All the money that is currently spent on useless, politically correct, bureaucratic pointlessness will be rechannelled to build a sports centre and a cinema in every town. And entry for familie

  s will be free.

  Childcare will be regulated and 100 per cent subsidised by the government.

  And most importantly, on the financial front, the going rate for the Tooth Fairy will be restricted to a national limit of 50p. A ban on moaning ‘but Mu-u-u-um, my pal Steve got a fiver’ will then be strictly enforced.

  Forget the Tories, forget Labour, forget the Greens. Vote for me. I’m the MP for Matalan and Mothercare and I’ve got all the requirements for the job: passion, dedication, a desire to serve, two nipple shields and a breast pump.

  Eye Eye

  Dear readers, I finally have a claim to fame. A truly unique achievement – one that sets me apart and may well put me in the history books.

  Forget those common-as-muck Nobel Prizes. I haven’t discovered a new planet. Or written a global bestseller. Or made it along the M8 without spending an hour in roadworks.

  It’s much, much more exclusive than that. I think I may be the only person in the country to end up in A&E after being injured by a theme park map.

  I blame karma. Only a few months ago I was reading one of those daft hospital surveys that claimed something like 343 people ended up seeking treatment for a biscuit-related injury last year; 297 people were assaulted by a shoe box; and 111 people required hospitalisation due to a limbo-type activity. Oh, how I sniggered.

  Little did I know that karmic justice would be swift and toe-curlingly painful.

  Last weekend, we took the junior Lows down to Alton Towers and the giddy excitement was palpable. The kids were quite chuffed to be going, too.

  Within an hour of hitting the park, my pal Jan and I had wimped out of rearranging our internal organs by going on the Oblivion ride and were sitting on a wall having a coffee and a gab. While we discussed vital world issues (X Factor, Strictly, America’s Next Top Model), seven-year-old Low the Younger consulted the map for our next death-defying activity.

  ‘Look Mum,’ he exclaimed, spinning towards us while clutching the park guide in his hands, ‘There’s a…’

  I didn’t hear the rest. I went down like I’d been hit by a catapult after experiencing the most excruciating eye pain. Somehow, in the most random event since Boaby from Auchtereejit was concussed by a Jaffa Cake, the corner of the map had sliced my cornea.

  Honestly, I’d roll my eyes to heaven if both of them were working.

  Husband came off the ride and looked at my crumpled form with an expression that sat somewhere between incredulity and suspicion. He’d just hurtled to earth at breakneck speed, yet I was the one requiring medical attention.

  He was kind enough not to remind me that, on the drive down there, I’d nudged him and joked, ‘Think we’ll get through the weekend without ending up in hospital?’

  Yes, we’ve got form for this kind of thing.

  New York 2001: A&E, face injury caused by windstorm (mine).

  Los Angeles 2004: A&E, Buzz Lightyear-sustained head wound while going to infinity and beyond (Low the Elder).

  Florida 2005: A&E, suspected DVT (mine).

  Cyprus 2006: A&E, suspected concussion caused by poolside slip (Low the Younger).

  Ireland 2007: A&E, nerve damage to neck (mine).

  And now, 2009: Alton Towers, mother clutching eye while pathetically screeching with pain.

  Off to A&E we went, where my ailment was confirmed, treated and patched. Yep, patched. So, not only did I suffer the trauma of the injury, but I spent the rest of the weekend being subjected to small children asking me if I’d escaped from the pirate galleons and did I know Jack Sparrow.

  Yet another episode of high-octane glamour and dignity.

  I’m holding on to the small consolation that at least it makes me special. Unique. If I’m not personally named in one of those daft surveys next year, I’ll be going to see the researcher in charge and I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind.

  Unless, of course, I get knocked out by a custard cream on the way there.

  Dear Santa

  Altogether now: ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…’ Sorry, but I’m just doing my best to keep my Christmas spirit going. Usually, I love the festive season. I get all excited and start humming ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’ somewhere around mid-November. However, this week a couple of challenges have scuppered my yuletide boat.

  Rewind to last Sunday, and it was like a fairy-tale scene from a Christmas card in our house – if the Christmas card was one of those talking ones that opens with a chorus of ‘who brought those bl**dy penguins out again!’

  Yes, our three singing penguins had escaped from hibernation in the loft and were once again residing on the hall sideboard. They’re loud, irritating, and the lowest form of entertainment. God, I’ve missed them. Unfortunately, husband, not so much. At one point, he got so irritated with them bursting into a rousing rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ every time he walked past, he started muttering ultimatums about it being ‘them or him’. We’ve taken to calling him Happy Feet in the hope that he’ll mellow and accept that they’re part of the family.

  I eventually distracted him with the giddy joy of unleashing more seasonal tat. I asked him to put the outside decorations up, forgetting that every year it ends with him up a ladder, weeping with embarrassment while trying to balance a flashing reindeer, three neon elves and a set of icicle ropes on the roof.

  However, at that moment I had bigger problems to deal with.

  Just as I was about to talk him down and settle him in front of Sky Sports until the hysteria subsided, Low the Younger, aged seven, appeared clutching a sheet of paper. ‘Here you go, Mum,’ he announced. ‘It’s my letter to Santa.’

  Aw, so sweet. My heart swelled with the festive excitement of it all. ‘What have you asked for?’ I cooed, ready for some kind of variation on the usual Lego/skateboard/bike combination.

  ‘Lego,’ he said. Tick. ‘A skateboard,’ he said. Tick. How well do I know my boy? I just waited for the final bike… Er, the bike. Come on, honey, add the bike.

  ‘And a dog.’

  Cue sound of large sleigh hitting crash barriers. A dog.

  Blissfully unaware that I was now in a worse state than his penguin-and-tat-averse father, he ploughed on. ‘And I’ve already got a name for it. I’m going to call him Murphy, after Gran.’

  It took me a moment to update my understanding of the situation. Apparently, the bike was out. Replaced by a dog. One that was called after my lovely granny who passed away two years ago. It was like a whole festive, family Greek tragedy. With tinsel and three singing Antarctic marine birds in the hall.

  I realised that I had to handle the situation with tenderness and honesty.

  ‘But honey, Santa isn’t allowed to bring pets on Christmas Day. It’s against the law.’

  That would do it. Calm. Reasonable. Easy for him to absorb and accept. Until…

  ‘No it’s not,’ came the reply. ‘He brought my pal Ben a Dalmatian last year.’

  Where are the Three Wise Men when you need them?

  ‘You see, Mum, Santa can bring anything. You just write three things on your letter and, as long as you’ve been good, he brings them to you. You can ask for anything at all.’

  Sigh.

  Dear Santa,

  On Christmas morning I’d like the following:

  A marriage counsellor. A penguin protection order. And a really great excuse as to why there isn’t a Dalmatian called Murphy sitting under my tree…

  2010

  Costumes and Dodgy Tunes

  The Horn

  Consistency. Commitment. Dedication. Tenacity. They’re all qualities that I try to drum into my boys. They’re right up there with don’t backchat your parents, be kind to your friends and this house doesn’t come with a laundry fairy that transports your washing into that big white machine in the kitchen.

  I want my offspring (aged eight and nine) to be grafters – the kind of kids that stick at things and don’t give up when the going gets tough. For the purposes of this moral lesson we will overlook the fact that, since my oldest was born, I’ve been on approximately 1,675 diets and there isn’t a piece of exercise equipment in existence that I haven’t purchased, dumped in the corner of my bedroom and then reclassified as a clothes horse.

  But back to the children. They have to see things through. Keep going through the hard times.

  This week I realised that comes with an exception.

  ‘Mum, can I give up playing my brass horn?’

  If you live within a ten-mile radius of my postcode, you may have heard the exultant cheers.

  Yes, the horn is dead. It’s the musical equivalent of a lottery win for the ears.

  Apologies to all you serious musicians out there who are accomplished in the ways of the horn, but one more night of Low junior marching up and down the hall playing an approximation of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ would have tipped me over the edge.

  There should be a law against it. Or a commandment. Thoust shalt not emit a noise that maketh thy mother’s teeth grind.

  Please don’t judge me. I’ve always tried to be an encouraging, all-round supportive parent. I didn’t complain when Low the Elder’s participation in the wettest, muckiest football season in Scottish history cost me more Daz than Danny Baker could shift in a lifetime. I bit my tongue when a flirtation with martial arts ended in the destruction of my living room lamp, a sprained ankle and a request to change Low the Younger’s name to Jackie Chan.

  When Low the Elder took up the guitar and played ‘Wonderwall’ all night, every night, for a month, I dealt with the pain by convincing myself that we were a thick set of eyebrows and an arrogant swagger away from Oasis.

  But then, like all good things, it spiralled out of control. The youngest decided he shared his brother’s musical aspirations and got in on the act. I’ve no idea why. It certainly isn’t a genetic predisposition. I can just about strum the best of the Beatles on the guitar, as long as it doesn’t involve more than three chords and none of them require doing that ‘bar’ thingy with the index finger. And, while I adore my husband, I may have mentioned (at least once a month and usually when he’s committed a marital crime like forgetting to Sky+ Criminal Minds), he’s not a natural musician. If we used the rhythm method of contraception I’d be trading in the jalopy for a twelve-seater mini-van.

  Anyway, the piano came next. Then the saxophone. And then horn. Or, as it’s more commonly called, ‘a migraine too far’.

  Now that it’s gone, I’ve learned my lesson and I’m drawing up new rules. No more musical instruments. No outdoor sports in winter. And our little Jackie Chan will be changing his name back pronto. From now on I’ll be encouraging them to take up only quiet, indoor activities geared towards health and fitness.

  They’ll have a great time pedalling on that clothes horse.

  A Good Sport

  The tension mounts as the athlete steps up to the starting line. Ready. Steady… A sheen of sweat forms on his face. Teeth clench. Muscles flex. Go! He takes off, thundering past the cheering crowd, evoking the spirit of those that have gone before him. Steve Ovett. Sebastian Coe. That bloke out of Chariots of Fire. As he crosses the finish line, the spectators roar.

  Moments later he claims his prize – a Nobbly Bobbly ice lolly and a pound that is not to be spent on anything containing E-numbers.

  It’s that time of the year again – that melting pot of snot, sweat and tears that is school sports day. The junior Lows’ big event is taking place this week and I’m already practising my parental mantra of ‘it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that counts’.

  There’s nothing worse than lining up to watch your child participate in a sporting endeavour and the peace being spoiled by a parent on the sideline who is acting like her wee darling is about to take part in an Olympic qualifier.

  Okay, that’s normally me. I’m sorry. I go with all the intention of maintaining a modicum of calm, magnanimous serenity and end up cheering (screaming like a banshee) and commiserating (roaring with disappointment) when the front half of the human wheelbarrow goes off in the wrong direction and crashes into the toilet tent.

  It doesn’t help that the Low brothers have very different attitudes to sport. My youngest has the competitive spirit of, say, mud. He couldn’t care less if he doesn’t achieve world domination in the egg and spoon race. He never reached a giddy pinnacle of success in his short football career because every time a teammate went down after a tackle, he ran over, applied first aid and attempted to put them in the recovery position until the paramedics arrived. He’s a chilled-out homebody and his only chance of athletic stardom is if the International Athletics Federation introduces the new sport of sofa-surfing.

  Then there’s my other son. Usain Bolt. He has the competitive drive of a professional athlete, hates losing, and puts his heart and soul into every match and competition. He works out strategies. He trains. He pushes himself. And as long as he doesn’t get signed for a premier football team or snapped up by the next big boy band (yes, we like to keep it real in this house) then he’s aiming for Commonwealth glory in 2018.

  But back at the sports day, all that junior endeavour and tension pales in the face of the most dreaded aspect of all: the parents’ race. Or, as I like to call it, ‘The annual exercise in disappointing the kids.’

  There’s always at least one Flo-Jo who shows up in full running gear and custom-made trainers and spends twenty minutes limbering up and mapping out the course. Just when the rest of us are trying to find someone to hold our coffees and cursing because we’ve forgotten to wear a sports bra again (well hello, back strain), Flo-Jo is up at the starting line being coached by the sports psychologist she brought along for support.

  Someone really ought to have a word and tell her that it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part that counts. Although, I do reserve the right to change this viewpoint should a sport be introduced that plays to my strengths.

  Ready, Steady…

  Shari Low, Sofa-Surfing Champion 2010.

  Jolly Japes

  Hear that noise? That’s the unique sound of the final school bell and parents across the nation suppressing a panicked yelp.

  Or is that just me?

  Yep, school’s out and my boys are about as calm as hyperactive chickens on a sugar rush.

  Six weeks. Forty-two days. Deduct eight hours for sleeping and that leaves 672 hours to fill with productive activities. Sorry, I had to put my head between my knees until the urge to faint passed.

  On the plus side, husband and I don’t have to negotiate the annual trip to Divorce Threats Central as we attempt to pack and plan for a fortnight’s jaunt to the sun. The combination of looming deadlines and a hugely expensive house flood has ruled out a summer holiday, so we’re staying put.

  But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have plans to fill those 672 hours. Oh, the things we’re going to do. There are going to be so many jolly japes that me and the two junior Lows will feel like we’ve come straight from an Enid Blyton adventure… If Enid was a United Nations negotiator with special skills in tactical operations. You see, we already have a disparity on the logistics front.

  I love my children more than words and, given the choice, I’d rather spend the day with them than absolutely anyone else – with the possible exception of a lingering fantasy involving George Clooney, free designer shoes and a donut shop. Don’t ask.

  But this year, at the ages of eight and nine, they’ve discovered that dreaded, terrifying new feature: their own opinion.

  Where did my boys acquire those? And how do I send them back for a full refund?

  I had it all worked out. In the next 672 hours I was going to bake cakes, play footie in the garden, have picnics in the park, go for long bike rides, paint, read books, and listen to them practising their piano and guitar. They finished school as normal boys, they’ll restart in August as McFly.

  Oh, and since I am late on a deadline, I also need to fit in writing a new novel and practising my very best martyr face so that I can appear suitably miffed when husband waltzes off to the office every day, leaving me to juggle working from home with full-time motherhood. No, he doesn’t care, but I persevere on the off-chance that he’ll notice and I can use it as bargaining power at a future date. I’m not proud.

  But back to my plans. Unfortunately, the small Lows have different ideas.

  Low the Elder wants to go go-carting (saw it in an advert), try rope climbing (saw it in an advert), visit Pontins (saw it in an advert) and journey to Atlantis in Dubai. Yep, he saw it in an advert. Note to self: make addition to summer task list – stop son watching adverts.

  I approached my malleable, placid, easy-going Low the Younger in the hope of gaining an ally on the walking/reading/picnic front. ‘What would you like to do this summer, honey?’ I asked.

  ‘Watch telly.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Nothing else. Just watch telly.’

  I’ve a feeling there could be tears, tantrums and snot. And the boys might react badly, too. Still, I’m convinced that my parenting skills will win out and accomplish my mission to have an Enid Blyton experience. Once there were the Famous Five. Then came the Secret Seven. Welcome to the Summer Adventures of the Temperamental Three.

  Proud Mary Payback

  Drum rolls and trumpets please. This week’s top prize in the ‘Surveys That Tell Us Things We Already Know’ goes to… the academic bods who revealed that mums embarrass their kids. Seriously. Someone actually spent time and energy studying this. They could have saved themselves the bother and just phoned my boys.