Me mam

My mum was born on December 28 1946 at around 4am. She made her debut in the upstairs front bedroom of my grandparent's house in Darlington, delivered by the midwife and her Auntie Tess. She thinks it must have been around 4am, as her dad, Archie, met the midwife coming down the road as he came home after a nightshift as a printer on the Northern Echo.

When she married my dad, grandad told the story as part of his father-of-the-bride speech. He said he asked the midwife if the baby was a boy or a girl - he and my grandmother already had two boys. He told the wedding guests that when she told him it was a girl, he felt like someone had given him a million pounds.

Then he turned to my mum, gave her a wink, and said: "And now I wish they had."

They grow up so fast these days

My 11-year-old cousin: "I've got a boyfriend."
Me: "Really? What's his name?"
My 11-year-old cousin: "Khendi."
Me: "How do you say that again?"
My 11-year-old cousin: "Khendi."
Me: "How do you spell it?"
My 11-year-old cousin: "K-h-e-n-d-i. He's black. I've already been out with his twin, but I dumped him. He bit me. What a twat."

"Ho ho... Oh."

I have been an avid reader of dooce.com ever since Not Enough Drew emailed me a link to her birth diary with a note saying: '"Today, Dooce has had me laughing like a tickled Buddha".

I have no idea why I remember exactly what he wrote in the email. It possibly has something to do with the fact that I was eight-and-a-half months into a personal challenge to establish how long I could get away with turning up to a temporary job (late) every weekday (except Mondays if I was, you know, tired and stuff), doing exactly nothing all day and putting in a docket every Friday. Quite a long time, as it goes. So I don't really have many golden memories battling for space from that period. Just the day when the staionery company sent me free shiny jiffy bags. Free! Shiny! God, that was a good day.

Drew was equally as committed to his work at the time, although we did manage to achieve something, which was this.

I occupied my "working" hours with a myriad of blogs, blogging, arguing on web forums, drawing endless pictures of myself on a face-drawing site. I don't have time to dick around at work anymore but always, always read Dooce and have very much enjoyed watching Leta - the baby born under the star-shaped ornament bedecking Janet Jackson's 'malfunctioning' nipple - grow up online. Yes, creeping though the internet garden and peeking though a portal into someone else's daily family life feels a little stalkerish sometimes, but what the hell. Heather's funny, Leta is very cute and likes to scream, and Jon even has a beard sometimes. note: this is not a picture of Jon.

And who could fail to love a kid, even if just in an stalkerish, unwanted internet auntie kind of a way, who sums up the holiday season so well. Gawd luv 'er!

Merry Christmas, little girl I read about on the net!

Just thought you'd like to know...

That I am watching a satellite launch in Frankfurt.

The food was good, and there was beer, and I got to go on a aerolplane for free. I like that.

In half an hour, I get to go to a free hotel, and in the morning, I can get up way earlier than usual - for free! - and instead of going straight to work, I can read yesterday's paper and eat bread and jam in the sky for an hour and forty minutes. Sweet.

Easily pleased, me.

Caroline and Clare

"My parents are always asking me about my bruises."

"Mine too."

"I mean, if you don't want to know, you shouldn't ask."

"Exactly."

"Usually, it's flight cases - rolling down slopes, falling on my toes."

"Or unidentified drinking injuries."

"Or those. But the other day, my mum asked me how I got the bruise on my arm. And I told her, 'I was having sex and fell off the bed'.
"And she said, 'Flight case, then'.
"And I said, 'Flight case'."

"Well, like you said, if you don't want to know, you shouldn't ask."

"Nope. Just shouldn't ask."

Happy birthday, Caroline! Or at least, many happy returns of last Wednesday.