Thursday, 28 October 2010


Some time ago, I told you about the extreme jealousy between our furry, cat-shaped babies, and Lumpy, the - erm - bald and baby-shaped baby. So extreme was this jealousy, that it led to an outbreak of violence and terror previously undreamed of in the Badger household. We are all still quaking from the results, and cannot bear to discuss them, with Mr Badger developing a violent twitch if he even hears the word 'Mog'.

But little did Lumpy suspect that he had another rival for the status of beloved baby of the Badger dynasty. This one was also quite furry, in a hairy sort of way, and, rather disturbingly, weighed as much as 500 cats (or around 4 Mogs).

What sort of freakish beast is this? Thought Lumpy, scratching his chin quizzically. I must find more out about this creature that considers itself the rightful baby of the family. And possibly eat it (we fear he may have been plotting with Mog on this front. The consequences of such an alliance are so horrifying as to be unthinkable, so we won't think about them).

Lumpy began to research the hairy giant baby beast. He discovered that its name was 'Maddie', presumably in reference to its psychotic tendencies. It had, apparently, made repeated attempts on Mrs Badger's sister's life (and yet it was she who loved it best, and spent hours tending to it). This was all very mysterious. Lumpy decided that the time had come to meet this strange rival.

So one day Lumpy went down to the place they called 'The Yard'. And there, he caught his first glance of Maddie.

It was a bit of a shock, to say the least.

Seriously, what the hell is that?

Summoning all of his courage, Lumpy turned to face his adversary, reached out a hand, and poked it up the nose.

Surprisingly, Maddie did not attempt to kill him, or even munch his arm off. Instead, she leaned in close and huffed gently in his ear.

"We should work together, small baldy person," breathed Maddie, too quiet for Mrs Badger to hear (mind you, she is slightly deaf in one ear, after that nasty incident with the snail and the cricket stumps). "Stick with me, and we could rule this family. And..." Lumpy leaned closer, straining to hear. "I can show you how to poo all over the floor."

Lumpy liked the sound of that.

But he decided to have a taste, anyway. Just in case.

Mmmm, delicious. I'll have mine fried.

Monday, 25 October 2010

The Resurrection of Terrence

Terrence lives!

After his deeply traumatic deflating incident, Terrence had taken to huddling behind a chair, so floppy with shame that he could barely stand to be seen. He was floating barely an inch above the ground and was often mistaken for a crisp packet (albeit a rather large and vicious one). The Badger family started to fear that the end was near, and soon all they'd be able to do for Terrence was fold him up and give him a dignified burial in the bin.

But then, as Terrence was fading fast, and all hope seemed to be lost, a donor was found. The emergency tank of donated helium was rushed to the Badger Sett, and Terrence's weak and emaciated form was tugged from his hiding place and laid upon the operating table (aka the floor). So feeble was he, that it only took two nurses to hold him down while the operation was performed.

In the absence of any skilled Tyrannosaurus balloon surgeons, Mr Badger was forced to perform the complicated and dangerous operation himself. With a shaking hand, he picked apart Terrence's inflation pipe (which looks a bit like a willy, now I come to think of it. But let's not add dinosaur porn to our long and shameful list of places this blog has gone that it really, really shouldn't have), and inserted the inflation nozzle. Soon, the life-giving helium was rushing in, and Terrence's eyes flickered open as he began to swell (stop sniggering at the back, there's a life-threatening operation going on here). Before long, he was starting to rise from the operating table, wrestling against his restraining nurses.

Mr Badger struggled to reseal Terrence's inflation pipe, to keep the essential helium inside, and to avoid a terrible squeaky-voice inducing leakage. In the panic that followed, Terrence broke free, and bit the head clean off one of the nurses.

Almost immediately the cheering erupted. Terrence was back!

Mrs Badger went and put her best hat on in celebration. Yes, the first best hat. That's how excited she was.

And no, that's not Mrs Badger. Don't be insolent. It's Terrence, shortly after decapitating a nurse with his bare teeth. RWWWAAAAARRRR.

Lumpy examining Terrence's inflation pipe. Rude!

And, lo, the Tyrannosaurus Rex shall bob above the baby. And there will be feasting and much celebration. (Dinosaurs, XI, 534)

Wednesday, 20 October 2010

How to find this blog

As if I didn't have enough to be neurotically obsessed about, this blog offers me the chance to see exactly how many people are reading it, every day, hour, and minute. As you can imagine, this gives me endless entertainment, as I constantly refresh the stats page whilst wailing "why have only two people looked at lumpybadger today? Nobody loves meeeeee! Validate my existence, strangers of the interwebs!" My laptop is somewhat tear stained.

But enough of my pathetic pitifulness. The really interesting bit of the stats page is that it shows how my fine readers have reached lumpybadger, and the most fascinating is the search engine queries which have led unsuspecting souls here. I had always expected a few stray perves to stumble across the site, due to my predilection for ranting about lady bits, but imagine my delight when I found that someone had landed on this site after searching google for the phrase "boobs grew and grew". All I can hope is that this was an actual pervert with a fantasy of ever increasing mammaries, and not some poor female who was desperately searching for medical advice due to the distressing and unexplained inflation of her assets.

But that one paled into insignificance when I spotted what may be my favourite ever search term. Are you ready? Somebody actually got here by searching for "badger boobs". Oh yes. Now that really is special interest.

And how very tragic that this was the best the internet had to offer this individual. If you're still out there, Badger Boob fancier, I'll try to find some pics especially for you soon.

(I won't really)

(unless you ask very, very nicely)

(probably not even then)

(though I would for cash)

Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Ebay = evil

I tend to go on ebay binges at certain key points in my life. I go into a frenzy of bidding and browsing and buying, and other time-sapping activities beginning with 'b' (breakdancing, bowdlerizing, boob bouncing, you know the sort of thing). Then, once my bank has sent round the heavies to do nasty things to my kneecaps, and Mr Badger has flushed all of my credit cards (and my head) down the toilet, I go cold-turkey and avoid it just as fanatically for several months or years.

The most notable of these binges occurred just before my nuptials to Mr Badger, a bit over three years ago, in what has come to be known as the pre-marriage money mentalness. This is a surprisingly common syndrome in engaged individuals, wherein your concept of value becomes completely warped, so you start to think that paying £800 for a fruit cake or £1000 for a glorified taxi with ribbons represents an excellent bargain. As you may imagine, ebaying while suffering from this disorder is extremely hazardous. Glancing through my purchases in this period is sobering, rather like looking at photos of yourself taken on a hideously drunken night, where you feel you must have been possessed by a shameless filth hound with a penchant for groping strangers and dancing on barmen. I was absolutely obsessed with getting the PERFECT presents for everyone involved in the wedding. They had to be PERFECT and they had to be BEAUTIFULLY, WITTILY RELATED TO THE ROLE THAT PERSON WAS PLAYING IN THE WEDDING. Because otherwise everyone would bludgeon us to death with their woefully inadequate gifts, and we wouldn't get to go on honeymoon, because we'd be dead. So that's why the friend who made us a tower of fairycakes had to have a silver cupcake necklace, and my old school chum who sang Ave Maria at the service needed a life-size Virgin Mary cast in bronze (not really. The bidding for that got too steep even for me, so she ended up with a musical note charm bracelet instead). And that's also why the traders of ebay gleefully rub their hands together whenever I log on, because, frankly, who else is going to buy their obscure and expensive silver-related goods?

(and yes, I did eat all of the cakes myself. Of course I did. It was my wedding, all right?)

The only good thing about this particular binge was that no one else in their right mind would be bidding for the things I was after, so I actually ended up getting some bargains. Or at least I think they were. It's all a bit blurry now.

Because, you see, ebay is not quite so evil if you only want things that nobody else wants. Its true full-force evil only emerges when you end up bidding against other people. Because then all sanity departs, as it becomes an all out loony bidding war. Not only does this mean you waste even more time watching the last few minutes and seconds of auctions tick down, so you can leap in at last the moment and outbid those other bloody bastards, it also means you spend far too much on pointless tat that would have been quite a rip off at 99p, let alone the £36.17 you ended up paying because you just couldn't face someone else having it. And neither could they. But you beat them! You beat them!! Into giving someone lots of money for something you don't actually want all that much. Hurrah!

Of course, if I was a normal, this wouldn't happen at all. Because then I'd just look at items, decide what the absolute, total maximum I would be happy to pay would be, and enter that amount. Then step away from the computer. And do other things. Like changing my son's nappy, for instance. Or speaking to my husband. But no. I must watch to the last minute, in case someone outbids me, because then I will decide that the absolute, total maximum I would be happy to pay is quite a lot more than I originally thought, because mustnotbebeaten no no no neeeeeeeeed tat.

So I had been avoiding ebay since the wedding. But then I decided I absolutely and totally must have an Ocean Wonders Cot Aquarium, which, according to Amalah, has magic sleep-inducing properties. I have already bought the ball popper thing mentioned on that page (for someone else's child - you don't think I'd be so stupid as to buy one for my own, do you?), and found it did, indeed, drive said child completely and utterly bonkers, so I'm prepared to believe absolutely anything she says. Unfortunately the aquarium doesn't seem to be made any more, at least not in the UK. In fact, the only place I found it for less than £72 was -- you guessed it! -- ebay. So back I crept.

"It'll be okay," I thought. "I'll just bid on the aquarium, and then never come back. It'll be fine."

Just like a smack addict, thinking they can take just one more little squirt of that delicious, juicy heroin.

So I bid on the aquarium, and while I was waiting for that auction to end, I had a little browse around. Just to, you know, see what was on offer. For the sort of foolish people who'd be tempted into bidding on such tat.

Fast forward to last night, where you may witness Mrs Badger sweating over the keyboard, heart racing, as she bids for a furry cow outfit. Because she has become obsessed with dressing Lumpy as a cow (of which more in a future post...). And could not face anyone else dressing their baby in this particular cow outfit. Especially not the person bidding against her. Ayeeeeeeee! Feel my wrath, fellow ebay loony!! Your child will not be a cow! Mine will, mine will!!

So. That's where I am at the moment. On ebay. Slowly but surely bankrupting myself. They have nappies, you know. And many, many cow-themed baby items.

Save me.

Friday, 15 October 2010

Spoon conversation

Mr Badger: this spoon has got something wrong with it.

Mrs Badger: how can a spoon have something wrong with it?

Mr Badger: it's all scratchy and the edges are all sharp and nicked.

Mrs Badger: ahhhhh. Yes. That might be the one I dropped into the waste disposal...

Not nearly enough cute baby pictures around here lately...

Look at me's!!! Iz holding giant headz up. This take great skillz. And a strong necks.

My headz is 98th percentiles, you knows.* Iz becos I iz so clevers.

What dat? A mooses, you sez? Wheres? Iz vicious? You think it seen me's? Will run aways.

Actualies, don't feel likes runnings right nowz. Thinks I will examine the floors for a while insteadz.

And now, a gratuitous baby-in-a-bucket shot. Because... Well, look:

And due to popular demand, a close up of those feet.

Baby in a bucket! With chips! Nom nom nom.

*DISCLAIMER: Lumpy's head has not actually been measured by a health professional for more than seven weeks. But that's a big head, right? Gotta still be up there, surely. In fact, it's probably off the scale by now, but that would put him in the freaky mutants scale, so we'll stick with the 98th percentile, thank you very much.

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

In which my lowly expectations of humankind are repeatedly and humblingly defied

It was Great Big Screamy Cinema day today, so I decided to preface the fun with my usual route march into town. This should take about an hour at a reasonably brisk pace, so I generally choose to leave 50 minutes before the film is due to begin, just to add a frisson of panic to the whole thing. There are two possible routes: either straight down Cowley Road all the way, which involves bumping Lumpy over some wonderfully uneven pavements and kerbs, and throwing ourselves into the paths of kamikaze buses and taxis, or alternatively on a cycle path that runs behind one of the local paths. The second is generally preferable, though there are parts of the path that irresistibly remind me of the lonely mugger's alleys you see on Crime Watch as the last place the young mother was seen alive. I grant that this is slightly melodramatic, given that Oxford is not the murder capital of the Western world (Morse notwithstanding), but I have a vivid imagination, so bear with me.

As I was racing along the most mugger-friendly section of the path, complete with convenient ditch to dump the victim's body in, I spotted a dark figure lurking in the undergrowth. It was what I understand is usually described as a 'yoof', complete with hooded top and baseball cap (why there is a need for both of these head coverings, I fail to understand), trousers at half mast, and a general threatening air about him. I upped my pace, until Lumpy's cheeks began to flap with the g-force. Just as we were about to streak past said yoof, he stepped out from the undergrowth and into our path. I skidded to a halt, images of the newspaper reports of my grisly death flashing through my brain. Could I lob Lumpy to safety across the ditch and over a fence into someone's garden, I wondered, as we skidded to a halt.

"Well," said the yoof, smiling (no doubt as he contemplated which bit of me to dismember first). "That's the closest I've ever been to..."

What? What?! Exposing myself on a lonely pathway? Committing a violent mugging on a whim? Mutilating a mother and child for a laugh?

"A squirrel!" he finished with a grin, jerking his head towards the undergrowth. My quaking eyes looked across, and there, indeed, was a fuzzy-tailed tree rat, nibbling on a nut.

Words failed me at this point, so I just made a noise like 'ahhhhmmmff', whilst attempting a strangled smile. Mr Squirrel Fancier seemed satisfied with this, and went merrily on his way, humming the tune from Snow White (possibly), and leaving no dismemberment in his wake.

After staring briefly at the close-approached squirrel, we continued on our way, somehow making it to the cinema unmolested by man or rodent. We were having lunch with one of our mummy chums afterwards, because that's what us lazy child-rearing types do all day. Having filled my own greedy gullet with giant pizzas, I decided it was Lumpy's turn for a munch, and proceeded to whip out the boob. The restaurant was fairly quiet, it being about 3.45pm, when most normal people are at work, so I didn't bother using my feeding guard (this sounds as if it is something highly technical involving metal and dials, but is actually just a large shawl that I bundle Lumpy under to wrestle with him while I blindly poke him in the eye and nose with my nipple. It makes me look like I have a giant, extremely animated boob, and is, of course, utterly useless for breastfeeding. But great for entertainment purposes).

A few minutes into the feed, the elderly couple who had been sitting at a table near us got up and came over. I was looking down at Lumpy to see whether he was about to projectile vomit all over the table, so I didn't really notice them at first. The only thing I heard was 'breastfeeding' and 'in public'. I automatically filled in the gaps, assuming that the man was berating me, and was about to loudly and angrily assert my right to get my baps out wherever I damn well wanted to, when I realized what he'd actually said was:

"It's wonderful to see a mother breastfeeding in public."

I luckily managed to chock my expletives back and smile Virgin and Child-ishly back at him instead.

"It's really wonderful," he repeated. "The most beautiful, natural thing. Well done." And he and his wife walked out, beaming approvingly at us.

So there you go. Humankind are largely sweet, kind, squirrel-bothering, breast-approving individuals, and not boob-hating murderers. How very reassuring.

Saturday, 9 October 2010

Yes, it's the return of the ever popular Poo Update!!

Holy mother of crapping god.

So, Lumpy didn't do a poo yesterday. OK, this has happened before. Once. In his entire life. So I tend to freak out just a little bit whenever the usual flood of mustardy bottom goodness fails to appear in the nappy. Because that is what I am like.

This usual raving hysteria was made all the more acute by the fact that the Lumpster has been enthusiastically vomiting after almost every feed recently. He often does this stealthily, purging himself in silence all down my back, leaving me to wander around for the rest of the day with baby sick smeared all over my clothes. Since most of my time is spent in Cowley Centre, this doesn't actually matter, as entering that fine shopping emporium without vomit-encrusted clothes is strictly prohibited.

Anyway, this vomiting had finally pushed me so far that I actually went and visited the hospital's breastfeeding clinic. This shows how desperate I had become, as I am idiotically stubborn and obviously the best person in the universe at breastfeeding (and everything else), and therefore don't need any help or advice, thank you very much. I'll just sit here while my child regurgitates more milk than his stomach can possibly hold over my entire body in all its cottage-cheesy glory. That's what he's meant to do, right? So I'll sit here humming merrily to myself for two, three weeks, becoming increasingly covered in milky vom, not even wiping it off because that would be admitting that something not quite right was happening. La la laaaa, I can't hear you, vombag.

In other words, I am a silly cow. Moo moo moooooo (no, I'm not giving birth again, don't panic. At least I don't think I am. But who knows, frankly. I'll keep you posted.). But after a period of great personal struggle, I managed to overcome this innate bovinity, and took myself and my amazing puking child down to the hospital. I did feel a bit stupid, lugging my hulking great multiple-chinned beast of a baby into the clinic, which was mostly filled with desperate brand-new mothers with squalling teeny newborns and scabby nipples. Despite this, the assistants were very welcoming and assured me that Lumpy was not the oldest or fattest baby they'd ever seen, informing me that one 'baby' had climbed off their mother's lap and spanked an assistant on the bottom, because they took exception to her trying to see what was going on with the feeding. This little anecdote was obviously meant to be reassuring, but was actually fairly disturbing. I mean, if the 'child' was old enough to climb off its mother's lap and administer a spanking to a stranger, then you'd think they'd have been breastfeeding for long enough to have got the hang of it. Or to know when it's time to quit, frankly. I actually suspect that the 'baby' in question was really a middle aged pervert merely posing as a nursing child. But we'll draw a veil over that intriguing possibility, for now at least.

I started feeding while one of the assistants watched (actually, the place is a veritable heaven for perverts. It's a wonder they're not overrun with them). You're supposed to do this exactly as you normally would, but I kept second guessing what I thought they'd criticize me about and subsequently changing my technique, till I ended up dangling Lumpy by his ankles above my head, and whirling him around as he snapped desperately at my elusive boob.

Despite my best -- or, rather, worst -- efforts, they didn't immediately repossess Lumpy to give him to someone more skilled and deserving. In fact, they actually seemed to think I was doing okay, and just needed to make a couple of small adjustments, and perhaps chill the fuck out a little bit. No! Really? What a concept.

So I headed back home, suitably reassured, and then proceeded to spend the whole day panicking about the fact that Lumpy hadn't done a poo! OMFG, no poooooooo! What will we dooooooo?!!111!!

I immediately assumed that this lack of pooage was due to my feeding technique, and that he was clearly starving to death, because of course! I am a terrible mother, etc. etc. etc. Begin foaming at the mouth and rolling around on the floor moaning and weeping until Mr Badger comes home and throws you in the bath.

And then he did a poo. It was the right colour, and texture and everything. I got up off the floor, and started breathing normally again. Hurrah for poo.

And then he did another one. And I swear to the almighty god of poos, it was the biggest poo that has ever emerged from a baby, ever. It was so astonishing in its lavishness and volume that I had to take the nappy, throw it into the shower, and hose it into submission before it got any thoughts of taking over the world.

So I thought you'd like to know. I saved you all from almost certain death by poo. Thank you gifts may be sent to the usual address. Now off you go, and enjoy your delicious dinner.

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

The True and Tragic Tail of Terrence

Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Lumpy, whose parents took him to St Giles' Fair in Oxford, which is a very posh affair indeed, with nary a chav in sight, as is evident from this photo of this year's event:

Little Lumpy can be clearly seen in the bottom left, wearing his very fetching white bonnet and smock, which he likes to don for such public perambulations, carried by Mrs Badger in her second-best hat (the best is saved for weddings and contract killings). While they were perambulating through the throbbing crowd, Lumpy's eyes fell upon an intriguing silhouette in the distance. Bobbing jauntily in the air above everyone's heads was the most magnificent creature Lumpy had ever seen, with flashing amber eyes and bright green skin, delightful black claws and row upon row of razor-sharp teeth.

"This is a fellow I simply have to meet," thought Lumpy, dragging Mrs Badger towards the tantalizing stranger.

Formal introductions were obtained. Terrence, it soon became clear, was a man-eating Tyrannosaurus Rex, with a hunger for fresh blood. Lumpy was entranced, and insisted that this new friend come to live in the Badger household immediately.

Soon, Terrence was comfortably installed in the living room. He behaved impeccably, only occasionally nibbling on the cats' tails and gnawing Mr Badger's ankles (which is no worse than most of our house guests, it must be said).

Little Lumpy was delighted with his new best friend, and would spend hours lying on the floor, tugging on Terrence's restraining string, squealing with delight as the extinct cold-blooded killer bobbed above him.

"I love Terrence," he declared. "When I grow up, we will move to London together, take a set of rooms, and rampage around the town. What fun it will be!"

Lumpy, you see, did not yet understand the vicious prejudice that exists against such love, and innocently believed that such a dream could be translated into reality. For it was the love that dare not speak its name -- that between man and dinosaur -- a love which society refused to accept. Alas, he also did not realize that Terrence's days were numbered. For with each and every day that passed a little more of his lifeblood (the mystical helium) escaped, leaving him a sagging, wrinkly shadow of his former fat and shiny self.

His tail withered and went floppy, his claws shrivelled up until he could no longer gouge anyone who came near, and eventually his head, with its once mighty razor-like teeth, began to droop, hanging down until it was impossible to savage people any more. Yet little Lumpy still loved his Terrence as much as ever, not caring if he bobbed a little less buoyantly above his head or seemed a little skinny.

But despite Lumpy's ongoing love, without the ability to gouge and savage, Terrence felt his life to be over. And so he hatched a plan. He would cast himself to the wind, break free, become a hostage to fortune in the sky. It was a suicidal plan, certainly, but perhaps that was all that was left to him. Better to die in the wild winds, than wither away to a wrinkled nothing, until the little Lumpy no longer wanted to play with him, and cast him cruelly into the bin.

And so Terrence waited. And then one day his opportunity came. Lumpy and Mrs Badger were busy packing up the car for a trip to the place they called Devon (a trip which, Terrence noted dejectedly, they had not asked him to join). They had all of the doors to the house flung open, and were too distracted to notice what Terrence was up to. He shuffled closer and closer to the open door, feeling the pull of the open sky calling to him. And then the breeze grabbed him, and he was gone.

Returning to the house after overseeing the cramming of the last essential items into the car, Lumpy let out a wail of anguish. Terrence was gone! Mrs Badger searched the house for him -- could he be under the bed? Down the toilet? Could a cat have eaten him, taking revenge for the weeks of tail munching? But he was nowhere to be found.

And then their eyes fell upon the open door, and the true horror of what had occurred began to dawn.

They both rushed outside and stared desperately up into the sky, searching for a dinosaur-shaped silhouette. But there was none. Surely Terrence could not have gone, so quickly and so completely? He could barely even float any more, let alone fly. But it was true. He was gone.

Comforting the bereft Lumpy, and making rapid plans to purchase a replacement novelty balloon at the first opportunity, Mrs Badger walked around the side of the house, to the front door. And then her eyes fell upon a remarkable sight.

Could it be? She rubbed her eyes and looked again.

It was! In his daring escape attempt, Terrence had been caught. So sad and saggy was he that he couldn't even get the lift to outrun a bike. And a locked one at that. They untangled him and marched him back into the house, but even Lumpy's excited babblings at being reunited with his tyrannic friend could not lift his spirits, any more than it could make his sinking, shrivelled body fly again.

Terrence sank into a deep gloom, refusing to savage anyone or anything, even when tempting limbs and tails were held directly in front of his mouth. And every day he sank a little lower.

The only hope for Terrence now is a helium transfusion. But that is a dangerous and expensive operation. Can you help bring Terrence back to life? Do you know any comically-shaped helium balloons that would be prepared to give their life to save another? If so, please tie a note reading "I will die to save Terrence" to them, take them outside, and let them go. They will find their way here, God willing.

Thank you, all. With your help, we can let Terrence savage again.

Monday, 4 October 2010

Beach Breastfeeding - You Can't Beat It!

Planning on enjoying a beach holiday in the UK with your baby? Well, the great news is that beaches are the perfect spot for breastfeeding, so get your baps out and start enjoying that bracing sea air on your nipples right now!

For those of you new to the exciting extreme sport of beachboobage (and yes, that is copyright, so don't you go stealing it), here are a few hints and tips to show you why British beachboobage is best for baby, best for you!

One thing beaches have is plenty of sand. And we all know that sand is an essential element of every new baby's diet. But did you know that 98% of three-month-olds aren't getting enough sand? To make sure your baby isn't one of them, be sure to engage in beachboobage at every opportunity. Luckily, the windswept nature of most British beaches ensures that plenty of this essential sand will make its way onto your nipples, and thus efficiently and hygienically into your baby. Remember, your baby is also able to absorb sand through his bottom, so don't forget to include a nappy change in your beachboobage routine.

Babies love dogs, and dogs love beaches - making beachboobage the perfect combination of all three. While feeding on a beach, you will become a dog magnet. Those pooches simply won't be able to resist a sniff at your baby's delicious head. Make sure they give it a good licking: there's nothing like dog saliva for curing cradle cap and boosting brainpower.

There's always weather in abundance on a British beach. From icy winds to stinging sleet, torrential rain and even, if you're really lucky, snow storms! You and your baby will love the challenge presented by the multiple layers of clothing -- play an impromptu game of hunt the boob to help stimulate and frustrate your infant!

There's no dining like beach dining, and the British seaside offers everything a nursing mother needs for health and wellbeing. Did you know that a 99 cone with an extra flake represents one of your five a day? Or that seaside rock has been found to boost milk production by up to 87%? Well, it's true, so chow down in the knowledge you're doing you and your baby the power of good.

Beachboobage -- nutritious, fun, cold, and full of dogs: what more could you ask for in a breastfeeding experience? Get down there and flash some unsuspecting holidaymakers now!