the fabulous bloggers that I met in person for the first time yesterday and saying, in true hysterical woman fashion 'I bloody love your blog, I do...'

So. This week's recommended reading. I've decided not to put up an attendee from yesterday as I suspect that anyone who didn't go will be heartily sick of hearing those who did waxing lyrical about it. Instead, I'm going to recommend a relative newcomer to the BMB ning. Belgravia Wife of Belgravia Wives writes of herself:

'Mother of three, have to say, particularly dinky children. Central London resident, baffled by the whole school business - school fees vs. home schooling - let's talk ! Freelance head-hunter- working with clients who have loyally stayed by my side throughout three bouts of baby induced uselessness. Writer - novel coming along - nicely....somewhere else. In fact writing quite a few novels - just not particularly quickly.'

Check out her posts for musings on goats in yurts and living in London - although not at the same time, obviously - and for delicious menu ideas to boot.

(And in the interests of full disclosure, I do actually know Belgravia Wife in real life. But don't hold that against her, please...)

For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (And it says 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too...)

Stop-gap post...

We're leaving for a holiday in the UK this afternoon but there are a couple of things I wanted to get down in a post first...

London City Mum has very kindly given me this award. Whilst I'm always delighted to receive such things I'm rubbish about acknowledging them on my blog (and even worse at passing them on), but this Must Change, so LCM, thankyou very much, I'm delighted. I'll pass it on when I'm not so pressed for time (come on - I did warn you I was even worse at that bit...)

A rash of bloggers are participating in Dulwich Mum's hilarious Alternative Boden Catalogue. Check it out - but practice your pelvic floor exercises first...

I have two sons who look similar and have identical abilities to delight and frustrate, but they are separated by approximately two years in age. To open a window onto the experiences of mothers who have twins and triplets - always illuminating - check out the Carnival about Twins And More over at You've Got Your Hands Full.

On a personal note, I'm feeling vindicated this morning. Last week, after 5 months of having no bank account (in Russia, at any rate), I finally got my hands on cash cards that won't cost an arm and a leg when I withdraw money over here. As expected, bureaucracy reigns (this is Russia, after all), and we had to go all the way to the other side of Moscow to pick up both the cards and the pin codes. I stowed the latter somewhere safe (OK, in the middle of a pile of papers - but I knew exactly where they were) when we got home, only to find that they had disappeared without trace a couple of days later when I finally got the chance to activate the cards.

Husband was - to put it mildly - annoyed. As was I; how could I have been so STUPID? I turned the house upside down looking for them, to no avail, and then had to make two more trips back to the branch to confess my foolishness and get new codes. This morning, however, I got a phone call from a very contrite Husband who had found said codes in an envelope of 'stuff' he had packed up and taken to the office. Whilst we did waste time looking for them and trekking backwards and forwards to the bank, overall I'm treating this as a positive experience because:

a) neither of us said anything too damning to the other in the original hunt for the lost codes...

b) I'm NOT crazy, I hadn't lost them...

c) my beloved Husband 'fessed up when he really had no need to. Which is one of the many reasons why I love him so.