The Other Half's an arsehole

I was going to talk about more snippets from our holiday in Ibiza but instead I have decided to have a bitch and moan about The Other Half who right at this moment in time has really really annoyed me and brought me to the brink of tears.

It all started yesterday when he said he was going to be working late. Uh Oh I hear you utter but it's not like that, at least I hope not, as he sometimes genuinely does work late. Anyway, I didn't hear from him all afternoon and evening until eventually I was woken by a text in the middle of the night saying, "In Holiday Inn" and that was it. Okay, I thought. So he has missed the last train home. It happens.

I generally try and be pretty chilled when this happens as it has done before but even my patience is tried somewhat because I know he is only working so late before going out on the lash with work colleagues. He gets incredibly selfish when drunk and unfortunately it is me who bears the brunt of it. I am sure any blokes who might read this would say what was wrong with his behaviour, let the poor bastard let off some steam. But I reckon there are a fair few women out there who could identify with how I am feeling.

Anyway, as I said I tried to be very chilled about it, didn't call him, didn't text. But then by mid morning today I still hadn't heard anything so I decided to call him. No reply. Next thing I get a text saying, "Sorry with client. Love u." which is generally code for I know I am being an arsehole but I hope this little platitude will smooth things over. That was the last I heard and he didn't even bother to ask how Pork Chop was.

I didn't start worrying until just a couple of hours ago after trying to call him to find out what time he was going to be home and if he wanted dinner. No reply. I texted. No reply. I called again. No reply. I texted again. Twice. Still no reply. I phoned again a few times to no avail. I am conscious of the fine line we have to tread between trying to get hold of someone and appearing like a bit of bunny boiler. However, I think I have special dispensation being as I am the mother of his child and we do live together. So now it is fair to say I am pretty upset and am not quite sure what I have done to deserve being treated like this.

Of course, if I do raise it when he does eventually roll in no doubt pissed off his head and stinking of fags it will be my fault for getting on his back. He will tell me he is bringing home the bacon after all while I am at home and therefore in his mind that is a catch all phrase for anything selfish he decides to do. I will no doubt go to bed without him, he will do his usual of falling asleep on the sofa and then tomorrow moan about how ill he feels and expect me to run around him like a eager to please puppy.

I fear I am in danger of becoming a neurotic and suspicious doormat here. I always thought i was pretty chilled out when it came to relationships. Don't call too often, don't appear too eager, let them do the running and come to you. However, I am seriously beginning to wonder if he is seeing someone else and he thinks I am such a big mug he can get away with feeding me the bullshit about working late I will of course not question it because he is the breadwinner after all and doing an important job. I am however, just a housewife now and should therefore not question his motives or actions. God it pisses me off!

However, at least writing this has provided some sort of cathartic release and stopped me from actually bursting into tears. The question is where do I go from here? Do I continue calling him and probably making myself look even more clingy and needy or do I just leave it and wait until he deigns to put in an appearance? I keep having imaginary conversations with him - all the things I would love to say to him but probably never will and will just continue seething with resentment instead. Maybe I should let him read this so he gets some idea of how I feel.

Anyway, rant over. I was excited to see on Kevin and Perry goes large the beach where we spent the last few days of holiday in Ibiza. It was quite strange seeing the place where we had been sunbathing just last week beign used for a film.

Ibiza 3 - sunless, sea and beaches

Once we had touched down in Ibiza, collected our bags and picked up our hire car we drove to Es Canar where we were renting an apartment. Our mood was light as it was the first day of our holiday and despite the mad dash at the airport nothing was going to ruin it.

We eventually found the apartment itself which was pleasant enough but how to get to it? It obviously wasn't built for anyone disabled or with a pram with no lift or helpful ramps in sight and we struggled up the three flights of stairs to the top floor. The apartment had a wonderful view across the sea but unfortunately it was north facing and barley a slither of sunlight touched balcony - something else the owners forgot to mention we rented it. The air conditioning was also broken and there was no high chair for Pork Chop which meant we had to construct a sort of chair out of a plastic garden seat and a mini inflatable lilo. I know I sound a little mean but we had paid quite a lot for the week and had certain expectations.

Still, despite these few niggles we settled down to relax, take in the sea breeze and the sunny view and polish off a bottle of Baileys and some red wine.

The video my other half made of me uttering, "I'm not pissed, I am just tired" will no doubt be recycled at every family gathering for years to come. Anyway I still maintain I wasn't really drunk and that a long day's travelling was just catching up with me. I did feel a bit guilty however when Pork Chop awoke in the middle of the night demanding to be fed and I still felt slightly wobbly as she latched herself on. I don't make habit of it and I did feel rather guilty but I sincerely hope my health visitor isn't reading this!

A new dawn, a new day and we decided to take a look around Es Canar which, to our mounting horror, was the Ibizean equivalent of Faliraki. No exotic paella or unusual Spanish dish for sale on the beach but instead you could order a chip butty and a pint of Murphy's. Bars and clubs drowning in flashing lights and neon signs carpeted the main street and Britons in mini skirts and impossibly high heels tottered along. It was our worst nightmare. We actually visited San Antonio while there and surprisingly it was lovely but has been unfairly burdened with a reputation as being Europe's clubbing capital.

Now I am English born and bread and proud of my nationality - except when I am abroad. I cringe at the sight of the Englishman in a foreign land, shouting loudly at the waiter because they think they will understand him more. When I lived in France and travelled back and forth on the ferry I used to speak French only because I didn't want people to think I was like all the other English. I am also embarrassed by my severe lack of Spanish language skills which just amount to the odd gracias and por favor here and there.

But to come to the point, we made a decision there and then to spend as much time as possible away from Es Canar and the apartment. First beach we visited wasn't much better. Cala Llonga was full of fat Britons of all ages, showing too much flesh in tiny bikinis and swim suits. I have never understood the desire to show off everything. Even before I had a baby I generally didn't enjoy showing off my midriff but now after childbirth I wouldn't been seen dead flaunting my sagging flesh.

Second beach was Cala Vedella which was generally pretty lovely except for the dozens of pink jellyfish floating at the water's edge. I only noticed quite how many there were after getting a rather painful sting across my leg. I did ask The Other Half to pee on me in the absence of any vinegar but he snorted with derision at the very idea and refused. The Ibizeans are all very laid back but I think even they would have drawn the line at that.

Third beach was Cala d'hort which was very tiny and picturesque but also swamped with jellyfish. Pork Chop didn't seem to like it that much either so after half an hour there we eventually gave up and went to eat and overcooked, overpriced fish and seafood lacking paella in a nearby restaurant. The Other Half was complaining for days after that his kidneys were hurting because of the amount of salt in it.

Finally several days in we came across one called Cala Benirras right at the north end of the island which was the beautiful beach for beautiful people. We felt like interlopers who had somehow managed to sneak into the VIP area of an exclusive party and were at any moment going to get kicked out. I have never seen so many bronzed, toned 6ft blondes in bikinis with perfectly pert tits that have obviously not been drained by breastfeeding. There was even a photoshoot taking place there one day. At one point an impossibly skinny model was sitting on a rock being preened by a very gay looking man who was putting in masses of hair extensions. Anyway suffice to say, despite feeling wholly inadequate being there we settled in for the remainder of the holiday.

Ibiza 2 - plane toilets and babies' bums

Now, before I crawled gratefully into my bed last night (I still have that cold) I had got to the point where we had finally got on the plane and could breathe a sigh of relief. Or so I thought.

Pork Chop had been merrily farting for England all the while we were in the security queue. The smell was quite ripe and it was most embarrassing. She was clearly due for a change of nappy sooner rather than later. Yet, because of our late mad dash to the plane we never had a chance to stop anywhere to remove the offending item. Pork Chop was not in the least bit bothered by the state of her bottom - she never really is - but once on the plane, seat belt signs illuminated, she started to get a bit tetchy.

"Give her some boob," said The Other Half helpfully. So in the confines of the seat I duly let her latch herself on. Now here is a curious thing. Often when I give her that first early morning breast feed it really seems to get my bowels moving to the point where on occasion I have had to dash to the toilet with Pork Chop still attached and finish breastfeeding her there. On the plane just about to take off I was suddenly aware of the familiar sensation but without the luxury of dashing to the nearest WC. What to do? My stomach was in knots and I was sweating profusely as the contents of my bottom continued their relentless march towards their exit despite my best efforts to keep them in. I began tapping my foot maniacally on the floor, twitching like some sort of fool, in a vain attempt to keep my mind occupied and my bottom from exploding. The seconds ticked by so slowly. "What's the matter with you?" said the other half. "I need to go to the toilet, I'm turtling," I hissed. He looked at me incredulously, "You can't go for a shit in a plane toilet, that's disgusting." But I didn't have much choice in the matter - it was use a tiny convenience 36,000ft in the sky or soil myself and endure even more discomfort and huge amounts of embarrassment.

Bong, and the seatbelt signs finally went off. I almost fell out of my chair with relief and shoved Pork Chop on The Other Half while half running down the aisle to make sure I was first in the loo. The wave of relief that swept over me as I sat on the metal seat was wonderful. It could have been a well-used Portakabin at Glastonbury for all I cared.

Two minutes later it was Pork Chop's turn to be bundled in and with much shoving and fumbling her bottom was also duly cleaned and encased in a new nappy. Surprisingly she hadn't actually done the same as me and for her it was just farts all the time. But with the poo panic over and less than two hours to touchdown the holiday could really begin.

We're going to Ibiza

Last week we were lucky enoungh to spend a week in Ibiza, sunning ourselves on beautiful sandy beaches and enjoying good Spanish food. We went just outside the main season to avoid lots of families and of course took Pork Chop with us.

Full of anticipation we packed our bags ready to get up in the dead of night in time to catch our 6am flight. The Other Half didn't bother to go to bed while I spent a few fitful hours waiting for the 3am alarm call and getting progressively more annoyed with him for not coming to bed. The mooing cow alarm clock crashed through my brain bang on time and bleary eyed we packed up the car only transferring a bewildered Pork Chop at the very last minute. The theory behind this was to disturb her as little as possible but despite our best efforts she sat there wide-eyed and grinning at us like a Cheshire cat. At least she wasn't screaming her head off.

A short journey to the airport and a bus ride from the car later and we arrived at check in. Given the recent security scares we were expecting it to be horrendous but were pleasantly surprised to see the queue moving forward with remarkably un-British efficiency. The Other Half and I stood there rather smugly as we congratulated ourselves on how easy it had so far been despite the early hour. We were brought back to earth with a bump when we saw the queue for security snaking round the terminal like a human dominoes world record attempt.

There was nothing to do but join the end and hope that it moved quickly. Time ticked on relentlessly - one and a half hours before the flight, one hour, forty minutes, thirty minutes, twenty-five minutes. We were by now exchanging worried glances and wondering if we would actually make the plane. It was probably our fault for not leaving extra time but that did nothing to assail our nervousness.

Finally we reached the front and The Other Half, who had already obsessed over whether the tickets and passports were in his man bag about a thousand times, breathed a visible sigh of relief. But worse still was to come.

The security officer shouted: "Shoes and belts off please. Everything on the conveyor."

The Other Half: "What even the pushchair?"

Security guard: "Yes sir, even the pushchair."

The Other Half: "Do want the baby on there as well?"

Security Guard: "No sir, just the pushchair."

With The Other Half's feeble attempt at humour having gone down like the proverbial lead balloon we joined yet another queue to wait while they fetched Pork Chop's changing bag so we could taste all her food and liquids just in case it was explosives with a bit of chicken puree on the side. Despite all the warnings that people were not to carry lipsticks, lighters, fluids etc the girl in front, either because of sheer stupidity or in a misguided attempt to try and safeguard her Estee Lauder makeup and silver lighter, had stuffed the lot in her hand luggage. Consequently, the next security officer went through her bag with a fine tooth comb, checking every page ofher diary and rubbing every surface with a cloth to detect explosive residues. Only when all her illicit items were confiscated did we get waved over.

By now beads of sweat were forming on my head and The Other Half was hopping madly from one foot to the other. Pork Chop, blissfully unaware that we were in grave danger of missing her first ever flight abroad just sat there grinning at anyone who cared to look her way.

Security Officer: "Could you taste water for me please...and this juice...and this one. Oh it's frozen, that should still be okay."

Finally she pulled out a pot with pale yellow powdered formula in it. "Oh that's baby powder, no need to taste it, that's fine. Off you go!"

So that's okay then. Now forgive me for being slightly sceptical here and to be fair they are looking for explosives not drugs but surely at tub of powdered baby formula would be a very simple but devious way to smuggle drugs. And seeing as we were heading to Ibiza, arguably the European party Mecca, albeit with a baby, I was just a bit surprised they didn't check that too.

Anyway, it probably wasn't a bad thing as we had to dash literally with pram under one arm and baby under the other to the gate where we were embarassingly the last people to arrive. Finally we were crammed in like cattle on our lovely charter plane and could sit back for the next two hours. We were finally going to Ibiza!

Indiscretions a l'etranger

Now I know I mentioned indiscretions before but first I suppose I ought to talk about how the Redhead and I settled in. It really wasn't too hard - we basically went to lots of bars. The town we were staying in happened to have one street in particular which was just lined with them on both sides. There were so many different clubs and bars that you could probably spend ten years there and never tire of places to go. On the very first night we moved in we dragged my reluctant English boyfriend, who had helped me move my stuff, to the nearest bar where we met a lot of The Redhead's friends who just happened to be studying at the business school there. They were all French and The Redhead and I were in our element. A few glasses of wine and cidre soon helped loosen our tongues and improved our confidence in speaking no end. Unfortunately my poor boyfriend was not impressed and ended up flouncing off early in a huff.

I actually feel rather bad about him now as he really did care for me and I did for him for a long time (I actually took his cherry!). I just wasn't ready to settle down and several months into my French sojourn we split up. He was a country boy from the Welsh valleys where it was expected to marry young and pop out a few children, have Sunday lunch together every week and live not more than two miles from the rest of the family. I, however, wanted to go to France and let my hair down. In the end I felt suffocated by his constant attention - the more I distanced myself the more he called demanding to know who I was with, what I was doing, what I was discussing and when I would be home. It got to the point where he would be crying on the phone to me and The Redhead would pull the plug out the wall so we could get on with going out. It seems pretty selfish now but at the time I just felt like I was struggling for breath. I haven't seen him for many years and often wonder what happened to him.

Anyway I digress. As I said The Redhead and I set about making friends by basically drinking lots of alcohol and visiting lots of bars. I think she lasted about three weeks before our faithful intentions all went to pot, I managed about four or five. One night, we went to a rather notorious and seedy nightclub, which we ended up frequenting on an alarming basis due to its proximity to our apartment. On this particular night it wasn't long before we were approached by two lovely French boys - Arnaud and Air Force One (well at least that's what we called him because at the time we couldn't catch his name)and it sounded like the American presidential plane. In typical wooing Frenchman style they bought us drinks, rock and roll danced with us and lit our cigarettes until the early hours of the morning. When the club finally chucked us out we staggered home inviting them back for a nightcap which seemed like a good idea at the time. Drinking more alcohol was clearly the last thing on their minds and barely had the front door shut before Arnaud was closing The Redhead's bedroom door, on my fingers which bloody hurt, and Air Force One was ushering me into mine.

At this stage of the game, having never been unfaithful before I wasn't about to start then and as Air Force One turned towards me and lunged clumsily at my mouth I swiftly moved to the side, pointing at my boyfriend's picture and uttering: "Je suis desolee, j'ai un copain." To be fair to him he took it on the chin and left quickly while I settled down to sleep for what was left of the night. However, it is fair to say that sleep eluded me for many hours due to the paper thin walls of our rooms. I was treated to or endured, depending on which way you look at it, the dulcet sounds of The Redhead being banged senseless by Arnaud. Every oui, every yes, every flesh slapping flash moment could be heard in my room. To this day I swear they were doing it doggy style and The Redhead never did make it to lectures the next day.

Ill babies and delectable Frenchmen

Pork Chop has now given me the cold that her Daddy gave to her, although his of course was the dreaded man flu and involved much wailing on the sofa along with outlandish demands for Feast bars at 11pm. Anyway, I am sitting here writing this with a thick head and feeling somewhat under the weather.

Earlier the munchkin and I scuttled off to baby rock and rhyme at the local library. This is basically a gathering of mums with their babies and toddlers and we all sing nursery rhymes - most of us, very badly. I personally cannot sing to save my life although I make the effort for my daughter's sake and just hope that the other mothers' voices drown out my screeching. I also can't remember half the words having last sung nursery rhymes when I was about two. So it generally goes something like, "I'm a jingle jangle scarecrow with a jingle jangle head.... da dada di dum di da mumble mumble mumble." But Pork Chop seems to enjoy it and it gets us out of the house for an hour.

On the walk home I started thinking about my past in that I wasn't always a well behaved aspiring yummy mummy and that I had actually lived a rather despicable and colourful few months in France. I went over there as part of my degree to learn French properly in the late Nineties. My friend, I shall call her The Redhead to save her blushes as she is now happily married with one child and another due imminently, and I searched high and low for an apartment. We were determined to go local rather than stay in halls of residence with other English students who never uttered more than a oui or non the whole time they were there. In the end we found a beautiful but miniscule apartment right in the centre of town. Dentist, doctor and bank on the door step, McDonalds and Quick just a five minute walk in either direction and, most importantly, a not very salubrious nightclub just around the corner. We moved in and set about making friends with the locals.

Now it must be pointed out that I did then have an English boyfriend of two years who had asked me to marry him but I was only 20, somewhat terrified of settling down and France was my great escape. The Redhead also had a French boyfriend having worked the previous few summers in the country. But as he was in Lille amd my boyfriend was in England it wasn't too long before certain indiscretions were committed by us. I would like to blame the alcohol - we managed to consume 18 bottles of wine and a bottle of creme de cassis in the first two weeks we were there - but we both knew what we were up to.

And as for what those indiscretions were shall have to wait as Pork Chop needs tending to.

Dentists and naughty schoolgirls

Pork Chop has a cold at the moment which means I am not getting a great deal of sleep. The poor little mite has snot pouring out of her nose but she enjoyed her swimming lesson nevertheless - horrid mummy making her go regardless! Granny came along too and thoroughly enjoyed watching Pork Chop splash around.

Having enjoyed a leisurely lunch with my mother (Granny in case you hadn't realised), who had actually taken the day off to do a spot of babysitting, it was my turn to slope off to see the torturer, oops sorry, hygienist.

Now rewind about four months when Pork Chop was just two months old and that was when I was originally meant to go. However, it all went a bit pear-shaped because of a lack of antibiotics. Basically I have a heart murmur or un souffle coeur as a doctor in France once told me. It has never bothered me, I never knew about until I was 21 but by some curious quirk of nature it means whenever I have dental work done I have to take a dose of the ABs beforehand because otherwise bacteria released could cause an infection in my heart. I secretly suspect the risk of this is probably quite small however, the dentist won't do any work until I have taken them.

On that first occasion I rushed around getting Pork Chop looked after and arrived for my appointment somewhat flustered, forgot the ABs and was promptly shown the door. My poor mother must have thought I was mental as I phoned ( you must remember I was still a bit post natal at this point) and burst into tears.

This time round there was no problem. With Pork Chop duly fed and left curled up in her cot I settled down into the hygienist's chair for half an hour of pain and bleeding. My mouth now feels as though it has done five rounds with Mike Tyson. On top of that I was told off for not cleaning my teeth properly and am now supposed to shove a tiny little brush in between the gaps every time I clean them. In my defence, I am not as slovenly as you may think and do vigorously brush my teeth twice a day. However, it seems that you are supposed to clean in between the gaps with a vicious wire brush regularly to make sure they are really spotless. I went away, duly chastised, feeling somewhat like a misbehaving schoolgirl and £40 lighter.

So now I am off to use my funny little wire brushes while my Pork Chop continues to sleep soundly in her bed. But before I go I just wanted to add my two pence worth on the subject of a little known change in the law. Littlejohn beat me to it in the Mail today but I agree with him and so does my other half - who the hell thought it was a good idea to make failure to have a bell on your bicycle a criminal offence? You can now be fined up to £2,500 or be imprisoned for up to two years. It seems utterly ridiculous and yet another stupid legal stick with which to beat law-abiding people. Shoplifting? Go ahead, help yourself. No bell on your bike? Go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect £200. Obviously there are people in power who have nothing better to do than think up irritating rules designed to impinge on our freedom that little bit more. Prisons are already overcrowded. I await with interest the first news story to be published about little old Mrs Marjorie Jones, from rural Devon, banged up in Holloway because she forgot to put a bell on her bike.

Baby days

Six months ago I became a mother for the first time and it turned my world upside down. Having previously worked as a reporter and news editor I thought I was used to pressure. And, no doubt like many first-time mums before me, I naiively believed the baby would fit around my life - how wrong I was. My little daughter, Pork Chop, much as I love her to bits, really did take over. My boobies became her boobies, the bags under my eyes acquired their own bags and I became a social lepper amongst my non-parent friends overnight. Six months on things have settled down loads but it still amazes me how much my life is ruled by Pork Chop. Oh and I am still somewhat of a social lepper havign sent a dozen texts to various friends and elliciting just one response.

As for Pork Chop, she is currently sitting in front of the TV watching the Tweenies - I ashamed to say I am not one of those parents who has the ability to entertain their child 100 per cent of the time. While she does have a lot of attention from me inevitably the more mundane things in life such as cleaning, cooking etc get in the way. However, TV does provide a wonderful distraction for her and I like to convince myself that the odd hour here or there in front of the box is educational for her. It also gives me a chance to do things like this.

Having got over the trauma of childbirth and to a certain extent got my sleep back I have started to work from home writing the odd freelance article here and there. I should be writing one now which is due shortly but I just don't seem to have the drive today. It doesn't actually make a lot of money (I am now fully supported by my other half) but it keeps me sane and allows me to do something adult that doesn't involve pureeing baby foods or changing pooey nappies. And that really is also the point of this blog - to have the chance to write and do something not too baby orientated although no doubt I will continue to mention Pork Chop as the days tick on because she occupies most of my time and, of course, I love her to bits.

So, I hope to continue musing about work and motherhood, politics and petrol prices and just about anything that pops into my head on a particular day.