tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16927594955071543332011-12-11T22:07:48.160ZAn irreverent slice of modern motherhoodTroutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.comBlogger1311100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-13133811192473883452011-11-08T17:52:00.001Z2011-11-10T12:05:50.642Z

Finally, in November, I went on my family summer holiday. We chose Butlins in Bognor Regis because we had no car and wanted to entertain the kids. Out of shame, I kept this a secret from some of my best friends. Here is my experience. No car. We're hardcore Public Transport types. On the train at Victoria Bushman chose to sit next to a football team on their way to Benidorm. Nice way to

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-18731056599124176072011-10-09T00:02:00.000+01:002011-10-09T00:02:34.848+01:00

On Friday morning my alarm went of at 6.15 am. My eyelids parted and through bleary lenses I saw that the baby's cot was empty, except for a few toys. Panic rose in my chest. It was overwhelming. "Bushman. Where is our baby? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR BABY!!" I shouted, accusingly. From the otherside of the duvet wall. I heard a voice say. "Trout. Wha' wrong wid you? She sleeping at yuh

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-62948157004470260602011-10-04T09:47:00.000+01:002011-10-04T09:47:21.884+01:00

Today my son is three. Last week Lady Violet came to visit. She snuck into his room while he was sleeping and pulled back the covers to see how much he'd grown, having not seen him for nearly a year. "Fuckin'ell Troutie, he's a giant!" It's true. I'm buying clothes for a 3 year old who is the size of a 5 year old. He's in the 99.6th percentile. Which means that only 0.4 percent of children his

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-45187107401255333532011-09-04T12:20:00.000+01:002011-09-04T12:20:13.240+01:00

Tomorrow my daughter turns one. She has the most unruly hair of a one year old I've ever seen. For her party today I have created the most enormous headpiece for her to wear. I'm hoping it detracts from her ratty locks and my bad parenting. This party has been the centre of much family controversy after my son's 2nd birthday party last year  when rather a large number of unexpected guests

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-84917846436596502872011-08-10T22:41:00.000+01:002011-08-10T22:41:28.118+01:00

I have so much stuff to say about the London Riots I hardly know where to begin, but as a big believer in restorative justice, this image from riots in Vancouver earlier this year really warmed my heart. Rioters started to apologise on broken shop windows. www.nowpublic.com Sounds like a little but maybe it could mean a lot?

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-76070993383101116292011-08-08T10:09:00.000+01:002011-08-08T10:09:11.298+01:00

About a week ago I saw a slightly grubby cat laying in some bushes outside our flat. He was sunning himself and I thought nothing of it. A few days later the cat was outside again and as I struggled through the doors of my flat with my double buggy (scraping the tops of my feet with the bottom of the heavy, outside door and bruising a hip in the process as usual) I noticed that the poor mite had

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-88082347227891579852011-08-01T15:03:00.000+01:002011-08-01T15:03:37.128+01:00

"No! No!" I cried, as I discovered my internet connection had gone AGAIN. I rushed to the wall to turn the power off and on again but a minute later and still nothing. "Goddamit!" I curse as I decide to repeat the off /on thing again just to make doubly sure. "Ahah!" Whilst scrabbling around on the floor I come across a loose connection. It bears teeth marks. That will be the baby then. The

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-73662666471566673402011-06-30T09:24:00.000+01:002011-06-30T09:24:17.741+01:00

The heady days have waned,Our wildness somewhat tamed,At least we don't wake up ashamed (rarely)My life without you would be lame. Happy birthday you flame-haired vixen. XXXX

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-6458897874790432752011-06-11T22:37:00.001+01:002011-06-11T22:42:35.858+01:00

Shit. So I missed my 'tomorrow' deadline. Sorry folks but the days seem to pass so quickly. I think it may be to do with my new found addiction to drugs. Let's start with the vagina. So, remember a little while ago I happened to mention that I had seen a whole bunch of vaginas and I thought, in comparison, that mine was quite cute? Well, every rose has its thorn and my rose was no exception.

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-42975199880778477912011-06-09T23:23:00.000+01:002011-06-09T23:23:51.264+01:00

My internet access has been out for about two weeks. I feel like someone who has just come out of a coma. When I woke up, I had an Iphone which I didn't know how to work. In the weeks that have passed I have become addicted to drugs, got myself a new vagina, been verbally abused by a transsexual and have come up with a plan to change the world. (Not necessarily in that order) All of this is

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-86189350963748612802011-05-20T07:59:00.000+01:002011-05-20T07:59:08.261+01:00

 The queue at Victoria Station for a ticket.   The Macdonalds at the airport. It's years since I've eaten from McDonalds and I was bowled over to find that it cost just £1.84 for a cheeseburger and chips. Cupcake and I were skint and holidaying on a fraying, grubby, old shoestring.  After arriving at Gatwick in disguise (in sunglasses and a Queen Elizabeth coronation headscarf )I

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-87560194438136272092011-04-28T16:31:00.000+01:002011-04-28T16:31:45.414+01:00

I've ironed my vintage inspired cherry blossom cotton pyjamas; I've cleaned my leather shoes, handbag and washbag. I've grown into my racist haircut which I've now decided is much more Salt N' Pepa than National Front. I've given myself a lip and chin wax. Hair dyed. The home made honey, oat and prune mask has been applied (twice) The eyebrows are plucked - legs and armpits shaved. I've

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-43066464945830200632011-04-15T14:47:00.000+01:002011-04-15T14:47:46.872+01:00

Can a haircut be racist? I think mine just might be. Very skint and in need of a trim I set off to the Vidal Sasson Academy two days ago for a £12 haircut. They took almost every hair off my head and left me with a long bit at the front.  I look like I should be wearing a checked shirt, Doctor Marten boots and have a swallow tattooed on my neck. (i.e how racist women looked in the 80's - I tried

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-50905363074453505332011-04-11T11:25:00.002+01:002011-04-11T11:29:33.668+01:00

Recently Bushman put a nail in one of our doors and hung a calendar on it. Why he didn't put the nail in the wall I'll never know. Anyway, this is supposed to aid the organisation in our household - shocking in itself as Bushman never organises or plans anything. Ever. Despite this well meaning attempt at commitment visibility, it's not exactly going to plan.The trouble is that Bushman and I can

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-4589572738705227432011-03-31T22:48:00.000+01:002011-03-31T22:50:06.334+01:00

This morning I awoke to my son’s smiling face. He was caressing my cheek and saying gently “Mummy, wake up, I’m hungry” As I opened my eyes I noticed he had three eighteenth century beauty spots on his face. My mind wandered as to how they could have got there and then suddenly “Oh no! God no! Shit!” (it just slipped out I couldn’t help it….) I leapt out of bed, that feeling of child-dread and

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-23086678686311042392011-03-20T23:57:00.000Z2011-03-31T22:49:38.455+01:00

A few weeks ago I went for a photoshoot. This involved tons of 'slap' as we call it here in Blighty: layer upon layer of polyfilla style make up. This slang term is said to have come from 19th century actors who crudely applied make up to their faces and thus 'slapped it on'. It happens to be my sister's 30th birthday on the day we go for our shoot and afterwards, still covered in slap, we go to

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-54295663645974317622011-03-11T23:27:00.000Z2011-03-11T23:27:16.276Z

If you haven't been here for a while then goddammit you just missed out on some free porn! For the rest of you, here are the winners of the 'Porn Name' competition, in no particular order. Puffy Rosenfeld - by Cathy B. Puffy is original. It has hip hop overtones, as in Puff Daddy. Alternatively, if you are extra rude, 'Puffy' as an adjective could make you think of all sorts of things. Popeye

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-12525665539247424302011-03-07T00:31:00.000Z2011-03-07T00:31:57.508Z

So here are the pictures from my photo shoot. But before I show you the finished product here are a few top tips should any of you lovely people be thinking about it. My photo shoot was with a company called ‘New ID’ and I went to their Oxford Circus branch. I had a similar experience many years ago when I accompanied a friend so I had an inkling of what I was in for. It’s good to be prepared!

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-91672565992402592362011-03-04T00:24:00.000Z2011-03-31T22:50:20.160+01:00

You’re probably thinking that this is just a shocking title to get you to read this post and that if you scroll down far enough you’ll discover that it’s a play on words and that there is no free porn to be had. Well, you’d be wrong and also deprived of the chance to get some free porn. Whenever I get any e-mails as a result of this blog (which is not a lot) I am always dismayed as to how the

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-5010241583090820762011-02-25T22:48:00.001Z2011-02-27T13:35:32.163Z

You're probably thinking that this is another post about drunkeness. It's not. The question I have for you today is: Ever been so angry that you wet yourself? For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of passing a child through your pelvis this is probably (and hopefully) an alien concept. But all too many of you will know exactly what I'm talking about because - let's face it - Pelvic

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-51583289328573429602011-02-23T15:05:00.000Z2011-02-23T15:05:04.370Z

On Sunday afternoon at 2pm I have a date with my friend Cupcake. We are meeting at Victoria Station with some of our offspring in tow and travelling back to Brighton together. Our plans are simple – put the kids to bed at hers, throw a couple of drinks down our necks and catch up. When I arrive at Victoria Station I am ten minutes early and as I surface from underground I get a text message from

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-41966337803448263362011-02-14T20:06:00.000Z2011-02-16T13:54:43.004Z

Every year on Valentine's Day whilst couples go gooey over one another; over candelit dinners and fine wines, Bushman is sweating it out in the kitchen. Spare a thought for your chef, ladies and gentlemen, he foregoes his own Valentine delights so that you can have yours. In the seven Valentines' days we have spent together we have never been able to indulge in that ritual. But with a little

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-32828766459436409622011-02-10T23:35:00.003Z2011-02-16T13:51:09.867Z

This is just toooooooo good to ignore. It’s a gift. So, while I was blogging last night and writing a mundane post, catching up on blogs and leaving comments for people, I came across this on ‘Jezebel’. Its all about 'Mommy Business Cards'. Now if you follow the thread through and read all the comments there's a lot of arguing about how being a stay at home mum is a 'real' job. Well, we know

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-33377658671201960622011-02-09T20:51:00.004Z2011-02-09T21:30:26.612Z

....buying inappropriate tartan footwear from Office (via ebay), missing the Caribbean, cleaning out my son's earwax, having my hair cut at the Vidal Sasson Academy, going to jail, spending the night in a Premier Inn in Swindon, walking, discovering I am broke, weaning my daughter, signing my son up for Nursery, thinking about a Murder Mystery Dinner Party, reading 'Who wants to be a poodle? I

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-54793684925346672972011-01-27T16:45:00.001Z2011-02-16T14:00:41.694Z

Somehow I keep catching that programme ‘The Joy of Teen Sex’ whereupon I have become fairly well acquainted with vaginas. I’ve seen close up shots of vaginas with STD’s and also vaginal ‘casts’ which look like this. The teenage boy featured in the programme was afraid of his girlfriend’s vagina and in their five year relationship had only gone down on her once. In a bid to make him more relaxed

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-68048512546870178202011-01-21T23:12:00.000Z2011-02-16T13:55:30.595Z

Mums need to connect. It’s a fact. This is because being a mother can be one really fucking monotonous job at times. When I had my son in 2008 I went on to ‘Netmums’, posted a message on their ‘Meet a Mum’ board and after about a dozen dates made two friends. It’s a lot of hard work. So much hard work, in fact, that it became known amongst my friends as ‘whoring’. Well, I’ve got the urge to go

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-57090209614465214542011-01-14T00:07:00.003Z2011-02-16T13:55:03.223Z

A while back I wrote a post called 'String Vests' which was about my partner 'Bushman' and his appointment with the bank manager. Today, Bushman and I had another appointment at the bank. Nothing worrying, I just wanted to make sure were taking advantage of all the extras on our account. Bushman had made the appointment and I asked if we were seeing the plump Asian guy in his 30's (who I know by

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-48982186313001814832011-01-08T22:37:00.002Z2011-02-16T13:57:13.916Z

My son stares open mouthed at the work surface where a dozen different types of crisps wait to be eaten. "Happy Crispmas Mummy!" he says with delight. That's right, its a festival about crisps. It's not about the joys of giving and receiving - or the birth of christ. It's about flavoured starch products. To put it bluntly, this year, Christmas was shit. It's taken me until a week into January to

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-75472798094752135742010-12-12T21:32:00.000Z2011-02-16T13:53:05.368Z

If you thought that I was getting just a little too smug and organised in my last post, fear not. The following day I made this for dinner. Thankfully, the toilet ate it and seemed to enjoy it. This morning I’ve awoken with that empty alcohol feeling. Last night I met up with some friends for Christmas drinks and needless to say took the whole thing very seriously. Six glasses of wine, two rum

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-16770272320339686472010-11-26T16:49:00.001Z2011-02-16T13:55:30.596Z

Meet Nigella, Martha and Kirstie. I assure you, I am none of these women. But Christmas always turns me into baking, crafting homebody and Christmas, people, is upon us.  Like it or not. Every year I try to make as many gifts as possible. Firstly, because I always want to spend my dough on dining out and drinking with friends; and secondly because Christmas has got to be one of the most

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-1773003333258877322010-11-19T14:24:00.000Z2011-02-16T14:01:21.657Z

As Troutie I write anonymously and only a few people know my real identity. My family certainly don't read my blog and neither do many of my friends. My partner, Bushman, knows my blog exists but has absolutely no interest in it. He can't work a computer either which is just as well. Lord knows what I'll do in the years to come if my children read my blog - but I'll just have to cross that

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-67645880342496184302010-11-18T23:32:00.000Z2011-02-16T13:55:58.801Z

Last week, a lady called Potty Mummy posted this and suddenly I found myself in a rage. It’s not that I didn’t agree with what Potty Mummy said, on the contrary, I made all the right noises of agreement whilst reading her post. What sent me on the feminist rampage is that I don’t think men feel like this. I've been mulling over two theories which are entirely subjective. So let's cut the

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-15718913791491601212010-11-10T14:54:00.001Z2011-02-16T14:00:41.694Z

“I did a bad thing” I say to Bushman “Yuh give her rum?” he asks “No!” I said “Yuh smoke weed with her?” “No!” I said and cleared my throat “I gave her a dummy” Bushman sounded disappointed in me but I didn’t care, almost instantly I had revolutionised my life. Here’s the thing I’ve realised. Try as we may, not to be judgemental, I’m sure its a human instinct. Whether in my childless

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-61478366903185848542010-11-01T23:05:00.001Z2011-02-16T14:03:13.690Z

Yesterday, at 5am, after exactly two and a half hours sleep I was scrubbing sick out of the carpet. Sadly, it was not my own. Throughout the day every time I tried to get some rest, one of my two offspring thwarted my attempts. By the end of the day when the trick or treaters came out I was sat behind my door with a gun, wide-eyed and wired from lack of sleep. I ignored the first five attempts to

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-62958568561800432952010-10-21T23:02:00.004+01:002010-10-21T23:11:14.061+01:00

    It’s Thursday night and I’m facing the weekend again. It’s hard to believe that it’s nearly two weeks since I was out. I was OUT. In fact, I was OUT two times in a row. There’s just no keeping a good woman down. On Friday night I had dinner with Chanel No. 5. where baby talk was politely off the menu. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion but I had a quiet word with myself and decided to

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-86985900858252219262010-10-07T16:51:00.000+01:002011-02-16T14:17:30.829Z

Bushman, and I have been romantically involved now for over six years. Until we had children there was little cause for our relatives to meet. Now of course, the annual event of my son’s birthday party has thrown up a regular date for a slightly awkward, if good-spirited, clash of cultures. Seeing as we live in a tiny, two bedroom flat in Hackney, there is no way that we could hold any kind of

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-72444822855580613342010-10-04T23:28:00.002+01:002011-02-16T14:14:20.046Z

Today was my son's second birthday. I have this great post that I'm going to write about his birthday party which took place on Saturday. However; it deserves due care and attention and right now I'm so tired I feel faint and nauseous. Plus I'm feeding my daughter by bottle with my left hand and typing with my right. Since I last blogged, life has been quite eventful. I was almost knocked out by

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-13729396657005861792010-09-25T15:15:00.000+01:002011-02-16T14:13:15.804Z

Yesterday morning I was hunched over a jam jar, massaging my breast so that with each little droplet of milk I released, my pain would be eased. "I know this is really unattractive..." I say to Bushman, who is possibly so deeply traumatised by the birth experience that I could cut of my own leg in front of him and he wouldn't flinch. "....but these breasts are so painful" I really cannot

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-57726003812523181682010-09-19T00:09:00.001+01:002010-09-19T00:16:32.613+01:00

So, my daughter is almost two weeks old already. It’s the same shitty story any ‘new’ mother will tell you. Lack of sleep, lack of sleep, lack of sleep…… It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m mulling over the events of the last few weeks before Cupcake descends on me and we drink the champagne we didn’t get round to drinking the night my daughter was born. For those who want the gory details it went

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-78422257495092589592010-09-12T13:17:00.000+01:002011-02-16T14:13:10.998Z

Disruption in service due to very hungry baby girl and general chaos. Will be back soon with my 'Rum and Reggae Homebirth Story'. I have never breastfed before. I feel both triumphant and resistant at the same time. I have only persevered with it out of stubborness of character. This is not something that comes naturally to me. Another round of visitors are due to descend on us any moment so

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-67627984598785355572010-09-06T22:26:00.004+01:002010-09-06T22:31:50.882+01:00

Born: One baby girl, 7 lbs 6 ozs. Born at 7pm at home on Sept 5th 2010. No name. Lots of hair. Bring on the cocktails!

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-77257224457440996892010-08-30T10:02:00.001+01:002011-02-16T14:10:01.562Z

I am two pounds shy of thirteen stone. I have a 45 inch waist and whilst a week ago the baby felt as though it was going to drop out of me, now it seems to have retreated. Sorry folks, but there's nothing to see here........I've been nowhere and done nothing, except go to my Mum's yesterday for a spankingly good roast dinner. I'm hoping that if I overeat that lack of space might force out my

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-43931775801886651002010-08-24T15:28:00.002+01:002011-02-16T14:08:18.841Z

I don’t use tampons because I can always feel them. It doesn’t matter where or how I put them in  - they’re always there. I’m having a similar sensation at the moment except with a full size BABY. I have lost my identity. I am merely a vessel. A baby carrier. Like a Baby Bjorn except with wild hair and a lot more self pity. Really – it cannot be much longer now. COME ON baby! Can I remind you

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-29842119837195946942010-08-15T12:52:00.000+01:002011-02-16T13:55:30.596Z

I spent a huge chunk of my childhood holidays at Weymouth Bay, Dorset. Every Whitsun week 12 members of our family hired a beach house on the seafront. I have many happy memories of donkey rides, streakers on the beach, walks along the promenade, the smell of salt and vinegar on chips, lardy cake, cornetto ice creams, the vile mixture of suncream and sand, wormcasts, brightly coloured

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-91171600975998763182010-08-09T10:11:00.002+01:002010-08-09T10:14:08.849+01:00

If I hear that phrase one more time I'm going to commit some kind of indiscriminate atrocity. Its official: I am the most miserable pregnant woman in the universe and at the same time I acknowledge that I’ve no right to be. I am to all intents and purposes, healthy and so is my baby. I’m sorry but these rational facts are not going to stop me from having a rant. I am suffering from Pelvic Girdle

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-58457179906146956382010-08-04T15:49:00.000+01:002010-08-04T15:49:39.240+01:00

It's already over a week since I last posted. I thought that this being off work thing would mean I became permanently attached to my laptop, blogging twice a day and being totally up to date with everyone else's blogs. As you can see this hasn't happened. Anyway...... Anyone tell me what's wrong with this advert? and I'm not even being picky about the punctuation.......there's just one

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-16438654129196558212010-07-26T15:08:00.000+01:002010-07-26T15:08:44.243+01:00

This morning my phone rang at 8.41 am. I was in bed and my phone was in the next room. It was ringing in that Cupcake emergency kind of way but there was no way I could get to it. A short while later I phoned her back. My voice had that just-woken-up-gravelly-edge while she was hungover: “One bottle of wine turned into three and a mojito” she groaned. I felt a pang of envy which soon

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-36255040642840486422010-07-18T10:50:00.000+01:002010-07-21T06:28:50.375+01:00

My dear friend Lady Violet left London on Monday to begin building her Cupcake empire in Edinburgh. So, last Saturday I flung on an electric blue silk dress and Havaiana flip flops and waddled myself over to Dalston Junction where I got on the new East London Line. It was like being in New York. The train was air-conditioned, for fucks sake. Boris - take note - this is what London Transpost

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-50694898264976859012010-07-09T10:27:00.001+01:002010-07-21T06:26:30.694+01:00

Troutie, sex and Fishmarkets seem to go together like chips with salt and vinegar. We are inextricably linked, destined always to be nestled together through the twists and turns of fate. Remember the guy who left me unsatisfied to go to the fish market to buy prawns for his Auntie? Well, at least my current lover has the decency to satisfy me before he fucks off to buy stinking kippers. Let me

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-20851248501544438242010-07-06T22:31:00.000+01:002010-07-06T22:31:02.469+01:00

Last night I spent a lot of time with Jon Bon Jovi. I have never been particularly attracted to Jon Bon Jovi, so this was a mystery to me. I wondered whether JBJ is considered as existing on the ginger spectrum? Because if so this might explain it.  Every time I am pregnant I find myself inexplicably attracted to redheaded men including Laurence Fox and Prince Harry. After I awoke from my Jon

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-18367480303875628192010-07-01T20:59:00.000+01:002010-07-01T20:59:22.328+01:00

Last night I came home and drafted a blog post. It was a pretty miserable one which totally went against my blogging philosophy. This morning I got up and found that the lovely blogger LCM had honoured me with an award. I'm not a big fan of awards - especially after the last saga, but this morning I was grateful for it because it meant that I wouldn't have to blog my post of misery after all.  

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-66454717508246662022010-06-22T18:20:00.001+01:002010-06-22T18:22:14.544+01:00

On Tuesday 23rd June 2009 I shared my very first thoughts on motherhood with the rest of the world. I had no idea if I would ever reach a first birthday but here I am one year later. Apart from a short break in the New Year (when I was getting over the shock of being pregnant without meaning to for the second time around), I have become a fairly consistent blogger. In the past year I've 

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-56832429006234095982010-06-17T17:10:00.002+01:002010-06-17T17:13:55.815+01:00

Before I’ve sat down or even made eye contact with her, the sturdy African midwife makes her request. “Urine?” “I’ve literally just arrived, I was sent straight up here.” She beckons me to sit down. “Feeling well?” I say yes, even though what I mean to say is “I have a bad back is there anything I can do to alleviate this?” Lie number one. “Eating well?” Again, I say yes, knowing

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-30253595735885532602010-06-15T22:55:00.001+01:002010-06-17T17:13:55.816+01:00

The smell of sausages hung heavy in the air as the vegetarian Doula and her back-up Doula entered the room. I offered herbal tea as a way of making amends. Her sidekick was in a bright orange fleece, possibly the worst clothing crime I can think of, but I put this from my mind as I served up the tap water that they had both requested and we set to business. I explained that my previous birth

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-90590217084435590392010-06-09T21:22:00.002+01:002010-06-09T21:32:56.999+01:00

Yesterday I managed to eat: Two pieces of toast with Marmite, One Smoked Salmon and Cream Cheese bagel, a small Beetroot and Cous Cous salad with extra lettuce and tomatoes, 1lb of cherries, a pizza (with three types of meat on it), a lemon tart, a Magnum ice-cream and three pieces of fudge from some pick n’ mix. This is not an unusual day’s intake and so it follows that the extra pounds

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-49220177676457622542010-06-07T20:30:00.000+01:002010-06-07T20:30:37.222+01:00

Bark from the Park....Springfield Park to be precise. Just because I love trees.

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-38396560880443212602010-06-05T09:16:00.004+01:002010-06-09T21:28:05.632+01:00

Things are looking up. After coming nineteenth in a hotel Beauty Competition last week, I spent last night with a long-haired Brad Pitt in a red convertible. Who knows what tonight’s dreams may hold?Before coming to my very serious questions this morning I would just like to share a couple of things with you. Last Sunday, Miss Stitchie and I went walking by the canal. In order to fortify us for

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-17780141318044602052010-05-30T18:40:00.004+01:002010-06-09T21:27:08.379+01:00

This morning I dreamt that whilst on holiday I had come 19th in a Hotel Beauty Competition.Nineteenth.That's all I have to say.

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-26675931240155158722010-05-24T07:39:00.005+01:002010-06-09T21:26:47.006+01:00

Yesterday Bushman returned from Jamaica. His bounty consisted of nine bottles of Wray and Nephew White Rum (63%) , three bottles of Appleton Dark Rum Estate VX, six mangoes, two ‘bammies’ and twelve fried fish.Yes.Twelve pieces of fish on a 10 hour flight."Yuh waan fish?" he says to me, when I mention that I'm peckish."Errr...." I say, "Perhaps not. I'm not sure whether it's the 10 hour flight

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-62161994023989278572010-05-18T15:17:00.007+01:002010-07-21T06:29:58.558+01:00

I am still without vibrations. (See last post). In my defence, there’s been a lot going on. I’ve been flirting with lesbians in a bar in Brighton, eating Vivienne Westwood’s immense ‘once-in-a-lifetime-moussaka’ (“I’m never making fucking moussaka again, Troutie, it took forever” she groaned). I’ve also been on a mini holiday to the south coast to stay with my dear friend Platinum Blonde, her

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-26424548245673910532010-05-10T17:10:00.002+01:002010-06-09T21:32:47.114+01:00

Yesterday morning I woke up cold. It could have been the fact that it was actually cold or it could have been the lack of a man in my bed. I started to think about the two weeks ahead of me. My mind wandered over the tasks I had set myself, the extra time I would be spending with my son and the fact that there would be a couple of nights when my son would be with his grandparents and I would be

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-17468395819665728162010-05-08T07:47:00.006+01:002010-05-08T14:32:23.653+01:00

It’s a dismal May morning. Awoken by some alcohol-sodden Kurdish guys beating the crap out of each other on the high street at 5am, we welcomed this timely alarm as Bushman was making his post-volcanic-eruption escape to Jamaica at around 6. In light of this, the fact that the election was a sham and there’s no bread in the house for breakfast there is only one thing to look forward to this

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-25819604827621557362010-05-02T09:41:00.005+01:002010-05-03T10:51:25.479+01:00

My dear friend Cupcake has zero patience and zero tolerance when it comes to surprises. Like a child she will badger you and drain you until you give in and tell her whatever it is she wants to know. She HATES not knowing something. So tell me how a woman like this can go the whole course and not find out what sex her baby is?She is mortified that I am going to find out, especially since I have

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-91060724981663413842010-04-25T20:59:00.008+01:002010-05-03T10:52:07.218+01:00

It’s been an eventful weekend.On Saturday I got dressed up in my full-length vintage dress,slapped on some red lipstick, a necklace, hoop earrings and felt good. I had a date with a very important man: Postman Pat.We turned up at the theatre and were told “Oh, you’ve got some of the best seats in the house!”I couldn’t have felt more pleased with myself.It was my son’s first trip to the theatre

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-75497256945783342452010-04-21T22:37:00.005+01:002010-05-03T10:50:40.407+01:00

WARNING: SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENTDIRTBAGS, READ ONDELICATE FLOWERS ARE REDIRECTED TO HERERecently I’ve been pondering female ejaculation. A nameless friend of mine says it’s because I’m in, what she refers to as, the ‘Captain Stabbin’ phase of my pregnancy.This phrase was coined when she revealed to myself and another friend that she had become totally preoccupied with watching anal sex scenes

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-25044282020246558042010-04-17T08:30:00.004+01:002010-04-17T08:49:42.585+01:00

Dear Friends,I need your help.Through this blog, I met a lovely lady who I’m going to call ‘Cookie’. Cookie is trying to make some mini cookies and she’s been going at for years. She is an incredibly sweet and generously spirited lady.When she read my posts about my (fertility?) statue which ended up being the ‘angel’ on my Christmas Tree, she was intrigued. I don’t know how serious she was but

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-38027396821303115672010-04-14T10:50:00.003+01:002010-04-14T22:11:24.886+01:00

Bushman is leaving me.Here are his cases. Packed and ready to go. The way these cases have been packed are testament to the fact that this man is not, and never could be, gay. I know I’m making sweeping generalisations but what the hell…fuck off… its my birthday…… but that packing was sooooooo done by a straight man left alone to pack.But it’s Ok because Henry has already moved in. Look at his

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-11365437935126449332010-04-12T16:53:00.004+01:002010-05-03T10:52:07.219+01:00

Today I was hulking my germ-ridden body (third cold of the season) around our local library when I saw a mother I recognised. After a while she said to me,“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”I agreed but admitted that I couldn’t place her.“Wasn’t it at the ‘Nappy Natter’?” she said.The Nappy Natter was a very casual group of mothers who used reusable nappies. When I was on maternity leave I

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-10770750369797921962010-04-10T08:07:00.003+01:002010-04-12T19:07:04.380+01:00

As I write, my son is eating broccoli off the floor. Oh well, it could be worse, he could be licking up last night’s cocaine. (Joking!)On Thursday I went to see the doctor. She told me that I weigh 11 stone (70kg). I sighed. Shortly after I gave birth in 2008 I weighed 11st 7lbs. Then I went to Weight Watchers and in 8 months got down to 9st 12lbs – slimmer than I had been before I was pregnant.

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-26196548352348211932010-04-01T09:51:00.004+01:002010-04-12T19:07:18.126+01:00

Tonight I’m off to the country for a few days. I’ll be waddling down country lanes breathing in the fresh air and gorging myself on Hot Cross Buns and Easter Chocolate. But thankfully I’ll be back on Sunday because being a city girl, there are only so many hours I can spend away from cocktail bars and the bright lights of the city, even if I’m not indulging in them.I do miss my cocktails.

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-29157315543872566482010-03-27T08:26:00.005Z2010-04-13T14:30:27.217+01:00

After my long term sabbatical from Blogging earlier this year I finally managed to catch up with a few of my favourite blogs. In all honesty I had barely looked at a blog between January and about two weeks ago. I know, its bad. But then most of you already know what a terrible blogger I am. It's been over a week already since I last blogged.I was sad to see that one of my favourite blogs 'My

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-88594137130417674202010-03-19T15:32:00.003Z2010-03-19T16:42:11.165Z

It’s been many years since I prefaced a statement with “I’m not racist…” and I don’t think I’ve ever said “I’m not racist…but…” before going on to be dreadfully racist. But, today I did something really, really bad. Before I go on to tell you what the really bad thing was, I am going to use my hormones as an excuse and do so unashamedly. Had I not been pregnant I would not have reacted in this

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-72677422805519604052010-03-16T18:01:00.004Z2010-04-13T14:30:18.462+01:00

I went to the midwife empty handed. I came back with three bags of shit. THREE BAGS OF SHIT, I TELL YOU!I'll admit that it doesn't look like a great deal in this photo, but in reality it was horrific. What I had to sift through, and what my council will now have to recycle, was 27 items including:1. Mum Plus One Magazine - the most interesting thing I discovered from this glossy, handbag-sized

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-5482351057253755902010-03-10T18:04:00.002Z2010-03-10T19:15:58.729Z

My son is obsessed with Postman Pat. However; it has to be, simply has to be, Postman Pat SDS (for the uninitiated – Special Delivery Service). It has to be said that the world Postman Pat inhabits seems quite appealing. The lengths that man will go to, getting your special delivery to you, knows no bounds. It’s not uncommon for him to commandeer a helicopter, a motorbike with a sidecar, a

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-50880211878671027922010-03-07T14:12:00.003Z2010-03-10T18:19:08.906Z

Today I was sorting out some old papers. I came across this, dated 3rd December 2004. Apparently when I wrote it I was on a very dull training course (this may explain my desire to fling off my clothes.........)The Life and Times of Mrs. Grimes - A Poem about FreedomMrs. Grimes got married and then she got divorced.She traded in her husband for a saddle and a horse.Whenever she was angry or

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-25910462976969130512010-03-02T21:58:00.005Z2010-03-10T19:15:58.729Z

Today I had hoped to regale you with tales of drunken Orthodox Jews but, contrary to last year, Purim was a wash out.Living, as I do, in an area highly populated by Orthodox Jews I have become familiar with their customs and holidays. Purim is by far my favourite. Last year I was astounded to wake up to truck loads of Jews hurtling towards my flat, in fancy dress, dancing to sound systems

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-85836179713559399262010-02-17T17:56:00.003Z2010-03-10T19:15:58.729Z

Call me irresponsible.......................I haven’t been around much lately because I’ve discovered audiobooks and tapestry and I’ve been in bed most nights by 9pm.I know. It’s not really what you’d expect from a girl like me. Well, I have my reasons; here’s how it happened…1 night out at Belgo’sSeveral litres of booze0 condoms in the drawerTwo people who thought it was unlikely they could

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-62729470476819060502010-01-13T18:34:00.007Z2010-03-10T18:19:18.535Z

Ok, so maybe I’m lying a bit. Maybe this is not absolutely and definitely my most favourite picture of all time. But I had to find something for Muddy and it’s a picture that I am able to upload which is cheeky and anonymous and reminds me of a time when my arse was something I was prepared to show off. This picture was taken in 2005, in a hotel corridor, in Central Park, New York, on a hen

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-25257409928924097282010-01-11T15:09:00.008Z2010-04-12T19:10:47.786+01:00

Thank god that somebody with a superior brain to me, had the foresight to put this symbol on the stackable storage boxes I purchased recently from Ikea. Sorry for the shit picture!Because, for a moment there, I was seriously contemplating putting my baby inside a plastic storage container and putting the lid on. You know, one minute your putting them in the box to play boats or cars or trains

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-35875904052171597732010-01-06T16:39:00.000Z2010-04-12T19:10:09.702+01:00

The snow is snowing, the wind is blowing but I can weather the storm – I’ve got a Cosmopolitan to keep me warm……My son has been kidnapped by my parents and is now (conveniently for them) unable to come home because they are ‘snowed’ in. So what does a girl do?She puts on Ella Fitzgerald, makes herself a large Cosmopolitan (sans measures), takes down her Christmas Tree and bids farewell to the

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-38740526174083648602010-01-03T20:10:00.003Z2010-01-03T20:38:36.271Z

Tonight Bushman made a prawn curry so hot that I’ve had to drink half a bottle of prosecco to cool off. Except that now I’m quite tipsy, so bear with me friends.Tomorrow I return to work. The holidays are over, my wine holder is empty, my cupboards are bare and my stomach is enormous.Here is my bullet point Christmas for your consumptionA big family Christmas on Christmas Day – with my

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-15850643796630094362009-12-22T17:53:00.004Z2010-04-12T19:10:47.786+01:00

Since I started blogging back in June I have been feeling my way like a blind woman through the blogosphere trying to decipher its secret language, learn its customs and conform to its codes.As the year comes to a close I think it’s only fair that I come clean about the things I have struggled with.You maybe sniggering at this point.....only five reasons? Well free to point out any I’ve missed….1

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-83456386779956691592009-12-22T13:18:00.008Z2010-04-07T20:30:04.114+01:00

During these last few snow-sprinkled days I have been gadding about Hackney in my fake fur Russian hat. There’s something about snow which calls for glamour, even in Hackney.Really I should be doing a Part Two to my first Christmas Post. But then I ask myself, does anyone care about my time swap with my sister and the coffee chocolates I’ll never get round to making this Christmas? The answer is

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-25626587884779053632009-12-21T14:31:00.017Z2009-12-22T18:12:58.996Z

This time last year my son was just three months old. My tree was covered in silver and blue baubles, blue lights and blue ribbons. But this year it's all about me.......It struck me a while back that I hadn’t worn any jewellery for ages. I have tons of the stuff which since becoming a mum I rarely wear. So this year I decided to get it out and hang it on my tree. Bling! Bling! Bling!I had

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-14390909160317119842009-12-13T23:42:00.008Z2009-12-22T18:03:16.311Z

I went a bit funny in the head before I wrote this blog. I came over all Martha Stewart/Delia Smith with a splash of Keith Floyd. You’re probably going to hate it. So feel free to go to someone else’s blog right now. Firstly, like a good cook washes her hands, I’m going to cleanse my soul with this honest offering. I’m sorry for what I’m about to say, but here goes.Sometimes I harbour real

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-55132182845230457742009-12-13T21:38:00.003Z2009-12-22T18:11:47.912Z

I’ve been a bit quiet of late. I scarcely know where the time has gone. I have hardly had time to keep tabs on my own blog, let alone anyone else’s. So, this past week I’ve rescued a man from his own van, endured a confusing few days thinking I was pregnant and bumped into Chocolate man – this time face to face.Dealing with these in chronological order:On Wednesday I woke up extremely late and as

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-51071823261723330902009-12-06T00:31:00.009Z2009-12-22T18:09:41.005Z

My last post managed to include both sex and chocolate. This post isn’t nearly as good, but it does include PVC and a Turkey, so you may want to click your mouse at this point and get your kicks elsewhere….Last weekend I was doing this.........and thisThen this week I did this............and more of thisYes, I too think that two spa dates in one week is a bit too much. Well…the second one was

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-6095197689799370442009-11-30T22:14:00.005Z2009-12-22T18:07:08.655Z

On Saturday, for some unknown reason, I was incredibly horny. I wanted to shag everything that moved. Even the things I didn’t find attractive.For example, in ‘Jamie’s Italian’, Brighton, I accidentally offered to ‘eat’ one of the bartenders. No, this was not outrageous flirting after one too many cosmopolitans; it was a genuine mistake.Anyway, while we’re on the subject I promised Josie that I

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-16139504406060372082009-11-27T16:28:00.003Z2009-12-22T18:05:26.548Z

This morning, on my way into work, I accidentally walked into a cloud of ganja. Stereotypically it was blown into my face by a young, black man loitering outside my workplace. I pictured myself being mauled by the security dogs on the other side of the gate. Luckily there were no dogs. It made me think that I could have inhaled a lot more and got away with it. Accidental inhalation sounds like a

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-31957443534586568032009-11-21T23:05:00.004Z2009-11-22T15:39:28.178Z

This post was inspired by Potty Mummy's notes on Hackney Patois.Wha Gwaan, people? A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, didn’t have a clue that when her daughter talked about “blazing it” the other day, that it meant that her daughter had been smoking weed. My friend is no wallflower. It’s fair to say she’s partied hard and experienced life. She’s a cool Mum, but even cool mums find it

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-81909079878092379912009-11-20T17:15:00.006Z2009-11-20T21:17:01.713Z

Or at least I did have until I walked into Moorfields Eye Hospital on Tuesday night.“Married or single?” says the receptionist.“Neither” I say, when really what I want to say is,“What the hell has that got to do with my eyes?”I knew that there was possibly nothing wrong with my eyes. I can tell you the number of a bus from about 400 yards. But I kept getting intermittent blurry vision (no, not

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-12329479440677573422009-11-16T18:53:00.007Z2009-11-16T20:24:27.307Z

This conversation took place over the intercom. The purple bits are the voices in my head.I press the buzzer.Them: Err… Hello?Me: Hi could you turn the music down please?Them: (reluctant) Ummm… OK....well..... we will turn it down but…Me: There’s a but? My son had a testicle removed yesterday am I going to have to emotionally blackmail you with that?Them: but……. I’m having a birthday party.Me:

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-66902171228777376682009-11-12T18:16:00.005Z2009-11-21T23:48:27.277Z

Today my son had an orchiectomy. This isn’t really very funny but I’m going to try really hard to make it funny because while you may think this is really distasteful, I find that dark humour for dark days really works for me.When I found out about what this operation might entail, everybody assured me that this didn’t mean that my son wouldn’t be able to father children. This stunned me. In my

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-80724144486764779812009-11-09T15:07:00.026Z2009-11-21T23:51:20.828Z

JPG">One disconnected fringe One pair of best pantsOne pair of Kurt Geiger'sOne bottle of Cava chilling in the sink (cheap hotel, well actually not that cheap, but no fridge) Just before my departure I stood in front of Bushman wearing a silk dress, my Russell & Bromley boots, my vintage Astrakhan, my new 'do' with a full face of make up and I was even wearing perfume. With utter delight I said

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-48594924877445003342009-11-06T15:40:00.005Z2009-11-21T23:46:08.580Z

This weekend, I’m packing my Kurt Geiger’s, my best pants and a bottle of Cava like the classy bitch I am, because for one night only Cupcake and I are off to Manchester.I’m sporting my new disconnected fringe; cut and coloured by a rotund homosexual with blue-tinged hair, lotus flowers tattooed up his arms and what appeared to be a diamante embedded in the skin behind his ear. As soon as I laid

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-61384697608389664712009-11-02T21:45:00.003Z2009-11-02T22:04:05.043Z

(or how freecycle made me look like a lunatic)Freecycle is a wonderful thing. It means that lovely middle class people like me can get shit for free from other lovely middle class people. Everyone feels great about it. One person gets rid of that shit that’s been clogging up their under-stairs cupboard and people who need shit get what they want without handing over a penny. When the transaction

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-66883094473608582892009-10-30T10:07:00.007Z2009-11-21T23:51:20.828Z

It's been an interesting week. It started out that I was stuck in the house with a viral infection. Life was very dull. Then the Bloggess linked me and lots of people came to visit my blog because they thought I was a stalker. I don't know who's weirder, me or them?As a result of this I gained a lot of new friends. So, hi and welcome.Some of them left amazing comments like this anonymous woman. I

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-21667989285529045372009-10-28T17:34:00.007Z2009-10-28T17:55:42.404Z

I had no clue what a ‘Wordless Wednesday’ was. All over the internet I kept seeing this damn phrase ‘Wordless Wednesday’. So I looked it up.If you’re uninitiated like me, then you won’t know either that it’s basically a picture that people post every Wednesday without any words to explain it. I kind of liked the idea and then I didn’t. I’m hardwired to go against what everyone else is doing and

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-67026660417593133372009-10-27T12:26:00.003Z2009-11-21T23:46:30.482Z

Whenever my friends leave their phones in bars, I get the phone call. That’s because invariably I’m in their contacts under Troutie, Trout, Troutface, Troutmaster, or something similar. Imagine; you find a phone in a bar and the last two dialled numbers were ‘Home’ and ‘Troutface’? Which one are you going to call?For those of you that give a shit:It all stems from two innocent text messages. One

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1692759495507154333.post-7173857140222273702009-10-27T09:39:00.004Z2009-10-29T12:41:35.949Z

The Bloggess has linked me. Fuck. I better get my shit together. She's also kind of outed me, which I don't really mind that much...What I can't believe is that I forgot to put the anthrax in the card!Coming later...Why they call me Troutie and if you haven't already guessed it, yes, I'll tell you where I work.I'm off to do some really important stuff now, like take my sons wet fingers out of a

Troutiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13261579320025278457noreply@blogger.com4