Posts Tagged ‘epic fails’

OopsFiles 26: Not An Effing Fairytale Blog

shocked baby face featured image post by blogger not an effing fairytale If you don’t find this edition of the #OopsFiles by blogger Not An Effing Fairytale, funny, then…then…I actually have no idea how to even finish that sentence. Laugh? Sweet Mary, I nearly broke myself. I have to say (and this is not, I repeat this is NOT a complaint) the #OopsFiles actually get more and more [try to not to say ‘ridiculous’ Prabs] un-be-lievable with each edition. I’m sure I’ve said it somewhere previously in the series but you just could NOT make this stuff up!! As I’ve also no doubt said before:

Absolutely Prabulous cannot be held responsible for any weak mummy bladder issues that may occur (not sure what the male equivalent is) or abdominal injuries that are sustained, due to readers of this post laughing themselves silly.

You’re warned…

cartoon drawing of man and woman desperate for toilet

Yes. Toilets.

I will be the first to admit that I am quite a clumsy person, especially after a few drinks are involved, but the amount of unfortunate accidents I have had while traveling the world is pretty impressive and the list is growing by the year.  I fall over pretty frequently and I am also skilled in the art of falling down things.  Squat toilets in particular are my nemesis, especially when they are encased in a cubicle and I am lulled into a false sense of security that there is a wall mounted toilet in there. I back into said cubicle and whoosh; I’m knee deep in foreign urine wondering where it all went wrong.

It’s not just countries that favour squat toilets that are perilous for me; so are countries that insist on having beauty spots with no plumbing, and therefore insist on having toilets that are nothing more than a shed with a bucket in.

Visiting the lavatory while traveling is not the only everyday activity that I manage to turn into an extreme sport. Bike riding, snorkeling and even just walking have almost made me meet my maker over the years.  So, here in all their glory are a few of my stories of stupid injuries sustained while traveling:


1) Toilet injuries – mainly in China.

After the relative safety of a week in a hotel in Hong Kong and various malls and tourist attractions with their wall hung toilets, I was ill prepared for my entry into mainland China, the land of the squat toilet.

After two hours on the train from Hong Kong to Guangzhou where the toilet was broken (oh, the irony), arriving at my destination I was desperate for the loo. So I ran for it. I sprinted into the cubicle and immediately turned round to lock the door and drop my trousers…and there was nothing there bar the squat toilet. Expecting to bump into a toilet and to keep on going is not great, especially when your jeans are already around your ankles.  I ended up with one leg knee deep in the hole and the other leg stuck awkwardly underneath me.

Consequently, my first twelve hours in China were spent in a hospital, waiting for x-rays with a shoe covered in other peoples shit.  That was the worst part: The bastard before me didn’t flush.

I fell down a grand total of six toilets during the weeks I travelled China, but by far the worst one was while on a two day train journey across the vast country.  The facilities on the long distance,

Chinese trains are also squat toilets and if I can’t use the bastard things when they are stationary, how hard do you think I found it on a rickety train where the lights didn’t work?

I had to spend two days in a bunk bed, surrounded by five elderly Chinese women and an assortment of dead birds and mammals they were travelling with, nursing a swollen ankle and stinking of piss.

Other toilet related mishaps in China include pissing on myself while on the Great Wall of China. No, I wasn’t on some kind of weird and wonderful hen party, I was camping out on the wall for the night with a group of other travellers and some lovey Chinese tour guides.

I would love to say that my overriding memory of camping out on one of the great wonders of the world was falling asleep under a blanket of shooting stars, but alas, when I look back the thing that stands out most is peeing on my own leg, while drunk and trying to balancing precariously in a corner in the pitch black next to an ancient watch tower. I was balancing awkwardly after having twisted my ankle falling over while climbing up the wall whilst drinking the strongest Saki ever (don’t judge me; the locals were worse than us and were egging us on).

2) Kangaroo injuries, Queensland, Australia.

This one is fairy simple. While visiting friends in Brisbane we were having a few drinks at their local golf club, where the Kangaroos run wild. A burly Australian chap by the name of Brett took a shine to me and took me to, ahem, sink a few holes down the other end of the club in a golf buggy.

I took a swing with a golf club for the first time in my life and actually hit the ball! Unfortunately, that ball then hit a kangaroo that immediately bounded towards me with hate filled eyes. Still trying to impress me, burly Brett picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, ran towards the golf buggy, slipped over and dropped me, where I cracked my head open on the golf buggy bumper.

Meanwhile, the kangaroo of certain death was coming up fast, so do you know what burly Brett did? He left me on the floor and drove off. Thankfully, some other less cowardly people scared the kangaroo away and I lived to see another day after having my head glued back together at the local hospital. And Brett? He was most put out when I refused a date for the next evening on account of him being a complete tosser.


3) Morocco – another country, another squat toilet.

Yep, another falling down a squat toilet story. I was in Morocco, driving through the Atlas Mountains, which are obviously quite high. As we neared the top of the steep mountain road, I was over come by horrendous altitude sickness, so we had to stop at a settlement and beg to use their facilities.  By the time I’d asked in rusty French and mimed being sick and they finally knew what I was on about, I had to run into the toilet and what did I find?

There was a ****ing goat in the room. I fell over it and vomited in the squat toilet and then vomited some more when I saw and smelt what else was in the hole in the ground.

Then as I felt a tug on my back, I remembered the goat. It was eating my t-shirt.

It was at that point I thought the most ridiculous thing that has ever run through my head: “Please God, don’t let me die down a shit filled toilet being eaten by a goat”.

Cookie Kibbles is a comedy writer and stand up comic currently masquerading as a parenting, lifestyle and eff ups blogger at trying to laugh at life as it happens and hopefully, making you laugh too.
Find Cookie on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and her blog Not an Effing Fairytale

Psssst! If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


HAVE YOUR SAY! by using the Facebook or website comments box below.

SHARE THIS POST! via the social media share buttons below.

DON’T MISS THE NEXT POST! just pop your email address in the orange top banner.

TO FOLLOW my pearls of wisdom entertainment on social media check out:
FacebookTwitter and Instagram.



#OopsFiles 25: “It Wasn’t Me” by Guest Mumbelievable

worried baby oopsfile usual title imageI first came across this week’s #OopsFiles guest Mumbelievable at BML16 when I spotted an Amazonian Goddess a few times throughout the day. I didn’t dare say hello which is unlike me as I’m not shy about introducing myself to strangers. But have you SEEN her?! I got back to Malta and found out during the course of a Twitter chat that she in fact knew my blog. Hilarious conversations were had. It was love at first tweet and then I started seeing her eye-catching and very clever confidence cards project on Instagram and was totally wowed by her flair and drive. That was during the boiling hot July of 2016 and I now sit here in fffffffrrrreeeeeezing January 2017 (not quite what you sign up for when you move to the Med) putting together her two #OopsFiles stories. Yep, you could call it a BOGOF edition of the #OopsFiles. Never say I don’t spoil you; well it’s Ursula spoiling you really with two very different but equally funny shenanigans. How I laughed…Ursula…what are you like?

If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂


guilty face of mumbelievableUrsula Tavender – AKA Mumbelievable – is a blogger and freelance PR from Hampshire. She set up her blog and Facebook community in 2015 to support and empower mums to rebuild their confidence and reconnect with themselves, after her own confidence took a nose-dive when she became a mum. Now on a mission to help as many women in the same position as possible, Ursula is getting ready to launch confidence workshops for mums heading back to work after having children.
Follow Ursula on FacebookTwitterInstagram  and on her blog Mumbelievable

So this is a bit of a weird one.  I got in touch with Prabs to let her know I had a definite #oopsfiles post for her back in August.  Once The Incident had happened and Prabs asked me to ping it over to her, I read the #oopfiles page (which is well worth a read as an intro to this brilliant guest series, BTW) and realised that actually, there was another – actually, far more oops-worthy – story of mine to be told.  So this is in two parts. (Bear with me; I’m hoping it’ll be worth reading to the end.)

Here’s part one; the original reason I tweeted Prabs:

Oops File 1

It’d been a run-of-the-mill trip to a playground for me and my 3yo, Xav, with two of my most awesome mum amigos and their kids.  

The kids were playing and we were routinely breaking up the standard fights over which direction the roundabout was going round.

They moved over to the climbing frame which included a set of monkey bars. At three, they’re all far too little to master them, but why would they let a little technicality like that get in the way when they have three perfectly able mummy slaves to lend their shoulders for safe crossing to the other side?

One of my friends is a super-fit, very agile (not to mention much-taller-than-me) waif-like wonder woman who handled the monkey bars with ease. Then our other friend challenged me to do the same. And here’s where the oops bit comes in.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, out came my game face.

I launched myself upwards and grasped the bars above me with one hand, but there must’ve been some grease on the next bar (ahem – I definitely did not just slip due to physical weakness and overestimation of my limits….) because before I knew it I was lying in a mangled heap on the floor in the worst pain I’ve experienced since childbirth.  I heard an audible gasp as EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE PLAYGROUND turned to see what a tit of myself had made. Trying pitifully to mask the excruciating agony and act as though I was fine…..obviously not achieving either.

The resulting injury was not pretty. Thankfully a casual trip to A&E confirmed my foot wasn’t broken (mahoosive relief….would’ve been a logistical NIGHTMARE) but the pain was horrific and my embarrassment even more palpable as I explained to the NHS why my stupidity was draining their precious resources *hangs head in shame*. I’m a prize twit who deserved to have months of limping agony. 

swollen foot

It turned out on this occasion that the kids were alright. It was the mums who needed reining in at the park.

I know….idiot.

Oops File 2:

And now for the hotly awaited (errrrr…) second oops moment.

I was a 20 year-old student, excitedly moving over to Italy for my third year of uni.

My parents had kindly agreed to fly over with me so I could steal their luggage allowance and smuggle more ripped bootleg jeans/duff chunky shoes/one shoulder tops/other cringe-worthy non-fashion items for my year abroad.

I’d merrily packed up my room at the end of the summer in the shared house I’d lived in in Reading and moved out – forgetting what I’d packed in which bags, obvs.

So I’m at the airport. Me, my mum and dad. Don’t get me wrong and all, they’re fun people but both a bit on the conservative side, love ‘em. (Well, at least they were until I got a bit older and got to know the real parentals!!)

God, my heart is racing just typing this. I will NEVER get over what happened next.

We’re going through security and my hand luggage bag – a rucksack – gets hauled into the ‘dodgy cargo’ line

And they start to look for its heinous owner who’s inevitably attempting to smuggle contraband into a foreign land.  No sweat, I thought. I’ve just neglected to remove the tweezers or nail scissors from my make-the up bag.

IF ONLY. *cringes*

I realised – too late – that the baggage scanning woman was trying to communicate with me with her eyes, like she had some sort of desperate SOS message.

She rummages through, and out pops a pair of black furry handcuffs.

At 7am. In broad daylight.

In front of a line full of travellers.

And my parents.

Right. *sweats*

I start laughing. Because this offensive item – that they presumably they thought I might use to trap the pilot in some sort of sexy coup – had been a stupid joke Secret Santa gift from my housemate the year before.

The handcuffs had been hung on a hook in my lilac student digs (I know…lilac. It was truly hideous. I even decorated that room myself….one of many catastrophic errors of student judgment). As I left the house for the last time he reminded me to take them with me as I’d left them on the wall.  He was adamant that they were a special gift and that I was to treasure them. I’d hurriedly shoved them in the rucksack and genuinely forgot they were in there.

No, I was not smuggling handcuffs to Italy in a bag of sex weapons.

She doth protest too much. Yeah, yeah.

But that’s the truth. Nothing to see here. My mum: “That’s a bit of a kinky thing to have in your hand luggage don’t you think, Ursula?”

Desperately trying to keep a straight face (I have this awful habit of smirking when I’m not guilty of something) I tell my handcuff story. In front of the entire airport security team and all the morning fliers.

I’m not sure, to this day that anyone believes me.





HAVE YOUR SAY! by using the Facebook or website comments box below.

SHARE THIS POST! via the social media share buttons below.

DON’T MISS THE NEXT POST! just pop your email address in the orange top banner.

TO FOLLOW my pearls of wisdom entertainment on social media check out:
Facebook,Twitter and Instagram.


#Oops Files 22: Guest Blogger My Petit Canard

my-petit-canard-featuredI loved this story by My Petit Canard (written when she was still pregnant) when I first read it and have just had another giggle  rereading it.  Not long before I put this post together, I’d been chuckling at Facebook comments by an old friend who was reminiscing about the many firemen who turned up at our university the night of the huge storm of October ’87 (yes I’m that old thanks).  It looks like our dear Emily caused a storm of her own with her antics as described here (frankly I’m surprised the temperature didn’t make her pregnant self pass out).  She reckons ‘the offending gadget’ in her house was having a bit of a sensitive turn on the night in question…yes there was a heavily pregnant woman in the house but it’s an electrical item that was the more sensitive out of the two.  I don’t know if that’s some sort of antifeminist slight but it does accurately sum up what happened!  Curious as to what I’m talking about?  Go see for yourself.

Guest Post by My Petit Canard


I have never been so embarrassed. The husband will never let me live this down.

Who would have thought my last day at work before maternity leave would have been so eventful. An hour later after the event and I am still reeling inside. Cringe worthy, humiliating and embarrassed don’t even begin to describe how I feel. Which is how any heavily pregnant woman would feel after answering the door to not one, but three fire engines packed with firemen at 9pm at night in her in lovely floral maternity nightdress sans make up. Not my finest hour to say the least.

All I wanted was a nice hot shower to unwind after my very busy last day in the office. Which has totally been my thing over the last couple of months. The more heavily pregnant I have got, the more I have needed a nice hot shower at the end of the day to help me relax and unwind. Who would have thought on this occasion that it would have been so momentous.

Like any other evening I stepped into a reasonably hot shower.

Not ridiculously hot, I am heavily pregnant after all, but hot enough that it was rather sauna-esque in the bathroom. Nothing unusual there. My showers are always steamy and the husband always complains about why I have them so hot. Except on this occasion I may have forgotten to open the window to let all the steam out, instead propping open the bathroom door and thinking nothing of it.

That was until about half way through my lovely shower, I heard the awful high pitched sound of what could only be our security alarm. Literally jumping out of the shower I yelled downstairs to the hubs something to the effect of “what on earth is going on” thinking he had done something completely stupid or ridiculous like burnt some toast or punched the wrong code into the alarm only to see him stomping up the stairs shouting something about having the shower on too hot. Incredulously I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, not believing for one second that my shower could have set off the alarm. Until about 10 seconds later when the security company called to check why our alarm was going off and if we were all ok. At which point things got slightly more serious and I ran as fast as a 37 week pregnant woman can do to quickly open the bathroom window.

Thinking and hoping that would be the end of it I giggled, hand clamped over mouth

muttering to the husband about how unbelievable it was that the security company had called and retreated to the bedroom thinking that was that. I didn’t even take any notice of the sounds coming from outside the house until the husband said something about a fire engine. I think his exact words may have been something along the lines of “that had better not be a fire engine” at which point things started to get very real very quickly.

All I can say is thank goodness I had enough time to throw on my nightdress and quickly wipe off all the post shower smudged mascara under my eyes before the husband opened the door to the obviously not very impressed fireman standing at our door, flanked by not one, but three fire engines full of firemen. Excessive? Just a little! After unnecessarily causing them to have to come out in the first place and wasting the taxpayers money as the husband put it (yes, I now qualify as one of those awful people!) I do think that three fire engines may have been a bit much on their part. If it had been an actual fire then I would of course been very thankful for their very quick response time and how seriously they had taken the situation. But standing on the stairs, door wide open looking at the entourage of fire engines and all their flashing lights alerting all the neighbours of their presence, there were very few silver linings to this situation. In fact there were four to be precise;

  1. At least we knew that our expensive security system subscription worked
  2. We had recouped some of the cost of maintaining said security system
  3. I was wearing my one and only decent fitting and looking piece of nightware fresh out of the machine
  4. I was very visibly heavily pregnant and could easily use this in my defence for setting off the alarm, which the husband totally did without a seconds thought

However, in my defence I had no idea that it was even possible to set off an alarm with a shower. Please tell me I am not alone here! So when I actually think about it, the husband should really shoulder some of the blame having known and not shared this rather significant piece of information with me at any point over the last year. I mean, how else is a girl to know? I know this has all the makings of a story that you look back on and laugh about. Eventually. But right now all I can say is that I’m glad that my waters didn’t break from the shock of it all giving them a real reason to stick around, although perhaps that may have been a slightly less embarrassing story to tell the neighbours!

my petit canard logoEmily is a mum to a two year old little lady and the inspiration behind My Petit Canard. She writes about her experiences and musings as a first time mum, life as a family of three and her ongoing quest to find the elusive balance as a full time working mum in the city. Now she writes about it all over again as she prepares to find a new balance as she gets ready to welcome her second little one into the world. You can follow Emily and all her adventures on Twitter, InstagramYou Tube and over on her blog.

Psssst! If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


HAVE YOUR SAY! by using the Facebook or website comments box below.

SHARE THIS POST! via the social media share buttons below.

DON’T MISS THE NEXT POST! just pop your email address in the orange top banner.

TO FOLLOW my pearls of wisdom entertainment on social media check out:
Facebook,Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!



#OopsFiles 21: Guest Blogger Mum Muddling Through

oops files standard featured imageYippeeee, the Oops Files guest series is BACK!  And boy do I have a treat to come back with!  I feel a bit clichéd using phrases like “I’m so honoured” or “I’m totally excited to feature”.  But fact is, these words do apply when it comes to Mum Muddling Through as she’s one of my absolute favourite bloggers.  One of the best wordsmiths on the blog scene (there’s an intelligence, emotional pull and dry humour to just about everything she writes), she’s been featured in both #BlogStars 1 and #BlogStars 2.  In fact, I may have done a fist pump when I saw her submission sitting in my inbox.  Not telling.  Her writing also makes you think.  This story, for instance, made me think about which of my friends would be that friend described here.  It also reminded me of the uni friend who spent hours cleaning our college residence bathroom in the middle of the night after I’d ‘decorated’ it with my 1am bacardi-and-coke-induced chunder on my 22nd birthday. (Nice mental picture for you. You’re welcome.)  Frankly, it’s also made me wonder how on earth that friend is still in my life and whether I’d have done the same for her.  See? Told you she makes the reader think.

And laugh. You’ll definitely laugh.

If you feel like sharing this post on social media (and I’d be delighted if you do), please could you use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you! 

blond gir in car face covered with hair blowing

I have literally been agonising for months over which epic fail is #oopsfiles worthy to publish on an award winning bloggers site. I mean, how do you choose which epic f-up is worthy to publish on the internet? Hmmm…

Initially, I thought about referring to my Mums favourite story. The one which doesn’t fail to generate a laugh at my expense time and time again. But then Island living 365 went and took the ‘kids that dump in inappropriate places’ title for #oopsfiles2016. Granted, hers was a neighbours bidet, mine was a housing development showroom bathroom. Yes, you know the ones that aren’t plumbed in.

So moving on to something more original.

I’m taking you back with me now to circa 2010. The days pre kids when weddings, birthday shindigs and [any other excuse] resulted in a weekend of partying and ended in a vicious hangover. This particular occasion was a wedding – y’know the one where said friend moved away so you had the perfect excuse for a weekender with the gang. A road trip with pals, buddying up to save on petrol and gossip en route. Double bonus. Ah, the days when long drives weren’t ruled by back seat dictators and portable DVD players blaring out Peppa pig theme tune.

So a wonderful time was had by all. Champagne. Toasts. Jaegerbombs. Drunk dancing. Tagged photos of yours truly stumbling around in the travel lodge reception eating garage bough sausage rolls wearing a beautiful silk dress on loan (hmmm…no wonder I hate facebook). Classic pre-kids shizzle.


The morning after, it was bad. 8/10 bad.

Bad enough to turn down a fry up and pick at a fruity pancake alternative in a lame attempt to undo the damage. Water. Coffee. A nibble on a complimentary biscuit. Anything to get me ready to face that 3 hour drive home, albeit from the passenger seat.

And how we laughed, about how we could potentially avoid a vom-in-car situation. It wouldn’t happen for sure. But if it did, what did we have as a make shift sick-bag? A crisp packet? Funny… but no, not to hand. A carrier bag. Nope. All we had in the car was the beautifully ornate wedding invitation in a raw, organic, crisp, A5 envelope. I think you can guess where this story is heading.

With my hubby-to-be driving, and my work friend from the good old days in the rear passenger side, we were on the road. No-where to stop on that high speed motorway, and no were to hide. Then it hit. That moment of over-salivating when you know it’s imminent.

So let’s just say the envelope did the job.

For around twenty seconds.

And then it started to disintegrate, in my hands. With my now husband screaming at me to get it out of the car, and my friend and I generally hysterically screaming/laughing, we only had one option. I wound the window down and went for the rapid ejection of the envelope. Only physics had other ideas for the content of that envelope. The 70mph slip stream took that parcel in an unexpected direction – back into the car. Which was highly unfortunate for my friend sitting behind me in the rear passenger seat.

The next thirty seconds were intense hysteria.

I’m not sure who out of the three of us screamed more. I don’t know if it was screams of laughter or horror or just a combination of both. It was one of those moments that could have been horrendous if it hadn’t been so god damn hilarious, in a ‘did that just really happen’ way.

As my poor friend updated her Facebook status to say ‘Someone just threw an envelope of vomit in my face’, someone quickly replied with ‘Oh no…what a disgusting scumbag, have you reported them to the police?’

To which she replied ‘Oh no, it was just my friend Sarah’. We laughed so much I was sick again. This time, thankfully with the ability to pull over on a side road. Laughter may be the best therapy, but not, it would seem, when it comes to hangovers.

The moral of this story is that friendship is not always clean cut.

As life follows it’s twisty path, friends will come and go. Friends you always thought would be there will become partial to fair weather. And friends you thought would be long gone will end up being part of the furniture.

In the excitement and convenience of new found friendships at different stages of life, we can neglect some of our long time pals. I haven’t always been a great friend. I have let my own life get in the way. I’m far from perfect. But…I will never forget that a friend who can continue to laugh with me (at me). A friend who continues to love me, even in the face of an envelope of my puke in their face, is a friend worth hanging on to with both hands.

That is a first class friendship.


If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

mmt-logo-web-versionMum Muddling Through is the place to hang out for imperfect parenting advice and a bit of blog based camaraderie. It ain’t no disco, but it ain’t no country club either. Join Sarah for banter, random crap and a spot of #coolmumclub each Thursday.  Follow Sarah on Twitter, Instagram. (Shocker: she doesn’t do Facebook.)



HAVE YOUR SAY! by using the Facebook or website comments box below.

SHARE THIS POST! via the social media share buttons below.

DON’T MISS THE NEXT POST! just pop your email address in the orange top banner.

TO FOLLOW my pearls of wisdom entertainment on social media check out:
Facebook,Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!


#OopsFiles 20: Guest Blogger Naptime Natter

naptime-natter-featuredOh gosh, the curse of the ***s. I say ***s as I don’t want to be guilty of a spoiler.  I can’t remember how many times I’ve left my ***s inside the house, in the front door, on the WALL in front of our house, the list just goes on.  And I’m not the only who does this.  My OopsFilers do too as we’ve seen earlier in the series.  When Wendy’s fab post landed in my inbox, it made me smile; a deliciously funny mum on mission date night tale, wonderfully written from start to finish. So enjoy!

If you feel like sharing this post anywhere on social media (clearly I’d be delighted if you do), please can I ask you to use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thanks! 


I have been following the hilarious #OopsFIles here on the fab Absolutely Prabulous blog from the very start and I’ve been wracking my brain to try and find a suitable story so I could get involved in all the fun. I think, at last, I have managed to recall the perfect anecdote. So here it is, my tale of misfortune that, in fact, cost my poor hubby a small fortune.

‘Date night’ and ‘baby brain’ are two phrases that people only really use once they become parents, aren’t they? Before kids ‘date night’ is simply known as a night out, it is not a rare occasion and therefore doesn’t need a prestigious title to celebrate it. Can you remember those days when going for a meal didn’t require military operation style planning and you could just be, what is that word again, spontaneous? I can just remember, if I sit and think really really hard. As for ‘baby brain’, for all you child free readers, this is the common phenomenon of a mother’s brain turning to complete mush and losing all its ability to retain the smallest piece of information for more than a matter of minutes. This condition usually begins the second you get a positive pregnancy test and it never completely goes away. Baby brain has been responsible for such WTF moments as trying to put the clean laundry in the bin and crying whenever your baby does anything remotely cute. So, how did baby brain manage to ruin date night for Oli and I?

Well, let me explain..

Some time in mid-November 2013, an idiot driver going about 60 in a 30mph speed limit, crossed over the white lines and smashed my wing mirror clean off. Oli and I had planned to go the cinema that night to watch the new Hunger Games film. Leo was 3 months old and I was desperate for a night out, there was no way I was missing it just because some fool in a range rover couldn’t drive. I managed to book my car in to the garage but as it was late in the day it was going have to stay there overnight. Oh well, no biggy I thought as I tossed my keys at the garage receptionist, we can just get a taxi to the cinema.

I got home, explained the situation to Oli and got Leo ready for his evening at the babysitter’s. Being only 3 months old we had not left him with friends many times before. I was slightly nervous but my excitement for an evening watching a film in an actual cinema, an evening out of the prison house, stopped me from cancelling our plans. So, Leo was ready, Oli and I were ready, I had got changed out of my pyjamas and had even done something with my hair and chucked some mascara on. I totally felt like I was winning at life. We cuddled Leo up in his pram and headed off to the babysitter’s, joyfully slamming the door behind us.

Leo happily went to our friend’s house, all smiles and cute baby gurgles while Oli and I made our eager escape, jumped in a taxi and headed to town. We got to the cinema, gorged on popcorn and chocolate and Oli even treated me to a bottle of overpriced cinema booze. For the next 2 hours we sat and watched a group of teens fight to the death, get mixed up in love triangles and generally just be awesome. Oli got to watch Jennifer Lawrence run around in a skin tight wetsuit and I got to eye up Liam Hemsworth and that guy who plays Finnick. Popcorn, booze, beautiful actors and each other’s company.  It’s safe to say we were having a pretty great evening.

The film finished, it was time to come home and as we drove back in the taxi we were blissfully unaware of the massive eff up my baby brain had made earlier that day. We picked Leo up from the babysitter, thanked our lovely friend a thousand times and set off on the short walk home in the cold November air. This is what happened when we arrived on our front step..

Oli: “Open the door then.”
Me: “What, I don’t have the keys.”
Oli: “Yes you do.”
Me: Frantically searches bag

Me: “I don’t have them.”
Oli: “Please tell me they’re not still on your car keys at the garage?”

Yep, I had let myself get caught up in the excitement of the elusive date night and had not even thought about taking my house keys off my key ring when I handed them over and waltzed out the garage earlier that day.

After the initial argument:
Oli: “We should smash the window.”
Me: “There is no way I’m sleeping in a house with a smashed window. We have a BABY for £$%& sake!”
Oli decided to phone a locksmith, luckily 24 hour ones do exist, and I headed back to the babysitters with Leo to keep warm. While I sat and fed Leo, had a cuppa and chatted to our lovely friend, Oli sat and waited in the cold for the locksmith to arrive. Once the work was done and Oli had coughed up a small fortune to get us back in our house, it is safe to say he was not in the mood for any post date night action. I don’t blame him really, our trip to the cinema, in a taxi, plus the need to rectify the mistakes of my baby brain had cost him almost 200 quid. Can I say oops again?!

So, if you take anything away from this tale my friends let it be this…when it comes to being victorious over baby brain, the odds are never in your favour.

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


naptime natterHi, my name is Wendy and I blog over at Naptime Natter. I am mum to my cheeky toddler Leo and wife to my lovely Oli, we are expecting baby number 2 in October. I blog about all the ups and downs of motherhood and all our fun family days out. When I am not blogging or chasing Leo around I am probably reading, secretly eating chocolate or binge watching Netlix. I can often be found exploring in the woods or walking on the beach.
Follow Wendy on Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest and her blog


TO HAVE YOUR SAY: please use the Facebook or website comments box below.

TO SHARE THIS POST: use the social media share buttons below.

TO GET MY POSTS IN YOUR INBOX: pop your email address in the orange top banner.

TO FOLLOW my pearls of wisdom entertainment on social media check out: Facebook,Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!

The #OopsFiles 13: Guest Blogger Pink Noam

pink-noam-featuredWelcome back for another edition of the #OopsFiles, the guest blog series that’s earning a reputation as a place where willing bloggers – yes they’re actually WILLING – come to  confess their sins/embarrassing life stories!  Now, two themes have come up a few times since the series began: nakedness and public transport indiscretions.  Blimey.  This week’s guest post by Pink Noam includes the latter plus a bar story.  I did think of regaling you with a few of my own public transport stories, you know, like the time I nearly broke my own hand grabbing the hand of the twunt who molested me on a packed Parisian metro train.  Or the time I was in my Saturday night glad rags and got up when the train stopped, only to be stuck to the seat because the PVC of my tights pants had ‘welded’ itself to that plasticky non-leather material on Paris metro seats…and then entertained the passengers with the sound of me literally peeling myself off the seat (I can still hear it some 20 years later).  And let’s not even go there with my bar stories.  Instead we’ll go there with Pink Noam’s…



The past few weeks have been an endless source of material that I could submit to the #Oopsfiles, some people, myself included, have even sustained some bruising from it…

My journey home from work involves a carefully timed train ride and then a tram ride. I get off the train and then I have two minutes before the tram arrives on the next platform. In theory.  Because I use public transport, the amount of times this works out can be counted on one hand though.

A couple of weeks ago, I arrived at the platform for my train and saw that the train had been delayed by ten minutes. Faced with the prospect of missing my connecting tram and having to stand in the pouring rain and cold for 20 minutes, I got a little grumpy. I then had to stand sardine-like on the train for 27 minutes before having to battle my way out of the train at the stop.  Bereft of hope, I climbed the stairs to the tram platform. As I reached the top of the stairs, there was my tram, miraculously waiting for me to board.  Now these trams don’t hang about, they’re there for all of 30 seconds before they move off. It was pissing with rain and it was bl**dy freezing so I did what any sensible person would do. I started sprinting for the tram. The person in front of me did the same.  Unfortunately, he then decided that he wasn’t going to make it and gave up.  He came to a sudden dead-stop two feet in front of me.

Before I go on, it’s important to note that I currently weigh about 230 pounds, and that I was running at full sprint speed to get on that tram.  Also, I was running about a foot from the edge of the platform.

So he stopped and desperately, I tried swerving to avoid crashing into him.  I probably yelled ‘F*** at the top of my lungs too but sadly my efforts were to no avail.  I went into the guy like a high-speed train into a brick wall, which is to say that I kept moving at the same speed and he got smashed out of the way.


Onto the track.

I don’t think ‘oops’ quite covers that.

Lucky for him, I knocked him over onto the track behind the tram so there was never really any danger of him getting his head squished by the tram as it departed.  For some reason this didn’t appease him judging by the stream of very English-sounding expletives that poured from him as I continued sprinting for the tram.

What?  No of course I didn’t stop to make sure he was OK, I’d have missed the tram!

As it was, I didn’t miss the tram and I sat down, risking a look out of the back window.  I saw him climbing back onto the platform with a couple of concerned passers-by helping him out. I’m sure that he got a bruise or two from the fall but as yet, I haven’t had a call from the police so I think I’m in the clear…

Of course, this sort of behaviour often comes back to bite you in the bum, and so Karma got its revenge not long afterL

The weekend after, my partner Ant and I decided to go out for a few drinks, to a local gay bar.  We had a warm up drink at home (3 spiced rum and cokes and a couple of tequilas – oops) and then headed to the bar.  We were fairly squiffy before we went out, but we continued to have a great night, listening to cheesy Dutch music, and singing loudly.

There came the inevitable point in the night where I had to break the seal and go for a pee and this is where the universe got its own back for me throwing a guy onto a train track.  As I attempted to dismount from the bar stool, I failed to realise that my feet were stuck behind the footrest and so, as my torso moved forward, the rest of me didn’t.  This resulted in me tipping spectacularly, face first onto the floor.

smartly dressed man falling off bar stool

Wasn’t nearly this fabulous [Image courtesy of Vogue]


I also hadn’t yet put my drink down so, while falling forward and putting my hands out to stop some involuntary facial re-arrangement, I flung my drink forward and completely soaked the pristine white shirt of a man in front of me.  Soaked it in spiced rum and coke.  Which is brown.  Very dark brown.  When I’d disentangled my legs from the stool and staggered to my feet, I apologised to him profusely. For his part, he seemed placid enough and I was about to offer to buy him a drink when his boyfriend decided to take some revenge and simply threw his drink all over Ant’s back.

Silly boy.

Ant immediately turned around and shouted at him, at length, in a stream of words heavily laden with some pretty spectacular profanity.  The guy burst into tears and then flounced out of the bar. It was ****ing glorius.  The guy that I’d soaked, looked like he was about to say something but Ant, still full of wrath, simply raised an eyebrow at him and then he left too.

No doubt the universe will be looking to balance that one soon, too.

PinkNoamLogoHeaderThe Pink Noam is a UK-born blogger now living in The Netherlands. He works (using the term loosely) in IT, where he tries not to get too upset at people who have no business being anywhere near a computer.

Follow Pink Noam on Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus and the blog Pink Noam

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

Linked to:


To have your say, please use the Facebook or website comments box below.

To share this post use the social media share buttons below.

To receive my blog posts pop your email address in the orange top banner.

You can also follow my pearls of wisdom entertainment on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!

The #OopsFiles 8: Guest Blogger Mum Revised

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised featured imageSo amongst the fabulous #OopsFiles guest posts so far, we’ve had dubious commuter behaviour, hilarious vocabulary misuse, bare bums, yelling at the wrong person and key disasters galore to name a few.  You know what we haven’t had?  Evacuations.  You know of the body variety.  Comprende?  Now I’d love to be a team player and say that I totally relate to this week’s post by the unique fearless and downright funny Kristine Laco.  (If you’ve not yet visited Kristine’s blog, Mum Revised, you’re in for a wonderfully forthright irreverent but clever style of writing which is a breath of fresh air – ok, ‘breath of fresh air’ probably doesn’t apply to her guest post but hey ho.)  Seriously her arts and crafts spoof…oh my days!  Anyway, I would relate to this week’s #OopsFiles post but my bottom doesn’t ‘cough’. Ever.  My nether regions are well-behaved.  Cleaner than the Queen’s.  Practically perfect in ev- okay I’ll stop now.  Mental note to self: this post is not about me.

PS after recently writing here and here about the many problems I’ve had with my name, I’ve got to love this woman for managing possibly the most unique name mistake of them all…

Over to Kristine.

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised guest post title image


When Prabs, or Erica* as I sometimes like to call her, asked me to submit a post for #TheOopsFiles I had to really take stock.

I am generally the person making everyone else uncomfortable. I say things that are controversial, off-colour and probably not very politically correct on more occasions than most. My husband is known to cower at my dancing joie de vivre. My children disown me when I bust out the lungs in rousing karaoke. I don’t much care what others think because I am a confident woman with lasting friendships and I am not in the market to be besties with anyone else.

Then I farted.

It wasn’t a small break of air with nary-a-butt lift required. It was an egg-rotting, dead-mammal, decaying and fermented masterpiece of bowel pre-shart air juice. It was so wonderfully disgusting that I no longer thought my foulness smelled like ripening peaches.  I thought I stank. So bad, in fact, I had to leave my office to cleanse my lungs.

As I was gasping for oxygen I heard her.  My housekeeper had come up the stairs and was proceeding to make her way to her first stop on the main floor—the powder room.

I had but 10 minutes to somehow air out the only room in the house without a working window.  I poured a coffee while I planned a strategy including loudly blaming the dog and a great deal of scented candles and Lysol.

I turned the corner to grab supplies when I saw her.  She had taken the opportunity to tidy up my office while I was not seated. The dog had long since escaped and was no use at all.

I backed away gently from the scene of the crime.  I did not tell her to wait.  I did not apologize. I did what any good person would do, I avoided eye contact for the remainder of her time in my house.

She has been with me for 6 years. She will be missed.


*OK, full disclosure, the other time I was red-faced, I called Prabs Erica all over the internet because, brain fart. That is a full circle folks.

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised logoKristine Laco shares her stories at with a splash of sarcasm and a pinch of bitch. She lives in the Toronto area and is a stay-at-home mother of two kids aged 14 and 12 and a fur-baby. Her middle finger is her favourite.
Follow Kristine on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

If you’d you like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


To have your say, please use the Facebook or website comments box below.

To share this post use the social media share buttons below.

To receive my blog posts pop your email address in the orange top banner.

You can also follow my pearls of wisdom entertainment on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!


A Funny Thing Happened at the Doctor’s…

I recently launched a guest post series the #OopsFiles where bloggers have been revealing embarrassing life incidents.  

It honestly is hilarious and if you’ve not read the posts, it’s worth doing as they are such a treat.  I subsequently shared a few of my own epic fails recently, one of which mentioned problems I’ve had with my name.   After writing it, I thought of another ‘name spelling episode’, this time at the doctors.  Then that reminded me of another embarrassing experience (non name-related) that happened at a gynaecologist appointment (yep, my stomach just clenched).  So, I guess you could say a funny thing happened at the doctor’s.  Well, more than one.  I should probably think hard before going to the doctor’s again to be honest.  Anyway, I give you:

A Funny Thing Happened at the Doctors title image for


1) Dreamy D is asthmatic so we’ve spent a lot of time in and out of hospital/clinics etc.

One time, we went to the doctor to get his routine prescription.  The doctor we had at the time was a rather doddery old man, bless him.  You know: looks at you like he’s never seen you before despite being your family doctor for years, asks for your name three times, enquires what’s wrong but then talks over your answer etc.   Anyway, as if the doctor wasn’t doddery and forgetful enough himself, he’d had the superb idea of employing an equally doddery male receptionist (which in itself is mystifying because everyone knows men can’t take messages down properly).  I swear it was like the Fawlty Towers of doctors’ surgeries.  It was so like something out of a 1970’s TV comedy, I half expected an unstable secretary to come in on wobbly legs spilling a tray of tea everywhere like Mrs Two Lumps in that hilarious Monty Python sketch.  To this day, I have NO idea what purpose this receptionist served because he just sat there and made a list of names of people waiting but never took the list to the doctor nor call out the names of the next patient!

We sat down in the waiting area and Mr Receptionist asked for my son’s name.

To be fair, Dreamy D is very softly spoken.  A confident boisterous loud volumed child, he is not, so I admit it can be very hard to make out what he says sometimes. Mr Receptionist understandably didn’t catch his name and asked him again.  This time, I answered.  Now obviously my son’s real name is not Dreamy D and is just his alias on here (but FYI his name has only four letters…let that sink in for a second…JUST FOUR).

Mr Receptionist: Darren?
Me: No Dreamy D
Mr Receptionist: Andrew?
Me: D-r-e-a-m-y D (I started spelling it…story of my bloody life…)

It was unreal. The guy was either incompetent or hard of hearing or both.  He mentioned various letters that aren’t even in my son’s name:  N? V? K? [What the actual heck?]

Now I know death, however it happens, is no laughing matter

and phrases like the one coming up aren’t funny (or responsible) especially when voiced in front of your child.   However it was an expression uttered in bewilderment by a woman who had spent 36 years of her life spelling her own name before incurring the additional nightmare of constantly having to spell her kids’ names.  So yes, I gasped “Oh my God I want to kill myself”.  I know.  Bad.  Very bad.

You know what though?  The other patients started giggling.  I kid you not, one of them hid her face behind her magazine. Best of all (in a not very proud parenting moment kind of way):  my shy quiet son burst into giggles.  Then (probably out of sheer relief that my words hadn’t offended the people sitting in this room in this very Catholic country) I started laughing:

Until Mr Receptionist asked: “Now, what is your surname?”

Laughter over.

Me: “

No way!  If I give you his surname, we’ll be here all week.”


Once upon a time there was a young lady who moved from London to France to work for Disneyland Paris.  One day she realised it was probably time she started seeing a gynaecologist.

Her workplace was on a beautiful avenue opposite the Champs Elysées and she booked a routine check up at a nearby clinic.  Except…erm…for her there was nothing routine about it because this was her first gynae appointment.  Gulp.  She really had no idea what to expect because when you grow up as an Indian girl, no matter whether it’s in India, Britain or wherever, there really isn’t much ‘nether regions talk’ at the dinner table in between “My God how many chillies did you put in this mum?” and “Sorry, I didn’t come first in my exams”.  Anyway, this young lady headed to the clinic after work and nervously entered the consultant’s office.  He got some details down, did a BP check etc.  So far so dignified.  Then it was time for the familiar: “Right, pop behind that curtain, then hop on the bed once you’re ready”.  Obviously this was in French but don’t worry the young lady’s French had come a long way since THAT kiwi incident in 4 Epic Fails and she didn’t do anything stupid.


And as you know, this story is about me so I’ll drop the third person act.  Now, when I said his request was familiar, I mean that it would be familiar now, you know, now that I’m a mature grown woman and mother who clearly has seen many gynaes since this episode.  It was not familiar then on my first visit.  I didn’t know what “get ready” actually meant.  Well this is Paris, everyone’s so groomed, should I put on lipstick and spray some perfume?  I’ve no idea  what this man means!  I know, I know, I’m gaping at the screen in disbelief and amazement WITH you, dear reader.  I emerged from behind the curtain nervously in my underwear and couldn’t understand why the man’s expression changed from measured to astonished to downright apoplectic all within about two seconds.  He totally went off on one, as the Queen would say, about me still wearing my bra and knickers.  To be fair, the curtain was totally on the other side of the office from the examination bed; how was I to supposed to know I was meant to walk across the whole office starkers without even a modesty towel?!

I may not be able to remember what I had for breakfast yesterday but I’ll never EVER forget the sound of Monsieur Charles (see, it was over 20 years ago and I still remember his name!) literally bellowing:

Well I don’t know how you people do it in England but in France WE TAKE OUR CLOTHES OFF!

Mais oui oui.  They sure do…



To have your say, please use the Facebook comments (bloggers please make sure you’re logged in with your blog ID not your personal name) OR website comments box below.

To share this post use the social media share buttons below.

To receive my blog posts pop your email address in the orange top banner.

You can also follow my pearls of wisdom entertainment on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!


The #OopsFiles 5: Guest Blogger Papa Does Preach

papa-does-preach-featuredEdition 5 of the #OopsFiles is here!  Thanks to all the fab guest bloggers who have featured so far and already helped establish the #OopsFiles as a series that people really look forward to reading. I hadn’t really anticipated the ‘voyeuristic’ aspect of it (goodness me, not that kind!)  but as one blogger said, who doesn’t enjoy a good story about someone else’s embarrassment?! (Talking of which, here’s mine.)  I ought to do a testimonials page actually because some of the comments have been as hilarious as the posts!  Right, this week I’m thrilled to feature Papa Does Preach who was one of the first dad bloggers I came across.  After reading his submission, I like Mike even more…mainly because his story made me feel a whole lot better about the stuff that falls out of my mouth…and that’s bad enough. (Ahem.)  Not judging Mike, mate; sure am thrilled you’re sharing this story with us!

Papa Does Preach title image

If you’ve ever read any of my posts before,
then you’ve probably picked up on a theme how much my toddler is ruining my life. And, I give him a lot of s**t for it. Most people get that it’s all in good fun, and of course I love my kid, but in the year and a half I’ve been running my blog I’ve had my fair share of people tell me what an asshole I am for talking about my kid the way I do, and how kids are a blessing, blah blah blah.  Luckily, I have some of the best fans on the internet who just get it, and quickly come to my defense, and those individuals who have their heads firmly inserted up their rectums have been weeded out. But, I’m going to break some news to you my loyal subjects…the jerks were right; I am an a**hole, and I know the exact day I realized it.

The day was Friday, September 5, 2008. The Fiance (now known as The Wife) and I had moved from San Diego, CA to the Washington D.C. just 3 months prior and since I was still looking for work, I decided to supplement a little extra cash with officiating youth sports; high school football to be more exact.  I had been a football referee for around 5 years before moving to the East coast, giving it up briefly for a year to focus on finishing my degree. I had officiated all levels of experience ranging from 5 year old flag football, all the way up to Junior College, but I was still nervous when I got my first assignment in DC. If felt like I was rookie ref all over again. New area, new people, and new fellow officials; I couldn’t help but be a little scared.  I received my first assignment from the commissioner of our league at school called Model Secondary. Along with the assignment the commissioner sent special instructions emphasizing how important it was that we remember how special this particular environment was that we’d be working in, and how we needed to utilize all our experience with making calls without our whistles. I thought nothing of it, as any good official knows the whistle in football means very little.

Finally the day arrived. Still not knowing the area very well I ran into crazy DC traffic on a Friday afternoon. Frantically following the direction on my GPS, I grew more and more anxious as I arrived at what looked like a large college campus in the heart of downtown DC. I was convinced this had to be the wrong spot, which meant I was going to be late.  I entered the campus and began driving around. I quickly saw a sign saying, ” Model Secondary School Located on East Side of Campus.” HUZZAH!!! I had in fact made it to the right place, but now I had to navigate this large campus and find a small secondary school. As I sat at a stop sign I found my saving grace; a student crossing the street in front of me.  I rolled down my window to ask for directions:

“Excuse me, do you know where I can find Model Secondary?”  The young man didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear me; I called to him again,
“Excuse me, over here! Do you know where I can find Model Secondary?”  Still, the young man who could not be more than 10ft from me, nose in a book, refused to answer. Can you believe this kid?!? While it’s not my style to yell at people, my frustration and fear of being late got the better of me.
“HEY KID!!! Over here!”

At that moment he looked up and saw me staring at him. He looked back at me with the  disinterested who, me? look that seems to be all the rage with the youth of today.
“YO! Yeah you! I know you heard me! (Speaking slowly to emphasize my disdain with him.) “Do…you…know…where…Model…Secondary…is…located?”

At this point the young man’s face changed from disinterested to something resembling slightly confused, with an overwhelming amount of offended. Clearly me asking him for directions and pulling him away from his book was beyond reproach in his world.He slowly   shook his head no, while maintaining a look of disappointment. As I drove past him I added one more parting shot to put this kid in his place saying,
“Maybe don’t act like you’re deaf next time someone talks to you.”
As I drove away I thought to myself,
“Good for you Mike, kids like that need to learn a lesson in being respectful.”

At the pre-game meeting the head ref once again emphasized using our best non-whistle mechanics. As we walked out of the locker I strolled up next to him and asked why such the emphasis on non-whistle stuff. He looked at me somewhat shocked and said:
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m new in the area. Are these guys a rough team, prone to cheap shots, stuff like that?
(Stopping in his tracks) “No one told you about this school?”
“No, why? What’s so different about this team?”
“This is Model Secondary School for the Deaf, on the campus of Gallaudet University, the only university to cater strictly to the deaf or hearing impaired.”

All of a sudden it was like I was just kicked in the stomach. Not only was the football team deaf, but so were the students, and the college kids…just like the one I had just yelled at for not listening to me. What had I done?!?  When I returned home that night the Fiance lovingly asked, “How’d your game go?”  Standing there like a shell of myself, all I could muster up was, “I yelled at a deaf kid today,” to which she appropriately responded, “WHAT?!?”  I told her the whole story. I explained my frantic nature, and how it was an honest mistake. She just sat there, expressionless. I waited for her to say something; anything that would help me feel better, and then it happened; the Fiance busted out in uncontrollable laughter. It went on for what felt like an eternity, and it was all at my expense.

Finally I plopped down on the couch:

“I feel like an a**hole.”
“That’s because you are!”

Papa Does Preach temporary logoBorn and raised in San Diego, California,  now residing in Alexandria, Virginia, Mike is a life-long story-teller, writer, and recently published author. Creator and lead writer at Papa Does Preach, Mike shares stories of modern day father, and crazy tales about his toddler that keeps him on his toes. Currently still stuck in a 9-5 job, he’s inching closer to his dream of being a real writer when he grows up, one blog post at a time.  You can connect with Mike on FacebookTwitter and Instagram


If you’d you like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details


To have your say, please use the Facebook or website comments box below.

To share this post use the social media share buttons below.

To receive my blog posts pop your email address in the orange top banner.

You can also follow my pearls of wisdom entertainment on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!

Linked to:


4 Epic Fails That I Really Shouldn’t Write About


So I recently launched the guest series #OopsFiles where bloggers share their embarrassing stories.  

Several people have asked me if I’d share my own Oops moment.  Crap!  Only one?  How I laughed.   A single oops file?  I mean, have they met me?  So I got to thinking maybe I should do ten of the worst epic fails in my life.  Then I realised some are so bad, I’d best not. So here are just four (which are bad enough!).


I spent my third year of unIversity in a small town in the French Alps.  My grant took ages to arrive so I survived the first couple of months mainly on bread, cheap chocolate paste and milk powder.  One day, I was salivating over the fruit and veg stall on a cobbled street when I spotted kiwi fruit. I hadn’t eaten one in years.  A guy saw me staring at the high price tag and asked me if I liked kiwis; at this point in my life, my experience was limited to the fruit and didn’t include the people (I’m here all week folks).  I said yes and he then kindly – oh Prabs, bless, it wasn’t kindness – told me that he had kiwi fruit in his apartment and asked if I’d like to come up and eat it. Stop it. I can HEAR what you’re thinking.

I happily said yes. And off I went. You know, with a total stranger.  What a lovely generous guy; those nasty things everyone says about the French just aren’t true... I thought.  It beggars belief really.  For someone who grew up watching a lot of crime dramas, I sure hadn’t learned much.  But then it wasn’t yet the era of Criminal Minds with its ‘young girls going missing’ (more Murder She Wrote with someone having their library card stolen era).  Imagine my surprise when we got to his place and he didn’t whip out his fruits for me immediately, no pun intended (well just a little bit).  Imagine his surprise when he realised I really did want kiwi fruit.

I’m actually cringing and praying my mum’s computer freezes if she tries to read this post.  Heaven help me, if one of my daughters did this…I can’t even finish the sentence but the words cupboard and key spring to mind.  In my defence, the academic French I’d learned for years was nothing like the real living language I was now immersed in.  Yep, basically, I’m blaming my going off with a stranger to eat his ball-shaped fruits (told you I knew what you were thinking earlier) on a linguistic misunderstanding.  By the way, to this day, I don’t buy them. I know they’re super healthy and all but..can’t…even.

P.S. The kiwis were delicious.  Best I’ve ever had.  (And I ran like hell after I’d had them.)


My parents gave me a traditional Indian name just like parents of their generation did.  I guess Pam just wasn’t an option.  (Anyway, the jury’s out on how short a name needs to be for people to pronounce it correctly: my kids all have four letter names…apparently they’re the wrong four letters.)  Some of the variations on mine have included Project, Budgie, Fashgit, Trabjit, Crapshit and Pramkit.  Spectacularly, our best (worst?) man even got it wrong on our wedding table plan.  But the humdinger of them all (although what can be worse than that?) has to be…wait for it…Patrick.  Now I know I used to be hairy when I was younger (as you’re about to find out) but come on, PATRICK?  Are you kidding me?!

So I’ve spent my life spelling my name.  Which brings me onto what happened when I was applying for university.  It was the good old pre-Internet days so I was requesting brochures by phone.  I was giving my name to yet another receptionist and was met with the usual “Oh dear, how do you write that?”.  So I started spelling my name for the umpteenth time that day:

“Yes, P like Poland, R like Russia, A like Africa…”  (I’m hopeless with the Alpha Bravo Charlie thing)”.  

She couldn’t get her head round it.  I tried another way:

“P like Pam, R like Robert, A like Andrew…”  Still no joy.  She was either having genuine difficulty or was hoping it would miraculously change to Pam if she held out long enough.  By now, I was frustrated and finally resorted to basic vocabulary:

“Okay, P for pop, R for rip, A for act…”

A week later an envelope came through the letter box. As it dropped onto the door mat, I stared in disbelief.  Yep…

It was addressed to Miss Pop.



During my university years I was usually expected to go home on the weekends.  One rare weekend, I stayed but typically all my good friends went home so I was at a loose end.  So, I took a deep breath (like I am typing this) and plucked up the ‘now or never’ courage to go over to the room of the guy I really liked, (intimidating sporty type whom I’ll call Hot Guy) to see what he and his mates were up to (translation: see what Hot Guy was up to).  Except when I got there, I was met with a What the hell is she doing here? death stare from his mate, who wouldn’t leave the room and appointed himself as spokesman whose main job was to get rid of me.  He wasn’t the only one wondering what I was doing there; the second he spoke, even I thought What on earth am I doing?!

And what did Hot Guy do?  Oh he just looked down the whole time and fumbled with his trainers, or whatever they were, in a desperate attempt to look like he wasn’t there (and probably imagine I wasn’t there either) hence the need for a spokesman.  Not so hot.  He would not look up and I was just frozen on the spot, barely able to think.  I literally shuffled out of there, my tail between my legs.  It was a long walk back to my room, my cheeks hot with humiliation, my pride dented and my already meagre self confidence in absolute tatters.  I took years to get over the embarrassment; it is a genuine wonder I ever spoke to another man.  No hilarious punchline here by the way.  I guess the only punch is the one I wanted to give myself (and Hot Guy in hindsight) in the face. Ugh.

Last but mortifyingly not least:


4) THAT TIME A GIRL SHAMED ME (aka That’s NOT Where You Use a Razor!)

I’m sat at my school desk trying to concentrate on the fascinating explanation of the life cycle of an amoeba [sarcasm] when my friend starts throwing me sideways glances.  For several minutes.  I try to avoid making eye contact as I just know trouble is in store if I do.

“You haven’t have you?” she says.
“Haven’t what?” I reply.
“You did, didn’t you?”

Oh God, here we go…

“Oh no you idiot, man” (We might go to school in Harrow but we’re Wembley girls…everything ends in ‘man’ or ‘wicked’. Because. Classy.)
“Ha haaaaa! Oh my God you DID!”

Busted…don’t know how but I’m busted…it’s okay…keep calm…DENY EVERYTHING.

I’m wriggling uncomfortably with rising panic.  I don’t actually know what’s coming but I know it’ll be bad because this damned girl just won’t let up with her knowing grin.

“You shaved it didn’t you?”

“Shaved what?!” I ask with a thin high-pitched voice as my eyes dart nervously.

 “Your tash!  YOU SHAVED IT!!”

Kill me.

Whole effing class turns round.  What is WRONG with these girls?  Can’t they just focus on the riveting amoeba explanation?  I sheepishly admit that I indeed tried ‘handling’ the facial hair thing (thank you gods of puberty) with none other than a razor.  Turns out, I’m the only female alive  who has never heard of Jolen.  Three students almost have to be carried out on stretchers, they’re catatonic with laughter.




As if my unintentionally entertaining the masses hasn’t been enough, the teacher asks the inevitable “Is there anything you’d like to share with the rest of the class, Prabs?”

“Sure, I was just saying how being 15, and Indian, are the gifts that keep on giving”

…was not the answer I gave.


To have a say, please use the Facebook or website comments box below.

To share this post use the social media share buttons below.

To receive my blog posts pop your email address in the orange top banner.

You can also follow my pearls of wisdom entertainment on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Thanks Muchly!

This was a pick of the week post!

Pink Pear Bear


You can also find this post on:

Life Love and Dirty Dishes


My Petit Canard
Pink Pear Bear
A Bit Of Everything
Best of Worst