Astonishingly it is true, I have done all these things. Can you believe it?

Long ago I was traumatised, at the height of my teenage vegetarianism, when my French exchange hosts attempted to take me fishing. Treating the whole thing as if it were a bit of harmless fun, rather than the callous blood sport that I knew it to be. And there was a poor fish, wriggling on the end of a hook and gasping for his life, with a whole family of chuckling Frenchies loving it and looking at me expectantly. And me, attempting to convey in pre-GCSE French, that I really didn’t want any part of it.

But that was then. I am harder now. This time there was me, at Bibury Trout Farm, catching the unsuspecting trout, trapping it in a net, and bludgeoning it to death with a rounded stick, in front of 7 children, for no reason other than that I had set myself a challenge to do some unpleasant things for 3 months.

Interestingly, the kids were more interested than distressed. They looked on agog as I caught it and lifted it from the water. And stared harder as it wriggled in the net. Caitlin the 5 year old photographer forgot her camera duty as I began beating it to death, she was too horrified to focus. Another friend took over on the pictures front.

Then came the washing it and gutting it. I cut its throat, removed its head, ripped out the innards, and washed it inside and out. It was altogether a happier prospect once its eyes were no longer on me. The children were all fascinated. ‘Is that real blood Mummy?’ ‘Is it dead Mummy?’ And then ‘What is that brown stuff?’ ‘Is it really poo?! In real life! Mummy are you washing fish poo???’ And yes, indeed Mummy was. How that cheered everyone up!

We got the trout home, and the next morning I found a recipe and baked it in the oven, with lemons, garlic and a load of olive oil, all wrapped up in a silver foil parcel. It tasted quite good! And its lucky I thought so, because I then ate 3/4 of the damn thing myself. Dave politely tried it before revealing that he doesn’t like fresh water fish. Caitlin insisted she would not be eating any of it, and no amount of persuasion or threats would budge her. Rosie and Eva agreed to eat a mouthful in exchange for ’10 points’ from their father, which were quickly proven to be of zero material worth. Inexplicably the simple pair went on to eat another 9 mouthfuls each, in order to win ‘100 points’ – equally meaningless. That was as far as they could be persuaded to go, and it still left me with an awful lot of trout to consume.

But that is a first for me, on many fronts. Eating my own kill. Very Bear Grylls! I’ll be spearing bison next…

This challenge took the form of a tremendously jolly morning, laying someone else’s patio. It is not exactly building, but still, it is manual labour and learning something that I didn’t previously know how to do. So that will do.

And I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it! I always secretly wanted to be a builder. Sadly I was too clever at school for anyone to take such aspirations seriously. But I think I may now be on the verge of making a late foray into the construction trades. I wonder where I can get an apprenticeship?

I mixed the cement, by hand. I chipped old cement off of paving slabs. I slapped cement in a hole and fitted the slabs upon it, and bashed them down to achieve an even finish. I was remarkably well tutored throughout, and had a thoroughly enjoyable morning’s play.

I am delighted with the results, and now feel qualified to build anything. Feel free to send me your requests!

I have been trying for a while to pluck up the courage to make this request in our local garage/coach hire company. And today I struck gold.

I popped in, and was referred to Barry, the man who can. ‘I have an odd request’ I began. ‘Hmf. That sounds like it’ll cost me money’. Not so promising.

‘No, its nothing like that’. I giggled nervously. My friend who works there also giggled. Barry looked at us suspiciously. ‘Two giggling women. This could be bad’. ‘Or very good,’ suggested his colleagues, sniggering.

I disabused them of the notion that anything unsavoury was intended. ‘I want to drive a bus’ I blurted out.

Barry looked a little surprised. Then thought about it, head on one side. ‘I can see a couple of issues with that’ he began. ‘You have to have a provisional licence before you even get behind the wheel, for a start’. ‘Ah well’ I said. ‘Never mind’.

Then Barry remembered something.
‘But I don’t give a shit!’ he declared, brightly. ‘Come on. We’ll take one down the Spine Road’. He picked up his keys and was off. (The Spine Road is a busy A road leading out of our village, popular with large lorries).

This was a most unexpected turn of events. I had imagined at best getting behind the wheel for a photo, and maybe going backwards and forwards 5 yards on their forecourt.
‘We’ll take one without our name on the side’. This was the only precaution deemed necessary. And a wise one, no doubt.

So sure enough, the request was no sooner uttered than done. I was driving a bus on a major thoroughfare, with a supervisor who was rather more absorbed in filming me than monitoring my driving. He pointed out brake and accelerator, I released the handbrake and we were off.

I thought he was joking about the roundabout. But no. ‘Just get in the middle of the road. Don’t let anything come near you.’ And it worked! And back we went. ‘Go on then, put your foot down’ he urged. I got up to 50mph! Nothing was hit, no one got hurt. I did not upturn the bus in a ditch.

A ruddy triumph! It was all rather exciting! I am still a bit giddy about it even now. I’d better go and ring the flying school next. Where will it all end!?

I wish I could report an unmitigated success story here. It was a worthy effort, but as Eva reported earlier this evening, ‘I think you did do 4 shoutings’. But that is a triumph compared to most days.

I had told them the challenge was coming. ‘Mummy is going to try not to shout, at all, tomorrow’, I explained last night at dinner. 6 eyes widened with incomprehension. The scene was beyond their imaginings.

‘So I am going to need your help’ I went on. ‘Will you try extra hard to be good, so that I don’t shout at you?’ Touchingly they are still young enough and sweet enough to try and support my efforts, rather than deliberately sabotage them for their own amusement. Though I did see a glint in one pair of eyes that betrayed it had crossed her mind. Innocence is not long for this household, I fear.

I can account for the ‘4 shoutings’. Driving around Swindon, slightly lost, with the signposts and sat nav arguing between themselves, and 3 people in the back singing all the songs from the Lion King, out of time with one another, all shrieking that it was their turn to be the loudest… Mummy forgot herself.

In a crowded playground, trying to monitor 6 children at once, and discovering that 3 of them had ‘left’, without explanation… Shouting number 2 occurred on their return.

Then there were a couple more which were only very mildly provoked. Bad mummy. But it does get harder to be tolerant after the first 10 hours of childcare.

Broadly though, it was one of our better days. We fed chickens. We bought new school shoes. We met friends in a large park and played and walked and mixed up a cauldron of dead flowers in a puddle. We made playdoh in 3 colours and created ladybirds on a leaf. We all ate our tea. We went to another park and played football and everyone kind of cooperated. (I realise that sounds like a week’s worth of activities. Tomorrow will be less ambitious!)

But achieving all that with only 4 shoutings goes down as a success in my book!

I really thought I might crack on this one. I failed to get up for a pre-dawn breakfast, so actually I was fasting for almost 24 hours.

I popped this on the list, as I very rarely test my will power, and also because I am accustomed to grazing the entire day, now that most of my time is based at home. It is a bad habit, both for weight gain and productivity. I can rarely settle to any task without a cup of tea and a biscuit in hand. Bad news!

Doing without breakfast was fine. It is too busy dealing with the brood to get any pleasure from eating breakfast anyway. It was one less thing to think about and that was fine. But starting the day without a cup of tea is a disaster. I just never feel as if I have woken up!

By 7.30 am I relaxed my own rules to allow myself to drink water.

At 11.30 I relaxed them further to allow a cup of tea. It was the only way. I would have caved in otherwise. I was weak, grumpy and headachey. But with a mug of tea in hand, all was well again.

Missing lunch wasn’t really a problem. I had one more cup of tea.

The afternoon was challenging as I was trapped in a car with 3 children for 3 hours, while they munched their way through a ton of food. I almost ate their leftovers out of habit! But managed not to.

So, I just about got to sort-of dusk. By 7pm, I was tucking into 2 platefuls of dinner, and 3 puddings. I had arrived at the in laws’ house and needed to show my appreciation, you see. They certainly couldn’t have been left thinking they had cooked a bad meal! Though they may be reviewing their supplies for the weekend with some anxiety lest I maintain such levels of gluttony.

So I conclude that I can go without food for a day, but caffeine is another matter!

We have thrown our hats in with the Village Twinning Association, and are taking on a range of rather random experiences as a result.

A bus load of French 10 year olds came last week to visit our village. They were all to be squirrelled away among any families that had failed to make an excuse quickly enough – of which we were one. Volunteers were thin on the ground so the French were placed in twos and threes, rather than singly.

I absolutely take my hat off to all the kids who came. It seems a massive ask of a 10 year old: they were travelling without their families, had no idea what they were coming to, and many had only been learning English for a half hour a week, for a year or two. It was a heroic mission.

I collected our two from the coach, at 9.30pm on Monday. They had been travelling for about 12 hours. We walked back round the corner, approached the driveway to our squalid quarters, and only at that point did I realise what an imbecilic idea it was, to try to accommodate 7 people who couldn’t really converse in a 2 bedroom bungalow. I had imagined the French girls happily bunking in with my 3, for a week-long festival of sleepover madness. As ever, there was a large gulf between fantasy and reality. These two both looked absolutely terrified. Too baffled and shy to accept anything to eat or drink, or to say anything, in any language. Mmm. Difficult.

I suggested they might prefer to sleep together in the lounge, away from the fearsome trio of small English girls. The relief on both faces was unmistakeable. I fashioned 2 beds for them, but when I said goodnight half an hour later, they were both snuggled up in one. For the entire week, I barely saw a sliver of daylight pass between the two of them. They showered together, toileted together, slept together, ate together.

My children have roughly 10 words of French between them. The French girls, if they knew more English, did not reveal the fact. Mealtimes were mildly excruciating. Dave, undaunted, pressed on with cheerful chat. He asked everyone first in English, then in French, about their pets, hobbies, and siblings. 5 young faces stared back at him, featuring disdain, amusement, and total astonishment by turns. Responses were monosyllabic, at best. I have never been so happy to busy myself with housework.

It became clear that we needed to leave the house, a lot. Day trips were already planned for the French class, but we would need some evening entertainment. Soft play was a triumph, as it required no communication, and a play date with another twinning family also ensured safety in numbers for everyone concerned. With those things in place, a good time was had by all!

Our French guests retired early, and since they were sleeping in our only living space, so did we! Dave simply shook his head in my general direction, as we settled for the night at 8pm. The whole thing, his face clearly conveyed, had been my idea. I reminded him we do not like to operate a culture of blame.

And still, the overall experience was worthwhile. We have met other hosting families. We have practised our French, and hugely boosted the children’s enthusiasm for language learning. We have had a new experience! We hopefully offered the French some insights into English life (though I think their main discovery will be of the unimaginable quantity of breakfast consumed by English 5 year olds).

And by the time our young visitors left us, I like to think a degree of fondness had developed on all sides. We exchanged gifts. My kids made them cards saying ‘au revoir’. The French girls hugged and kissed us all. We photographed one another extensively.

They also took photographs of every room in my house, and I now live in fear of French social workers turning up here, to question the keeping of foreign children in a condemned building. On the plus side, the house feels immeasurably bigger since they left!

This was actually very easy. I have just done it in 10 minutes. I googled ‘apply to be on a TV game show’, and found that Blockbusters is back and is recruiting. Yes, you remember it – ‘I’ll have a P please Bob’ (arf arf). I have just sent in my application form and photograph and I await news of my potential audition. Celebrity beckons! Though I suspect it would be on a channel so obscure that I am unlikely to be stopped in the street as a consequence.

Another one down. Just the 66 remain…

I have surely done this. I can’t think of a great deal of note to report, but I have been commenting all over the place, tweeting proactively, looking up friends of friends, inviting folk to be my friends, exchanging newsy messages with the people I get back in touch with… is there more to it than that? I have not yet plumbed the depths of completing quizzes to establish how welsh/northern/Londonish I am, but surely that is optional!?

Is there more? Do tell me! And does anyone use the Google + thing? Is that important? Guidance very welcome!

This was rubbish. Totally and utterly pants. I spent the whole week tired, grumpy, and shouting at the little people. There is no upside! I didn’t even manage to do anything very productive, unless you count the previous night’s washing up (abandoned in order to go to bed early).

Ah well. At least I have established once and for all that I am not a morning person. Plus everyone in my household now agrees that life is better when mummy is allowed to sleep. So it is a victory of sorts.

EEEEooooowwwwwwtttttccchhhhhh!

So, one of the more dreaded of deeds is done. Good lord. I cannot believe people go in for that on a regular basis.

My first difficulty was how to book it. What does one actually say? ‘Do you do Brazilians?’ Surely not. And is that even how one refers to it? Should one perhaps request ‘intimate waxing’ or some other polite euphemism? I simply didn’t know.

(I was reminded of an HILAAAArious student prank I once played, in the small hours of a morning, when I phoned a home moving company called Beaver Removals, and told them ‘I have a particularly troublesome beaver, I wonder if you could come and remove it for me?’ (How they must have laughed.) I wonder if that approach would serve me now?)

In the end, I found a beautician with an explicit price list and an email contact form, and thus the appointment was made.

And I presented myself today.

And while it was as painful as you would imagine such a procedure might be; it was actually less humiliating than I feared. Perhaps I am desensitised having birthed twins in the company of 10+ medical practitioners, but the matter-of-factness of the beautician made it strangely normal to be chatting away with no pants on.

It was the work of a mere half hour, and the lovely Justine assures me she has done a splendid job. It is almost a shame it won’t be appreciated by a wider audience, but don’t worry, I will not be posting before and after shots.

This would be my advice to readers considering anything of the sort:
1. Take some paracetemol before you go.
2. Take some tracky b’s to wear afterwards.
3. Before you book it, check that your partner finds the image below arousing. If not, you can save yourself considerable unpleasantness, and £28.