I have a problem...

(...and it's not just being a terrible, dirty, stinking liar. Yes, I know I said ALMOST A YEAR AGO that I would post again and be a good little blogger, and blah blah blah shut up shut up I can't hear you la laaaal aaaa paaaaaaaarp)

Anyway.

So, what's happened? Well, Lumpy is 18 now, and recently started an Accounting course at Bangor University, but apart from that, not much.

He's a bit bigger, let's just say. And talking. Talkingtalkingtalking yabba yabba mummymummy let me explain the more complicated laws of physics to you ohhh plane! Look a plane! Help!

He's actually randomly developed a fear of said planes, and when he hears one he bolts towards us and demands to be picked up. As he now weighs 20 stone (at least), this is rather wearing. We have no idea where this plane-phobia sprang from. As far as we knew he loved planes better than anything else (apart, perhaps, from lumps of butter and extra thick cream. No fear of them developing, it seems.)

Anyway. I'm not here to talk about Lumpy! No! And I'm not going to put any pictures up. Because I'm crap, and haven't managed to get any onto my computer for the last year or so, and anyway I'm writing this at work, so shhhhhhhh.

I'm here to talk about me. And my shameful problem.

Are you ready?

Have you seen that 'Embarrassing Bodies' programme on TV? It's going to be like that. I hope you've had your tea already. (Was it nice? Did you have sausages? I like sausages.)

You see, there's this green, oozy stuff. And it's a funny shape. And there are kumquats dropping out. At least they look like kumquats. And lemmings. Just swarms and swarms of lemmings.

You see why I haven't been writing? You see?

No, actually, my real problem is far more bizarre and embarrassing than that. Deep breath....

I'm already looking forward to Christmas.

There. I've said it.

I know it's September and Christmas is still three months away (just three months!! Squeeeee! Start spraying things gold, dousing mixed fruits with brandy, and attacking holly bushes! NOW!!!). I know it's ridiculous. I know that I'll get myself all worked up and by the time the bloody random day in late December actually rolls around I'll be a dribbling wreck with a tattered piece of tinsel hanging out of my mouth mumbling 'Silent Night' and weeping tears of pure glitter. But I still do it. Every. Single. Year.

And every single year, in early September, I tell myself I won't do it. I will wait, like every other normal person, and not even begin to think about the festive wonderment until December. I will rein myself in, and focus on other things, like Lumpy, and autumn, and rain, and the ever darkening nights, and the death of everything green around me... and, oh look, baubles! Pretty, sparkly baubles! Stockings! Present-buying as a competitive sport! Gratuitous calorie consumption! Mulled anything! Comfort and joy!

It keeps me going, you see. Through those utterly grim and dismal days when summer holidays are nothing but sand found lurking in your shoes, and you don't see the sun for weeks on end, and when you do it's only on TV. And it just gets darker and darker and darker in the mornings and the evenings until there's literally no day left. Once September is here, it's basically just death all the way to March, with its spring and joy and lambs with daffodils coming out of their bottoms.

So I need that Pagan festival to get me through it all, to remind me that life isn't actually over, and that we shall all be redeemed with the giving of expensive presents, unusual liquers, 25 hours of television a day, and ill-advised puddings. Because that's what life's about, when you really think about it, isn't it?

We were always pretty big on Christmas in my family. We were extravagant present-givers and big fans of gluttony and recreational alcoholism, so frankly it was right up our street. And for a long time, I genuinely believed everyone loved it as much as we did. What was not to love? Then, my first year at university, my newly acquired best friend declared, in all seriousness and without a hint of eye-rolling irony, that she hated Christmas.

She hated Christmas? What was this sacrilege and blasphemy?? I barked out an incredulous laugh, and pushed her down the stairs. Then began, quietly, to cry. So, not everyone liked spending a week holed up with their relatives playing endless games of Monopoly and drinking pints of Baileys? Who knew?

This rocked my world, for a brief period. I considered disenfriending this person. After all, our fundamental beliefs were so different. How could there possibly be any future to our friendship? But her room was always warmer than mine, and she looked after me when I was incapably hungover, and we wee-wee-d ourselves laughing over the abuse of our tutors and the horrors of the food in hall (Fish various! Provincial eggs! Unidentified intestinal stew!), so I decided to keep her, despite her heathen nature.

I also considered forsaking Christmas, and pretending to hate it like all the cool kids. But I couldn't do it. I longed for an advent calendar, cheesy jingly music on the radio, a selection box, snowmen, reindeer, sleigh rides, and all that bollocks. I tried to deny my yearnings, but I couldn't. Any pervert would understand.

So I gave in. And have been giving in ever since.

And Lumpy? Well, he's just a long-term plan for prolonging and intensifying this Chrimbo-mania. Cos it's all about the kiddies, really, isn't it? This year, I think, we can begin the real indoctrination into the ways of Santa-love. He has understanding enough to become a fully fledged member of the cult, yet is still young enough to provide no resistance. And it means I have a perfectly valid excuse for spending more than twice my annual income on stocking-filling tat, watching awful elf-ridden films for the 87th time, and playing back-to-back Wizzard from now till January.

Ho, ho, ho.

Viva Espana!

Whoops! I appear to have forgotten I've got a blog. Sorry about that, lost and confused wanderers of the Interwebs. I'll try to do better in future. Oh bugger it, let's be honest, I'll probably not post again till 2013. In fact, I'll probably not even manage to post this. In which case, you won't be reading it... and... and... nope, sorry, lost myself there.

I went on holiday! On a plane and everything. And, this time, I actually took Mr Badger and Lumpy. What a dedicated wife and mother I am.

And you know what? It was good. I have to admit, I was filled with some trepidation at the thought of this trip.

[Aaaaaaaaaaand, I was right. I wrote this first bit about two weeks ago and have utterly failed to revisit it since. I am a big slice of crap pie. But hey! Here I am to write another few paragraphs before failing to finish yet again. Ho hum tiddly bum.]

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, trepidation. Or, putting it another (more accurate) way, I was being a right old grumpy cow, moaning about how holidays weren't really holidays with a baby... grump grump grizzle woe is me etc. Because it's so, so tough looking after a monster beasty like this:

am not monster beasty. how verys dare you. am clearli cute adorables little fluffpot.

And also... confession time. We took not one, but two (count 'em) Badger Grandmas with us. Two! To take one Badger grandparent on holiday may be regarded as sensible; to take both seems like greed. And possibly incompetence. But by 'eck, if we were going to get on a plane and invade a country with the Lumpybeast in tow, then we were going to need reinforcements. And we wanted their luggage allowance, too.

So, to cut a long story short (too late!), off we all marched to Luton airport at some ungodly hour to stand in various queues for many, many hours, before being shoehorned into a Sleazyjet seat with our knees folded comfortably behind our ears, and an x-large baby inadequately restrained on our laps.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. Lumpy loved the plane, and watching the clouds through the window (and the sack of toys and endless snacks we bribed him with every 3.2 seconds). And here's something - trying to entertain/wrestle/hog-tie a wiggly 15-month old in a space the size of a shoebox certainly makes time fly.

So before we knew it, we were ensconced in our apartment, which we set about babyproofing to the best of our abilities by dragging furniture around to block lethal staircases and barricading gaps with sandbags. And then I began - shock, horror - to enjoy my holiday.

I lazed, dear readers, by the pool. I read books. Books! Those papery things with black marks all over them that I used to be quite familiar with. I dozed. Because, you see, when you have two grandmas at hand, you hardly ever have to actually see your own son. Apart from attempting to drown him every now and then, of course:

is freezings. flesh is dyings. feets hav actualli dropping of.

noooooooo! dont dunks me againz mummies. promis i be good boy.

if i canz just. get. to. the. sides...

ahhh barf. iz lovelies.

Lumpy was also particularly impressed with the Spanish-town-square-as-social-hub notion, as it gave him lots of opportunities for harassing wildlife and generally tarting about - which are, of course, two of his favourite things. It also meant he got to eat two dinners - one in the apartment at his normal dinner time, and then whatever he fancied stealing from our plates later on - and got to stay up late too. Lumpy result! As long as he was facing the square he was usually quite happy to sit and watch the mopeds and horses (yes) go by, while we shoved deep-fried aubergine into our gobs and poured San Miguel down or gullets. But then he would be set free, and would rampage around the place, flirting with old men and trying to get the big kids to let him join in their games. He was in heaven.

In fact the main problem was wrestling him into submission to get him to come home.

noooooooooo. they wont take me alives!

Here I demonstrate the upside-down crusher grip. Highly effective when combined with tickling and biting of the shins. Which is just how we got him on the plane to go back home.

And I'm going to stop right there so that I actually post this post and this blog doesn't just curl up and die. See you soon. Realli realli promis.