This walking causes me many problems.  For example, if I have some food, any food at all, she will come stomping over to beg for some.  And I really do mean beg.  She makes this horrid whiny “mmmmmmm” noise and it seems the only way to stop it is to shove whatever it is I’m trying to eat in peace in her gob.  Oh, she’s good.  She seems to be of the opinion that my food is her food regardless of what it is and regardless of whether she actually likes it or not.  I must admit it is pretty amusing when you give her toast with marmite and her whole face contorts and she shakes her head from side to side.  What’s that you say?  Evil parenting?  Pah, she shouldn’t be so greedy.  Or keep coming back for more when she knows she doesn’t like it.  At least I haven’t videoed the marmite face…..yet.

But it’s not just food that’s fair game for her now.  The cats find themselves of great interest and if they’re stupid enough to stick around when there’s an excitedly shrieking baby thudding towards them they’re likely to fall victim to a bashing or have their whiskers pulled.  If she could say more words than “wassis”, “wassat”, “dog”, “cat” and “foot” (each with varying degrees of recognisability) she’d probably say “I’ll hug him and squeeze him and call him George” at the unfortunate kitties.  Similarly the fish tank is regularly clobbered, sending the poor buggers zooming off to hide behind Spongebob’s house.

If I thought I was struggling to get anything done before the pesky little monkey became mobile, though, it’s absolutely impossible now.  She’s so quick and she always makes a beeline for all of the things she’s not allowed, easily picking out the remote control or the phone over and above the millions of toys we have provided for her education and entertainment.  And while sometimes it’s possible to get her to sit still with some toys and a cup of milk (but you have to strap her into her high chair so she can’t escape) it’s never for long and soon I’m back to chasing her around and stopping her from climbing the stairs or breaking things.  She’s most contrary and I have no idea where she gets that from…

I realise I’m complaining about what most parents are overjoyed by but I have managed to produce possibly the cheekiest child ever to have been born.  Plus she’s my third.  I’ve seen it before.  And well might my husband (for whom the demon child is his first) gasp in wonder at her increasingly sure and steady stomping, but he doesn’t have to chase after her all day.

So, against my better judgement, I have succumbed to the bright colours, dreadful songs and patronising speech of children’s television, most particularly CBeebies.  I bloody hate CBeebies.  It’s not just that programmes like Balamory and Big Cook Little Cook are a chore to watch (and believe me they are) it’s also that the presenters in between are absolutely terrible so there’s no respite from the awfulness.  They talk utter twaddle.  They sing very badly.  They draw rubbish pictures.  Aren’t they embarrassed?  I am for them.  They’ll never work again, not if anyone ever finds out they did CBeebies.  In fact they really never do work again, as my older children are now 12 and 10 I’ve been subjected to CBeebies hell before and the presenters from then have disappeared.  I suspect the BBC had them shot.

I may despise it but the effect on my pesky daughter is amazing to behold.  She will quietly sit watching this rubbish for 15 whole minutes at a time.  15 whole minutes in which cats, fish and household objects are safe and I could relax if only I wasn’t screaming inside for this dreadful crap to end.  I can only imagine what she’s thinking as she watches it, it’s hard to believe she’s enjoying it and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s only watching it to gain ideas of how to use children’s television as a vehicle in her plot to take over the world.  Seriously, I’ve seen it in her eyes.

Today, though, for the second time in a few months I braved it because I had a meeting about some potential unpaid writing work for the Probation Service in my area.  Writing the whole Porridge series for this blog has re-awakened my interest in matters of criminal justice, you see, so rather than sitting around on my bum (as you are well aware I am incredibly proficient at) I thought I’d get off it and do some good.  Or something.

Portsmouth City Council has become something of a bastard in recent years, in particular when it comes to parking.  It used to be that you would have to pay in city car parks during daytime hours only.  Not any more.  Not only do you have to pay extortionate rates whenever you park now, you also find that, rather like rats, you are never more than 6 feet away from a parking attendant.  So, with 5 minutes to go before my meeting and as I was filling up the parking meter with about £450 worth of 10p pieces I was somewhat alarmed to see one of these attendants eyeing up The Beast (the Flaherty family car is big).  I’d only been there for 20 seconds, for the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s sake!  And where the hell did he come from?  He must have been hiding behind that Corsa!  When he started writing something down I panicked and loudly informed him, while still shovelling coins into the meter and giving him a Paddington hard stare, that it was my car.  He looked very disappointed.  Bastard.

All in all not the best of starts.  And next came the walk to the Probation office door.  I’ve been there many times, but if there are ever people outside smoking, and there usually are, it’s pretty intimidating.  It sounds snobbish of me, and I don’t mean to be, but I feel out of place there.  The people you see look as though they’ve fallen on hard times.  The conversations you hear are not like any conversations I’ve ever had.  Today three drunk people, two men and a woman smoked and talked about the job centre, manicures and breaching their licences.  Who’s drunk at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon, especially if they have a Probation appointment?

The problem is that I feel guilty for feeling this way.  They’re people, just like me and you.  And as I’m trying to style myself as some kind of ambassador for ex-offenders in the hope of altering the attitudes of the wider public, maybe I should have a little empathy, after all I’ve been through the system and then some.  But it’s so hard and I realise my hopes for being able to do something positive in the fight to reduce re-offending rates are a little idealistic.  This won’t stop me though and I’m determined to chip away at attitudes a little bit at a time.  But next time I have a meeting I might suggest we meet in the coffee shop…

Eyebrow acting is something I’d only really noticed once before (though I’m sure it happens lots) and, to be honest with you, I had thought I was alone and that I’d made up the phrase.  A Google search, however, has set me straight, I am neither the first person to have noticed and I’m not the only person to call it that either.  Oh well.  Let me describe the phenomenon to you.  Eyebrow acting manifests in the over-actor, presumably to make them appear earnest and serious, but in fact making them look as though a pair of caterpillars are dancing a jig on their face.  Or making them look like those kids on the Cadbury’s advert and who knows what was the thinking behind that one?  Or the drumming gorilla for that matter.  Darius was pretty awful, his eyebrows were all over the place (in fact only Peter Serafinowicz would have done him better than he does himself) but by far the worst offender is Emma Watson who plays Hermione in Harry Potter.  As if it wasn’t bad enough that Hermione is the most irritating character in the history of all book or film (or both) characters, the actor they chose to portray her just happens to be incredibly irritating too with eyebrows that act with such gusto that they should probably have their own separate contract.

I know nothing about Emma Watson but I imagine she’s your typical stage school brat belonging to pushy parents and who takes themself rather seriously.  And waggle their eyebrows about to prove it.  She’s a bit of a ninny, really.  But if she does come from a stage school background that probably explains the eyebrows to a degree.  I found out from wikipedia that old Darius had been doing some stage work, musicals or something so I have come to conclusion that these thesps (if you can call them that) have a tendency to exaggerate their facial expressions for the benefit of the old dear in seat Z6 in whichever crappy theatre they’ve been appearing.  I doubt it has much effect other than to make them look very silly but hey, what do I know?  But don’t they have acting coaches to help them with the transition from stage to screen?  The old biddy in Z6 might not have noticed something was amiss but I certainly have.  If someone you knew well started waggling their eyebrows about when they talked to you wouldn’t you take them to one side and ask them if everything’s OK and suggest that maybe they should cut down on the Red Bull and double shots of espresso?  It’s not Am Dram for goodness’ sake, you’re on the telly!  People can see!

Like a lot of people I love ebay.  It never fails to amaze me some of the crap that people will attempt to sell or that some muppet, somewhere, will most probably buy it.  I’ve sold a fair amount on there myself, I had a wardrobe full of dresses I’d never worn and knew I was never going to wear so I got rid of them.  Had I have thought about it a bit more carefully I probably would have started them off at more than 99p because a lot of very nice things went for pretty much bugger all.  But so what?  They weren’t doing anything and collectively they made me a fair bit.

I’ve run out of things to sell now so I spend lots of time looking for things I might like to buy.  It’s fun.  Especially if you can get stuff really cheap, which you can if you’re prepared to look.  I’ve recently bought some tops and trousers for me and a load of baby clothes for the Popster.  That’s right, I buy baby clothes on ebay.  Second hand!  And no, they aren’t all covered in poo and sick, I’ve managed to get some very good stuff for a song.  Now, if you go to the right places (i.e. supermarkets and Primark), you can get some pretty cheap baby clothes but if you get a fair few bits and pieces it soon mounts up.  And the thing is with kids that they have this annoying habit of growing, and continuing to grow until eventually they stop growing only to declare themselves big enough to buy their own clothes.  It’s rather inconsiderate.  So, with the exception of vests and sleepsuits, I buy pretty much everything for her on ebay.

Obviously I don’t just buy any old crap in her size, I like to think I’m a bit more discerning than that but, again, if you’re prepared to put the effort in there are some real gems.  Something I can’t believe, however, is how much “designer” stuff is on there.  In a bundle of clothes I got today there’s a DKNY t-shirt and a Levi’s denim skirt as well as some other stuff that purports to be designer.  I am clueless so couldn’t tell you if it is or if it isn’t.  But I had a look and stuff like that bought new costs upwards of £20.  £20!  For a single item of babywear!  I’m hard pressed to spend £20 on a single item of clothing for myself, never mind for a baby that will have grown out of it in about 5 minutes.  What is wrong with people?  Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice and everything but there’s no way I’d have bought them if they hadn’t been in a bundle with tons of other clothes for 30 quid.

I fail to understand why people want to parade their children around in labelled clothes.  Surely it’s more important that your child is clean and happy?  It seems to me that these people are displaying their children as a status symbol, in much the same way that they do when they buy ridiculously expensive buggies and prams.  “I’ve got a Bugaboo Bankruptme”, “well, I’ve got a Silver Cross Sawyoucoming”, “oh, well we plumped for the Quinny Can’t-get-anything-in-the-shopping-basket-but-it-still-cost-an-arm-and-a-leg-and-we-had-to-buy-this-matching-rucksack-for-another-hundred-notes for our *little one*”.  It’s a competition, you know, between self-styled “yummy mummies” (vomit), who know nothing about parenting but think it’s very important to have the most ridiculous looking expensive buggy or pram on the market to impress all the other mummies.  Or make them jealous.

This makes me cross.  I seriously doubt the necessity of an “all-terrain pushchair” in the middle of suburbia, especially when most mummies rarely dare to venture out of their illegally parked Chelsea tractor other than to nip and get their nails done.  And I also doubt these all-terrain jobs are any more hard wearing that the reasonably priced travel system that we got for the Popster.  But I’ll let them get on with their shallow competitions, happy in the knowledge that while they’re ringing up I’vespentallmymoney Direct to take out an IVA or declare themselves bankrupt, I’m picking up their hand-me-downs on ebay for peanuts.

Now, it can be pretty tiresome when people want you to help them with their computing difficulties but in some cases I don’t mind.  My friend really doesn’t have a scooby about it despite repeated attempts on my part to teach her the odd thing.  You’d think that just by using the computer she’d pick up a few things but, no, she’s surprisingly resistant. I helped her decide which computer to buy and I put it together for her.  I was there when the man from the cable company came to install broadband and I made sure it was all working.  I’m nice like that.  So it may surprise you to learn that she’s one of my friends from prison.  And in fact I was still in prison when I went to set up her computer for her, and I used one of my town visits to go there.

I’ve mentioned before the stereotypical people I was expecting in prison and the fact that although they were in evidence there were far fewer than I expected.  But going to prison I never imagined I’d make actual friends, the like of whom I’d stay in touch with even when it was all over.  But I have.  OK, so none of them live anywhere near me and I never actually see them but the odd phone call, text message or chat on MSN or facebook is enough to know that they’re still there.  And still calling me biatch.

A lot of people came and went, the vast majority of those I came into contact with had sentences of less than 18 months so there was always a high turnover.  Although you can have a passing friendship with someone you know for 3 months you don’t really expect to hear from them again.  Maybe the odd letter when they’ve first gone home but it soon peters out, especially as most people want to forget they ever were in prison.  No, the ones I had genuine friendships with were those with longer sentences that were always there at the same time as me, some of whom are still inside.  And we had a laugh, we made the most of things, we watched TV, ate quality snacks, played cards and took the mickey out of each other.  This will sound bad (especially to Daily Mail readers) but most of the time it felt like we were at boarding school.  Not that I’ve been to boarding school but I do know people that have, and this is how I’d imagined it to be.  There was a camaraderie among us and I’m sure it’s one of the reasons why I came out with all my faculties intact.  Yes they are intact, how very dare you.

So next time the phone goes and the dulcet tones of my friend demand assistance I will happily oblige, after all it was partly her help that got me through it all.  And I’ll call her shithead.  In the nicest possible way.