Cleaning up after the party you weren’t invited too. 

​In this blog, I moan about picking up after my kids (I hope this isn’t just me). 

​​​It’s been a while since my last blog and people keep asking where I’ve been. The truth of the matter is that I’ve been struggling to find my phone or laptop amongst the sea of mass produced plastic shit and half eaten snacks that I now call home. That of course might be a little melodramatic, but only just.

Walking down the stairs after we’ve put the girls to bed often reminds me of when the floodlights are turned on after an open aired gig and the debris is shin deep, leaving you to wade through cups of piss as you head towards the exit doors/kitchen. 

Parts of the house often look as if Toys R Us has been hit by looters after a huge hurricane has cut off access to the emergency services.

After a warm day, the garden is a doppelgänger for the park in Sarah Connors vivid dream about Judgement Day in Terminator 2.

I could go on, but I think you’ll get the gist. 

During my 3 month absence from blogging, little baby Dahlia has continued to grow and grow, (and by grow, I don’t mean that she’s getting fat, I mean that she’s rapidly expanding in all directions – almost to the point where I’m half expecting producers from the Discovery Channel to knock on my door to discuss filming a documentary called ‘Mega Baby’. Honestly, another couple of weeks and she’ll be taller than Aims). With this growth spurt comes an insatiable appetite which requires constant snacks and bowls of apple based slime to accompany her daily 49oz of formula. Unfortunately for our floors and my stress levels, Dahlia’s motor skills aren’t quite there yet, so things like Rusks (which are still as delicious as they were 33 years ago by the way) get a good gumming before being launched at the deck in their newly mushed state. During one sitting, a freshly mopped floor can quickly become overwhelmed by substances that aren’t dissimilar to the sludge you find on British beaches when the tides gone out for miles. But gnawing on snacks and lobbing them south seems to makes her happy, so what can you do? 

As gross as floor slime is, Dahlia is only a participant in our daily war against being physically able to see the floor. The main contributor is our very own tiny Terrorist. Now 3 years old, and never still (even when she sleeps) – Faith has ramped it up on both the princess and diva stakes in equal measure. If you watch Faith for long enough, you could be forgiven for thinking that she’s been raised by chimpanzees, as she struts around the house emptying the contents of boxes/jars/tins that she finds onto the floor for no real, apparent reason. She also has a love for dressing up and nudity in equal measure, meaning that on average, she’ll have more wardrobe changes per hour than a Mariah Carey concert. However, the main difference between Faith and Mariah is that the latter will have a team of people to wash, press and hang her outfits where as Faith’s outfits are left strewn about the place until the evening litter pick takes place.​

Here’s an example; 

​One of the things I love the most about Faith is that she’s a free spirit that does what she wants. So any attempt to teach or discipline her is futile at this stage, you’ve just got to sit back, smile, and enjoy the chaos (writing blogs can sometimes be a good way of relieving stress). 

Other factors to the daily slum include;

Kinder Eggs/Kids Magazines.

Both items are usually located near the bit where you pay of any supermarket, so the chances of you walking past without buying one are slim. The things attached to the front of magazines are pointless of bits of plastic shit, disguised as Elsa or Peppa pig, or whatever other thing Faith loves that week. After the 5 seconds of enjoyment she gets out of each individual piece of shit, they end up heading one way…..towards the floor. 


My wonderful partner has many strengths, but waste management isn’t one of them. I don’t think she fully understands the concept of bins, and was probably a Romany traveller in a previous life. In fact, to hell with it. As I’ll end up on the sofa for this anyway, I might as well go to town….Aims, you’re a scruffy bugger with some of the chimpanzeeish traits displayed by Faith (but I wouldn’t change you for the world).


Naturally, people want to buy the kids presents and I’m not knocking anyone for it. It’s great that the kids are surrounded by people that love them and it’s a beautiful thing. However, from my own selfish vantage point, it’s more unnecessary shit for me to stand on the second I’ve taken off my shoes. Jigsaw puzzles are a particular favourite, multiple pieces of pointless, scattered about my entire house like jumbo confetti. 


It takes me a long time to do things because my fundamental flaw as a human is that I lack motivation. 5 minute jobs get shelved for weeks because I’m a big tired bear that just wants to drink wine and have a nap. If I packed the things away or went up to the loft within a fortnight of Aims asking, some of the bigger shit that winds me right up would even be in sight.

So anyway, this is life now. A bit like 18 years of community service but without committing a silly crime. I guess that’s just how it is, apologies if you were reading this in the hope of advice. 

Until the next time I can be bothered,




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