School run? Unready.

PE Kit: unwashed.

School shoes: unclean

Homework: unfinished.

Book bags: unfound.

Water bottles: unemptied.

This Mum: unfazed and going to bed.

Abby Boid

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.

Albert Camus.

Perhaps, Albert. Although it could also just be indicative of being a disorganised, lazy moo.

Wish me luck come the call of the school run





How to afford a trip to Disneyland by buying cheap baked beans. Fact?

imageSo there I was, husband working away, watching re-runs of Frasier for the 100th time, feeling there must be more to life.

On reflection, I realised life was pretty good and what I actually wanted to do was watch something that wasn’t Frasier.

I lie. What I really wanted to do was watch more Frasier but I was starting to wonder if it was somehow bad for me, constantly wishing I had an amazing spotless apartment overlooking the Seatle skyline.

And a cute dog.

And wit.

God. I love Frasier.


So I did as much channel surfing as my crackly freeview box allows and found myself on the good old BBC.

“How to Eat Well for Less” met my eyes, printed upon one of the reusable shopping bags that one of the presenters was carrying.

“Ha Ha”, I thought as I reasoned that this show promised the nirvana that I had been searching for: easily digestible TV that I could package in my mind as Research For Being an Uber Home Maker.

I am not an uber-home maker.

My home is a shit tip.

I was eating a bag of pretzels in lieu of cooking.

Mediocre home maker is this mum’s dream.

Still, I persevere and as such I willingly took in the advice about eating cheaper baked beans, and not throwing perfectly edible food away, and buying some frozen veg and I thought “crikey, is that it?”. But I stuck with the programme, so to speak, because it was that or a re-run of New Tricks. God, I love New Tricks. Not as much as Frasier mind. And then I dozed off, and then we got to the end of the programme, just as they were announcing the savings.

And I have to say, it was all utterly amazing what this slim young couple with two tiny little children had achieved. They had cut their food shopping from £350 per month to £220 per month just by switching from fresh to frozen broccoli.

They were all delighted. As was I. I quite like frozen broccoli.

I did start to think that perhaps they were getting carried away as they started to plan their dream holiday with the exorbitant savings they had made, but who was I to piss on their economy ketchup? Huzzah for “How to Eat Well for Less”, my new favourite programme. Fact.

So there we were, all feeling very jolly. The family onscreen beaming, me wondering if you could buy frozen bags of pretzels – golly – there’s gold in them their freezers. Then I reached a sort of blanket across the knee, curled up on the sofa, pretzel crumbed covered euphoria, if that is possible, as  “Yep”, agreed the presenters, “£5000 can buy one hell of a family holiday.”

My excitement continued to grow: Cheap baked beans = a trip to Disneyland. Count. Me. In.

“Hang on, though”, I thought, “£130 per month savings does not equate to £5000 per year does it?”

No. No it does not.

I’d made a mistake. For in my dozey, pretzel induce fug, I’d missed the punch line. This slim couple, with their tiny children, and their reasonable sized portions of mediocre looking meals were munching their way through £320  of food per week.

Per week people.

Fraiser doesn’t spend that on his household expenses and he is loaded. I should know.

Then I thought, I need to tell people about this. But I was shy. For this is not generally the blog you come to for home running tips, because, like I say, I am shit at home running.

But clearly I am selling myself short.

My three boys are growing.

In one sitting, my husband gets through the amount of pasta that the packets says will feed a whole family.

I am quite fat. In an jolly, bouncy, overeating kind of way, not a palid, type 2 diabetes, fast food sort of way.

I feel I have failed the bank account if we spend more than £75 per week on food. £100 per week means we will eat well and also get royally pissed.

How do I it?

Well, I thought about it long and hard.

Here are my tips:

  • Don’t throw edible food away
  • Don’t by ready made sauces
  • Buy frozen fruit and veg
  • Buy cheap cuts of meat
  • Embrace the lentil. Or the pearl barley. Or porridge oats.
  • Write a shopping list
  • Stick to it.
  • Don’t spend £350 a week on food ever.
  • Don’t think you have something to teach the nation if you manage to shave £130 per week off your food bill  and still manage to spend £220 per week on actual edible food.
  • £220 per week.
  • Jeez.

Well check me.

I’m definitely in line to have my own TV  programme very soon.

Actually, screw that. I’ve got things to do. Like watching Frasier.

And eating pretzels.

There really isn’t that much more to life, and what more there is, should not cost £350 sodding pounds a week.

Uber homemaker?

That’s me.












What Rotherham Taught This Mum

Abby Boid

Me in the Rotherham years

I grew up in Rotherham. I lived in the same house from being 3  to 18, when I left for University.  My parents still live in that house now, 20 years later.

Me, my husband and the kids visit now and again. Not as often as I’d like. The boys love it there. While I’ve lost touch with most of my old friends, It still feels like home.

The report and national press coverage that I saw last week about Child Sexual Expolitation in my home town has, needless to say, left me and my family reeling.

It is hard to write about what’s happened, and is still happening. Perhaps it is because it is too close to home. Perhaps, given I have lived on the South Coast for nearly 2 decades, I am too far removed to have anything valuable to say. Perhaps it is because it has all been said already. Perhaps, given the relatively charmed life I have lived, I don’t know jack and should keep my thoughts to myself.

Still, Rotherham is a part of me. It feels wrong to ignore the events that have unfolded there. Continue reading

Bubbles: A poem to lift my mood after reading some depressing online articles.

What mother's teach their children

I need a change of mood
I need to breathe, feel soothed
To find joy in those little things

I need to turn away
From a world that says
“It’s hard time’s we are living in”

I’m turning off the news
Listening to my own views
Trusting my faith in human nature

There’s bubbles in my bath,
There’s sparkles in my laugh
So long doom, I’ll catch you later

And should you drag me down
And kick and beat me down
I’ll jump up smiling, and then I’ll turn and run

Back to familiar beds
To stroke small, gorgeous heads,
Breathe in the joy of being their Mum

Sleep tight

Tits for Tat

I’m all for the tits.

I’m all for women’s bodies being applauded, not covered.

I want freedom of speech.

I want freedom of the press.

I want freedom of expression.

I don’t mind that some people make their beauty their living.

I understand that women with great knockers aren’t stupid.

I understand it’s not your fault if my body has looked better. Continue reading

How Can I Be Charlie?

I wish I was Charlie. I wish I was brave, and fun, and witty, and wise. I wish I had a talent, a skill, and the vision to put that gift towards defending the values that make life worth living. But how can I be Charlie? I can’t even draw, And I’m scared. I don’t want to be scared. I want to be Charlie. Continue reading

Things that surprised me about 2014…..

… no particular order:

That you all liked Ed Sheeran.

That I liked Taylor Swift.

That breast is best. Unless you are in Claridges.

How much I was saddened by the deaths of Tony Benn and Bob Crow and Peaches Geldof Continue reading