Spa-ing partners

This weekend I got to go on a spa day. A whole day. In a spa. Without Lumpy.

It was rather nice. And rather weird, at the same time.

As you know, we're already pretty keen on baby abandonment. But thus far, this has been a evening affair - the cinema or dinner, a couple of hours at most. (Actually, I lie - I ran off for most of a day when he was only a month old to try on wedding dresses and drink champagne. But, hey, the hormones are crazy at that time. I wasn't responsible for my actions.) Anyway, for the sake of narrative consistency, let's just say that this was the first time me and my firstborn had been separated for a whole day. But man I needed a massage. Because the last time I was booked in for a massage was the 29th June, and we all know who decided to go and get born that day. Selfish little ratbag.

We were due to hit the spa on Saturday. Of course, on Friday evening it started snowing. Quite heavily and determinedly. The world was against me. I was doomed to never, ever get a massage again in my life. And I like being oiled and rubbed all over by a stranger. It's one of my favourite things (try and guess the others. Go on. Try. Yes, that's right! Have you been reading my diary?)

I wept and wailed and tried to book a snowplough. Then I went to bed, resigned to my fate.

And in the morning there was rain. Glorious, massage-giving rain. So I threw Lumpy into Mr Badger's arms, grabbed my getaway driver (Grandma Badger) and hotfooted it to the spa, where I proceeded to swim lengths underwater and roast myself in the sauna (making the facial-doing lady exclaim, 'well, you're a rather high colour, aren't you?' before patting me on the arm and advising me to 'relax and drink lots of water' in a concerned way. She probably thought I was an alcoholic. Oh, to be an alcoholic!). I got my massage, which was so lovely I almost cried when it ended. Lunch was an eat-as-much-as-you-can buffet (they're definitely called that, not eat-as-much-as-you-like. The competitive element is essential). And I ate as much as I could. Oh yes. Including a plate of desserts with chocolate fudge cake, strange whipped creamy stuff, fruit salad, chocolate sprinkles, meringue and fruit compote all mingled together. Now that's detoxing for you.

After lunch we luckily had nothing more taxing than a manicure and pedicure to go through. On the very rare occasions I get either of these procedures I am usually very boring, especially in the hand department. In fact, I don't think I've ever had anything other than a french manicure, which is basically cheating as it just looks like you have nice nails, rather than vampish sexiiiiiie nail varnish. So, in my temporary madness, I decided to go for bright red talons (or finger stubs, rather, as I am an incurable nail nibbler). And with that fateful decision I was reborn as a Jessica Rabbit-esque vixen. I will never step out of the house again without blazing red fingertips, a strapless sparking evening gown, full slap, and a bouffant red wig.


Eat my glamour! Rwooooooaaarrrrrrrr! And they match the couch! What more could a girl want?

Lumpy is, of course fairly petrified of this new version of his mother, but hey. He'll get used to it.

The best fun of the day, of course, was boob related (isn't it always?) Mr Badger had been left with a vat of expressed milk to sate the Lumpy-beast's insatiable appetite, but unfortunately no one told my boobs that they had the day off. I trotted off to the changing rooms when an embarrassing eruption was imminent, and was relieved to find them empty. I hid in a cubicle and strapped on the old pump. As soon as I had fired it up, a hen party descended to change into their robes and slippers. At first they were screeching so much that the 'whoooommppfff, whoooommppfff' of the pump was not really audible. But then they started to notice.

'What is that?' one said. 'Can you hear it?'

I filled one bottle, and switched off to change to a new one.

'Oh, it's gone.'

Whooommppfff, whooommmpppff...

'I think it's coming from in there...'

'Could be the air conditioning.'

'Do you think it's some sort of life-support machine? Dialysis or something.'

'It's definitely coming from in there. Do you think someone's in there? D'you reckon they're alright? Hello? Are you okay? Hello?'

'Maybe we should break the door down...'

I had hoped to lurk in the changing room till they'd gone, but at this threat of force I decided to stop pumping and make my grand entrance. With as much dignity as I could muster I slid back the bolt and emerged brandishing my bottles of farm fresh boob juice.

The hen party stared, slack jawed. I pushed my way through them, head held high, stifling the urge to moo.

There's no such thing as embarrassment when you have bright red nails, you see.

In praise of white van men

On my many rambles with Lumpy (which have been made far more eventful by the current Arctic temperatures and chilly white stuff that keeps falling from the sky, helping to add a sense of thrill and excitement to the experience. Will Mrs Badger slip on some ice, land on her arse, and let the pram roll into the path of an oncoming juggernaut? Stay tuned to find out!) I have noticed a strange phenomenon. There is one type of driver who never fails to stop and let me cross when I'm waiting at the side of the road. And, unlikely as it may sound, that kind, gentle, thoughtful breed is the White Van Man.

The White Van Man is a much maligned species, and usually I am one of the first to malign them. Pre-baby, they seemed to do their utmost to mow me down whenever I dared step off the pavement, being too busy stuffing their faces with cheesy Quavers, reading The Sun, scratching their arses, and ranting about immigrants to look at the road. But now I have a pram I am suddenly a queen to them. If I dare to even pause briefly at the kerbside, they screech to a halt, waving me and Lumpy across with a subservient bow. No other drivers do this. Ordinary cars, zoom past, braking only to wind down their windows and spit at us. But the White Van Men cannot pass a woman with a pram without forcing them to cross the road in front of them.

I have pondered long and hard about why this may be. Is it because my post-baby body is suddenly irresistible to these hot-blooded males? Perhaps the van-dwellers have a strange fetish for gargantuan thighs (I'm storing my milk fat there, all right?). Or it could be that my generally unwashed state has lead to the release of powerful pheromones that can penetrate white van windscreens, paralysing the poor dears with paroxysms of lust. Or maybe (and, not to do my gorgeousness down, but I think this may be the more likely reason) these men, despite their general air of loutishness and excessive testosterone, are smuggling sentimental little hearts underneath their stained t-shirts and sweaty overalls. Struggle though they might, they just cannot resist the sight of an ickle babba. Bless.

Strangely, when I have Lumpy in the sling, they never stop, no matter how pathetic I look as I wait at the side of the road, being splashed with filthy puddles and breathing in noxious fumes, or how cute Lumpy is, with his woolly hat and red little nose. Perhaps they think I'm a mutant freak with two heads, one astonishingly giant, one bizarrely small (Lumpy's being the big one, naturally), and cannot wait to get the hideous vision out of their eyeline, slamming their foot on the accelerator in horror. Or maybe they just reckon I'm a middle class tit with dangerous hippy leanings.

It's the latter, isn't it?

Exhibit A: irresistible to White Van Men, awwwww coochie coochie coo.

Exhibit B: die on the pavement you pinko leftie two-headed freaks.