The Real Mamma Diaries

Anyone For Tennis?

2011-06-24T02:32:00.000-07:00

It was confession time but I wasn't sure if my sins could be forgiven. It had only been a week, but I'd broken every rule. I'd eaten carbs, drunk red wine and scoffed the childrens' sweets when they were at school.

And now I was about to be punished for it on on the scales. Sighing, I hopped on, praying that balancing on one foot would miraculously make me weigh less. No chance. I'd put on three lbs.

'That's it,' my husband said. 'You'll have to do some exercise.'

I flinched, horrified. 'No, not the cross trainer,' I begged. He shook his head. I began to panic. What evil form of gym torture did he have in mind? The running machine that gets faster and steeper with every step? A combat aerobics class with size 6 supermodels?

'Tennis,' he announced. I smiled, relieved. I used to work at a tennis centre when I was a teenager. 'As a coach?' my husband asked, confused, when I told him.

'No,' I snapped. 'In the kitchen.' Then I paused. 'And the dining room. Oh and the bar.' In fact I used to do every job there to earn as much extra cash as I could.

But I was rubbish at all of them. I couldn't cook, was too young to drink and had never made my bed at home so didn't have a clue about cleaning.

Still, that didn't stop me trying, and maybe because I was so enthusiastic that's why they kept me on. One time they'd even let me wait on women's tennis legend Martina Navratilova while she was staying there.

Big mistake. I was so nervous having a VIP guest, I wobbled as I neared her and slopped soup all down her tennis whites. 'I'm so sorry,' I said, almost bursting into tears.

I expected her to serve me up a volley of abuse. Instead she smiled, accepted my apology and left me a tip (and no, it wasn't to give up the waitressing job.)

Anyway, getting that up, close and personal with a sports superstar gave me a lifetime love of the game. And when one of the guys there, who said he'd been on Andre Agassi's coaching team, offered to give me lessons I'd jumped at the chance.

In between tidying the rooms, clearing tables, and mixing cocktails, I'd practised my backhand and serve.

'So you must be good?' my husband said. I hesitated. 'That wouldn't be the word I'd use,' I said, but he wasn't listening. He was already on the phone booking a court.

'It's the only way to shift that weight,' he said. The day before our match he went for a sneaky session while I dusted off my old racquet and checked I could still squeeze into a pair of shorts.

'Guess who was there?' he grinned, excited, when he came back. I shrugged. 'Serena Williams,' he said and my eyes widened. Of course, she was playing in Eastbourne before appearing at Wimbledon.

'I hope she's on centre court at Devonshire Park tomorrow,' I panicked. I didn't want the world champion watching me at the gym. Luckily, she was playing, so I could humiliate myself in peace, missing shot after shot, and smashing the ball into the net.

I survived the hour, and hobbled off court, sweating. 'Meet you in the club bar after a shower,' my husband said, and when I turned up he'd ordered chips and a glass of wine for us both. 'I think you deserve it,' he said. 'That was the best laugh I've had in ages.'

I grinned, happy to have made him happy. 'Same time, same court next week?' I suggested. Playing tennis as part of a diet – it's ace!

Doubly Beautiful!

2011-06-15T01:03:00.000-07:00

I didn't have enough fingers to count exactly what I'd have done. 'A nose job, a tummy tuck, liposuction on my chin and love handles...'I muttered out loud, imagining myself standing in front of a plastic surgeon instead of the mirror.

My husband started laughing, then peered at my face. 'Don't forget laser treatment for your moustache,' he said. I glared at him before examining my face even closer.

'I don't have anything on my top lip,' I flounced. I even looked under one of those scary mirrors that magnifies everything so a pore looks as big as a town. I couldn't see any hairs on my face, no matter how much I stared. But he'd made me paranoid so when I next went to the beauticians to get my leg waxed, I asked her to do my 'tache too.

'I was only joking,' my husband said when I came back from the salon with a bright scarlet top lip where she'd ripped off my skin along with the solitary tiny blonde hair.

Too late, I'll need my top lip waxed forever now or the hair follicles will grow back thick, black and more bristly than Borat's.

'Don't say anything else about my looks,' I told my hubby. 'Or our children's.' He'd already jinxed our son. 'I want him to have your double chin,' he'd announced when I was pregnant. 'It's so cute.'

Back then I'd thought it was a ridiculous thing to ask for. I'd spent all my life trying to hide mine with scarves or my hand. I didn't want to see my firstborn with that embarrassing cushion of chin fat. Too bad. The double-chin fairy was obviously listening because my son came out sporting one.

'That's your fault,' I'd scalded my husband but he was delighted and was already tickling our baby's chubby chin to make him laugh.

'Our daughter is not going to have one,' I said when I was expecting our little girl. I didn't want her to look anything like me with my fat face, boxer's nose, pot belly and bunions!

And at first, she looked exactly like my husband with olive skin and jet black hair. But as she grew, her hair turned blonde, became curly and she became a mini me. One day I woke up and there was the distinct hint of, yes you've guessed it, a double chin. 'Where did that come from?' I wailed, but the answer was staring me in the face.

'Doesn't she look like you?' everyone says when they see us. And she does, but magically, it's all been enhanced. She's like an airbrushed version of me – with only a small extra chin, glossy hair where mine is frizzy, a small button nose while mine is lopsided, and flawless, peachy skin while mine resembles strawberries.

So I felt guilty that there weren't many pictures of her around the house. We took snaps of everything our son did, but were too busy juggling two to have the camera out to capture her every movement. 'I've arranged a photography session,' I announced the other week. 'He's going to take your pictures.'

My little girl is only three so I thought she might refuse to sit still or demand chocolate or Peppa Pig half way through the session. But she was the perfect Diva, pouting and striking pose after pose. 'Gorgeous,' the photographer kept telling her but I thought he was only saying that because I was paying him.

Still, I was impressed when I saw the pictures. She looked angelic. And it wasn't just me who thought so. A few days later the photographer rang up to ask permission to put my daughter's picture in his window. Of course, I agreed and yesterday a magazine publisher called from London. 'Can we use your daughter's photo on our cover?' he asked. I didn't hesitate to say yes. An extra chin – that just makes her doubly beautiful!

The Daddy of All Gifts!

2011-06-11T08:33:00.000-07:00

Forget novelty socks and another tie, treat your dad to a present as special as he is...

(back row left to right) Enchanted Forest Glass St Eval Candle £25.50 www.stevalcandlecompany.co.uk Not only does it look pretty, in a manly way, it smells divine. It'll light every father's fire!

Diamonique 1.4ct Black Enamel Cufflinks Sterling Silver £52.50 now only £17.65 Cufflinks QVC www.qvcuk.com 0800504030 Sky channel 640 Freeview channel 16
Epiphany Platinum Clad Diamonique SS Cufflinks £63.50 now only £37.43 www.qvcuk.com They're both stylish – and a bargain. What's not to love?

Silver-plate and enamel cufflinks with nine till five design. Available in blue or red £45 www.thetravellingsouk.com Time to look his best – every day with these little beauties.

Tinc Original Stand 'n' Splitter £9.50 www.tinc.uk.com Talk about clever! This little gadget is a stand for your iPhone, iPod or MP3 to watch films or videos, but you can also remove the top and use as an earphone splitter to listen to your favourite tracks with a close one.

L'Occitane Shower Jelly part of L'Occitane 4 Piece Mens Power Shower Collection
QVC £27.25 stockist details as before. There's something for everyone in this bathing beauty.
Middle row (left to right)

Radox Men Lime and Ginger Deep Clean Shower Scrub 250ml £2.03 available all good supermarkets nationwide It smells fresh and does double the work as it exfoliates and cleans in one. Result.

Bleu de Chanel 50ml EDT £41.99 The Perfume Shop stores nationwide or online www.theperfumeshop.com The ultimate in scents – this aftershave is dangerously gorgeous. Get the kids to buy it for your other half and you won't be able to stop sniffing him!

Hip flask and cigar holder Shabby Chic Originals £12.50 www.shabbychicoriginals.co.uk How clever is this? Perfect for fishing trips, he'll be able to indulge in private with a touch of class...

Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male 75ml EDT £36.50 The Perfume Shop OK, so he'll need a can opener to open it, but it's worth the hard work. Smells like a holiday on the French Riveria...

The Bluebeards Revenge Shaving Cream and Badger Brush Gift set £29.99 www.bluebeards-revenge.com 01752 898191 Shaving just got a whole more fun with this pressie. No more stubble or shaving rash, this will ensure a close shave every time.

The Gentry Grooming The Eye Cream £14.95 www.gentrygrooming.com Dab a little under his eyes and he'll look years younger (and you can sneakily use some too). Light, it absorbs easily and really works.

ZOMM £69.95 available at www.firebox.com or www.zomm.co.uk is a clever little device to stop you losing your mobile or forgetting it. When you walk too far away, it will flash, vibrate and sound an alarm so you can't lose it.

Front row (left to right)

Verdon Fresh Water Shower Gel of L'Occitane 4 Piece Mens Power Shower Collection
QVC £27.25 stockist details as before

Gucci Guilty for Men 30ml EDT £31.50 The Perfume Shop
Boss Orange Man EDT 100ml £36 www.Escentual.com A modern classic, this makes perfect scents for trendy dads.

Paul Smith Optimistic EDT 50ml £34 www.Escentual.com It smells as good as it looks.

Calanques Foaming Shower Gel part of L'Occitane 4 Piece Mens Power Shower Collection
QVC £27.25 stockist details as before
SECOND SHOT (backrow left to right)

Shoot! Football Puzzle £10.99 available from Hobbycraft and Amazon Your children will score a hit with this pressie for football-mad dads. Goooaaaal!

Star Wars T-6 Jedi Shuttle #7931 £49.99 starwars.lego.com Space (out) for fun with this out of this world gift – it will keep him busy all Father's Day.

Revell R00501 Leonardo da Vinci Giant Crossbow 1/100 £34.99 available at argos, amazon and all good model shops Crafty dads will love this – and the children can help too.

(front)
Humax HDR-FOX T2 500 GB Freeview + HD Digital TV recorder around £300 available at www.argos.co.uk www.currys.co.uk and www.Johnlewis.com Now you and the kids will be able to watch everything you want as he'll be too busy watching all his favourite shows in High Definition.

Supercar Driving Thrill with free Passenger Lap £69.99 www.buyagift.com A gift with real Va Va Vroom – every day wants to get behind the wheel of a fast car for the day. This way he won't be able to drive anyone but himself round the bend on Father's Day!

I'M A MAG!

2011-06-08T01:56:00.000-07:00

Peering out the window, I grimaced. It was May Bank Holiday weekend, so, yep, it was about to rain. 'What am I going to wear?' I wailed, mentally flicking through my wardrobe.

My little boy was playing in an all-day football tournament for the Under Eights. What would all the others Footballers' Mothers and Girlfriends (MAGs) be wearing?

'Jeans are too casual,' I thought. Besides I couldn't fit into mine since binge-eating my entire diet-food's weekly menu in one sitting.

Just then I spotted Victoria Beckham in that day's paper. She was kicking a ball around with one of her son's in a park, dressed all in black and wearing five-inch Louboutin heels.

'Well if it's good enough for Posh...' I thought, heading to my wardrobe. Out came my ballerina-style shoes, with straps all the way up to the knee, a knitted Maxi dress and a cape. 'Very MAG-ish.' I thought, taking in my husband dressed in his skinny jeans and sunglasses. 'Very DAG,' I smiled, impressed.

My son had slept in his beloved football kit so need to worry about what he was going to wear, and after co-ordinating my little girl in Hello Kitty jeans and a poncho, off we went.

'Can you stand over there?' my son said as soon as we arrived, pointing to the other side of the park. 'You all look funny.'

Wounded, I looked around at the other mums and dads. They were all dressed in sensible jackets, boots, jeans and had umbrellas. We were wearing shades, and enough bling for a night out with the girls from The Only Way Is Essex.

'Might have to dress down a bit next time,' I thought, watching my parents arriving in their cagoules and carrying their own seats. They'd done this before. 'I spotted your gold buttons glinting,' Mum said. 'I knew it would be you.'

Four hours later, my feet were numb, my teeth were chattering, and my freshly blow-dried hair was stuck to my forehead. 'Are there any toilets?' I mumbled, unable to feel my frozen lips.

'You can't go, he might score,' my husband warned, and so I crossed my legs. Luckily it was so cold I soon lost all feeling in them, and forgot I needed to go to the loo.

'Please let him get the ball in net soon,' I willed, clenching my blue fists. Unbelievably, ten minutes later he did and I jumped up and down on the spot, screaming: 'Yes, gooooooaaaaaaal.'

My son glared at me. So did my husband. Mum laughed and my little girl started copying me. 'Sssh,' my other half said. 'You're embarrassing us.'

At least the excitement had warmed me up, but I only let out a small cheer when my lad headed in another goal during the next match. I didn't want to feel his footballer's wrath again, and just counted down the seconds until it was over.

Finally, he was presented with his medal – when I nearly shed a tear – and it was time to go home. 'Did you have a lovely time?' I said as we left the park, bending down to kiss him. He rubbed his cheek and pulled a face.

'Yes it was great – but can you wear a tracksuit and not make any noise next time?' he replied.
I flinched. 'And by the way,' my eight-year-old continued. 'From now on can you call me Messi?'

Do you think VB or the Barcelona soccer star's mum gets this sort of flack? Because it sure is making me as sick as a (badly-dressed) parrot.

MAXI-Mum Impact!

2011-06-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

It wasn't the look I'd been hoping for. I'd rushed out and bought my maxi dress after spotting Coleen, Cheryl and Gwen Stefani wearing theirs. 'They look really girlie and dainty,' I'd thought wistfully, admiring how the colourful fabric floated around them. But even though mine was practically identical it looked more like my mum's curtains than a fashion statement.

'I can hide under it,' my three-old daughter squealed, diving underneath the metres and metres of material. It was another half an hour before I could drag her out, 'It's a tent,' she giggled. 'Can I sleep it in tonight, Mamma?'

I shook my head. We had a friend's barbecue to go to so I slipped on my silver flatforms (I was determined to be fashionable even if they did – eek!- look hideous!) and put a braid in my hair, hippy-style.

My husband did a double-take when he saw me. I smiled, pleased I'd impressed him with my up-to-the-minute ensemble. 'I didn't know it was fancy dress,' he sniggered. Rolling my eyes, we headed off.

When everyone complimented me on my boho look, I grinned, relieved. Only then, as I stood chatting, I wrinkled my nose. I was sure I could smell burning.

I glanced over at the barbecue, and made a mental note not to have the veggie sausages. They'd been incinerated. 'Typical bloke's cooking,' I thought.

Then I started feeling hot. 'It's a sizzler today, ' I joked, fanning myself. But I was worried. I was absolutely boiling. 'I can't be menopausal,; I thought, my cheeks burning with another hot flush. 'I'm not that old.'

Just then my Other Half pounced on me, his eyes wild. 'Maybe I look red-hot,' I mumbled. 'He can't keep his hands off me.' But he was stamping on my dress. 'Fire,' he screamed. 'FIRE!'

Shocked, I realised my voluminous dress had billowed out, hitting the barbecue, where it had caught light. Luckily my husband had spotted the flames round the bottom. By the time he'd put out the fire, it was ruined. I suppose I could cut off the burnt bits at the bottom and wear it as a mini.

Anyhow, I'm off the killer Maxi look. It's strictly unfashionable but very safe trousers for me from now on!

Travel inspiration - Magical Majorca!

2011-05-29T03:46:00.000-07:00

Forget chic hotels and live it up in a celebrity-style villa on the gorgeous Balearic island...

Sweeping gravel drive? Check. Roman pillars on the terrace of a giant villa? Check. Private swimming pool surrounded by lemon trees? Check.
Who lives in a house like this? I wonder, awe-struck. Then I giggle as I realised I do. Well, for a week at least.

‘Welcome to our new home,‘ I grin as we pull up outside Coste de Na Llucia in Pollensa, Majorca.

And, excited, we rush around the place, deciding who wants which of the three gorgeous bedrooms. ‘It’s big,‘ my son cries, taking in the shaded rooms, three bathrooms, kitchen, lounge and dining room.

That's lucky as I’ve bought my parents on holiday with us this time, and much as my husband likes them, he’s glad we have our very own suite of rooms on the ground floor while they’re upstairs in the master room. ‘This way there’ll definitely be no rows,’ he jokes. In fact we quickly decide we would live here forever.

It’s only been an hour since we left Palma airport and already we’re rushing into our swimming costumes and diving into the mosaic pool. Heaven, especially as it’s 30 degrees C outside.

This is my first villa holiday ever - and already I’m hooked. No worrying about dressing for dinner. No fears about whether my kids will eat what’s on the menu - this is a home from home, five-star style.

All I have to do right now is slather my body in factor 10, then decide whether I want to read my new Jackie Collins book, or just soak up the sun while my mum and dad play with the children.

'Anyone hungry?’ I ask, a few gloriously quiet hours later, and we go off exploring in our hire car. Our villa is in north Majorca, just 10 minutes' drive from the chic harbour town of Puerto Pollensa. ’Very Monte Carlo,’ my mum says as we take in the smart yachts bobbing around on the Med, against the dramatic backdrop of mountains.

No wonder Hollywood royalty Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas have a villa nearby. It's even good enough for real royalty – the King of Spain comes here for his summer holidays after the island is sprayed for mosquitoes. Heaven forbid one of the pesky insects should bite His Royal Highness!

Majorca really does have everything you could wish for - the temperature of the Caribbean in summer, food to rival Italy's, and the celebrity count of the South of France. But our quiet corner of the islands, away from the busy resorts of Magaluf and Palma Nova, has something else too - a quaintness of a simple island life long forgotten in many places.

Sure, you can buy a designer bikini or diamanté sandals in any one of the chic boutiques along the harbour. But travel inland for a few miles and you’ll find donkeys snacking on carob trees while the farmers take their siesta. Leathery-tanned men sell their giant, juicy tomatoes and home-grown water melons at one of the dozens of markets.

You can visit a pearl factory, buy a hand-made blown glass vase or bag a bargain fake (or real) handbag for half the price of back home.

On our first night, we dive into a local restaurant and feast on paella, washed down with Rioja. The five us eat as much as we can, and then, cringing, ask for the bill. ‘That can’t be right,’ Mum says, shocked. But it is. An entire gourmet meal for a family comes in at less than £25. ‘Even tastier now I know the price,’ I smile.

But it’s hard to be prised away from our sun-washed villa, so we fill the American fridgefreezer and light the built in barbecue every night after that. True to style, the men hog the cooking, while Mum and I get left the washing up.

So we settle into a simple routine - breakfast on the pool terrace, lunch alfresco and dinner by the barbecue patio sipping Martinis shaken, not stirred, but with a slice of lemon plucked from our very own tree.

Later, after putting the kids to bed we watch films on the DVD player or catch up on the news via satellite TV.

That’s the great thing about our villa. It’s rustic-chic with all mod-cons. My cleaning-mad mum puts our bikinis through the wash every evening, while my dad trains my dolphin-boy son, my film-buff husband catches up on the latest movies - available in every language, while I just sunbathe, read my book, smile, and eat.

Soaking up the sun with all of us being able to choose exactly what we want to do has to be the perfect holiday.

At the end of the week we drag our heels gathering up our belongings scattered all over the villa where we've really made ourselves at home.
As I pick up my handbag and absent-mindedly drop the villa keys inside, I'm half-tempted not to hand them in. That way, maybe nobody else can stay at 'Casa Karen before we come back at the same time next year!

Getting There...
James Villa Holidays offers villas in the north and south east of Majorca. We stayed in Coste de Na Llucia, a deluxe three-bed villa which sleeps up to six people, in Pollensa, which costs from £629 per week in low season.

Away With The Fairies

2011-05-24T09:04:00.000-07:00

It was a big fat lie. 'We're going to the library,' I announced. My eight-year-old son's face crashed to the floor. 'You said we were having a surprise,' he sulked. 'That's not fun.'

Bundling him and his three-year-old sister into the car, I hid a smirk. I'd learnt my lesson about telling my kids what we were up to. They pestered the fun out of any treats I planned, so now I operated on a 'Need to Know' basis.

And most times they didn't need to know. Like today. If I'd told them we were going for a photo session, my son would have rolled his eyes, and my little girl wouldn't have slept for the week before.

Better to make them believe they were doing something boring so it was a double whammy of excitement. 'We don't have to actually read a book, do we?' my son moaned. I nodded.

'And is Mickey Mouse there?' my daughter asked. I smiled. 'Something even better,' I said.

Half an hour later, I parked up and led them down a cobbled mews. My son looked as if he was going to the gallows. My little girl skipped along, happy just to be outside.

Just then we came across a shop that looked like it was from the pages of a Harry Potter book. 'Wow, look at this,' my son said, stopping next to a shield and sword.

My daughter was already jumping up and down on the spot. 'Look,' she squealed, excited. 'Wings.' I nodded towards the door. 'Shall we go inside?' I asked, ready to burst.

This was where we were meant to be coming all the time, but much better to let the children think it was their idea. Inside was every child's dream – an Aladdin's cave of fairy costumes, knight's armour, dragon's skulls and pixie dust.

We'd come to see Oliver McNeil at Legend Photography – where he takes kids' pictures, but with a massive difference. In his portraits, little ones get to hold fairies, or be surrounded by swirling mists and lightening strikes.

My two couldn't wait to get dressed up, and pose. My daughter looked magical as she wore a garland of flowers on her blonde curls and 'real wings.' I've always thought she was away with the fairies, and here, she was in the right place.

My son was unrecognisable as he stepped in front of the camera dressed in chain mail and swinging a sword. 'Let's hear your battle cry,' Oliver said, and we had to cover our ears as he hollered the place down.

My kids were in good company – Oliver's snapped everyone from Dr Who, Tom Baker, to Dirty Den.

'That was amazing,' my son said as we left, clutching their spectacular shots. 'Much better than a library any day.' I knew having their picture taken was a novel idea. My little girl loved every minute but I think my boy enjoyed it even more. And with his battle picture already on my wall, I now always have that day – and Knight – to remember!

Hello Kitty - Goodbye Peppa!

2011-05-18T04:50:00.000-07:00

Blinking, I read the words again. No, it couldn't be true. 'Sorry Peppa can't come this weekend, she's busy.' What did she mean, busy?! She's a cartoon, not an It Pig about town.

I had 30 three-year-olds and their parents coming to my little girl's birthday party and that pink, furry pig was the guest of honour.

I'd booked her weeks before as the big surprise, knowing my daughter was her number 1 fan – how dare she cancel, claiming to be otherwise engaged? 'That's a big porky pie,' I fumed, trying to stop panic engulfing me.

I needed a replacement new cartoon character for my little girl's party and I needed it now. So I frantically started searching the internet. Scooby Doo? Too old hat.

Sponge Bob square pants? To square, and, er pants. Ben 10, too old. Barbie, too precocious. 'Uuurrrrgggghhh,' I groaned, scouring every children's site. Then I stopped.

This character was giant, pink and pretty. I didn't recognise her, but she looked perfect. It was Hello Kitty – and she was available. 'Consider yourself hired,' I smiled, paying over the internet.

Now I could relax knowing the entertainment was all sorted. I just had the food to do.

No problem. I was married to a chef, who could knock up a five-course meal for 150 without worrying. How much work could it be feeding thirty little kids?

Lots apparently. 'We need to make 200 sandwiches,' my husband announced, which meant we had to get up at 5.30am to get it all done in time. The party started at 11am, but we had a bouncy castle and feline guest to greet beforehand.

It was still dark when I stumbled out of bed and started cutting off crusts and buttering bread while my husband transformed them into tasty platters.

'Are we nearly done yet?' I mumbled, opening yet another loaf. Finally three hours later, we were finished.

I just had time to get the kids ready and rush to the hall.

Then I was laying out tables, unwrapping the food, and letting in people to put up bouncy castles and sound systems.

'I'm exhausted,' I thought, and the party hadn't even started yet. But once the children rushed in and started playing games, I relaxed. The worst was almost over – everyone had arrived and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Then I spotted Hello Kitty arriving. 'There's someone we'd like you to meet,' we announced, beckoning for her to walk in.

Unfortunately, she must have been on the party punch the night before because Hello Kitty smashed straight into the door, banging her head.

The kids thought it was a party trick and couldn't stop laughing while Hello Kitty tried to manoeuvre through the gap.

She was mobbed by a hall full of three-year-olds who wanted to have their photograph taken with her. My little girl wouldn't move out of the way, and stood stroking the giant kitten and insisted she do the Hokey Cokey with her.

When it was time for Hello Kitty to leave after half an hour, the birthday girl burst into tears, until I promised she'd come back in 365 days.

'Sorry I couldn't get Peppa,' I said, cuddling my daughter. She stopped crying and stared at me. 'Who?' she said, disgusted. 'I only like Hello Kitty.'

My heart sank. I had a dozen Peppa Pig presents for her to open back home. Lucky I'd kept the receipts as it's now a case of Hello Kitty, Goodbye Peppa!

IT'S SICILY SEASON!

2011-05-16T04:07:00.000-07:00

A trip to the Italian island where The Godfather was filmed is an offer I can't refuse...

Normally I read resort guides before I go on holiday to somewhere new but this time I decided I’d learn more about Sicily if I watched The Godfather.

So, always one to be thorough, that meant sitting through the entire trilogy, some 13 marathon hours of movie Mafia magic.

But at least listening to Marlon Brando as the hamster cheeked boss, Vito Corleone, was a reminder to pack the cotton wool.

And I also took along another necessity for a guaranteed pizza of the action – an Italian. In this case, my husband.

Fourteen years ago he took me round his native Rome on the back of his moped, Italian-style. I saw more in those seven days than other British tourists could in a lifetime of trips.

And so it seemed only right that now happily married, and with a family, he should show me around the island where Al Capone supposedly had his luggage pinched.

Alexio spent his childhood family holidays happily playing on the golden sands here, jumping waves as the emerald Mediterranean broke against the shore, and seeing the sights in a tiny cinquecento.

He and his father were convinced every flower stall owner was a member of the Mafia, while his brother and mother demanded daily doses of Sicilian ice cream and world-famous marzipan cake, cassata Siciliana.

Twenty five years later nothing has changed. The ice cream and marzipan are still as tasty, the sea is as clean and warm as my husband remembers and the sun blazes down on us from morning until dusk even though it’s the tail-end of October when we visit.

We’re staying at the pretty Club Med village of Kamarina, an actual mini-town on the coast near Siracusa, made of local stone and trimmed with bourgainvillea, a two-hour drive from Catania airport.

Along the way, I gaze out of the window onto the scrubland criss-crossed with stone walls, the familiar backdrop to the movie that made Al Pacino a house-hold name.

I stare at the white goats picking their way across the rolling hills and realise that Sicily is an island of two halves – the timeless rustic beauty that was captured on film – and the sophisticated retro chic of the Palermo and Taormina where shopping and food are nearly as important as football.

This is the island where Hollywood movie stars like Cary Grant and Rita Hayworth came in the Fifties. Today Tom Cruise, Michael Douglas, Elton John and Hugh Grant are regulars, while Simple Minds singer Jim Kerr owns a hotel here.

We are in an all-inclusive village where Kayaking is as available as pasta and so there’s little incentive to leave our little spot of paradise.

But we manage to prise ourselves away from the two private sand beaches to explore the island. How could we come to Sicily and not visit the mother of all volcanoes – Etna?

She’s the biggest, active volcano in Europe and exercises her mighty power every few years to keep the Sicilians on their toes. The most recent eruption in 2002 put the cable car spectacularly out of action, so we drive the 11,000 feet to the top in a four-wheel bus.

'Mamma Mia,' just about covers it as we take in the gigantic crates and listen to steam hissing noisily out of gaps in the sooty mountainside. I can almost feel the lava bubbling away beneath my feet and want to leave as the high altitude is making me feel dizzy.

Next stop the medieval town of Taormina where we stroll along the traffic-free Corso Umberto licking our gelati while we check out the bars, shops and restaurants.

Taormina is home to two of the island’s most sophisticated hotels where the glitterati stay – the San Domenico Palace and the Timeo.

The San Domenico is a former 15^th century Monastery and boasts rooms that were once monks’ cells. But if it’s a room with a view that you’re after, book into the Timeo with its terrace overlooking the town and Etna.

And then we hurry back to Kamarina for our son’s acting debut. He’s a lion in the Club Med’s circus in the amphitheatre tonight and after a tearful goodbye backstage we wait nervously for the theatre lights to dim.

Finally, our little boy is centre-stage in his furry costume and face paint and on cue jumps through a ‘burning’ hoop of fire (made in reality out of orange and brown tissue paper but it’s very convincing in the dimly lit theatre) to much applause.

I’m nearly crying with pride and join in the whoops of ‘bravo’ as he goes for an encore. It’s Sicily season in Italy –and this has been one holiday isle never forget!

Getting there:

Stay at Club Med Kamarina departing 27 August, from London, £1092 per adult, £712 per child. www.clubmed.co.uk

What to see:

In June, Taormina’s film festival attracts the likes of megastar Tom Cruise. Stay at the celebrities’ favourites Grand Hotel Timeo (tel 0039 0942 23801) or San Domenico Palace (tel 0039 0942 613111).

Simple Minds singer Jim Kerr’s hotel, the 21-room Villa Angela in Taormina (www.taormina-hotels.hotelvillaangela.com) tel 0039 0942 27038 have rooms from £60 to £120 per person

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky on Friday the 13th!

2011-05-10T05:39:00.000-07:00

It's the only Friday the 13th of 2011 this week and I can't wait to go out. I'm going to walk under ladders, make sure I cross paths with plenty of black cats and step on the cracks in the pavement.

Why? Because I feel lucky, that's why. I didn't before I met my husband. I would have taken the day off work and hidden under the duvet.
But my other half is sooooo lucky, it's rubbed up of me. He wins the lottery most weeks, though at first I didn't believe him.

When he woke me up at 2am a few years back screaming: 'I've won, I've won, we're rich,' I must admit I turned over. He's Italian, and for some silly reason I thought he'd read the numbers wrong. (I know, I know, they look the same in any language but it was the middle of the night!).

But when he kept shouting my name, and begging me to come and check, I forced myself out of bed. Sighing I looked at his ticket, then the numbers on the computer. 'I just need to point out his mistake and then I can go back to sleep,' I thought.

But the numbers seemed to match. Shaking my head, I checked again. Guess what, he was right. He had five numbers. 'We've won, we've won,' we screamed, dancing around the living room. But we still needed to check how much...

'OMG,' I whistled. We'd won £3,000. It wasn't enough to change our lives, but it would make the next couple of weeks a lot better. 'That Lucky Dip was extra lucky,' I laughed, kissing him.

So off we went the next morning to the newsagent's where we bought it to claim our prize. 'That's too much,' the shop keeper said. 'You'll have to go to the post office.'

I worried for a second they would say we hadn't won after all, but the woman behind the counter handed over a cheque for the full amount. It was normal size – not a giant one like they have on telly – but it was covered in lottery balls so it felt extra special.

We knew exactly what to spend it on – a luxury holiday to Jamaica. We eve had a butler to look after our every whim. He served us chips and champagne on the beach, and escorted us everywhere, so we never had to queue.

'Who is he?' new holiday pals asked. My husband and I looked at each other, and I saw the glint in his eye. 'Our bodyguard,' he said, deadpan. 'We won the lottery.'

It was amazing how quickly the lie spread until the whole resort were talking about the multi-millionaire lottery winners. And do you know what – we let them think it!

'I mean, it's not everyday you get to win, is it?' I said to my other half as we lay on the golden sand. And I was right. It wasn't every day. But it is most weeks - and this Friday I'm going to ask him to go crazy and buy 13 tickets. Well you never know...

Mirror mirror on the wall...

2011-05-06T11:58:00.001-07:00

What's the best beauty product of all? Take a look at these shiny new ones

(clockwise) Bag just showing – £95.00 The White Stuff www.whitestuff.com 020 7735 8133
Nelsons Arnicare arnica bath & massage oil costs £8.15 available from Boots. A must-have for all mums. Just soak your weary bones in this relaxing oil and you'll be sleeping like a baby. What's not to love?

Meaningful beauty Cindy Crawford Facial Masque £13.99 available exclusively from www.meaningfulbeauty.co.uk Now I know why the former supermodel looks half her age! Relax in the bath with this on your face once a week and your complexion will be runway-ready (well we can always dream!). And a little goes a long way, so it will last for ages, meaning it's fantastic value for money.

Chloe Rose Edition 50ml EDP spray £45.50 The Perfume Shop instores on online www.theperfumeshop.com Glamorous, grown-up and gorgeous - and that's just the bottle. This is the ultimate decadent designer pick-me-up but we all deserve a treat after running around after the family all week don't we?

Artelep Rose and Olive Oil soap £4.95 www.thetravellingsouk.com Beautiful to look at and with an expensive boutique spa smell, this cute little soap is working the luxe for less in my bathroom. It not only leaves me - and the ensuite - smelling fresh, at this price I can afford to stock up.

Marc Jacobs Daisy EDT 20ml Purse Spray & 15ml Refill £28.50, The Perfume Shop or online www.theperfumeshop.com Is it a statement fragrance or an object d'art? Smelling as fresh as its name suggests, this designer perfume does it all. Clear your dressing tables ladies, this is the most desirable day-time scent du jour and I can't enough of it!

Nothing to declare!

2011-05-05T16:18:00.000-07:00

Watching the furry creatures running round in their wheels, I tried to remember why I'd said yes. Just how drunk had I been at my birthday party the week before to agree to babysitting my friend's two hamsters?

She was off to Disneyland Paris for the week. And I'd now got myself two extra house mates.

My kids were delighted, of course. But my husband didn't look quite as amused. But that might have been because I'd forgotten to mention they were coming to stay. Then again, I'd forgotten too. Until now.

'You just have to feed them and give them water and they'll be fine,' my friend smiled, plonking the pets down.

Then she headed off, counting her euros, leaving me alone with the furry creatures. 'Can we hold them?' my two-year-old demanded.

I was regretting this already. They weren't as fluffy and cute as I imagined. To me, they looked like large mice in a cage. How could they be fun?

But I handed Panda, the black and white one, to my little girl. Then I squealed. Why were his eyes bulging like that? 'Don't squeeze so hard,' my hubby told her, glaring at me.

Now my eight-year-old son was demanding to hold the other one, Hammy. 'Look he's so sweet,' he said, as he vanished up the sleeve of his jumper.

I shuddered, grateful they didn't want me to cuddle up to one. All I cared about was making sure they survived the week in our house.

I've always been clumsy. On my first date with my husband, who's Italian, I warned him I was accident-prone, but I don't think he believed me.

That was until I tripped over his shoe and grabbed him to stop myself falling, just as he was dishing up his home-made spaghetti Bolognese.

He, me and his walls were splattered. 'It's Mamma's secret recipe,' he said, wiping the Bolognese from his face. 'What are we going to eat now?'

I didn't dare offer to pop to the shops to buy a sauce of Dolmio, so I kissed him instead. It seemed to work as we've been married more than a decadel.

But he still sports the cuts and bruises from living with a klutz. Over the years I've headbutted him while trying to nibble his ears, and tripped him up endlessly.

I'm extra careful around the children – though my other half thinks they should wear a crash helmet whenever they're alone with me.

So I was surprised when he let me take the kids off to Belfast to see a friend overnight – leaving him alone with his new furry best friends.

'Be careful,' he insisted as I headed to the airport. But apart from falling over my friend's dog three times, it was a calamity-free zone.

'I did it,' I thought, proudly, taking the kids to the toilet after we'd landed safely back in London. We all squeezed into a cubicle, washed our hands and headed out.

As we strolled towards the Nothing To Declare exit, a hand clapped me on the shoulder. I span round, shocked. 'Sorry love,' a woman said to me. 'But you've got loo roll stuck in your trousers.'

Mortified, I glanced down. There was a 15ft train of Andrex behind me. 'I'm collecting it for my hamsters,' I spluttered, cheeks burning. 'They get upset if I don't take them back some bedding.'

Roll on Saturday when my friend's back from her hols...

Animal Magic!

2011-04-30T07:45:00.000-07:00

Go to visit Mickey Mouse in Florida and you’ll get up, close and personal with some very different wildlife...

Chocolate brown eyes stared dolefully at me as he chewed lazily on a piece of grass. I sipped my drink and gazed at him across the balcony.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to anything so beautiful,’ I murmured. But I knew there was a wild streak in him too – especially when he started nuzzling up to a pretty female who strolled up on the longest legs I’d ever seen.

My husband thought she was a looker too, but I wasn’t jealous. I was in awe.

I’d never been within six feet of three giraffes, zebras and a herd of antelopes before. And certainly not as I slurped a cocktail in my hotel.

But this wasn't just any hotel. This was our first night inside the heart of Disney in Florida, and our new neighbours were the inhabitants of Disney’s Animal Kingdom – and they were magical.

It was like having a David Attenborough documentary being played continuously outside our window. Luckily, we were on the second floor – the perfect height to go eyeball to eyeball with the giraffes and watch them galloping from one tree to another to strip it of bark, their favourite snack.

Every morning we pulled back the curtains to discover another animal surprise awaiting us.
Thankfully, we’d been given a printed drawing of every possible species that could be beyond the balcony so we could identify them all when our little boy demanded: ‘What’s that?’

Having our very own nature reserve made it hard to tear ourselves away from the five-star Animal Kingdom Lodge. So it made sense to spend our first day at the Disney theme park of the same name, and go on a real safari to spot the Big Five.

We came face to face with a (luckily) sleepy lion, a herd of elephants including a real-life baby Dumbo, more Giraffes, zebras, hippos, wildebeest, and crocodiles. ‘Is that Simba?’ our son, Deme, demanded as he watched the giant lion yawn. ‘Where’s Scar?’

He didn’t have to wait long to come face to face with characters from The Lion King. The entire theme park seemed inspired by the hit film, and Simba’s side kicks Timbon and Pumba were waiting back at the hotel to sign autographs and pose for photos. ‘I’ve seen you in your film,’ Deme announced when he cuddled them. ‘Do you know Mickey Mouse?’

We decided to stick with the wildlife theme and head off to SeaWorld the next day. It was scorching in Orlando – even though it was raining and below freezing back home – and we laughed as we handfed dolphins (they felt so rubbery) and stood, amazed at the hulk of the polar bears.

Nothing could ever beat the spectacular performance of Shamu, the killer whale. We sat in the front row for the must-see show. It’s splashing! ‘I’m wet,’ our son giggled. But we’d read about Shamu’s love of drenching his audience beforehand, and so came prepared with a change of clothes. For Deme, at least. We forgot about us, but soon dried in the Florida sunshine.

Not so, when I pretended to be brave at Magic Kingdom the next day and ventured on Splash Mountain. There’s a clue there in the name, but I hadn’t imagined we’d get quite so soaked. I could have entered a Miss Florida Wet T-shirt content afterwards. Instead, the other unfortunate visitors to Disney World got a glimpse at my mismatching underwear.

I shouldn’t have worried. Everything you could ever want is on sale at Disney World, so I soon bought an entire new outfit – including Mouse ears – and looked for the next scary ride. Deme is big for his age, but the really terrifying (and exciting) rides have height restrictions. But he made it onto all.

Luckily we didn't have to queue as we had FastPass with our 7 Day Premium Tickets. Instead of wasting time, queuing at the rides, we simply put our tickets into the machine and were given a time to come back so we headed straight in.

It meant I didn’t have time to get nervous and spent a lot of time yelling: ‘Ohhhhhhh noooooo, let me off,’ while my family laughed and held their hands in the air. My husband added to the torture by insisting on buying pictures of us on every scary ride. They all looked the same – them calmly smiling while I screamed, white faced and gripping on with all my strength.

Thankfully, there are plenty of rides that are exhilarating without fear – like Epcot’s fantastic Soarin’, which takes you flying in a glider across the globe, and TestTrack, where you check out car safety at speed.

Afterwards, we strolled around the world (literally), and stopped off in Italy for a plate of genuinely delicious pasta washed down with the finest wine from Tuscany.

It was time for a rest and so we spent the next couple of days soaking up the sun by the swimming pool back at our hotel. There was plenty to do. Deme and I shopped in the store there and he went to Simba’s club (or was that cub) house every afternoon to play and do activities with the other 4 – 12 year olds staying at the hotel.

At night, we headed to Downtown Disney where we could feast in the jungle at the Rainforest café, or shop until our son dropped in the dozen of different stores. There’s even one shop which is dedicated to Christmas Disney-style all year round.

Our final park to explore was Disney-MGM Studios. We watched The Beauty and the Beast live on stage, oohed and aahed at the dazzling stunts in Lights, Motors, Action! Extreme Stunt Show. Deme was fascinated by the dangerous manoeuvres performed by motorbike and car stunt drivers, including setting themselves on fire and performing spectacular jumps. ‘I want to try that on my bike,’ he announced when we left. Fortunately, it was thousands of miles away, and still had stabilisers.

Then we came face to face with the most important person in my four-year-old's life – the red Power Ranger. He was posing for photographs with the other Power Rangers along Streets of America and Deme met them all. Twice.

Afterwards, we made his holiday by buying him a Power Rangers outfit from the shop. He wore it around the park, the hotel and even on the plane home.

‘When are we going to DisneyWorld again?’ Deme asked as we took off. Alexio and I didn’t need time to think about it. ‘Soon,’ we both answered. After all, we did have a wild time.

Getting there:
Walt Disney Travel Company is offering 7 night packages at Animal Kingdom Lodge including direct flights with Virgin Atlantic from £1,320 per person.* Alternatively, stay 7 nights at Animal Kingdom on an accommodation only basis from £563† per person. Add Disney Park Tickets and receive 14-days for the price of 7 for all 2011 arrivals from £220 per adult. Book through Walt Disney Travel Company on 0870 24 24 900, or book online at www.disneyworld.co.uk.

* Prices based on 2 adults sharing a Standard room at Animal Kingdom Lodge for 7 nights departing on 5 September 2011, return economy class flights on Virgin Atlantic from London Gatwick to Orlando International and free airport hotel transfers aboard Disney’s Magical Express.
† Prices based on 2 adults sharing a Standard room at Animal Kingdom Lodge for 7 night stays between 17 Jul – 29 September 2011.
All holidays are subject to availability.

A pig of a party!

2011-04-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

Smiling I ticked off one of the things to do on my very long list. It's my little girl's third birthday next week and she's been busy making preparations since Christmas.

'Two birthday cakes, Mummy,' she tells me most days. 'And lots of candles.' But I'm going one better.

I've booked a hall, a bright pink bouncy castle, and her daddy's a chef so he can do the catering. Best of all, I'm in the middle of making all her dreams come true by organising her heroine to pay a visit.

It's not many three-year-olds who get Peppa Pig to wish them a Happy Birthday. That also means it's going to be fancy dress. So now I've just got to work out what I'm going to wear.
I'm too fat to don rubber as Cat Woman, too old for Little Bo Peep, too young for Queen Victoria.

I decided to go through our DVDs for inspiration. When I was young my fantasies were simple and all inspired by films.

One week, I wanted to roll around with Woody Harrelson on a bed strewn with money instead of Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.

The next, I'd be making (wonky) pots with the late (and brilliant) star of Ghost, Patrick Swayze.
I wore out two videos wishing I was Debra Winger being rescued from her factory-girl life by An Officer and A Gentleman, Richard Gere.

Nowadays I fantasise about putting on my pyjamas for an early night with my husband without my little girl, or eight-year-old boy, demanding to watch Toy Story 3 in bed with us.

That was until I discovered the best film ever – 13 Going on 30. It's a teen movie, but has the funniest scene of all time in it, when Jennifer Garner's ice-hockey boyfriend does a striptease to Vanilla Ice's one and only hit song.

It's hilarious and for weeks I made it my Friday night treat just for that laugh out loud scene. And then one evening, as I pulled on my PJs ready for bed, my hubby began to slowly shed his clothes and re-enact the film's striptease scene. He'd even memorised the lyrics.

Talk about N-Ice N-Ice baby! It gave a whole new meaning to (Dirty) Dancing On Ice.
But when he did it three days in a row, then announced he had a surprise for me, I began to get worried.
Was he going to jump out of a wardrobe flapping a cape?

But that gave me a great idea. He could dress up as Batman for the party and I could be Robin. And, as he's doing the catering, he could fly out of the hall's kitchen when the kids food is ready shouting: 'Dinner, dinner, dinner, Batman!' Wish me luck...

Have an EGGS-citing Easter!

2011-04-21T02:16:00.000-07:00

These Easter goodies are crackin'!

(left to right, back row) Thorntons Chocolate Block Egg £9.99 at stores nationwide, major supermarkets or online www.thorntons.co.uk
Carluccio's Uovo Grande £17.95 (400g) available instore and online www.carluccios.com
Green & Black's Luxury Easter dark chocolate egg £9.99  http://www.greenandblacks.com/uk/what-we-make/easter.html
Green & Black's medium organic Butterscotch egg £5.59

(second row)

Blue Lotus Easter cupcakes £11.99 for six online at www.BlueLotusCakes.co.uk or via orderline 0116 2998122 https://twitter.com/bluelotuscakes
Easter Egg Train £4.99 available online 24studio.co.uk or via orderline 0844 800 11 22
Pixley Berries fruit cordials (Blackcurrant, Blackcurrant & Raspberry and Blackcurrant & Ginger) £3.19 from Waitrose www.pixleyberries.co.uk

Smarties Chicken and Egg is available from multiple grocers nationwide £2.49
Hannah Turner Owl egg cup £29.99 www.hannahturner.co.uk

Carluccio's milk chocolate Lepre di Cioccolate £6.95 as before
Rabbit Tape measure £3.75 available online at www.traidcraftshop.co.uk or via orderline 0845 330 8900.
Aero bubbly Lamb from all good retailers nationwide 61p

Fungus The Toothy Man

2011-04-19T04:05:00.000-07:00

My husband's face was bright red, but his entire body was shaking. My little girl's cough was so bad I'd run out of Tixylix and had to place two books under one end of her bed.

Only my eight-year-old son was feeling fine, but he wanted me to play Wii with him and I had deadlines looming.

'I can't right now, I've got to work,' I told him. 'Besides it's your bed time.'

So we ran the gauntlet of germs – me hiding my nose and mouth behind my cardigan – past the other two sick members of our family to the bathroom.

I stood chatting to my little boy as he brushed his teeth, white froth flying, then hurried him to bed.

'Sleep tight,' I said, kissing him. He tasted all minty. 'I'll see you tomorrow night.'

I had to get all my work finished that night as I was off to London the next day to sign a book deal.

I'd been asked to do a sample chapter a few weeks back, but I'd known a lot of other writers had gone for it too, so had forgotten all about it. No news is bad news in the freelance journalism business.

Then, suddenly I'd had The Call and was off to sign the contract the next day – if my family were well enough to be left.

I'd never been one for being ill. I'd been rushed to hospital once with pancreatitis, which can be fatal.

Even though I'd been in agony, and had to spend hours in a London resuscitation room with my own crash team I thought I'd be fine to go home after a while, once I'd taken a painkiller.

So I didn't hold much truck with colds and flu. But my husband's temperature was soaring and I needed him to rally if I was going to be the next J K Rowling.

So I dosed him up on everything I could find for flu, and turned the heating on in the bedroom, so he'd sweat the virus out.

The plan worked as he was looking much better the next morning. 'Will you be able to manage the school run?' I asked, concerned.

He could still hardly speak, his throat was so sore and his glands were up. But he managed to nod in between blowing his nose.

Now all I had to do was get our kids ready before I left to catch the train. My baby was already awake, I could hear her coughing. I gave her a bottle of milk, then went into wake up my son.

He was under the duvet, snoring.'Wakey wakey,' I said, ruffling his hair. Nothing. 'Up you get,' I continued, stroking his face. No response.

Then I spotted his feet poking out the end of the duvet. 'Let's go,' I began, getting ready to whip off the duvet. Then I froze.

His feet were covered in a thick, white fungus. It covered the soles, and crept in between his toes. 'Oh no, you're sick too,' I gasped.

Maybe it was some terrible virus that was giving my family a temperature, cough and rotten feet. My heart sank, all thoughts of signing my book deal forgotten now.

I couldn't leave all three of them at home, sick. I'd have to stay and look after them. But first, I needed to see what this fungus was, so I could treat it.

I peered closer. I sniffed, then I began to laugh, relieved. I could go to London after all. My son just had a case of severe toothpaste-itis.

He'd made such a mess brushing his teeth the night before, the toothpaste must have flown everywhere and he'd trodden in it.

'Well at least it's given me something to write about,' I thought, heading to the station. Every good book needs a character who puts his foot in it, don't they?

Souks you, baby!

2011-04-17T15:47:00.000-07:00

It’s known as a playground for the rich and famous but Dubai’s a brilliant destination for families too

Dubai is famous for sun, shopping and skyscrapers but it can also boast some nice ice, baby. No, not snow (though it does have a giant dry ski slope inside one of its malls) but diamonds.

As soon as we touched down in the land of bling, we headed straight for the world-famous gold souks.

Inside the first shop, sunlight glinted off a two-carat solitaire my little boy, Deme, twisted on his finger. ‘Not bad,’ he shrugged. ‘But do you have anything bigger?’

Without blinking, the jeweller handed him a rock the size of a 50p while his colleague draped my toddler Anais in a ruby-encrusted choker with matching bracelet.

Next to him my husband Alexio inspected a Rolex watch inlaid with slabs of emerald and sapphire. It was a ‘bargain’ at just £15,000.

But that was nothing compared to the price of the jewels our children were wearing. And no one – except me – seemed concerned that they might lose, break, or even swallow one of these precious gems.

This was shopping, Dubai-style, where everything that glitters really is gold or something even more expensive. And, right now, my children couldn’t get enough of it.

Back home, I have to drag the family into any store that’s not Toys r Us. Here, they loved strolling around the souks, where you can buy gold chains by the inch, and hitting the malls.

Shopping here isn’t just a Wag’s paradise. It’s a way of life, and, like everything in Dubai, they’ve decided bigger is definitely better.

I watched my little boy’s eyes bulge as we went round the world’s biggest shopping complex, The Dubai Mall, complete with ice rink and aquarium.

New trainers and a glimpse at a turtle was obviously a winner. ‘Cool,’ he said, awe-struck as we hit the next ‘shopping experience centre’- Mall of the Emirates– and the dry ski slopes.

It was funny to think it was boiling outside – Dubai has great weather all year round – while father and son practised their moves on the ice.

For a week we were living the High Life, literally. We were staying in the penthouse suite at the luxurious Le Meridien Mina Seyahi Beach resort and Marina, just down the road from the famous sail-shaped hotel Burj Al Arab on Jumeirah beach.

Along with a marble bathroom, dressing room, kitchen, living room and bedroom bigger than the average two-bed flat back home, we had a jaw-dropping view overlooking the marina.

Below was a golden beach set against a dramatic backdrop of Canary-Wharf style skyscrapers. It’s Manhattan-on-Sea, with the desert thrown in for good measure. On our horizon was the five-star Atlantis resort, where Kylie performed for the £15 million opening party.

Stars flew in from all over the world for the bash, but many of them have luxury holiday homes here.

David Beckham splashed out £8 million on a swanky Palm Jumeirah house for Posh’s parents.

It’s easy to see why it’s a popular place for expats wanting to live the dream and a year-round hot tourist spot for sunlovers.

Every day our little boy kept begging for a doughnut as soon as he woke up. It took me a while to work out he wasn’t demanding a bun for breakfast. He’d spotted the giant rubber rings being towed across the sea in front of us and wanted a go.

‘Faster, faster!’ Deme cried each time as he bounced along the waves of the Arabian sea in the doughnut, being pulled by a boat.

Anais was safe and happy inside the hotel-run kids’ club, which was excellent. But she lapped up the fun when we took her and Deme to the Dubai Dolphinarium, where they watched the seal and dolphin show, and swam with the dolphins.

She giggled as we took her to another family must day-out at the Wild Wadi waterpark. Deme and Alexio shot down slides, chutes and lazed around rivers while us girls got a little bit wet splashing in pools.

Then it was time to get dry – and go shopping again. ‘Do you want to try on more diamonds?’ I asked my son. He grinned. ‘Only if they’re worth more than a million pounds,’ he said. I was sure we could easily find one here – after all Dubai Rocks!

Getting there
Five nights in Dubai with Virgin Holidays, including scheduled flights with Virgin Atlantic from London Heathrow direct to Dubai, accommodation at the 5V Le Meridien Mina Seyahi Beach Resort & Marina on an a breakfast only basis with transfers included starts from £986. Prices are per person based on 2 adults travelling and sharing a standard room, price includes all applicable taxes and fuel surcharges which are subject to change. Prices are based on departures between 14 – 19 Sep 2011.
Virgin Holidays is a member of ABTA and is ATOL protected
To book: www.virginholidays.co.uk , 0844 557 3859 or visit one of our 50 stores located in Debenhams and House of Fraser stores nationwide.
I was lucky enough to go with my family on a press trip but would happily pay to go again!

My (half) naked ambition!

2011-04-11T02:18:00.000-07:00

Smiling, I twirled in front of the mirror. The skirt was a perfect fit. Black lace billowed out around me like a mini meringue. Best of all there were no rolls of fat cascading over the waist, and the ballerina style hid my jelly belly under metres of tulle.

'I'll get it,' I thought, triumphant. It wasn't just that it was only £25. In this skirt, I felt smaller than my size 16 without going on a diet or wearing Spanx pants.

But as I slipped out of the skirt, I realised why it was so comfortable. It had an elasticated waist.
I hadn't worn one of those since having my baby two-and-a-half years before. Though thanks to my love of rioja wine and ricotta and spinach cannelloni my bump is now bigger than when I was pregnant.

'Oh well, no one will know,' I thought. 'I'll make sure I wear a top that covers the elasticated waist.' And at least I wouldn't have to worry about my new favourite outfit being too tight after a massive blow out.

So I paid for it and hung it in my wardrobe, ready for its first outing. Less than a week later, I was asked to try out for some freelance work at Sky magazine.

'I need something impressive to wear,' I wailed. Working among so many high-powered men and high-heeled women meant I needed to look smart and steely.

Then I remembered my ballerina skirt. 'That's perfect,' I thought, mentally accessorising it with a black top, giant jewellery and ankle boots.

So I felt super-charged as I marched through the publishing room on my first day, ready to rub (padded) shoulders with media executives. My skirt swished as I strode past the rows of desks towards the Head of Publishing.

I smiled, confident that for once I looked more like a serious journalist than a slummy mummy.
And then – as if in slow motion – I felt a draft and gasped as the elastic in my waistband pinged and my brand new skirt slid to the floor, exposing my giant Bridget Jones-style pants.

My cheeks burned. 'Oh no,' I shrieked as the entire room fell silent and everyone stopped to stare. I wanted to cry, or throw myself out of the nearest window in shame.

But I did what any self-respecting woman standing half-naked in a room full of 50 strangers with her tight gusset hanging out would do. I bent down, picked up my skirt, and gave my biggest grin.

'I'm here about the job,' I said, to a gob-smacked secretary. And do you know what – I got it! I didn't know if it was out of sympathy or because I was game for a laugh, but at least I styled it out. I also learnt a valuable lesson – always carry a safety pin in case I become a fashion disasterista!

My Pet Shame!

2011-04-04T07:35:00.000-07:00

His eyes were wide and pleading as he gazed up at me. 'Please can we have a dog?' my eight-year-old son begged. 'I'll take it for walks and let him into my bath.'

I shook my head. 'Not now, love,' I said. 'Me and your dad are too busy.' My son's green eyes filled with tears but he was too brave to cry.

'Maybe later in the year,' I said, knowing I'd put it off then too. It wasn't that I didn't like dogs. I loved them – as long as they were small, fluffy and belonged to someone else.

'Puppies are too much hard work,' I sighed to my husband that night. 'Besides we live in a top floor flat.' What would we do if the dog was suddenly desperate for the loo – put him in the lift with a key fob to let himself in and out of the building? Or bungee-jump him off the balcony?

'He'll just have to wait for a pet,' I decided. 'I don't have the time.'

I was already juggling my son, two-year-old girl, my job and a chef husband. He couldn't help me as he was always run off his feet cooking up a storm.

'Can you pick up some ingredients for me after work?' he asked. 'I want to cook something special tomorrow.'

He'd forgotten to get them and we were expecting eight friends over for dinner the next day.

I scribbled down a long list of what he wanted - cheese, flour, butter, tarragon, and – eek! - a lobster. I pulled a face.

I'm vegetarian and had never eaten a crustacean. The only thing I wanted in my house that came from a shell was a pearl. Not Larry the lobster who'd have to suffer to make my mates a tasty supper.

'Never mind, it'll be frozen,' I told myself as I drove to the beach front store the next day.

'I'll just get them to put it in a bag and not think about it.'

So I bounded into the fish shop, eager to get my errand over and done with. 'A lobster please,' I said. 'My husband's ordered it.'

The man smiled. 'Follow me,' he said, heading towards some water tanks.

Confused, I trailed behind, then froze. There, swimming around blissfully unaware of their fate, were half a dozen live lobsters. 'Pick one,' the shop keeper said.

I swallowed, scared. This wasn't some shopping expedition. I was on lobster death row and had been given the job as judge, jury and executioner.

How could I choose which ones lived and which one died?

'The oldest,' I mumbled, horrified. I couldn't kill a baby. 'This one's the biggest.' he said, plunging his hand into the pool and picking up a giant lobster, its pincers already tied.

I shuddered. He was already cuffed, and about to be put to death, ready for my family to scoff. Guilt tore through me.

'I'm so sorry,' I whispered as the man covered the lobster in wet tissue – to keep him alive during the journey!- and handed him to me in a box.

I was too shocked to speak, so silently paid then carried the lobster, in his cardboard coffin, to my car.

Carefully, I drove home, avoiding every bump. The lobster's end was going to be bad enough. The least I could do was make his final journey comfortable.

My husband had told me to put the lobster in the fridge, but I'd assumed it would be dead. Now, it was too cruel. So back home, I did what every decent vegetarian would do – and run a bath. Then I placed Larry the lobster in it for his last ever swim.

Just then my husband arrived home with our children. 'Oh look,' my son said, excited, when he spotted me kneeling next to the tub.

I waited for him to talk about how he'd like his supper served – with garlic bread or chips. Instead he gave me a cuddle. 'Thanks,' he smiled. 'How did you know I wanted a lobster as a pet?' That made both me and his dad very crabby!

Mummy dearest!

2011-03-30T03:33:00.000-07:00

Spoil your mum with one of these gorgeous gifts or leave this page open on your screen saver as a giant hint! Gifts clockwise...

The Love Bug Bear £13.50 available at Build-A-Bear Workshops nationwide or www.buildabear.co.uk
Connock London’s Kukui Oil Candle (£36.80, 252g) www.connocklondon.com
Front Cover Cosmetics Rainbow Eyes Reborn £15.75 at Boots nationwide call 0845 070 8090 and www.boots.com
VO5 Heat defence Two-way Rotatable Tong £24.99 available at Tesco online and Boots online
Let's Get Busy Notebook by Mini Moderns £5 www.minimoderns.com
Mad Beauty Rosey Bath Confetti as before
Cream tulip Jewllery Hanger £8.99 from The Range stores nationwide or online www.therange.co.uk
Mad Beauty Glitter Essential Make Up Bag £4.99 www.madbeauty.com
Godiva chocolates as before

Mum's the word - the ultimate gift guide

2011-03-30T03:24:00.000-07:00

Show your mum you care with this fabulous wish list...

Clockwise
POSH Graffiti Mummy Floral sign 5cm £15 www.emilyreadettbayley.com
Dartington perfume bottle £65 www.dartington.co.uk
Sheer Cover eyeshadow and lip pallette – part of an entire set £29.99 www.sheercover.co.uk/beauty
all for eve lipstick in Eve Red £10.50 available www.allforeve.co.uk, Debenhams, John Lewis, Harrods and Harvey Nichols
Rivka gemstone earrings – £38.25 www.qvcuk.com
Elizabeth Arden perfume – part of Elizabeth Arden Travel Set - 4 x 10ml perfumes RRP £22.50 but £10.60 Dealtastic.co.uk
Mavala nail varnish in 397 Sweet £3.95 available John Lewis and Debenhams
Transformulas Hydration Gold 30ml £55.95 www.transformulas.com or call 08451133888
Chanel Coco Mademoiselle perfume 35ml £55 From www.theperfumeshop.com or The Perfume shop stores nationwide
Spaceform Poppy Love small frame Glass £18 www.spaceform.com 020 7622 2227
Mad Beauty Rosey Bath Confetti – £3.99 www.madbeauty.com
Godiva Limited Edition Truffles Dessert Collection £24 www.godiva.be or call 0207 734 8113

I'm on a McDiet!

2011-03-28T08:12:00.000-07:00

My children were hurtling towards me, their arms outstretched, their blonde curly hair flying.

'Maammmmaaaaaa,' the pair of them screeched, almost knocking me over as they slammed into me.

I laughed, happy they'd waited up as I was working late.

'I couldn't go to bed without giving you a cuddle,' my eight-year-old son said, trying to put his arms around me. They only got as far as round my sides.

I breathed in, while he grappled with my jelly belly. It was no use. Try as he might, his arms just weren't long enough to reach around my rapidly expanding girth. 'Your tummy's fat,' he said, disappointed. 'You'll have to cuddle me instead.'

So I sat down, trying to ignore my fat stomach cascading down. 'Goody,' my two-year-old girl screamed, jumping into my lap. 'A bouncy castle.'

My entire body wobbled as she leapt up and down, giggling. 'Stop that,' my husband chastised her. 'You'll make Mamma sick.'

But it wasn't the sight of my little girl bouncing on my blubber that did that though – it was the sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror that night.

My once-attractive curves were now buried under layers of spare tyres. My stomach alone could keep an entire fleet of Ice Truckers' super-lorries going for three years without a single puncture.

'I have to lose weight,' I wailed. My wardrobe was crammed with never-worn clothes I'd bought to 'diet into.'

I had every size in there from a size 12 to a 16 – and now they were more than a snug fit.
'No more pasta, pizza or red wine for me,' I vowed. My husband pulled a face. He's a chef, and can whip up a three-course meal easier than I can cremate beans on toast.

'Don't be silly, just go to the gym,' he said. But that would mean showing off my fat in all its Lycra-clad glory. I'd have to go down at least two dress sizes before I could venture anywhere near a cross-trainer.

So I told everyone I was off the booze, fizzy drinks chocolate, crisps, rich creamy sauces, roast potatoes and - my favourite – calorie-laden mozzarella cheese.

'Don't tempt me,' I told the children, ordering them to eat their sweets in their bedrooms or when I was out.

I dug out my trainers – with the label still in tact – and picked up a form to join the gym.

'I'll be a new woman soon,' I announced, reading the lists of classes available. Combat aerobics, kick boxing, Boot camp – things had changed during the decades since I'd done a mum's bums and tums class.

Getting fit sounded like anger management nowadays. Maybe I could cut the rage along with a double chin.

So on Monday morning I was raring to go. My gym kit was ready – all I had to do was drop the kids off at school.

All the way there I silently chanted as I drove. 'I will not eat junk,' I told myself. 'I will get thin.' By the time I'd finished the school run I couldn't think of anything other than food.

'Be good,' I thought as I neared our house. Then I swerved off the road right into a drive-thru. 'An egg McMuffin, three hash browns and an orange juice,' please I told the tannoy. 'And make it quick. I'm on a McDiet.'

Oscar Winner Colin Firth - enough to make a girl stammer!

2011-02-28T06:35:00.000-08:00

Twisting my spaghetti on my fork, I glanced up and froze. 'L-l-l-ook,' I managed to gasp to my friend.

There, sitting just four feet away from us, on the next table, was Colin Firth. Mr Darcy himself! Though today he was wearing jeans and a beige jumper instead of britches and a ruffled shirt.

'OMG!' my friend spluttered, pasta flying everywhere. 'Is it really him?'

This was an intimate Italian restaurant. He was within touching distance. Of course, it was him. I could even smell his classic aftershave. And he was so gorgeous it was enough to make a girl stammer.

Feeling brave, I smiled at Colin. He grinned back. My friend looked as if she was going to burst into tears. 'Stop it,' I hissed, desperate to act as if I lunched with A-list stars all the time.

But she had real tears in her eyes now. 'I love him,' she declared, staring doe-eyed and open mouthed at him. Colin was talking to a director-type, probably about his next movie role.

But I couldn't hear over my friend's sighs, and frantic phone calls telling everyone she'd ever met in a stage whisper: 'I'm sitting next to Colin Firth.'

He tried to pretend he hadn't heard her or noticed every other woman in the restaurant staring. None of them touched their food. They were looking at something far tastier - their tongues lolling out. When my friend got out her mobile to take pictures as he tucked into his ice cream, I knew it was time to leave. 'Bye Colin,' she said, standing over him and waving. He politely nodded while I practically dragged her away.

It was only an hour of gazing at the man who's now won an Oscar for his spell-binding performance in The King's Speech but it was enough.

I now know why researchers recently found 50 per cent of women would happily ditch their other half on to go on a date with a celebrity. Luckily I've never seen Mr Darcy dining nearby since or my hubby would be left home alone!

Veg out on holiday while your kids eat 5 a day!

2010-10-06T09:07:00.000-07:00

She was unrecognisable. Mashed banana oozed between her fingers and under her nails. Dollops of hoummous hung from her nose, while shredded carrot decorated her hair.

Usually, I'd be reaching for a wet wipe to clean up my two-year-old Anais and she'd be heading for the naughty step for wearing instead of eating her dinner.

But today I smiled as she was given a sticker for being top of the class. 'Well done,' I said as Anais tucked into her 'work' – a hand-decorated rice cake and a courgette and hoummous sandwich.

Both had been carefully crafted without any help from me, thousands of miles away from her nursery. We were in the Los Jameos Playa hotel, in Lanzarote, where kids can learn to eat their five a day while on holiday.

The all-inclusive four star, part of the luxurious Seaside Hotels chain, has joined forces with Mange Tout to develop fun food school classes.

So while I took in the swimming pools, spa and Wellness centre, Anais did arts, crafts, games and songs with Mange Tout founder Lucy Thomas to encourage her to get excited about fruit and vegetables. Yes, I was getting brown, while she was getting healthy!

And, while there's a serious message to the Mange Tout classes -– that all children should eat healthily – former nanny Lucy serves it up with lashings of fun.

First up was explorers class where the children had to guess the name of ordinary and exotic vegetable and how they grew. 'No, carrots don't live on trees,' Lucy smiled at Anais. 'But good try.'

Then they took part in fruity Olympics, where they did kiwi and spoon races instead of the normal egg, and played grapefruit boules. My daughter nearly took a few of the audience out with her throws, but I'm thinking of putting her down for the shot-put in 2024.

Next, was a fascinating game of sink or swim – during which the children had to guess which fruit floated in a bucket of water, and which sank without a trace. Unbelievably, Anais got it right every time – an apple bobs, a carrot sinks, but how did she know? We always have ducks, not fruit and veg, to play with in the bath at home.

Each session was an hour long, and in between the children checked out the kids' swimming pool, the mini club and playground, complete with climbing frame, see-saw, swings and sand.

The hotel is only a short stroll to Puerto del Carmen and alongside Los Pocillos beach, though we had to cross a road to get to it, and it's volcanic sand, so Anais didn't believe it was real.

'Not beach,' she insisted, sticking out her lower lip.

But at two, and already incredibly girly, she did enjoy the boutique shops selling sarongs, necklaces and – result! - dolls along the seafront.

There was just enough time for, ahem, her to have a quick nap before dinner – which was amazing. Everywhere I looked chefs in their whites were grilling, chopping, baking, slicing and cooking delicious food. There were hot and cold starters, a buffet, and every imaginable dish from around the world on offer.

Unfortunately, the all-inclusive also includes wine and so there was plenty of rose, chardonnay and rioja among others for me to wash it all down. Even worse, there was a dessert section bigger than my house back home. I had one of every pudding – so at least I had a work-out the next day, sucking in my last remaining stomach muscle as I sunbathed in a bikini.

Then it was off to the kids' disco, in the hotel's El Belingo nightclub, where Anais threw a few shapes and managed to bag herself a four-year-old boyfriend, called Ned. They were inseparable all evening, but luckily he was at food school too, so they could sit holding hands over the fruit and veg the next day. They even learnt the Celery Hokey Cokey together.

Lucy ignored their budding romance while she read the children The Hungry Caterpillar. They then coloured in pictures of what the caterpillar ate before making their own creature out of courgette and carrot slices. Who would have thought veg on a matchstick (with a grape for the head) could keep a dozen children entertained for so long?

As I sipped a sangria in the sun, Anais and her new friends baked courgette cup cakes (which were surprisingly tasty if a little lop-sided), made their own fruit juice, and painted themselves while attempting to create a butterfly.

They sang, they laughed and they ate lots of fruit and vegetables, all in the shade of palm trees, without realising they were learning to appreciate eating healthily.

The truly amazing thing is that these food classes – which are just as exciting as a normal kids' club, if not more so, are being offered free during half term. The week's activities are worth £250 a child, but the hotel is providing them as part of the normal package deal.

And Anais couldn't get enough of them. Each day I'd ask if she wanted to go and play with Lucy and she couldn't wait. She even happily left the swimming pool, her absolute favourite - to join in the foodie fun.

After class, she'd rush to play tennis on the kids court there, watch the breathtaking parrots and eagles show and then dance the night away with Ned while I sampled the local cocktails and watched, full and contented.

'More' became Anais' favourite phrase. She wanted more time in the swimming pool, more dancing each night but most importantly more fruit and veg at every meal time. Which parent doesn't want to get their kids to eat their five a day? On this fruity holiday they really do prove it's child's play.

Getting there
The price for October half term for half board accommodation at the Seaside Los Jameos Playa Hotel, including return flights (from Manchester) is from £908 per person (total price for a family, 2 adults, 2 children, is £3,632), on 22 October for 7 nights. This price includes the exclusive Mange Tout sessions. Departures from other UK airports also available. Contact monarch at www.monarch.co.uk

General: Monarch offers a range of great value holidays, accommodation options, car hire and travel insurance. A week’s stay at the 5 diamond rates Hotel Seaside Los Jameos Playa in Playa de los Pocillos, Lanzarote, starts from £413 per person (based on a family of four sharing on a half board basis) and including Monarch flights from Birmingham, Gatwick, Luton or Manchester. For further information or to book visit www.monarch.co.uk.

Kids Cruise Control - the perfect way to see the Caribbean

2010-07-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

A PERFECT arch of gleaming castor sugar sand framed a sparkling azure sea. A swaying palm tree or two formed the perfect backdrop to the secluded bay.
Smiling, I watched my six-year-old son dart in and out of the waves while my nine-month-old baby played at my feet. It was totally silent except for the squeals of my little boy as the salty surf sprayed his golden skin and the clink of ice in my unpronounceable cocktail.
‘Absolutely perfect,’ I murmured, taking a sip of fruity punch. ‘Where are we again?’ My husband threw back his head and laughed. Then he shrugged. Neither of us had a clue.
Not because we’d been hit on the head with a coconut or had heatstroke. It’s just that we were in the middle of a Caribbean cruise visiting 10 of the most beautiful islands in the world.
And today was just another day in another paradise. The list of places we’d visited so far was a must-see whistle-stop tour for the rich and famous – Barbados, St Vincent, Aruba, Bonaire and Catalina Island.
Each of them was beautiful and two – Bonaire and Catalina - rivalled the Maldives with their warm, transparent seas and talcum powdery white beaches.
There were still plenty more places to explore, including Tortola, St Lucia, Dominica, St Maarten, and Grenada. Today, we finally worked out, we were in Antigua.

It was stunning with its 350 pink-white beaches – one for nearly every day of the year – and lush tropical hills. But these gorgeous islands were just the backdrop to our five-star family holiday.
The real star of the show was a giant ship, the P&O Ventura, our luxurious home for two weeks. It’s a floating palace with every need catered for and then some. There are nine restaurants from casual American dining to Marco Pierre White’s exclusive Italian eaterie, The White Room on the top deck.
There’s also a casino, spa, gym, shops, florist, library, 12 bars, two swimming pools, medical centre, and, most importantly for us, a kiddy club. Don’t get me wrong – we wanted to spend every minute of our holiday having fun in the sun with our children but we know our son, Deme.
He loves making new friends. ‘Can I go and play with other children on the ship?’ he begged as soon as we boarded at Barbados. And so we enrolled him in the Surfers club for 5-8 year olds at Jumping Jacks in The Reef. ‘Cool,’ Deme declared as soon as he spotted the play stations, indoor and outdoor games (they have an entire deck and their own swimming pool) and the other children his age.
From then on it was a struggle to persuade him to spend any time with us. ‘But Muuuum, it’s Parachute games and Elephant footie,’ he complained whenever I begged him to join us for meals. They could play, eat and even sleep in the kiddy club, which was open from 9am – 10.30pm.
Perfect in theory, but in reality we saw the Caribbean and lost a son. Luckily, I had our baby Anais for company. She was too young to go into the kiddy club, though there was a fully-stocked play room for babies to use supervised.
There was a supply of baby food, a cot and even a buggy to use on board. And there was a night nursery from 6pm for all children aged over six months so us weary parents could dine in peace while Noddy read them bedtime stories. (Mums definitely go to Ventura!)
 Our suite was family friendly too. It had an ensuite, walk in wardrobe, double bed, bunkbeds for Deme and a cot for Anais. There was also ample storage, a balcony, plasma TV and our very own steward to keep it ship-shape.
I had cabin fever from the moment I opened the door, but only because I was so excited. ‘Let’s have a shower, then explore the ship,’ I said, rushing to get ready.
Dressing up in the evenings is half the fun of life on board, and I’ve never seen so much glitz and glamour.
Even the children made an effort to look their best and the ship was a mass of dicky bows and sequins on Black Tie nights.
I’d been scared about going on a cruise. Firstly, I didn’t know if I’d actually like the feeling of being at sea, and I couldn’t imagine being cooped up on board with the blue rinse brigade.
But the only gran and grandads I saw were mega trendy, with mahagony tans, who were the last ones to leave the bars and shows every night.
And as for being in the middle of the ocean – it was the most calming sensation ever, and I’d drift off to sleep being lulled by the waves.
For those who preferred more action, there was enough entertainment on board to keep everyone amused 24/7.
Every morning we’d grab the copy of the ship’s paper Horizon that was slipped under our door to see what was happening that day. From tennis tournaments to film premieres, scuba lessons and Caribbean deck parties, there was never a dull moment.
If that wasn’t enough there was also the onshore excursions and Caribbean islands to explore.
Each one had the wow factor and P & O had sent us a list of excursions to choose from with our tickets so we’d already worked out our itinerary.
You can just book on board though – and there’s plenty to choose from, all reasonably priced. We went turtle snorkelling in Barbados, dolphin watching in St Vincent, took in the scenic sights at Tortola and soaked up the sun in St Maarten.
Luckily, the shark encounter dive my husband Alexio had booked was cancelled at the last minute – I was too frightened to ask if it was because they’d eaten the last set of tourists eager to get up close and personal with the man eaters.
Best of all though were the moments we went off on our own and saw the real Caribbean – Deme playing football with the local boys in Antigua, clinging on during a native driver’s white-knuckle ride around a mountain to reach the most exquisite beach in St Lucia, bartering for a sarong in Grenada and picnicking on the pure white sand of Catalina Island with the majestic ship in the background.
We loved the clear waters of Bonaire, where shoals of rainbow-coloured fish darted between our legs in the warm sea, and Deme battled to learn the art of windsurfing while we lazed on the sand.
It was no surprise to discover most of these islands have been the locations for Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean films, though sadly there was no sign of Johnny Depp.
But there were families having fun wherever we went, all with children our age, younger and older, many who said this was their fifth or more cruise.
And that’s the problem. The cruise creators have firmly kept families in mind on board. So much so that it would be impossible to think of a more stylish way to see so much in a fortnight.
All we had to do was wake up in a different port every morning – and try and keep track of where exactly in the world we were. In case that was too taxing, mums – and their babies – can unwind back on board in the ship’s spa.

I had a facial, pedicure and three massages while we were between islands and have never felt so relaxed.
Then the Captain invited us onto the bridge. It was giant – the size of a small apartment – but with only the tiniest little joystick to steer the ship.
‘Can I have a go?’ asked Deme and the Captain nodded.
I was terrified as he wiggled the controls but I shouldn’t have worried. Our son’s an expert on his Wii so soon had the giant ship on course.
‘He’s a natural,’ the Captain said, ruffling his sun-kissed hair. But I was glad to hand control back to the professionals and head back to our suite to dress up for dinner.
At the end of the fortnight, I was golden brown, had seen more beautiful sights than I could possibly remember, had eaten and drunk in the finest restaurants under the Caribbean’s starry sky (all food included in the holiday price) and spent the best two weeks with my family.
‘Do we have to go home?’ Deme moaned as we got ready to disembark back at Barbados.
Sadly, I nodded. ‘Can we come back again next year?’ he begged and I smiled.
Another family cruise – it’s a shore thing.
Fact Box
A 15-day cruise of the Caribbean on board Ventura visiting Barbados, St. Vincent, Grenada, Curacao, Aruba, Catalina Island, Tortola, St. Maarten, St. Kitts, St. Lucia, Barbados - Prices from £1,415 per person based on two adults sharing an inside twin cabin on a full board basis.
This includes flights from London Gatwick, Manchester Birmingham or Bournemouth airport.
For more information or to book call P&O Cruises on 0845 3 555 333 or visit www.pocruises.co.uk
A 15 night fly cruise holiday on P&O Cruises Ventura, departing 25 February 2011, is priced from £1,614 per person. The itinerary starts and ends in Barbados, calling in Bonaire, Aruba, Ocho Rios, Grand Turk, St. Maarten, Antigua, Dominica and St. Lucia.

How I fell in love with Mexico (and a dolphin or two)...

2010-06-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

WITH its powdery white beaches, natural attractions and colourful history it’s no wonder families are heading down Mexico way...

IT was like a scene out of a modern-day Romeo and Juliet -- me and him in an azure blue lagoon. And now, even though we’d only just met, he was leaning in for a kiss.

I squeezed my eyes shut, felt the water swirl around me as he came closer, then his skin on mine. It was smooth, wet and rubbery. The kiss was quick but so tickly it made me giggle.

Then, with a flick of his tail, he was off, surging across the lagoon, the memory of our brief encounter already forgotten.

But I knew I’d always remember this - my first dolphin kiss.

‘Wow that was amazing,’ I spluttered to my husband Alexio. He was too busy to reply, holding onto our 11-month-old baby Anais, while our six-year-old son Deme puckered up for a watery kiss with another of the dolphins.

We were in Xel-Ha, the world’s largest natural aquarium, just outside Playa del Carmen in the Mexican Riviera Maya. This was a family day out with a difference.

Not only could we snorkel in the lagoon, float down the lazy river, marvel at over 100 species of tropical fish and birds, but we could get up right up close and personal to parrots, iguana and dolphins. I’d always dreamed of swimming with these intelligent creatures, and had gone to Florida before in search of a dolphin adventure.

But we’d always been refused because our baby was under a year, and one of us would have to miss out to look after her.

So we’d vowed to wait until we could do this as a family. Mexico was the perfect choice.

Now, nestled between us in her life-jacket, Anais was giggling as dolphins kissed, splashed and jumped over our heads.

‘Can I ride on the back of one?’ our little boy asked.

I looked at the trainer, who told him how to move his hands to beckon a dolphin. Then, Deme was shown where to place his hands – and, on the blow of a whistle, was taken on the ride of his life around the lagoon.

‘Look I’m Dolphin boy!’ he shrieked as the graceful mammal sliced through the water with my son clinging not-so-gracefully to his back. It was a picture perfect moment on the second day of our holiday.

But by then we’d already fallen for Mexico, with its powdery white beaches, rich heritage, and family-friendly attitude.

From the moment we’d arrived after a 10-hour flight, we’d had our every whim catered for – and then some. We were staying at the five star Azul Hotel & Beach resort by Karisma, a stunning boutique hotel I’d normally associate with couples on a honeymoon.

Only this was an all-inclusive luxury hotel for families with beach cabanas, hammocks and a kids club. All I’d ever known about Mexico before were family outings to Nando’s and bad Country & Western movies where the Mexican was always the baddy.

The long-haul flight had put me off a little, but it wasn’t as stressful as I’d imagined. Our son, Deme, loves to fly but I was worried about our baby stuck in a cabin for 10 hours. But thanks to First Choice’s baby bassinet she slept most of the way, meaning I could too. Within an hour of arriving at our hotel, I’d had a refreshing welcome cocktail and was having every ache and pain erased from my tired body with a massage on the beach.

Hearing the waves lap the sand beneath me while coconut oil was kneaded into my grateful muscles was the most sublime start to a holiday. Now I’d kissed a dolphin and began a love affair with this beautiful country.

It wasn’t just that the beach outside our luxurious bungalow rivalled the Maldives, or that the sun sparkled off the Caribbean Sea as we sat eating our delicious – and huge - breakfast. It wasn’t even the impeccable service, or brilliant kids' club, which meant I lost my son for eight hours after 9am every day.

I can’t even say it was that I only had to look up from my wonderfully trashy book and the beach butler had an iced drink by my side and a bottle of sun oil ready for my bronzing body.

No, Mexico has it all - history, culture, fantastically friendly people and, of course, guacamole.

‘Let’s go and explore,’ Alexio said after we’d turned a gently golden colour on day three. It was hard to prise myself away from the beach cabana or wrestle Deme from the kids club. But there was too much on offer within half an hour’s drive of our hotel.

We could venture to Xcaret an ecological theme park where after a day of swimming in the underground rivers, we’d watch the spectacular night show, where 200 performers tell the colourful history of Mexico through song and dance.

I wanted to visit the Mayan ruins and temple of Tulum, which is perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Or, if we were up for a much bigger adventure, I was desperate to travel to Mexico City and Veracruz, where film director Baz Luhrmann shot his contemporary sex-and-guns adaptation of Romeo +Juliet, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes.

But Deme and his dad – a qualified Scuba diver – won the coin toss and we set off to Cozumel, the biggest island in Mexico, just a ferry ride away from Playa. While Anais and I joined in the hustle and bustle of the tax-free shoppers, my son and husband explored Palancar, the world’s second largest coral reef.

‘It was just like in Finding Nemo,’ Deme smiled when we met up. ‘I saw lots of little Nemos and a bright blue Dory.’ With his head swimming with the thought of seeing so many tropical fish, we headed back to our hotel for a full-on authentic Mexican dinner.

‘This is much tastier than Nando’s,’ Deme said, licking his lips after finishing his second chicken fajita. He spent the next day at the kids club showing off his vast knowledge of Nemo and making guacamole. ‘Try this,’ he said, rushing up to me and Alexio at our beach cabana. He’d made an entire plate full and had served it up with mini corn tortillas. ‘Absolutely delicious,’ I grinned, savouring the spicy avocado dip as the sea breeze whipped my hair. Full from our son’s tasty snack, Alexio and I focused on our day’s work – getting a suntan.

We’d hired Betty, a babysitter from the hotel, to entertain Anais so we had the afternoon to lather on the suncream and listen to the sound of the sea caressing the shore.

‘I’ve booked you and Deme a surprise,’ Alexio announced at the end of the afternoon. We were having a chocolate massage on the beach.

‘Can I eat some?’ our son begged as the masseuse smothered him with chocolate scented oil. ‘No,’ I laughed, relaxing. I deserved another massage. I’d spent a hard day tanning and deciding which cocktail to ask the beach butler for.

Every day was difficult after that. Should we lay by the pool or the sea? Book a table at the popular Oriental restaurant or have a barbecue on the beach? Would I get panda eyes watching Deme playing volleyball on the sand, or was it better to use the sunhat so kindly left on my bed by the hotel?

More difficult still was the desire to do nothing while we knew so many shopping bargains, natural attractions – a jungle trek with monkeys swinging from the trees – and ancient Aztec relics were so near. Finally we decided to just chill. ‘It gives us the perfect excuse for another holiday,’ Alexio said. So while I lay watching my children play in the sand, against a backdrop of cyan sky, I began making a list.

Of all the wonderful things we’re going to see when we return to Mexico next year. As we left the hotel at the end of our fabulous stay, Anais blew a kiss and shook her hand in the air. ‘Look,’ said Deme, ‘She’s doing a Mexican Wave.’

Getting there

Azul Hotel & Beach Resort, Riviera Maya.

hether you’re a couple looking for a laid-back bolthole or a family after quiet luxury, the Azul Beach Hotel ticks all the boxes. Here, the beach butler means you’ll never have to lift a finger for snacks, drinks or sun cream. And, evening drinks at the Tequila Lounge’s ice bar gives new meaning to ‘cool’. But, families are sorted too.

There’s an all-important play area, activities, hand crafts and, if you’ve got tots, the hotel’s got bits and bobs like cribs and bottle sterilisers available.

First Choice offers seven night holidays in Mexico staying all-inclusive at the 4 SUN plus Azul Hotel & Beach Resort from £1110 per adult and £726 for the first child and £953 for the second child, based on two adults and two children sharing, departing from Bristol on 28 August 2010.

For more information or to book this holiday please visit www.firstchoice.co.uk or call 0871 200 4455. Price includes return flights, accommodation, resort transfers and all relevant taxes and supplements. Prices are subject to availability.

Didn't We Have a Horrible Time At The London Dungeon!

2010-03-24T02:19:00.000-07:00

WOULD YOU go inside a deep, dark, dank dungeon that you know is full of ghouls, killers, torturers and possibly rats?

Worse, dare to take your children with you knowing you’re going to have the most horrible time of your life?

Absolutely! That’s exactly what we did yesterday when I dragged my hubby, seven-year-old son, his friend and our 22-month-old daughter along to the London Dungeon.

And it was so bad we can’t wait to go back for more.

I must admit I was a little bit scared when I was first offered tickets to take a peek up close at the visceral activities of the criminal, er, underworld at the Dungeon.

Was it really a good idea to take a toddler and two blood-thirsty schoolboys to see what the likes of Jack the Ripper, Sweeney Todd and Bloody Mary, Killer Queen got up to in ye London of olde?

Would they scream, faint or bolt at the sight of tongue torturing, hangings or plague sufferers vomiting blood?

No, not a bit of it, though squeamish old me felt a little bit wobbly when I saw where an inventive torturer would really use a meat hook or the four-metre drop in the dark on the Extremis, Drop Ride to Doom.

From the moment we entered the pitch-black dungeons, right next to London Bridge tube, and posed alongside our children brandishing axes, I knew they were going to love every spine-tingling minute.

‘Are you alive or a zombie?’ my son, Deme, demanded when he came face to face with a blood-splattered member of staff herding us into a chamber to watch a mortician dissect a still-breathing victim.

‘Is this real or a special effect?’ his little friend, Luke, asked when Bloody Mary Killer Queen sent a woman to burn at the stake before our very eyes.

‘Where are the rats?’ they both asked relentlessly, peering into the gloom, hoping to find a furry creature to grab and befriend. ‘And when do we get to the go on the ride?’

‘Ssssh,’ I told them time and time again as my little girl curled herself around me, peeking out from under her curls as we learnt about the Great Fire Of London and the detectives hunting Whitechapel killer, Jack The Ripper.

‘Do you want to leave?’ I asked her every time we were plunged into darkness but she insisted on staying and proving her bravery to the boys.

We watched drunken judges condemn the innocent to death, Mary torch the heretics, and the exact techniques every infamous murderer in our capital has ever used on unsuspecting victims over the centuries.

The boys had a stronger stomach than me, rushing to the front of every bloody demonstration – and asking in-depth questions at the end.

But they left the best to last – a terrifying ride that plunges the equivalent of a few houses in the dark to the backdrop of bloodcurdling screams.

Luckily, Anais was too young to go on that, so I could bow out without anyone realising that was one plunge too far for me.

I did scream when I saw the picture of the boys falling through the air alongside my husband, each of their faces scrunched up in fear. But that was only with laughter.

‘That was absolutely brilliant,’ Deme said as he tried to persuade me to buy him a plastic axe and several instruments of torture afterwards from the attraction’s shop. I resisted, but have had to promise to take him back soon for another truly horrible time.

Verdict: A killer day out for all the family. Not recommended for toddlers, anyone scared of the dark or who faints at the sight of blood and gore. (Though, whisper it, none of it is real!)

The London Dungeon invites you to delve into the capital’s most blood-curdling history. Live actors, two hair-raising rides, shows and special effects transport you back to those black, bleak times…are you brave enough?

For more information, visit http://www.the-dungeons.co.uk/london/en/index.htm

Toddler Taming and Talking Dirty!

2010-03-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

IT WASN'T exactly a black eye. It was more red where the blood vessels had exploded under the skin and there was a matching bump on his forehead.

No, my husband hadn’t been attacked walking home late at night or somehow got involved in a brawl at the local pub.

He’d been hit in the face by a flying trainer as he ate his breakfast. The culprit? Our 22-month-old daughter, Anais, aka The Toddler Terminator.

As well as causing actual bodily harm to Alexio, our little girl has smashed a cup, a vase given to us at our wedding, spilled tea all over the lap top, broken the TV remote control, a Wii Nunchuck and cracked one of our kitchen tiles with her playbus. And that was just in the last couple of hours.

Even though she’s under two, Anais is already an expert in throwing, punching, kicking and general trashing. She’s pulled down our curtains, sprayed food up the walls and tortured her cousin’s dog.

We’re all absolutely terrified of her bad temper and automatically duck whenever she picks up anything heavy.

I’ve moved all of the cutlery out of the drawers and keep it in the top kitchen cupboards as Anais with a fork could prove fatal.

Even one of my best friends asked if she has 666 tattooed on the back of her head. Forget the naughty step. I need to build a detached naughty house for her to live in alone.

But what’s so strange is that my toddler looks like an angel. She will only wear pink, insists on glittery bags and shoes and has big blue eyes and spiral curls that shake when she laughs.

Not only that but she’s learning to speak and has the sweetest, girliest voice I’ve ever heard.

‘Nooooo, Mummmeeeee,’ she says if I ask her to put down the radio. ‘Uuh oh,’ she smiles when it crashes to the floor after she’s hurled it 20 feet across the living room.

Everything I say she repeats in her honey-smooth voice, which is why I literally sprinted to turn off the TV this week when This Morning started talking dirty.

I didn’t want her to repeat anything that Phil and Holly were saying at 11am with various sexperts as part of their Sex Week.

I’m no Mary Whitehouse but I really couldn’t face my little girl saying ‘orgasm’ and ‘sex’ at nursery. It brings a whole new meaning to the Show and Tell at Circle time!

If you missed it here’s my appearance on Radio 5 Live discussing This Morning’s Sex Week. Just slide the bar to 1hr 21 mins and you can hear my rant!

here

Tears for Jade this Mother's Day

2010-03-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

EVERY time I think about Mother’s Day this Sunday I picture one scene. It’s not my two little ones handing me a hand-made card or smiling over burnt toast in bed.

It’s Jade Goody’s sons trying to get through the day without their mum, exactly a year after she died from cervical cancer.

Of course, their fantastic dad Jeff Brazier will make it as painless as he possibly can for Bobby, six, and Freddy, five. But Jade’s boys idolised her, and the hole in their lives will still be as huge as it was when she was ripped away from them 12 months ago.

It’s easy to understand why.

From the moment Jade Goody gate crashed onto our TV screens – telling us East Angular was a foreign country and that everyone inside the Big Brother house was a Minger – she captured a part of my heart.

I didn’t care that she sounded like Ethel out of EastEnders with her muddled pronunciations and knew ‘nuffink’ about geography.

She was something rare on television, an enigma inside the BB house. Jade was real, a raw young girl from Saarf London, who wasn’t ashamed to let the public see her microscopically close up. She didn’t know how to be fake. She wore her flaws with pride.

Who could forget Veruca-gate? Eyes bulging with tears, she raged at her housemates for ‘thinking she was minging.’

Spittle flew as fast as swearwords, but I loved her for it. That rant was genuine, something I might have done if I’d been cooped up with a bunch of wannabe strangers on camera for the summer.

I didn’t blame her when she flashed her ‘lala’ during a drunken game of dare. I hated Kate Lawler – the only other girl in the game - for not saving her from herself. Same went for PJ after the BJ incident. He’d taken advantage of our naïve favourite and bruised her heart, as well as her pride, when he brushed her off the morning-after-the-night-before.

Luckily, our Jade was a survivor. The only daughter of a former drug-addicted disabled lesbian, she’d dragged herself and her hopes all the way from a dingy council flat onto the small screen. And she wasn’t about to fall apart for long, especially not for a podgy housemate whose name rhymed with a sex act.

So she fixed that gorgeous grin onto her face and came out fighting. She emerged from the house in 4th place but she’d won over the nation and I was a fan for life.

That’s why I forgave her when she was accused of bullying in the BB race row. I knew Jade wasn’t a racist. She just had a bad temper and a tongue that began flapping before her brain could trip it. Shilpa Shetty knew she didn’t mean it. So did I.

‘I’m going to offer her a column,’ I decided as furious protestors burned effigies and pictures of her in India. My bosses and some colleagues at Love it!, the magazine I was editing, thought I was mad.

‘It’s a huge risk,’ they said. ‘No one wants to read what she has to say.’ But they were wrong. We’d only ever met her through our remote controls but Jade was our mate, someone we really believed we knew and trusted in. Friends and family muck up occasionally. ‘We’ll all forgive her,’ I thought. We could all see how genuinely sorry she was.

So I invited Jade out for lunch. Her agent and a colleague arranged it, and I laughed when I saw where we were going. Le Caprice – a swanky London restaurant that’s posh enough for Posh. ‘Jade would rather have a greasy spoon,’ I thought.

But I’d underestimated the former dental nurse. She ordered a dish I’d never heard of and seemed totally at home, waving to the likes of Cilla Black and craning to see if the Beckhams were in.

Sure, she was loud – I could hear her every word when I went to the toilet two floors down. But she was funny, charming and exactly like she was on TV.

A likeable, smart, young mum of two who was as happy talking about potty training Freddy as her next perfume launch, Jade didn’t know how to be anything but herself. And I loved her even more. So did the readers.

She was my best-selling cover star, shifting more copies than Cheryl Cole, Coleen Rooney or Myleene Klass combined. The British public couldn’t get enough of her.

Each week she entertained us by laying her life bare. No subject was out of bounds. We laughed as she and boyfriend Jack Tweed sent themselves up, posing as Posh and Becks.

We shared her joy at expecting a girl and her despair and grief when she lost the baby. None of us knew then what had caused the miscarriage. We do now.

Cervical cancer didn’t just rob the 27-year-old of her longed-for baby but it stole her future too. Everyone thought Jade would beat it. She underwent a radical hysterectomy and gruelling chemotherapy.

Tragically, not even she, with her juggernaut personality and giant spirit, could stop it spreading to her liver, bowel and groin.

She hastily arranged to marry Jack and just a couple of days beforehand invited a mutual friend. ‘You can come to my funeral too,’ she said casually. Doctors had given her three months to live, she told him. ‘But I know I won’t last longer than a month.’

She’d wanted to keep on fighting for her boys, but in the end it was kinder to let her go. I burst into tears when I saw pictures of her leaving hospital shortly before the wedding.

Frail, and sucking on a pain-relieving lollipop, her eyes were brimming with the agony of fighting a cruel and unstoppable beast. ‘I just want to go now,’ she told Jack. ‘Its hurting too much.’

But she did fight on – for the sake of Jack and her beautiful boys. My son Deme went to a party with Freddy and Bobby a couple of years ago. They played together and I watched them giggling together, all blonde curls and giant Jade-style grins.

They were just like her – extrovert, witty with buckets of charisma. ‘They’re my best friends,’ my son announced at the end of the party, after he’d stolen a toy car off Bobby. ‘They’re funny boys.’

How hard it was for her to let them go. My heart pinches now as I realise what she’ll miss - their first football trophy, girlfriends, them squirming away when she tries to kiss them. Watching her sons turn into men.

But she did the best any mum could do, showering them with love and the home, education and luxuries she could only dream of growing up.

She’s led her extraordinary life on TV and threatened to die on it as well. She didn’t luckily, and I, for one, wouldn’t have watched.

Her death has saved hundreds of others. GPs and hospitals can still hardly cope with the women rushing to have smear tests because of the ‘Jade Goody effect.’ That’s her legacy. She’s the reality TV star who made us all get real with our health.

But on Sunday she’s the mum Bobby and Freddy will only be able to treasure as a memory. So let’s hope on Sunday they do what Jade told them. ‘Whenever you want to see me, look up to the sky,’ she said,’ and I’ll be the biggest star up there.’

I’ll be cuddling my children extra tightly this Mother’s Day – and thinking of Jade and her brave little boys.

I'm Almost Famous!

2010-03-04T00:53:00.000-08:00

Everywhere I looked there was a celebrity. To my right was Hayley Tamaddon, the hot favourite to win Dancing on Ice along with her is-he-or-isn’t-he-her boyfriend Daniel Whiston.

To my left was psychologist Linda Papadopoulos and next to her Rosemary Shrager having a false monobrow fitted. Don’t even ask why - all I know is that it’s all the rage, darling.

We were all in make up getting ready to appear on the Alan Titchmarsh show. In the background Carly Simon was singing You’re so Vain, but it wasn’t the radio playing. She really was there singing and we’d all trooped past her, as if it was normal, while she rehearsed in the studio.

‘Check out Alan’s hair,’ a friend had said when I told her I was appearing. ‘He uses a lot of hairspray apparently.’ So far he’d been elusive, but it wouldn’t be long before I was interviewed by him in front of a live TV audience for a, gulp, show watched by millions. ‘Would you like some lip gloss?’ the make up artist smiled as I tried to stop staring at the famous guests.

A newscaster I watched present the headlines most days on my TV screen had just ambled in, followed by radio presenter Nick Ferrari. It was wall-to-wall celebrities now – and me.

What was I doing here? Had I made a hit record that was number 1 in very country or been covered in bruises learning to perform on ice skates after starring in a soap?

Er no. I’d made a three-minute appearance in a Cutting Edge documentary revealing what goes on in the world of real life journalism because I’d written such headlines as My Dwarf Hubby’s Big In Bed and A Cannibal Ate My Mum With Pasta And Cheese.

Now I was here to defend my profession before the documentary was aired. ‘Ringlets?’ the make up artist asked as she toyed with my bleached locks and tried not to pull a face. ‘It’s the best thing for naturally frizzy hair.’

I didn’t tell her I’d spent an hour blow-drying it into this mess that morning and had already applied every beauty product in my bathroom. ‘I’ll just airbrush you while the tongs heat up,’ she said. Did she have some magical computer that would erase all of my blemishes, under eye bags, wrinkles and double chin?

No, she meant she’s spray on my foundation with an air gun – and she meant business. Like an old wall, primed with filler, she gave me three coats and left me to dry.

Linda wasn’t being sprayed with foundation or having her spots covered in a dot-to-dot game with concealer. But she looked like Katie Holmes – but better – and actually glowed close up. I simply had pimples’ and open pores.

‘Close your eyes, hold your breath, now shake out your hair,’ the make up artist instructed as I tried to listen in to Dancing on Ice’s Dan telling the girl applying his eyeliner how much he liked Hayley. ‘Well we’ve known each other for 20 years, we just feel right together,’ he beamed. ‘You never know what’s going to happen.’

Finally my make up was done, my hair curled and my runner was ready to escort me back to my dressing room. It was just like a hotel suite minus the bed. ‘You haven’t been at all demanding,’ John said. ‘But none of the big stars are.’

I looked round, thinking some other celebrity had joined us but no, it was just me. John had noticed me guffawing at the mention of the word ‘star’ and was still talking.

‘I looked after Brian May the other week and he just asked for a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Sting was nice. He was here all day and all he wanted was a glass of coke. The only problems I get are with reality TV stars. They think they’re something special and always ask for Haribo sweets or unpronounceable tea.’

We were in my dressing room now, and John left me alone in front of my giant Plasma screen, wondering if I’d be able to speak with my air sprayed face when a producer came by to check I was OK. Then finally it was time to put on my mic and come face to face with Alan.

‘Be serious and don’t let him belittle real life magazines and their stories,’ I told myself. I was a serious editor who had reported on the breakdown of Charles and Diana’s marriage and been the first journalist outside serial killers Fred and Rosemary West’s House of Horrors in Cromwell Street.

I had to stand up for the 11 million women who read true life magazines every week. ‘It can’t be that hard,’ I thought, remembering Alan Titchmarsh’s roots as a gardener.

But then I caught sight of Dan’s cheeky smile, Rosemary’s monobrow and Alan’s chirpy face and my brain went blank. ‘Tell us all about your most memorable story in your career,’ our host asked. My mind whirred. My air sprayed foundation began to crack. Should I mention when I met Margaret Thatcher. Or the front page story when the SAS stormed a dentist’s after all the patients had been taken hostage?

‘I was once asked to track down a man who’d cut off his own willy and kept it in a jar on the mantelpiece,’ I babbled as Alan and the audience laughed. So much for serious journalism – my mum will be so ashamed.

And yes Alan Titchmarsh does wear a lot of hairspray, has his foundation sprayed on, is very, very short, but is a big sweetie.

Please tune in to his show at 5pm to see me make a fool of myself and I’ll be in the Cutting Edge documentary My Daughter Grew Another Head at 9pm for at least three minutes.

BURN BABY BURN!

2010-01-23T10:17:00.000-08:00

CYAN WAVES tickled the golden sand beneath my feet. Shiny grains of beach glinted under the sun, sticking to my damp skin and sea-salty hair.

‘This is the life,’ I thought, stretching out on a towel. I was 15 and on my first ever holiday. We were in Cowes, on the Isle of Wight and a week of sunbathing days and disco-filled nights lay ahead.

‘Last one in the sea’s a chicken,’ my best friend Tracey Fermor shrieked, already galloping across the warm sand. ‘Wait for meeeeee,’ her ten-year-old sister Clare wailed, trailing after us.

Soon we were splashing each other, drowning out our laughs with the cool sea until our tummies rumbled.

And then Tracey’s mum and dad were beckoning us back to our windbreaker, where we feasted on sand-sprinkled ham sandwiches and luke-warm lemonade fetched out of the family cooler.

Later that night, I dived under the shower, eager to hit the nightclub and, gulp, boys.

But as I stepped out of the shower my face felt tight, like I’d left a mask on it for too long. ‘Might need to borrow some moisturiser,’ I thought, checking my reflection.

I blinked, not recognising the scarlet-faced teenager staring back with the white bikini-marks seared onto her scorched body.

It was 1981 and I’d never heard of sun cream. The only person I’d ever seen lather anything onto her skin while she sunbathed was my Aunty Maureen who swore by baby oil. She was always a deep mahogany shade, so I’d always longed for my own bottle. But Mum had said we couldn’t afford it.

So I – along with most other kids back then – just hoped for the best while I played in the sun.

‘Oh no,’ I panicked now, my entire body tightening up under it’s raw skin. ‘I can hardly move.’

Tracey and her family had invited me along on their summer holiday as I was always at their house. I was their unofficial third daughter, so it was only natural I’d tag along.

But they’d forgotten I was the complete opposite of them physically. While they all had dark hair and olive skin which turned deep, golden brown the moment the sun kissed it, I was blue-white, and blonde.

They could spend all day on the beach getting a tan. I needed a trip to A & E, or a bath in ice chips with cold fans rehydrating my angry, swollen skin.

‘I think I need help,’ I said, half-crying as I tried to wrap a towel around me and winced as it touched my flesh.

I expected sympathy from this bronzed faux family of mine – or at least a bit of After Sun. Tracey burst out laughing. ‘You look ridiculous,’ she cried, doubling over.

Her little sister was even worse. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said, creeping closer. Slowly, she lifted her arm. I thought she’d fetched some soothing lotion to ease my pain. Instead she whacked me hard on the back, and guffawed when I shot in the air, screeching in agony.

Finally their mum sprayed, spritzed and smothered me in lotions from the resort’s chemist. They dried in pink and white streaks on my hot skin. ‘Come on Lobster Girl,’ Tracey giggled when I was finally able to dress and walk. ‘Time to party.’

I glowed under the disco lights and had to secretly drink cinzano and lemonade to take away the pain. But apart from bronzed Tracey and her Summer Ski family I didn’t look that much different to the other ‘Roast beef’ Brits there.

And at least I was the entertainment for the rest of the holiday. Tracey and her sister would guess what shade of red my body would be every morning and would take it in turns to peel off my tortured skin every night.

I had to wear a T-shirt on the beach and cover my legs with a towel. But what were a few blisters and scabs between best friends?

Tracey went home looking like she’d spent all summer in St Tropez. I resembled a stick of rock – bright pink at the edges with a white stripe down the middle.

I didn’t care though. It was still one of my best holidays ever and I learnt a valuable lesson. Not only do I carry a bottle of Factor 10 with me on every holiday (for the first day at least until I’m brown enough to tolerate baby oil!) but I never tell my friends – or their little sisters – when I’m in pain. A friend in need is a friend to torture indeed.

PS While sun cream might be my new best friend, diamonds are my little girl’s – even though she’s only 20 months old.

Read all about our dream holiday to Dubai – where Anais and my son Deme draped themselves in blingtastic jewels - here on havealovelytime.com

Why Peter Pan's still flying high! A review

2009-12-21T05:57:00.000-08:00

It’s a timeless children’s classic but Peter Pan has been given a magical makeover to bring it to the London stage that takes it to dizzying new heights.

This is no Disney movie sugarcoated version of J M Barrie’s adventure story or a thigh-slapping Pantomime.

The intimate ‘in the round’ production at the 02 is an intelligent, witty, thought-provoking and entertaining play with dazzling flying displays.

I had to drag my seven-year-old son through the snow to the specially commissioned, state-of-the-art theatre tent in the O2’s historic Meridian Gardens.

‘Peter Pan’s for babies,’ Deme spat, imagining a saccharine sweet fairy and green-suited prince of Never Never land.

But up close and personal, he sat enthralled at the spectacular effects – a 360 degree projected scenic design, high wire, over-our-heads acrobatics, clever puppetry, 3D animatronics, sumptuous costumes and superb acting from an acclaimed cast.

‘Wow,’ my little boy said as a degenerate, jealous Tinkerbelle, dressed in a tutu and DM boots soared, swooped and air-danced just feet away.

The story’s the same and, unlike Peter Pan, never grows old.

But for the fast time I understood why Peter never wants to grow up.

Both bitter and vulnerable, he’s turned his back on real life after battling to find his way home only to discover he’s been replaced - by a baby brother.

‘Asleep in my bed!’ Peter rages. ‘That’s what mothers do.’

Railing against normality, Peter would rather fight the evil (and hilarious) Captain Hook (played fantastically by Jonathon Hyde) as an eternal boy than grow old.

‘Do you mean get a job?’ he asks in disgust when Wendy begs him to stay with her and the newly adopted Lost Boys in London. ‘Go work in an office? I never want to be a man.’

Sounds like a lot of teenagers I know – and they don’t have to fight pirates, dodge crocodiles and perform daredevil flying scenes.

The play’s long at two hours, with a half-hour interval, but the time flies by. It was one of the best family nights out ever – a soar away success.

Mum’s verdict 5/5 Not for under fives unless they’re very good at sitting still. Fab festive family fun.

Kids’ verdict 5/5 Deme says: ‘I want to be a Lost Boy and learn how to fly. Magical!’

Thanks to Liz at living with kids and nixdminx for organizing my tickets.

Get up to 50 per cent off your ticket through last.minute.com

DEAR SANTA, ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS...

2009-12-01T00:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Santa,

This year I’ve been a good girl and think I deserve a few treats.

I don’t want to be greedy so won’t ask for much. It’s a credit-crunch Christmas and I know designer handbags, expensive perfume and holidays to faraway shores are all off the list.

Instead could I have the following under my Christmas tree?

Jedward as my Mannies– Forget Mary Poppins, the Dublin twins John and Edward really do have the X-Factor as far as my kids are concerned.

They could teach my seven-year-old son how to ‘dance’ and spray his hair into a giant quiff.

Deme has even taught his baby sister all the words to Ghostbusters, so imagine what they could all do to her favourite nursery rhymes? Have you heard the Twinkle Twinkle rap or Baba Black Sheep sung off key in a Westlife-style arrangement?

Maybe their mentor Louis Walsh would come round too just to make sure no one breaks the (house) rules.

One hour in the bath and a whole day of going to the toilet without the entire family insisting on getting in or asking: ‘What are you doing?’

Just imagine I wouldn’t have to hide my expensive Italian bath salts (a gift from a friend with fantastic taste) or worry about my baby throwing the toilet roll/her doll/my book into the water. And I could actually sit on the loo without my son questioning me about it or my little girl trying to pull off my knickers to wear as a hat.

Yes, she did actually manage to find a dirty pair once and wear them when an estate agent turned up to value the house. Needless to say, we decided not to sell. I just couldn’t face seeing him again.

An evening vamping it up with Edward Cullen and Jacob – admit it, you’ve all rushed to see New Moon just to swoon at these two. I’ll take the Twilight DVD, tickets for the cinema to watch the latest saga again and posters of both Taylor Lautner and RPattz.

If you can’t stretch to that then the entire box set of True Blood will do – and maybe a few drops of V. I want to see why vampire’s blood is the new drink of choice. It must have some bite!

Liposuction – I’m not talking a head-to-toe Kerry Katona job. No, just a few tweaks here and there. Like my jelly belly, wobbly thighs and triple chin. It would be good to get rid of my love handles too and those bingo wings. Might as well remove the back fat and cankles while you’re at it. Oh, all right. Do the whole lot. I’d like to be a size 8 please.

And I don’t mind a little lift in the breast area – I did feed two babies. My nose could do with straightening and OK a nip/tuck under the eyes and jaw line will be fine. If you tie the knot behind the ears or at the back of my head no one will notice. I’ll say I went on a spa day and it worked wonders.

A cleaner, cook and stylist – Kim’s busy in the jungle, Gordon’s swearing in the f-word and Gok never answers my calls. Just get my mother-in-law to come over and sort out the house, my menu and wardrobe please.

I’m living on cheese on toast, wearing my husband’s jogging bottoms and spend every waking moment brushing/sweeping/mopping the floor after the baby’s breakfast/lunch/dinner and snacks.

Whatever happened to the blow-dried working woman who (shock!) left the house in (eek!) clothes with no snot or milk dribbles.

I’d like to have her back in the mirror just for Christmas day. If you don’t mind.

A white Christmas – like we had when I was a kid. I want to take my children outside to have snowball fights and build a snowman. I’ll even buy them an organic carrot for the nose.

Otherwise can I just win the lottery so I can visit Lapland again? My little boy loved it so much he’s still talking about it a year later.

Check him out on the best festive holiday ever on havealovelytime.com one of the top 10 travel blogs, according to lastminute.com.

Now I can’t wait for December 25... What would you like for Christmas? Write to Santa and let him know here!

Move over Stacey, I've (almost) got the X Factor!

2009-11-28T02:29:00.000-08:00

SIMON COWELL narrows his eyes as he takes in my semi-transparent blouse and knee-skimming lace skirt. “So, Karen, you think we have a connection?” he asks. I nod.

But it’s not that kind of connection. Simon and I share a hairdresser, Marco at Nicky Clarke, who has been promising me an introduction for months.

Now I’m standing in front of the record boss, who’s far better-looking in the flesh. Slim and tanned, sexiness pulses out of his every scrubbed and moisturised pore. But it’s not the intimate rendezvous I’d had in mind.

I am, in fact, meeting Simon, Louis Walsh and Sharon Osbourne at the London auditions for The X Factor. And they’re waiting for me to perform.

“Have you ever sung before?” Sharon asks, as I take my place in the audition room in Wembley’s Conference Centre.

Only to Postman Pat with my two-year-old son. “Do you think you have the X factor?” Simon demands.

Well, my husband said that’s why he married me, my mother claims I was born with it and my school music teachers wanted me to apply for Opportunity Knocks…

“Off you go then,” Simon commands, and I unleash my vocals on Blondie’s Heart Of Glass.

Simon, Sharon and Louis stare at me. So do all the crew. As they continue to stare, fear begins to twist through my stomach.

As I warble on, terror clutches my throat…It’s time to try a few of dance moves, mixed with a little Debbie Harry attitude.

Simon’s eyes widen. I’m moving my arms, turning in a sexy, hauty way, just like Debbie did.

He eventually holds up his hand for me to stop. “Thank you, Karen,” he says. “What did you think, Louis?”

I smile at the man who managed Boyzone and Westlife. “You have absolutely no star quality,” he says deadpan. And he’s meant to be the nice one.

I keep smiling. “It wasn’t the worst voice I’ve heard today,” Sharon tells me. “But you were going a bit fast, like you wanted to get to the end as soon as possible.”

My cheeks are hurting from grinning so much. “You were the third best voice I heard today,” Simon announces.

I’m ecstatic – then I realise that I’m only the third person he’s seen today.

It’s time to vote whether or not I should be put through to the next round.

Louis: “No.” Come on Sharon. “No,” she repeats. A vote because of our mutual hairdresser, Simon? “No, but you were very brave,” he says.

Oh, the humiliation — and all of it captured on camera. “Please don’t show me as one of the comedy slots,” I mutter as I’m shown outside.

“Do you want to use The Pod?’ one of the production staff asks. It’s where contestants can vent their anger against the judges. I decide I’d rather head to the bar, only there isn’t one.

So I go back to work instead. ‘How did it go?’ everyone wants to know.

‘Er, not so great,’ I sigh. Just then the phone rings. It’s the X Factor wanting to talk to me. My hopes soar. Maybe they’re ringing to say they’ve made a mistake and, of course, they think I’m brilliant and want to put me through to the live show.

‘We want permission to use your audition on TV,’ the woman explains. I can’t stop grinning. I was good after all. Then I freeze.

She wants to use the footage of me, alright. I will get my five minutes of fame on the X Factor – as one of the worst singers ever!

(This first appeared in Closer when I auditioned for the X Factor in 2005 - but the shame still lives on and so does the fear that they will actually show me singing - even though I refused to sign the release forms.)

Why The X Factor dream's over for my little boy!

2009-11-27T02:13:00.000-08:00

I SWALLOWED AS I walked into my little boy’s room. It was still early and I didn’t know how I was going to tell him the terrible news.

I sat on the edge of his bed, trying to find the right words. Just then he woke up, his big blue eyes blinking.

‘What is it, Mamma?’ he asked, seeing my worried look. ‘What’s happened?’

My mouth was dry, I could hear my heart thumping. ‘I’ve got some bad news, sweetie,’ I began, my voice shaking. ‘Last night something awful happened.’

I took a deep breath, knowing how badly this was going to hurt my son. He was staring at me, waiting. I had to tell him. ‘Last night, well…’

I stopped, trying to build up the courage. He'd been tired the day before and had luckily fallen asleep before the nightmare happened. Now it was time to be honest, but how?

Nothing for it, I realised eventually, best just to blurt it out. ‘The truth is John and Edward have been sent home.’

Deme’s eyes widened. ‘They’ve been voted off?’ he said shocked.

I nodded, grabbing his hand. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Deme cried. ‘They were the best ever. Now their X Factor dream is over.’

I cuddled him then, knowing how much he loved Jedward. He’d asked for their hair cut (I’d said no, his was long and curly) and even taught his baby sister the words to Ghostbusters. Now it was finished.

‘Can we buy their DVD and CD and go and watch them in concert?’ he asked. I smiled. They’d only been out of the competition 12 hours and already Deme thought they were cashing in.

He’ll make a great businessman when he’s older. Perhaps I should introduce him to Simon Cowell. After all we have met.

But I’ll tell you all about that tomorrow! Until then tell me who you think should win this year…

ARE YOU TEAM EDWARD OR TEAM JACOB?

2009-11-24T00:33:00.000-08:00

I HAVE A confession to make. I’m in lust with someone else. Every night when my husband’s asleep, I sneak out of the bedroom to see him.

It’s his eyes that first attracted me. I love the way they flash tawny gold whenever he leans in close. Then there are the lips, stained red against his gleaming white teeth and pale skin. Whenever I look into his chiseled face I want him to kiss me.

I can’t get enough of him. I want to see him every night, but this relationship isn’t good for me. It comes with a bite.

Yes. I’m in love with Edward Cullen, the vampire with a heart from Twilight. And the closest I’ve ever actually got to him is watching the hit film on Sky movies over and over again.

It’s the character I’m in love with, not the actor. Edward is a true gentleman, an eternal 17-year-old who’s been around for over a century, and knows exactly how to treat a woman – and how to resist sucking her dry of her blood, while in a clinch. And it’s this danger that makes Edward so irresistible.

Underneath that cool exterior there’s the ultimate killer lurking, one that’s truly dazzling. Not only does he sparkle like diamonds in sunlight, but he can read your mind (as long as you’re not called Bella) and run faster than the wind.

The actor who plays him RPattz is dull in comparison. While Edward looks like he’s hewn from the finest marble, Robert is simply pale and uninteresting.

His hair is floppy in an annoying Hugh Grant-style, and his Harry Potter accent (yes it was him in the Order of the Phoenix film!) is tedious compared to Edward’s transatlantic drawl.

Luckily, my little boy has always loved scary films. I find him scanning the sky planner for movies to make my hair stand on end, so, of course, he loves everything with a vampire in it.

I thought seven-year-old Deme was watching Ben 10 Alien Force while I bathed and put his baby sister to bed. But he’d discovered Twilight and was watching it as relentlessly as me.

So I was delighted when he spotted a poster for the latest film in the Twilight sage – New Moon – at the cinema the other day.

I’d taken him and his little friend to watch Up! in 3D but Deme was begging me to book preview tickets to see Edward as tall as a building in the cinema. Result!

Off we went on Saturday together to get our latest fix of Vampire flick. I left Alexio in charge of the baby and didn’t even have to divulge my lust for a blood-crazed Cullen.

‘Stand up straight and tell anyone who asks that you’re 12,’ I instructed Deme. ‘And no asking for Pic’n’mix until we’re through all the security.’

He’s tall for his age so no one quizzed me. And then, laden up with sweets, cola and popcorn, we settled back in our seats. And that’s where the trouble started. Yes, Edward came onscreen and was as gorgeous as ever.

But then Jacob – played by Taylor Lautner – walked into shot and all my desires for Edward were forgotten.

Wolfishly handsome, with olive skin and long, dark, hair the vampire’s love rival was buff and beautiful. He reminded me of a very gorgeous boy I kissed a lot when I was 16 and found a summer job in a tennis centre.

But it was more than that. Dedicated and loyal, you wouldn’t want to make Jacob mad. He turns into a werewolf whenever he loses control or can smell vampires. Fantastically cast, Taylor has a very rare thing – raw, animal magic.

It’s dark versus light, good versus evil, Jacob vs Edward in the battle for Bella. Of course, Edward wins – ‘it’s him, it’s always been him’ - she swoons when she’s forced to decide between them. But for me there’s only one clear choice. Edward is sooo last century. It’s team Jacob, the living, breathing wolf boy with the brooding eyes for me.

And just to make sure, I’m taking Deme to see the film again this weekend. He loves all the action, fighting and special effects. Me? I just love watching these two beautiful characters up close on the screen while pretending I’m only going along to keep my son happy.

Which team are you on – Team Edward or Team Jacob? In case you need a reminder here’s a photo to drool over.

http://www.filmofilia.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/new_moon_edward_vs_jacob.jpg

And yes, I know I’m old enough to be their, er, older sister, but there’s no law against looking is there? Let me know what you think?

FLYING WITHOUT WINGS, BABY!

2009-11-20T06:52:00.000-08:00

IT WAS 11am and I was sweating. What had I done so far that morning? Not much. Been woken up at 5.30am by a little girl who was desperate to sing Twinkle Twinkle and play with Mamma.

That was after I’d been up all night feeding her and her big brother medicine for their sore throats/colds/coughs and mystery virus – which is what doctor’s say when they don’t know what’s wrong.

Then there was breakfast, loading the washing machine, dishwasher, making the beds, changing Anais’ nappy, telling Deme to turn the TV down, changing Anais’ nappy, deciding Deme wasn’t well enough to go to school, giving him more medicine, changing Anais’ nappy and stopping Deme playing baseball/football/tennis/wrestling in the front room after the medicine started working.

I live in a house full of stairs. I may be fat but all that running up and down means I have killer legs. I could be a leg model if I bothered to wax them and apply fake tan.

But I never have the time to do anything other than go to the loo and even that I have to do it with an audience. ‘What are you doing, Mamma?’ my seven-year-old son will ask, barging in.

‘Going to the toilet obviously,’ I’ll say. But he wants me to be specific. ‘Nooo,’ I’ll shriek, disgusted. That’s nothing though, compared to the curiosity of Anais, whose 18 months.

She’ll try and push me off the toilet so she can look down it – or peer at my bottom. I long for the days when I can lock the door, but I daren’t right now in case they fall down the stairs/set fire to the house/ find an adult channel on Sky or throw juice or milk all over my computer.

Finally, sweat pooling, I checked the time. Maybe I could have two minutes rest before emptying the washing machine and dishwasher and getting the lunch ready.

No such luck. Anais wanted her book read to her and Deme wanted me to be in goal. Who said being a mum wasn’t fun?

Finally, a couple of hours later and I could finally sit down. Both children had been watered, fed, wiped down and now Anais was having her nap while Deme watched TV.

I even made myself a cup of tea. Then I remembered I hadn’t put on the baby monitor. My calf muscles were aching. Our house was tall and skinny with each room on a different floor. I couldn’t go up another four flights of stairs again for at least another hour but my little girl’s room was at the top of the house and I was in the kitchen.

‘Deme, can you go and check if your sister’s crying?’ I called up to him in the living room. He didn’t want to so I offered chocolate, an extra hour’s stay up before bed and a playdate with any friend of his choice at the weekend. Finally he agreed.

‘OK,’ he called back down, and I heard the thump, thump of his flat feet on the stairs. He banged all the way back down again as I sipped that delicious cup of tea.

‘It’s OK, Mamma,’ he sighed. ‘She’s not flying.’

I had to laugh. What did he expect to find Anais doing in her room – piloting a helicopter or practising trapeze style pirouettes on a high wire?

Oh well, rest over. I’d have to go upstairs again after all and leave my tea unfinished. Time to get Deme’s ears looked at again!

HEINZ MEANZ TROUBLE!

2009-11-18T08:02:00.000-08:00

THERE WERE tomatoes everywhere of every type– ripened, slightly green, cherry, and off and on the vine.

And in the middle of them chopping, peeling, dicing and slicing stood my husband, looking like he was getting ready for the final of MasterChef.

‘I’m cooking everything fresh from now on,’ Alexio announced. ‘No more junk food in this house.’

I smiled. Alexio’s Italian. It’s not as if we have a secret family McDonald’s habit or live on turkey twizzlers.

For him junk was pizza, anything fried and roast dinner. Which is a shame as that’s all I can cook.

It’s taken me 25 years, and a marriage to a man who reads recipe books like I consume celebrity and real-life magazines, to understand cooking doesn’t mean burning.

Growing up I didn’t know that fried eggs should be white with a yellow yoke. I’d only ever seen them black.

And I’d never understood that baked beans were separate swimming in a tomato sauce. I’d always seen them dished up as a congealed, burnt blob of beans.

My mum’s cooking skills consisted of throwing something in hot oil and hoping for the best.

Our weekly treat would be a fried egg that she’d incinerate while I rushed to the mobile fish and chip van to buy fries wrapped in paper.

Needless to say back then I thought it was delicious – but not exactly healthy.

Having a mother who thought cooking was as exciting as going to a funeral gave me a twisted vision of food.

As a student I lived on peanut butter on toast. When I became a successful journalist I ate out on expenses.

If I invited any friends home for dinner they always knew that meant plenty of rioja – and a takeaway menu.

And then I met Alexio. He lives for food. When I offered to cook him lasagne on one of our first dates he thought I was as talented in the kitchen as him.

Only when the ping! of the microwave – and the scent of a ready meal – filled the air did he realise what a cookery clutz I was.

So from the moment he moved in he laid claim to the oven. I’ve spent the last 13 years scoffing cannelloni, melanzane parmigiana, spaghetti mozzarella and fiori fritti. All home cooked, of course.

It was like having an Italian Jamie Oliver in the house, only he said ‘bene’ instead of ‘pukka.’

Our son and daughter think we’re slumming if we go out to a restaurant as it’s never as nice as something Daddy would make.

But now, Alexio had decided the days of fine dining were over. We all had to hit the salad bowl (with no dressing), egg whites only omelettes (cooked in lo-cal oil) and tiny portions that left our stomachs growling for more.

Luckily, I’m vegetarian and Anais is only 18-months so needs a varied diet that includes some fat. But more Deme was handed fish that had been steamed, poached or broiled but had never ever seen the whiff of a chip.

And – shock – now he was expected to eat Alexio’s tomato soup. It was a labour of love. He spent an hour preparing the ingredients and then he lavished the broth with love as it simmered all day in the kitchen.

He rarely left the pan’s side, tasting and checking it was the best soup ever.

Every utensil in the kitchen was used and he made enough mess to make Gordon Ramsay use the f word.

Finally, it was ready and I collected our son from school. ‘Mmm, something smells nice,’ Deme said, washing his hands for dinner.

Alexio was beaming as he served him a steaming bowl of soup. Deme took a sip and pulled a face. ‘Euuuwwww,’ he said. ‘That’s disgusting.’ Alexio looked furious and crestfallen at once.

‘How can you not like it?’ he demanded. ‘I know you eat tomato soup at school.’

Deme slammed down his spoon. ‘Yes but that’s delicious, Daddy. Everyone knows the best tomato soup comes out of a can.’

I thought Alex was going to have a heart attack but I managed to calm him down. After all, everyone knows that Heinz meanz happy kids!

Scary (Small) Monsters!

2009-11-02T14:04:00.000-08:00

MY LITTLE BOY was brandishing a knife and it was getting scary.He’d been slashing, gouging and slicing for half an hour now. ‘Please stop,’ I begged as he took another eye out.

But seven-year-old Deme shook his head. He was twisting the blade into the flesh now.

His crazed stabbing was like something from The Krays as he jabbed the blade into the sides of the mouth. I couldn’t watch anymore.

Worse still, my husband was helping him. ‘Slice it bigger,’ he ordered as Deme slashed again and again.

But finally, it was over and Deme and his dad stood back. ‘Frighteningly good,’ they agreed as they stared at the pumpkin they’d made for Halloween.

‘Not bad,’ I had to admit, and went to fetch a candle to place in it.Five minutes later, the lit pumpkin head was glowing orange in the window, inviting brave Trick or Treaters.

Deme had begged to go out in his scariest costume but we thought he was too young.

We live in London where no one says hello to their neighbours, let alone beg for sweets or threaten them with an ‘or else.’

But we’d let him pick a costume and this year he’d opted for a skeleton.The baby was asleep so Deme could roam the house singing Them Bones, Them Bones, and cackling in his most terrifying voice.

He was miffed about being made to stay in though while other children knocked on strangers’ doors and begged for candy.

‘Please can I go out?’ he asked one more time and we shook our heads. ‘When you’re older,’ we said. Like 35. When he has his own kids.

Just then the doorbell went and we crept downstairs. We’d turned all the lights off to let the pumpkin glow show off Deme’s carving skills (though they’re more butcher than plastic surgeon) in the dark.

We could hear children giggling on the other side of the door and thought Deme would hurry to hand them the sweets we’d bought for Trick or Treat.

Instead he slipped on his skeleton mask, drew himself up to all of his 4ft height and waited.

A second passed, then two, and as soon as the children began to grow bored – and quiet, Deme yanked the door open and yelled: Mahahahahahahahaha into the frosty air.

Shocked, the children jumped back, scared. One little witch even screamed.

‘Got you,’ Deme giggled, delighted. Scaring the kids who want to get hold of his sweets – now that’s a neat Trick.

Dead Woman Walking

2009-10-29T10:04:00.000-07:00

I WAS RUNNING out of excuses for crying but still the sobs exploded out of me. ‘It’s just my hormones,’ I wailed to my husband, Alexio. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute.’

But who was I kidding? I was on my way to hospital to have my gallbladder removed – and I was terrified.

Alexio squeezed my hand. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise,’ he soothed.

I forced a smile. Logically, I knew the risk of me dying on the operating table was practically nil.

Far less anyway than the one in four chance I’d had of snuffing it when I’d had acute pancreatitis.

One of my gallstones had come out of my gallbladder and got stuck in the duct, meaning my pancreas was eating itself.

Now, the only way to make sure it never happened again was keyhole surgery. ‘You’ll be out of pain, and you won’t even have a big scar,’ my surgeon said, as I settled into my room.

Fear surged through me. ‘Are you sure I can’t have it done awake? I cried. The surgeon shook his head. ‘Now put on your gown and I’ll see you after the operation.’

My hands were shaking as I pulled off my clothes after he’d gone. ‘It’s a routine operation,’ Alexio said, helping me into the backless gown. ‘In a couple of hours it’ll all be over.’

True – so why did I think I was about to be put to death by lethal injection? ‘What if I don’t wake up?’ I panicked. ‘Or if something goes wrong during surgery?’

What if these were my last few minutes on earth?

I was gulping back air now as fresh sobs erupted. I couldn’t stop staring at my six-month-old baby, Anais, asleep in her pram, and my curly haired son, Deme, playing at school. What if I never saw them again?

‘I love my life,’ I wept, grabbing hold of Alexio. ‘I love you and the children. Tell them how much I love them.’ Alexio smiled. ‘You can tell them yourself later,’ he insisted.

I heard a noise behind me. Two nurses were here to take me down to theatre.

‘Ready?’ one asked and I began to cry even louder.

‘No,’ I said, clinging to Alexio. But I’d signed the consent form. I couldn’t really back out now.

So, tears spilling, I kissed my husband and baby for what I thought was the last time and followed the nurses.

They were just a blur of blue, I was crying so hard.

The theatre was at the end of a long corridor, with a small bed for me to lie on.

Everyone was wearing scrubs and facemasks. My breathing was laboured now from terror. ‘I’ve got two small children,’ I told the anaesthetist as he tapped the veins in my left wrist to bring them to the surface.

I was still crying as he inserted a cannula through which to pump the drugs. ‘You will tell me when you’re going to put me under, won’t you?’ I said, and then I felt a cold whoosh of liquid in my arm and everything went black…

I took such a deep breathe in, I sat up. It was like a baby’s first breath. Full and noisy. I was awake. ‘You’re in recovery,’ a nurse said.

My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak. But I’d survived. I wanted to stay awake, to punch the air with clichéd relief, but my eyes were too heavy…

When I came round again I was in my hospital bed. ‘Welcome back,’ Alexio said, kissing me.

I turned my face to his and saw a jar filled with around 60 stones – all black, round and as big as Maltesers. ‘Eeewwww, that’s my gallstones,’ I mumbled. Then my blood pressure dropped, my stomach churned and I began to vomit over and over again.

I didn’t care I felt so awful. At least I wasn’t hungry – I didn’t want to make a mistake while still drugged up and eat those stones. I don’t think I’ll ever touch chocolate again!

Alive!

2009-10-23T07:15:00.000-07:00

EVERYONE WAS staring as I was pushed along the dingy corridor. One woman even gasped when she saw me.

I glanced up at her, and watched her flinch, almost hugging the wall, as my bed was wheeled past.

‘What’s wrong with these people?’ I thought, annoyed. ‘Haven’t they ever seen anyone sick before?’

After all, I was in a hospital. Then we stopped by a window and I caught a glimpse of my reflection and understood.

A monster was looking back in the glass – a woman with purple skin, red rimmed eyes, and drips and tubes springing out of punctured veins.

‘Is that really me?’ I thought, blinking. I should have been shocked, but I was still in so much pain, I didn’t care what I looked like. I was just grateful to still be alive.

I’d been rushed to hospital nine hours earlier in an ambulance after collapsing at home.

I’d been sick over and over again and had been in agony with machete-type pains gouging their way through my insides. For a moment, I’d thought I was going to die.

Now, five morphine injections later, I was hoping I wouldn’t. I had pancreatitis – a potential killer.

A gallstone had come out of my gallbladder and blocked a duct. It meant my pancreas was eating itself.

Doctors were pumping me full of antibiotics, fluids, and painkillers to stop me becoming the one person in four who died from this ridiculous condition.

Now, I was on my way from the resuscitation room to the High Dependency Unit, where I just longed to sleep.

It was 10pm, but it felt like I’d been awake and in pain for days.

‘Hello Karen,’ a nurse smiled as I entered a brightly-lit white ward. A surge of fear lurched through my chest.

The other handful of patients were all on machines, hissing and whirring, with masks over their faces, and a nurse each checking them every few seconds.

‘They all look critically ill,’ I panicked. ‘What am I doing here? I’m on the mend. They must have brought me to the wrong place.’

But before I could protest the nurse was checking my pulse, my temperature, reading my notes, and summoning a doctor over to asses my condition.

I tried to hear what they were saying but they were whispering.

Besides, I was now being hooked up to an observation machine, which was pumping out information about every part of me. ‘We need to give you oxygen,’ the doctor said, sticking a tube up my nose and ordering me to take deep breaths.

It had a funny smell, but cleared my head. Then the nurse was sticking more drugs into the tube coming out of my left arm. ‘What’s that?’ I mumbled as the room began to spin. ‘Something to stop you being sick,’ she replied but I couldn’t focus on her.

She was just a blur, shifting along with the world. I felt drunk, but without any of the fun before the spinning bit. ‘Close your eyes and go to sleep,’ the nurse soothed, and I let my eyelids become heavy…

A siren was exploding by the side of my head. I snapped my eyes open and saw the alarm on the machine beside me going off.

‘Apnoea,’ it kept flashing. Groggy, I tried to think. Through the druggy fog, I remembered what it meant – I was forgetting to breathe in my sleep.

Suddenly I was wide awake, breathing in the oxygen, watching my nurse examining the machine.

‘It’s OK now,’ she smiled. ‘Go back to sleep.’ But how could I? My body might forget to breath again, and then what? I wanted to cry. This wasn’t fair. I’d been rushed in with pancreatitis, in the worst pain I could imagine.

I was all alone here with my husband and two beautiful children at home.

Now, I couldn’t even relax in case I died in my sleep. It wasn’t fair.

So I vowed to stay awake, but there were so many drugs in my body and I was so exhausted eventually everything would go black…

Each time a shrill alarm would jolt me awake. Sleep apnoea, the machine would predict, and scared, I’d shiver in my hospital bed, willing morning to come.

‘The machines are highly sensitive, don’t worry,’ the doctor told me. But what if I didn’t make it through to the next morning?

I watched the clock, dozed off and was woken by the machine. Terrified, I’d fight sleep again, but lose. It was exhausting, scary and, paranoid from the morphine; I was convinced I wouldn’t survive the night.

So I couldn’t stop smiling when daylight peeked through the ward windows, and the clock hit 6am.

I’d got through the worst. ‘How are you feeling?’ my nurse asked, removing the oxygen. I grinned. ‘Alive,’ I said. What could be better than that?

Even better news, I was about to be moved to a ward. ‘That must mean I’m getting better,’ I thought, relieved. ‘Not long and I’m getting out of here.’

An hour later, I was pushed out of the HDU. I was still purple and ugly, on morphine, had IVs coming out of me, along with a catheter, and couldn’t even have flowers because of the risk of infection.

But I was on a ward – and was even given a phone to tell everyone where I was. ‘You don’t do illness,’ my gay bff wrote as soon as I texted him.

I laughed. ‘Well I still don’t,’ I replied. ‘I only do near death experiences!

A Kiss Before (Almost) Dying

2009-10-22T06:40:00.000-07:00

LYING IN THE bath, I stared down at my scars. One had virtually disappeared, the other was a silvery sliver you had to hunt to see. But the one by my belly button was still purple and raised – a reminder of where the doctor had cut into me to save me from dying. It’s a year ago today that I was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. I had the full works – flashing blue light, siren, and paramedics all around me working to keep me alive.

I don’t normally go over old ground when I write. But it had such a profound effect on me, I still have flash-backs about this most days. It’s also the reason why I rushed my little girl – now 17 months – to the same hospital last night when she started vomiting and didn’t stop.

Luckily she only has a virus but it brought back the horror of having a one in four chance of not making it out of the hospital.

So I’m sharing it again now – from the same bathroom - exactly 365 days later…

Plunging into the scalding bath water, I screamed.Normally, the heat melted away the pain machete-ing through me.

But this was far worse than the spasms I usually had. Now, a broken-bottle of agony was being rammed into my belly, the jagged edges jabbing again and again.

‘I can’t take any more,’ I thought, beginning to cry.

I’d been having pain attacks once or twice a week since being diagnosed with gallstones a few months before. That’s what I’d thought this pain was too when it started an hour earlier. But it was too strong, too severe.

‘This isn’t just gallstones,’ I realised as another pain ripped into me, so strong it made me gasp for breath.

I opened my mouth to call for my husband Alexio but a fountain of vomit spewed out.

‘Aaagh,’ I muttered, lurching forward in the bath as my shoulders and stomach jerked and I was sick over and over again.

I saw the contents of my stomach, floating around me, and heard my five-month-old baby Anais crying in the distance, but I couldn’t do anything.

My body was nothing but flesh and bones being devoured by pain, my mind fighting the urge to collapse so this pain went away.

I must have lay there like that for 10 minutes,

then, suddenly, the door burst open, and there was Alexio. ‘Help me,’ I mumbled, taking in his shocked face.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ he said laying me on the cool tiled floor and covering me with a towel.

I shook my head. ‘Call an ambulance,’ I told him. ‘Now.’ My husband looked down into my eyes. It was just a split second, but he understood.

This pain was too big, too much for me. If I gave it any more freedom, it would overwhelm me.

And over the background squawking of my baby, I heard him dialling 999. I slumped then, relieved. This was out of my hands. I didn’t need to fight it alone. Someone who could take away the pain would be here soon.

So that’s all I thought about – that paramedic arriving with his bag full of tricks to make me feel better.

One minute passed, then another. ‘Where are they?’ I muttered. ‘You need to get me dressed.’

Alexio somehow dragged my limp, clammy body into a skirt and t-shirt – and finally the paramedic was here.

‘Pain relief,’ I cried as soon as I saw him and the ambulance crew.

He checked me over, then announced: ‘I need to get you to hospital now.’

Then, with their help, I was stumbling outside, into the ambulance. Alexio had to follow behind with and our baby. Luckily, our son, Deme was at school. 'Alexio,' I screamed, as the door was about to shut. He glanced over and I blew him a kiss. Who knew what was going to happen... Then blue lights flashing, the ambulance rushed through the city traffic and I begged for drugs.

‘I’m giving you morphine now,’ the paramedic said. ‘You’ll feel better in a minute.’

I waited, but the pains were still slicing through my insides. ‘More,’ I begged, and he gave me another shot.

It didn’t touch the pain, neither did the gas and air I was inhaling. ‘The hospital can give you a stronger dose,’ the paramedic promised. I was giving up now though, too weak. ‘I just want to go to sleep, I thought. ‘Not feel this pain any more…’

My name was being shouted. I was being jabbed in my arm, in my thigh. I opened my eyes. I was in the emergency room in A & E, with doctors and nurses around me, all working to take this pain away, to find out what was wrong.

‘Is the pain going?’ a doctor asked me. I shook my head. Apparently, I’d had five shots of morphine already, but it didn’t work on me. ‘It’s meant to confuse your brain so you don’t feel the pain signals,’ the doctor explained.

I’d never wished to be confused before, but I did now. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel this overwhelming agony, that made every part of me judder, or see the teenage boy who’d been stabbed having his clothes cut from him just feet away.

I wanted Alexio but he wasn’t allowed in with the baby.

The medical team were muttering around me, talking to each other in NHS-speak, but I’d watched Casualty all my life and could understand.

They thought I’d had a heart attack, but knew it was something to do with the gallstones.

Besides, I was going to be OK, I just knew it. So I listened to the little voice in my head running a commentary about what was happening while the pain took over my body.

‘You’re not going to die here,’ it said. ‘Not now. And certainly not of gallstones. That’s a ridiculous thing to die of.’

Then the doctor leant over me. ‘You have pancreatitis,’ he explained. ‘One of your gallstones has come out of the gallbladder and blocked the duct. Your pancreas is eating itself.’

It was a potential killer – 25 per cent of cases died. I nodded, understanding now why it was so painful.

‘We’re going to pump you full of antibiotics, then when you’re stable take you to the High Dependency Unit.’

That was one above an intense care unit. ‘Can I hold your hand?’ I asked one of the nurses.

I was scared – not of dying. That would be a relief from all this pain but of never seeing my husband, little boy or baby girl again.

An image of them together, smiling, flashed before me and I wanted to fight, to get better and get back to them.

All I had to do was get of this resuscitation room, into the HDU and survive…

More tomorrow!