Posts Tagged ‘#OopsFiles’

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

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


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#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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10 of the Worst Christmas disasters ever

Christmas Disasters


My family have known their fair share of Christmas disasters to be frank with you.

I think it’s just a given that most families actually do.  I’m talking high drama and major meltdowns.  Luckily, recent years have seen smoother festivities (which sadly I’ve missed due to celebrating Christmas here in Malta most of the time). The worst fiasco has been mince pie fails and over competitiveness at Christmas family game night.

So I got to thinking about pulling together a post featuring other people’s Christmas disasters, a sort of festive version of my #OopsFiles series.

The result, thanks to the bloggers who offered up their stories, is the following!

Vicki from Cakeescapes

Last year we did a Christmas Eve box for the first time. During the day, my girls helped to build and decorate a gingerbread house.  We saved it until the evening so we could show their Dad when he got home from work. When it came to settling down as a family that evening we got the Gingerbread house out and began to nibble. It wasn’t long before my youngest let out an almighty shriek and began to cry, holding her nose. In a flash, I realised what she had done – she had stuck a sugar ball decoration up her nose. Speaking to 111 at 6pm on Christmas Eve explaining that ‘my daughter has just put a sugar ball off the gingerbread house up her nose’ was such a surreal conversation. We were sent off to A&E, a 45 minute drive away, to get the little ball free. By the time we were seen the little ball had started to dissolve so we were sent home. It was so far from the cosy Christmas Eve box experience that we had imagined, and I don’t think we will be building gingerbread houses ever again!


Becky from Hectic Diabectic

One Christmas a couple of years ago, I bought my Grandmother a little gift set containing some homemade smellies; bath bombs, bath confetti, body moisturiser, that kind of thing. I also purchased her a pretty cupcake shaped soap, complete with soap textured icing and a little gingerbread man topper. Christmas Day arrived and I handed my Gran her gifts. I noticed the soapy icing had started to melt a bit so told my gran to be careful. S then proceeded to scoop up the melted ‘icing’ with her finger and proceeded to lick it off! My family were all in hoots of laughter as I shouted “You can’t eat it, it’s soap!” I understand the soap looked realistic but she’s never lived it down!


Claire, Life Love and Dirty Dishes

As a parent I tell many many lies to keep the magic of the big man in red alive.  I want my kids to believe for as long as possible and shall be giving any children in the playground who deny father Christmas’s existence my best evil eye.  I myself found out the truth on Christmas morning whilst unwrapping the gifts in my stocking.  And it was my Mum that gave it away.  My Dad kept nodding off and my Mum kept nudging him awake.  Obviously irritated she snapped at him “I don’t know why you’re so tired, I did the stockings last night”.  My mum vehemently denies this now, but little ears people.  They hear everything!

My husband thinks he’s good at drawing.  And in fairness when he is copying an image he’s pretty good.  He’s been known to really impress the kids with a picture of Lightening McQueen.  However without anything to copy and when under time pressure, he’s well, not so good.  In fact he’s shit!  The proof of this is easily seen in a festive family game of Pictionary. His drawing of what was supposed to be an airplane was so bad that his Grandma quite literally peed herself laughing. I’ve never seen her move so fast to get to the bathroom!  It was a memorable game.


Sarah, Mum Muddling Through

No one makes Roast potatoes as amazing as my Mum. We love to mimic her catch phrase at every Sunday dinner ‘Are those the best roast potatoes you’ve ever had? Do they make you say Mmmm?!’. Yes Mum.

Needless to say, her perfect Christmas dinners are on another level. The year the roast potatoes were cremated as she served Baileys to more unexpected guests, it just wasn’t going to do. My stepdad was sent to the garage for potatoes at 3pm on Christmas Day and we were told to have some cheese footballs while dinner was pushed back 2 hours.   As we finally sat down to eat the feast and somewhat underdone potatoes, the prosecco was popped and we reassured Mum it looked incredible. As she reached for the pickled onions, her arm knocked the fizz over, soaking the table and flooding the dish of spuds.

Despite all giving nuveau cuisine a go, I can’t recommend prosecco potatoes. The cold burnt ones were retrieved from the kitchen and doused in hot gravy; Christmas was saved.   To this day we remember ‘The Christmas with the potatoes’; always offering a drop of bubbly with the potatoes, which, yes Mum, are best I’ve ever had. Mmmmm.

1. A “certain someone” went out for Christmas drinks. He came home in the early hours and was completely drunk. He stumbled up the stairs and fell asleep, at the top of the stairs.  His feet were dangling over the top step and his top half was on the top landing.  I told him to get up and that he can’t sleep in our bed as the baby had woken up and was sleeping in our bed (didn’t want alcohol fumes over the newborn!). I wanted him to sleep downstairs. But, he must have forgotten that my mother was also staying over because he then got up and proceeded to go to the spare room (where my mum was sleeping) and he got into her bed, next to her! My mother jumped out of bed and then had to sleep on the sofa downstairs!


2. A “certain someone” I know, went out for a Christmas party on the 23rd December (the day before Christmas Eve).  He came home in the early hours of Christmas Eve morning and proceeded to stumble around. He went to the bathroom to go to the toilet. He had a full bottle of whiskey in his hand (which he had received as a gift). Instead of putting the bottle down, he decided to put it in his pocket whilst going to the toilet. The bottle fell out of his pocket smashed through the toilet cistern and broke the toilet. Christmas Eve was then spent in a DIY shop buying a replacement toilet and frantically fitting it before everyone came for Christmas lunch! The bottle of whiskey was totally fine, not even a slight scratch!


Lynne, New Mummy Blog

Back in 2009 I’d not long moved to Gloucestershire and was looking forward to another ‘quick’ journey up the road to Scotland for Christmas. The weather was set to change the next day, but I’d be there for dinner with my parents. Hubby (then boyfriend) was flying up on Boxing Day so I was on my own. Singing along to Christmas tunes I didn’t care there were a few hold ups before the border. The weather was good. Then the snow hit. When I say hit, it came from no-where, blue sky, then, white snow bombarding me. I slowed a bit, expecting it to pass. Then, as quickly as it initially hit, I actually couldn’t see, I gradually slowed so I didn’t skid. Lorries had jack-knifed, cars had skidded: the M74 was shut. I sat in the car alone, just able to see other cars. All stuck, all snowed in until just after midnight. After over 6 hours, we started crawling. There were more close calls with cars skidding towards me, but I arrived at 1.30am. I was exhausted and relieved. Most of all, I didn’t need the toilet! So, my oops moment is trusting the the weather forecast. What idiot actually does that?!

Louise, Pink Pear Bear


So our Christmas disaster comes at a time pre-children, back when we could drink with merry abandonment, which is probably where it all went wrong! I’m a vegetarian and my husband isn’t. I always have a lovely mushroom strudel, and this year, as it was just him eating meat, he got a pheasant. All fine so far. He wanted to wrap it in bacon, but it wouldn’t stay on and we had no cocktail sticks so he reached for the next best thing; some corn on the cob holders. With sweet little plastic corns on the ends. Can you see where this is going? Bacon firmly skewered in, he popped it in the oven in a lidded pan to cook. When it was done, he lifted the lid to see long strings of bright yellow plastic. Yep, those cute little corns had totally melted!! His dinner was ruined and being Christmas Day nowhere was open. So I shared my strudel with him, but believe me, he was the saddest figure in a paper crown that day!! I’m still not sure he can see the funny side 10 years on!

Catherine, Pushing the Moon

Last Christmas was going to be magical. A Christmas at home, just the four of us. The kiddies had their usual pre-Christmas bugs which had cleared by the 23rd. I was super organised and by the evening of Christmas Eve utterly confident that the next day would go without a hitch… until about 9pm when I started to feel like I had been hit by truck. Cold, achy bones, headache. I took myself off to bed with some paracetamol hoping that when I woke I would feel better. No such luck. I made it through the opening of the presents in the morning, and even managed to put the turkey in the oven while hubs did the rest of the food prep. He had also started to feel a bit poorly at this point. When I took the turkey out of the oven I looked at it and burst into tears saying “I feel so ill, I just can’t face dinner” – hubs then admitted that neither could he too. But, the kiddies needed to eat, so between the two of us we managed to rustle up some ever so festive Fishfinger sandwiches. My son announced “This is the BEST Christmas dinner EVER!” and I cried some more.

Lisa, That British Betty

One Christmas Eve, I thought I’d be a little ambitious and bake my very first Yule Log, based on a recipe from a Nigella Lawson book. It was the first Christmas at my in laws so I wanted to make a good impression. I spent a small fortune on posh ingredients and got to work. I went to assemble the super soft sponge and heavy icing concoction..and it all fell apart! Disheartened, I put it in the bin and spent another two hours mixing and baking. When the moment of truth arrived, the same thing happened again! My poor fiancé found me crying in the kitchen at midnight in a huge sulk. I haven’t attempted a Nigella recipe since and still feel sour when I see her on TV!


Kate, The Less Refined Mind


Several years ago before my brother and his wife were married, we spent Christmas at their house. And by ‘we’, I mean my whole family: siblings, partners, kids – and my mum…

On Christmas Eve we were enjoying a few drinks in the evening (kids in bed, obvs), and we decided to play Cranium – one of those board games where you have to act out a title/term/saying, etc. My poor sister-in-law was blessed/cursed (you decide) with an ‘action’ card and the words ‘sperm whale’. Do I have to spell the rest out for you?

Suffice to say, my intensely shy and ‘proper’ SIL did herself and our family proud – she secured her place as my brother’s wife during that momentous performance. Even my mum guessed the answer, because really, how could any of us fail to understand her very convincing gestures? It’s a rather special moment which has gone down in family history.

So how about you? What was your worst festive disaster?

#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


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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!!”
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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 6: Guest Blogger Motherhood The Real Deal


shocked baby face #OopsFiles 6I’m delighted that this week’s OopsFiler – ooh look at me, I just made that up! – is one of my favourite bloggers and my very own blog wife don’t you know, Motherhood The Real Deal.  I guess you could say that so far, my guest post series has included stories of mainly ‘self-inflicted’ disaster (here are the #OopsFiles featured to date if you’ve missed them). But sometimes, my  OopsFiler’s post involves a ‘disaster’ inflicted by someone else.  And occasionally, that some one else is a small person…a small person belonging to erm the OopsFiler themselves, no less.  Dear oh dear….


Ouch title image #OopsFiles 6
Readers of my blog may know that I rather love(d)the expression “better than a poke in the eye”. You will find my blog posts littered with it, thrown around carefree in a s***-spraying type manner, with very little regard for what it actually means to be poked in the eye. Yes, full on, poked in the eye, with the full force of a toddler’s finger, right where it really hurts.

Never again will I use the phrase so lightly.

Because I now know, in no uncertain terms, what it actually means to be poked in the eye.


We all know the kid-inflicted injuries can be brutal, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching atrocities. From trying to head butt your brain right out of your skull, to excrutiating scooter-shin which comes from thinking you are clever by hooking the scooter they only used for a split second onto the buggy annihilating your shin in the process.

But being poked square in the eye has to take the absolute biscuit. You would have thought after two and a half years around a little being who has absolutely no regard for your own health, safety and well-being I would have learned by now not to have let my guard down. In hindsight, being in close physical proximity to any toddler should only be approached while wearing a head shield a la Darth Vader like this one…

Darth Vader pic

And God do I wish I had had one that fateful bath-time last weekend.

I was about to be on the receiving end of the mother of all OOOOPS progressing into OOOOOUCH then OOOOOH MYYYY GODDDD then WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS moments.

I had finally got my toddler tyke into the bath, then out of the bath (huzzah!), and we were heading for the pyjama home run with a little cuddle action as a sweetener. The next thing I knew, I was blinded and experiencing a sensation much like someone shoving a piece of Lego in your eye, or Edward Scissor hands trying to pick out a bit of bum fluff from your pupil.

Cue WAILLLLLLLLLING LIKE A BANSHEEEEEEE (much like at childbirth).


Growling monster

Add insult to injury by toddler laughing in my face. And no, it wasn’t an awkward moment laugh but a Look at you, you silly big idiot of a big girl I am an evil egomanic that has absolutely no empathy in such situations kind of laugh.

I sloped off clutching my oops! of an eye leaving the perpetrator in my wake of pain. She was on her own now. This was about survival so of course I swiftly passed the toddler buck on to daddy.

The problem with a major poke in the eye is not only do you have the constant reminder of this oops moment in the form of a throbbing pain FOR DAYS but you also have the visual representation of it too in the form of an eye patch.

When you think eye patches you might think a hot (or perhaps not-so) swash buckling pirate, or perhaps a be-jewelled Gabrielle. Personally I sort of visualised myself looking a bit like this:

sexy pirate pic


Nope, not for me…a cotton pad plastered on with a bit of masking tape was all we could rustle up. I’ll be off to raid the craft box for some glitter later.

pirate pic


Motherhood the Real Deal logoTalya is a freelance writer & blogger.  Driven by the pure frustration (and of course amazing experience!) that is motherhood, and her disbelief at how much people don’t talk about or share, she created Motherhood: The Real Deal to get some of the issues and struggles mothers should be aware of out there.
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The #OopsFiles 3: Guest Blogger Maybe Baby Brothers

maybe-baby-brothers-featuredI’m grinning typing this intro because there were such crossed wires compiling this post (you should see the email/Twitter conversations).  I kept referring to Haidee’s revamped Maybe Baby Brothers blog, new logo etc.  Haidee, meanwhile, had no idea what I was talking about because she erm…hasn’t changed her site!  It turns out I visited her ‘new blog’ in my dreams; yep I now think about blogging in my SLEEP people!  As Haidee said, we could probably just feature our confusing message exchanges for this week’s #OopsFiles.  The lesson here is that dark-haired people can also have blond moments.  But you should read about Haidee’s instead as they’re far funnier.  (FYI I’m never ordering focaccia bread e-v-e-r again.)

Disclaimer: Absolutely Prabulous is not responsible for any stomach injuries or bathroom visits caused by excessive laughter whilst reading this post. 




Ok, so if you haven’t already figured out that I love to have a laugh at my own expense and have a bit of a habit of experiencing sensational blonde moments, you are about to be introduced to the Haidee my friends know and love.

Peppa Pig is a Boy…


According to me anyway! To be fair I never actually WATCHED Peppa Pig, it was always just background noise and I truly thought Peppa Pig was a male pig.  I mean, Peppa?  That sounded like a boys name and he sounded like a boy … here is the proof that this is not made up – the last comment you read leads me to my next point …

Inline image 1

I Thought Thomas the Tank Engine Was American…

Cos everything is American these days!  I thought he was just part of the Disney franchise.  Clearly I suck at accents!  And apparently general knowledge, as everyone I mention this to looks at me like ‘How can you not know that?! Everyone knows that!’. Hopefully this little tidbit does not lose me any of my English readers!


For About 20 Minutes, I Thought a Jackalope Was a Real Animal…


One of my friends was bantering around the idea of a Jackalope as a logo for a business idea and I had never heard of one so I Google imaged it (if it’s on Google then it must be real!). In my defence, I asked a workmate if he had heard of it first and we actually googled it together and we were both saying ‘Wow, I’ve never heard of this animal! How have we never heard of one of these?!’. Then the images started getting a little crazy and we were like ‘Hmm, hold on!’.

I Once Ordered Focaccia Bread at a Cafe By Asking For ‘Fellatio Bread’.

Yes, you read that right! You can read more extensively about that in my post Words Amuck. but to make it super simple for you, here is a cut and paste of that story as told in that post:


When I was in my early 20’s I went to a restaurant for dinner with some girlfriends.  It was a favourite haunt of ours and we knew the menu by heart, so when the waiter came over I knew exactly what to order as a starter without even looking at it:

“I’ll have some fellatio please”

The young (attractive) male waiter just stared at me so I repeated myself ‘Fellatio. You know!’.

Cue awkward silence.

Yep.  While my friends laughed hysterically, the joke went straight over my head and then when it clicked I was mortified.  I just asked a male waiter for fellatio. OMG. Focaccia. Focaccia bread please.

Most embarrassing moment ever.

I Once Put Tongs in the Toaster

You know how your parents always tell you ‘NEVER PUT A KNIFE IN THE TOASTER!’. Well, I took that a little too literally and thought that meant literally never put a knife in the toaster. So my toast got stuck and I stuck the metal tongs in the plugged in toaster to get the toast out.  Cos it wasn’t a knife.  This was last year. Ok, no no, just joking! I was 19 (that’s not that much better though is it?!).

NOTE TO PARENTS: Be literal. Spell it out. Reiterate. Do not, I repeat, do NOT expect your offspring to read between the lines. Ever.

Children, do not put anything metal in the toaster! Be a it a knife, fork, spoon or tongs’.

Spell it out people!  (That’s right, I am reiterating. See what I did there?). I totally blame my mum for this one (only because she isn’t here to defend herself!). Thankfully I survived to tell the tale, must have been all those games of Operation as a kid! This came up in my 21st speeches too but the speaker accidentally said I stuck the thongs in the toaster so it kinda got really awkward at that point! Much like I feel about this post!


And I think I will leave this here as not to bury myself any further!



I’m Haidee, mum to two lovable rogues (aka boys) aged 4 and 3.  Wife.  Working mum.  Self proclaimed coffee addict.  I love to have a good laugh (often at my own expense!) and entertain while also delving into the more serious side of life at times too. My blog is a hodge podge of parenting my two little monkeys, humour, funny anecdotes, inspiration, coffee (you will see this as a recurring theme!) and life in general.

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and her blog Maybe Baby Brothers

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