Posts Tagged ‘guest blogger’

#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.





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#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.)



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#OopsFiles 19: Guest Blogger Island Living 365

island-living-featuredYou know when someone says “I hurt myself laughing”/”I almost fell off the sofa in hysterics”/”I literally howled at this”? Well, they’re usually just phrases aren’t they?  Yes you read something funny but actually physically hurting yourself?  Hmmmm…  Guess what?  When the Island Living 365 #OopsFiles submission by Emma landed in my inbox, I actually did all of those things.  I snorted so hard and so many times that I actually hurt the inside of my nose about half way through reading and had to take a break.  Nope, not making that up for dramatic effect…actually hurt the inside of my nose.  (By the way, it’s only about the second time in my blogging life that I’ve had to read a blog post in two stages.  Seriously, I challenge you to actually read this all the way through in one sitting without pausing to get your breath back or give your abdominal muscles a rest.)  I then resumed reading, howled, startled my husband (he’s never startled) and then kind of slid off the sofa onto the rug mid howl.  The only thing missing in this whole scenario is the mention of “I wet myself laughing”.  All I can say is, I’ve had three kids; my bladder is not what it once was.  So I guess that answers that one then.  Talking of nether regions, things are about to get worse…a lot worse.



So when the lovely Prabs asked me if I would write something for the #OopsFiles series my first reaction was to run and hide. I mean I have a lot of embarrassing tales, a plethora if you like. What’s the saying? “I have a list as long as my arm” except my arms aren’t unusually long so that saying really does not convey just how many embarrassing tales that I have. I mean every day, I embarrass myself. Every. Single. Sodding. Day. To stop myself from becoming a nervous wreck, I have blocked most of them out. However, for the lovely Prabs, I have agreed to revisit some of these tales again.

I guess I should start at the beginning. Apparently when I was young, I’m talking 4 years old, I liked to leave a calling card whenever I went somewhere new. Yes, that’s right every time we went somewhere, I would promptly ask to be excused so that I could go and use the toilet and leave a massive dump. I know. I was a classy four year old. I guess I saw it as a creative expression, a way of leaving my mark on the world. I left massive poos in some very auspicious places, from the vicarage to our local supermarket. I wasn’t fussy, as long as it was new. One day my Mum and Dad announced we were going to go round for a cup of tea to our lovely elderly neighbours that lived at the back of our house in the biggest bungalow I had ever seen. I was convinced that because they lived on one floor, they must be indeed very posh and therefore a very worthy recipient of my calling card. It had been drummed into me that I should behave myself. I was not to touch the pretty ornaments nor was I to climb over the antique furniture. However, no one had told me that I couldn’t go to the toilet. So soon after arriving I made my excuses to go to the toilet.

Oh what a glorious posh bathroom it was too. A huge corner bath…fancy! Gold taps…even fancier. And all in glorious avocado…and hang on…what’s this? A toilet with taps? Ooooh, triple fancy!! So I sat on this new lovely toilet. Praising myself on finding the latest posh toilet. Oh my bottom was in for a treat. After curling one out, I struggled to locate the toilet paper and then realised that it was sat on the ‘regular’ toilet. I carefully wiped my bottom. I liked to use a lot of paper to make sure that I was clean, I’m not an animal you know! I deposited it in the ‘posh’ toilet then looked for the flush. Only there wasn’t one, just two taps. So obviously I turned them both on but instead of taking the poo away it started to fill up, my toilet paper blocking the plug at the bottom and now my poo was swimming dangerously close to the top. In fact it was close to breaching. I quickly switched the taps off and took the approach I still take today. Just roll with it, all will be fine.

See? I look quite pleased with myself don't I?

See? I look quite pleased with myself don’t I?


When we got home I found myself desperate to share with my mum the posh toilet that I had used. On telling her my story, her face visibly whitened before she shouted “oh shit” (yes quite apt really) “you did a poo in their bidet!”. I have never seen my Mum move so fast. She dashed back round on the pretence that I had left something in the bathroom. Again quite apt as indeed I had left something. On arriving, she was ushered in by the elderly gentleman who looked a little shaken. She went into the bathroom to find the lovely old lady wrestling my poo out of the bidet. Now that I am sharing this story, I realise that actually this is far less embarrassing for me and more embarrassing for my mum. We were never invited back round.

So important was this poo event in my life that I have never been allowed to forget it. It has obviously scarred me for life too because when I was in labour, I spent the whole time shouting at the midwife, “i haven’t done a poo have I??” I even kept sending Mr C down to that end to check. No, this story is the one I’ve not been allowed to forget, despite several more embarrassing things happening later in my life. Let’s not discuss the time I was queuing up in Primary school for my lunch and I was desperate for the loo. They were serving shepherds pie but I wasn’t going to lose my spot…… Only after I had finished every last morsel did I admit what I had done. Don’t worry it wasn’t a poo! Then there was my first date with Mr C when I had my tongue piercing (call it a late rebellion for not being allowed to have my ears pierced when I was a kid). I got my risotto stuck on my tongue piercing, then spent the whole meal pulling strange faces, (which was rather alarming for Mr C), as I tried to get the risotto off my piercing but instead I ended up flicking Mr C in the face with risotto. Then to top it off, I realised I had forgotten my purse so couldn’t pay for my half. Now you know why I keep banging on about us being married 10 years this summer…it’s a miracle!

No. despite lots of daily embarrassments, my parents still love to reel out the poo in the bidet story. So much so that as I was just about to walk down the aisle to get married to Mr C, my mum informed me that she had just seen my dad’s speech and it was all about my poo in the bidet. So when I was saying my vows, instead of being in the moment I was worrying about shit instead. Story of my life really. I really should spend less time worrying about random shit because it really does all work out in the end. We just need to roll with it, bidets and all!

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

island-living-photo-of-emEmma says: “I’m mum to two girls and wife to Mr C. We used to live in wild and wonderful Yorkshire on the edge of the moors. We have now moved to the rather lovely and sunny Jersey, Channel Islands.  So basically, I’m an adopted Yorkshire lady now marooned in Jersey, blogging and ranting to keep sane!!”
Follow Emma on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and  Pinterest and the blog Island Living 365


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#OopsFiles 17: Guest Blogger Just Saying Mum

oopsfiles-17, just saying-mummy featured imageI am sooooo excited about my #OopsFiles guest this week, none other than the utterly hilarious Just Saying Mum.  I view Helen as sort of my blog twin as she is one of the few bloggers I’ve found who, like me, is way past the pregnancy/breastfeeding/potty training etc phase of life.  She is one of the funniest bloggers and there is such a great spirit in her posts about her teens.  Her #OopsFiles offering, however, has nothing to do with parenting teenagers and is more a series of various Oops that had me in utter stitches.  The passenger with the coat, the feng shui and the postbox.  Heaven help me; I almost had a hernia laughing.  As for the intro, what can I say?  I’m only human…clearly I love my ego being massaged as much as the next person, so when my OopsFilers start their guest posts with kind words about me, I don’t mind at all.  Er, what I mean is I blushed with embarassment at Helen’s compliment but couldn’t remove it as it’s part of what she’s written and who am I to start removing parts of my guests’ posts?! That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.  #JustSaying

oopsfiles-17, just saying-mummy featured image

Oh as much as I was so totally and utterly honoured to have been asked to write for the incredible @absolutelyprabulous because she is one of the most funniest and coolest people I have read and I am stupidly in LOVE with her posts, I was also a little wary … I have so many oops moments I really didn’t know where to start but then I thought … Oh to hell with it … lay it all out there and show the parenting bloggers out there just how ditzy you really are. So, lovely readers, I give you me – oops moment after oops moment … I’ll let you take your pick of which makes you smile the most …

So there was the time on the train after a very late drunken night out that I was chatting and laughing so much that one of the other passengers actually got up and put a coat over my head and politely told me to shut up.

There was the time at dinner with my in-laws when I’d only just started dating my husband where I announced that my lounge just didn’t have quite the right ‘Karma Sutra’ about it … their stoney silence and blank stares confirmed that ‘Karma Sutra’ obviously wasn’t quite the right phrase … rescued by my husband who whispered that I probably meant ‘Feng Shui’ … humiliated doesn’t cover it!

Then the time that I was on my own and ran for the tube (no mean feat in stilettos) and got my heel caught in the tube doors as they closed. Wedged with the doors on my leg and absolutely no way I could open them. It took three men on the platform to force the doors open then manhandle my leg to pull my foot free … all at the same time as the tube driver is announcing “Please stand clear from the doors, stand clear from the doors.” And you know that beeping noise the closing doors make – oh that was going the whole time too … and then as my leg became free, the doors shut, the men giggled to themselves on the platform and I had to turn and face the whole carriage as they sat there staring at me and tutting! I haven’t tried to jump on a train with closing doors since … lesson well and truly learnt.

Oh and then the time that I was out late with friends in a taxi in Piccadilly and on seeing a postbox as we stopped at some traffic lights … I jumped out of cab to post a letter and then jumped straight back in to a different car … very awkward!

And then the time I was convinced that the Robbie Williams tribute act was actually The Robbie Williams and I spent the entire evening  pole-dancing (because evidently I thought I could do that) around his microphone stand when in fact he was Kevin from Canvey!

Oh and then there was the time that I got the snow train down to Chamonix and thought it a great idea to consume every drop of our duty free gin in the party carriage … have you ever been ill out of a window of a very fast moving train? I advise you never to do so … trust me, it doesn’t work … the laws of physics do not allow! There’s a lot more to this story but I’m saving it for a blog!

There’s one more I want to share but the hubby must not read … believing a guy in a club that he was a premiership footballer … and we will say no more on that matter other than he wasn’t … and yes I was very naive!

So me in a nutshell … moment after moment!

just-saying-mumHi, I’m Helen and am mum to two gorgeous teenage girls and one son (who is gorgeous too of course!). I started my blog Just Saying Mum after one daughter was signed to a modelling agency and, being her chaperone, I sit for literally hour after hour at photo shoots just waiting and waiting. I’ve always loved to write so, one day, whilst watching daughter change into the 50th outfit of the day (yes seriously!), I grabbed my phone, opened the notes page and … well … couldn’t stop … mainly documenting the funnies … just saying!
Follow Helen on Facebook and Twitter and the blog Just Saying Mum

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



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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.

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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.
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The #OopsFiles 7: Guest Blogger Life Love and Dirty Dishes

shocked face pic for #OopsFiles postI nearly fist-pumped the air when this week’s OopsFile post landed in my inbox.   [Taps mic and clears throat before announcing:] Not only is it by a member of blogging aristocracy – Claire of Life Love and Dirty Dishes no less – but I’ve also finally found someone who’s as hopeless with keys as I am!  Seriously, I thought my key disasters were legendary but I’ve found my equal. (Oh alright then, Claire has grown out of this habit whilst I’ve carried on and actually become worse in adulthood.)  Anyway, this post took me back to memories of my first car.  It was a beloved old baked bean can of an automobile that gave me hypothermia  in Winter and then overheated so badly during the Summer that I spent weeks driving it with the heating on full blast and the windows down just to relieve the radiator and keep the whole thing from blowing up (as I couldn’t afford the repairs), which resulted in me turning up at work with sweat dripping down my face looking like I’d run a marathon by 9am already. I will forever feel guilty for not saying goodbye to her properly when she went to the scrap heap. You can stop giggling at me assigning her an agenda, thanks.  The cheek…

Anyway, I’m chuffing delighted that Claire is this week’s OopsFiler.  She is such a talent (producing one of the Huff’s most read posts of last year!) and has a way with words that pulls me in and never fails to make its mark on me.  So without any further ado…

Austin Metro
When I first passed my driving test I raced drove around in a light blue Austin Metro.  It was technically my Mum’s car, but possession is only nine tenths and all that.  It was an old car.  It had a manual choke and everything!

The car it had its problems.  When it rained, the passenger foot well would fill with water, and there was a weed growing by the brake pedal.  The brake cable snapped, then the accelerator cable.  The suspension also snapped.  It didn’t like to start in the rain.  I was on first name terms with the AA man.  But it went like @#$* off a shovel and I loved it.

As an 18 year old girl it was my independence, my gateway to the rest of the world, well the UK anyway.  I have many happy memories bombing about in my little metro with Alanis Morrisette blaring out from the cassette stereo.  I know what you’re thinking, I can’t possibly be old enough 😉

My Dad had booked the Metro in for an MOT.  I still lived at home and my Dad did stuff like that for me.  He told me the time and the place that I had to take the car.  Now I totally believe in equality, but when it comes to cars, I am a typical ‘girl’.  I couldn’t tell you what car any of my friends drive, but I could tell you what colour it was.  When people start talking about engine sizes and spark plugs, my mind wonders to Orla Kiely handbags and Gerard Butler.  And car garages?  It doesn’t matter how grown up, strong and independent I am, those places make me nervous.  It must be all the testosterone in the air.  It temporarily shuts down my brain cells and renders me useless.

I left the car at the garage and went for a browse around the shops whilst the MOT was being done.  When I returned to the garage to collect my car one of the mechanics informed me they hadn’t done the MOT.  The other mechanics were laughing and I had the distinct feeling it was at me.  I became a little indignant, and demanded to know why they hadn’t completed the MOT in the two hours I had been gone.  I was busy, I had places to go, people to see, I couldn’t possibly be without my car, and this kind of service was unacceptable.  It wasn’t a bad spiel for a wet behind the ears 18 year old, who was well and truly out of her comfort zone.   After allowing me to finish my rant and climb right to the top of my high horse, the mechanic told me the reason they hadn’t done the MOT was because I had locked the keys in the car.

Remember I said it was an old car?  I always used to lift the handle and push the lock down, then close the door.  Only the keys were still in the ignition.  On the inside.  I can still feel myself blushing crimson with embarrassment when I think about standing in that garage.

I had to use their phone (yes, we didn’t all have mobiles then) to call my Dad to bring the spare set of keys.  The independent woman look was failing badly.

man handing keys to woman

My Dad is a very easy going guy.  He would do anything for his little girl.  I rarely remember him ever being cross with me.  However, he was fuming.  I know it’s a simple mistake, right?  It could happen to anyone.  It’s just that it wasn’t the first time it had happened to me.  Or the second.

Three days prior to the garage incident my Dad had an appointment and needed to borrow the Metro as my mum was out in his car.  He couldn’t get in the car because it was locked and the keys were once again in the ignition.  To make matters worse my mum had the spare keys with her.

Two days prior to making my Dad miss his appointment because I had locked the keys in the car, he had to come and rescue me from 35 miles away, because guess what?  Yep, I had locked the keys in the car again!

Three times in one week.  (It also happened the week before, but a kind, if not slightly dodgy man broke into the car for me, but shhh, my Dad doesn’t need to know about that one.

Thank god for remote locking nowadays!

And yes, my family have never let me live it down.

life love ddI’m Claire. I’m in my  mid thirties (37 still counts as mid, right?).  My claim to fame is that I once spoke to Phillip Schoefield on a Going Live phone in.  I know, awesome.  I’m married with two boys, The big one is six and believes he is a ninja.  The little one is almost two and never ever stops running.  We live in a Lego house.  We don’t really, but we have so much off the stuff I could probably build one.  My blog is mainly about the amusing side of parenting and the situations we find ourselves in, like getting wedged in the rollers at soft play.  Occasionally I am known to have soppy moments too and it all gets a bit sentimental.  Then there’s the odd rant.  After all, what’s life, without love and a few dirty dishes?
Follow Claire on FacebookTwitter and her blog: Life Love and Dirty Dishes

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