The Nice Ladies Things Account.

I think that it is important to note that this album comes with instructions.

What can I say, but  big thank you for all the comments and emails regarding my last post. I have been blown away by the amount of support out there, and humbled by those brave enough to share their stories about their own struggles with depression.

My name is Mrs Woog and it has been 5 days since my last meltdown.

Dr Eve prescribed me a task list for this week which included:

• a brisk 30 minute walk everyday
• Cancel all work and appointments and commitments for the week.
• Not a lick of booze.
• 8.30pm bed time to be preceded by a long bath.
• 3 healthy meals a day, even if I don't feel like eating.
• Do something nice for myself everyday.

So far I have followed her plan to a T, and I am bouncing back with vigour. Ok, so not like a small, rubber bouncy ball that goes ape-shit when slammed into the floor, but more like a tennis ball with a puncture. 

But the point is I am bouncing, even if it is not at my full potential.

Today I want to discuss something (else) that my dear friend The Divine Ms. M taught me years ago. That woman is a resource for all things. ALL THINGS! I love her a million.

It is the concept of The Nice Ladies Things Account.

See those darling blog sponsors up there?

All monies from advertising goes into my Nice Ladies Things Account. From now we shall just refer it as the NLTA. 

Any other income from blog work and freelance writing gigs gets sucked up into the quagmire of domestic outgoings. It is a travesty.

The NLTA is a resource from which to draw from when you need a little pick me up. A little pamper if you will. And looking into the mirror yesterday and seeing that old hag staring back at me, I felt the need to drain that account.

First thing I did was to hire packers to pack up this house into well organised boxes with labels on them. This will happen tomorrow. 

Hold me.

Then, with the little that was left, I booked myself in for a massage. A Thai massage with the emphasis on relaxing. 

For some reason, while I was getting ready to leave the house, I changed my old grey reg grundies for some black ones, so they would match my bra.

Which was quite a strange thing to do, if you think about it, for many reasons.

1. The fact that I actually owned a "set"?
2. Just who am I trying to impress?
3. I am not same-sex attracted and even if I were, wouldn't it be a little presumptuous of me to assume that anyone would fall for me, because I was wearing matching smalls.
4. My smalls are not smalls. They are bigs.
5. And why, oh why, would I even bother about matching underwear when my legs were as hairy as fuck.

My massage was sent directly from heaven. I could feel the masseuse's fingers grind over the corrugated iron that my shoulder blades had become as I literally felt myself leave my body, stare down at my black undies that were pulled down so that most of my ass was exposed, have a good think about spray tans and other shit, and then return to myself.

I walked home as light as a feather and as slippery as a noodle.

A good use of the NLTA, don't you think?

You do not need a lot of moolah to start a NLTA, just a bit of thought. A tin or a jar is a great place to start. Stash it away so that no one can dip into it to get a coffee or a bus fare. Chuck all your goldies into it every once in a while. Maybe a bit of paper money if you have it going spare.

Then every time you are feeling a bit self neglected, empty it out and make an appointment. BY YOURSELF OR WITH A MATE.

BUT HOW MUCH DO YOU NEED?

Here is a rough guide.

Coffee, cake and mag  $15.00

Mani, Pedi  $40

Wash and Blowdry  $50

Facial  $90

90 minute Thai Massage  $120

New pair of undies   $4.99

Do you have a Nice Ladies Things Account?

Are you going to start one?

When is the last time you did something nice for yourself? BE HONEST!

Do you own gross, grey undies? Bonus points for holes.....

No Stigma Here.

"It's just so bizarre how in this world if you have asthma, you take asthma medication. If you have diabetes, you take diabetes medication. But as soon as you have to take medicine for your mind, it's such a stigma behind it."

 - Jennifer Lawrence

Having spent the past month or so artfully dodging my black dog, she finally caught up with me on the weekend. 

And how!

Asshole. I hate her. Her name is Fang and she is a real piece of work. She likes to visit when I am exhausted, run down, vulnerable, not taking care of myself properly and when I have just had it up to my pussy's bow. 

Add all that and my upcoming move this week, and she saw her opportunity to pounce.

But she can be sent scampering with a well thought out plan devised with my beautiful GP Eve. Fang is on the way out. It was a swift visit but her presence will be felt for a little longer.

Having spoken to quite a few mates around the traps in the past couple of days, I know for sure that Fang is a prolific breeder and that there is no shame in putting your hand up and letting someone know if she is prowling around at your place.

Simply by letting someone know of her presence sends shivers down her spine and she retreats a little. 

There is nothing wrong with you. You are one of millions of Australians who Fang tracks down.

So please joins me in saying Fuck Off Fang, and help kick that bitch to the kerb.

. 

Have you seen Fang lately?

How did you deal with her?

For more information about dealing with Fang, click here.

Of rats and spiders and snakes and insensitive mother in laws and other assorted pests.

Survived another New Mum's Morning tea today by regaling the collected mums, who were almost entirely English, with stories about spiders and snakes and rats and other assorted dangerous animals only found in our fair land.

About the time that a huntsman dropped on me from the windscreen which caused me to crap my dacks a little.

About the time I found a snake in the laundry.

About the time a wasp flew down the back of my t-shirt when I was at uni, and went on a stinging frenzy, which caused me to drive into a telegraph pole.

About the time I woke up with a headless rat in my bed thanks to Chuy.

The horror on their collective faces confirmed my suspicions that they knew squat about this place that they have moved to, all because their husbands said "Yes" to an overseas transfer.

SQUAT!

Plus I was wearing my Ollie and Max shirt WITH SNAKESKIN PANTS! Snakeskin makes you tough. It allows you to talk about snakes with some authority.

A fashion selfie. What would possess me? Recently it was bought to my attention that I was described as Prue and Trude on an online hate site. Neither Prue nor Trude, has snakeskin pants as far as I know.
So bite me! Or I will get the pants to bite you...

Speaking of Ollie and Max, after a very long judging process which saw the entries whittled down to 15, the eventual winner was chosen.

If this is you, please email me at mrswoog(@)hotmail(.)com but with out the ( ) signs. I just put those in so I do not get any more spam emails telling me how I can get another 4 inches on my penis by using a special cream.

Congratulations, cheering up is imminent!

Also, a quick mention about Trish. She is a blogger who blogs here and has had the fight of her life going on with bastard breast cancer. I am lucky to count her as a friend. Sam from Ollie and Max and I have put together a little care package for her. GO TRISH! She also happens to be the mum of the cutest boy twins around...

So with that all done and dusted, imma gonna take my fat snake skinned ass and slither away to pack some boxes. The removalists are booked for the end of next week and I cannot wait to put an end to this....

Yesterday. As far as the eye could see. FARK.

You have yourself a lovely weekend!

xxx

A milestone + the freshest asshole in the world!

Jack was only a wee baby when he first got his hearing aids. I would put them in, he would pull them out and this would go on ALL FREAKING DAY! And sometimes, just to spice things up a but, he would pull them out when he was in his pram, and fling them into a garden bed as we walked along.

It was so not funny. There I would be, ass up on the sidewalk going though a nature strip peppered with dog shit. It was these types of reasons that we always had brightly coloured hearing aids, not the transparent ones.

To deter him from pulling them out, we resorted to sticking some gauze over them, which helped a little.

I can put hearing aids in blindfolded. I tried to work it out how many times I have put them in. 6 years. at least 3 times a day AT LEAST. Cannot do the maths, but I suspect it is a lot of hearing aid putting in.

This week, Jack's Hearing Support Teacher issued a challenge, telling him that as soon as he has learnt to put his hearing aids in by himself, he could make his selection from an array of her "prizes." 

She told me that the prizes were just crap from the $2 shop, but the kids seemed to go ape shit for that stuff.

Last night, after an hour in the bathroom, he came out and demonstrated how he could now put both in. By himself. 


That, my friends, was a moment.

Later I got a call from Mum who is continuing her schoolies revival week with her mates up at Jabba the Hut. She was rather hysterical with laughter and went on to tell me a tale, which you might enjoy or at the very least, make your sphincter quiver.

Aunty Lois had been raving on about the wet wipes that I keep above the toilet. She had told Mum that these wipes were fantastic to make sure that nothing was missed and all areas involved in the expulsion of bodily fluids and solids remained as fresh as the day.

Later Mum went to use the latrine, and remembering Aunty Lois's infomercials, decided to check out these wonderful wipes.

THERE IS NO SOAP SCUM ON AUNTY LOIS'S BUM!

And that is how you put a lovely yarn and a questionable one together into one post.

YOU ARE WELCOME!

PMS-ing off my brain.

Sonia Kluger and I have spent a lot of time bonding recently as I do the one hour round trip, twice a day, to drop the kids off to school. During this time, I have been indulging in some talk back radio auditory exercises which has quite literally bought me to tears.

Yesterday, while stuck in traffic, Paul Murray was appealing to readers to donate cash to replace $4000 that some bastards stole from a 70 year old charity worker, collecting in a supermarket.

Anyway, Paul Murray called for support to replace to cash for the Kids with Cancer Charity and by the end of the half hour appeal, they had raised the $4000 and actually had bought the total up to $10,000.

Kids calling in with their pocket money, old ladies donating $20, Barry O'Farrell pledging $500 of his own money (should match it and donate the same to the NSW Department of Education in my opinion...) and there was me.

Bawling like a baby at the goodness of people.

At 3.30pm I was on the way home with the exhausted crew and once again I flicked onto my talkback.

This time it was Jason Morrison* hosting the afternoon drive time. A caller phoned in, warning Jason that there was a labrador puppy running through the M2 Tunnel at Beecroft. The caller told the announcer that the puppy was smiling.

SMILING IN THE FACE OF DOOM! SAY IT ISN'T SO!

I clung onto every word as the drama unfolded live over the radio, Eventually, I burst into more tears when it was reported that a road crew had stopped all traffic and had captured the puppy.

The puppy was ecstatic and was going on a massive licking rampage. And I was bawling. AGAIN!

What was wrong with me?

I was PMSing off my brain, was what was wrong with me.

When I was duffed, I was not allowed to watch the news or any ads with babies in them, as it would reduce me to a hot mess.

And now it would seem, that I need to ban myself from radio as well.

At the beginning of the week, I asked you to tell me what made you gag. Your comments were so descriptive, I actually investigated unsuccessfully how to close off the comment section, because the thought of some of the topics bought up made me green.... banana? *shudders*

But today, I ask you my dear friend, 

What makes you cry?

What is that one thing that guaranteed to reduce you to a blubbering mess?

And you cannot say talkback radio, because I have embarrassingly already claimed that as my own.

Hey, I never said I had smarts...

*sick of listening to men on commercial radio. Just saying. 

What the hell were you thinking?

Join me for my weekly discussion at The Hoopla.

Today we will be talking about, amongst other things, how the hell I ended up with a pair of Mom jeans in my possession.

CLICK HERE

Durex Inspections Imminent.

Perhaps I should not be surprised, but it is amazing how popular one becomes with family and friends when one buys a beach shack. Jabba the Hut has been enjoying a high occupancy rate since her purchase a few months back.

My Mum has currently taken up residence there for the week with what can only be described as a "gaggle" of girlfriends and, from the sound of every phone call, a dozen cases of champagne.

Women in their mid-sixties reliving schoolies week. Neil Diamond on high rotation, I imagine.

I got a text from "Aunty Lois" yesterday. It was a photo of a packet of Durex frangers that she found in a drawer. Along with the photo, she had written the following...

"Thanks for having these in stock in case we get lucky!"

Sweet baby cheeses.

Later, Mum called during their "Happy Hour", or as I suspect their "Happy 8 Hours", to ask whether I had gotten the photo. Squeals and peals of laughter rang out in the background. Positive hysterics, like it was the funniest thing ever.

After the squeals subsided, I quietly informed Mum that these were necessary to avoid giving her any more grandchildren. Particularly a grand-daughter.

That silenced her.

Although, knowing her and her gaggle like I do, those condoms will need to be inspected for pin pricks, when next visiting Jabba the Hut.

The sly dog.....

Stomach churning and spontaneous hurling.

It is a well known fact amongst my social circle, that I have the weakest stomach ever known to woman. So much so, that quite often a conversation will be halted for my benefit.

Because, if continued, it will set off a series of dry wretches and if left unedited, ultimately... a vomit.

My dear friend The Divine Ms. M knows this all to well as a few weeks ago, she regaled me with a story about her cat Carol, who had been suffering from an abscess. She used the word "pus ball" one time too many and the result was me chundering into her sink. Her fresh sink.

We discussed this after I cleaned it up. The Divine Ms M told me that slimy bags of rotting salad leaves that have gone a bit black and have produced putrid water, made her hurl.

And as it turns out, this made me hurl as well. Not quite, but dry wretch a lot. It was like yawning. Her and me standing there. Trying not to yak.

Just last week, I was visiting my friend Kim who was in hospital after contracting a Golden Staph* infection. Kim is a very good storyteller (she blogs here) and was immensely amusing me with her imitations of the other people in her previous shared ward.

She had to be readmitted after her back operation due to the staph infection that she swears she got from someone in that ward who had gastro. She had her own room then, due to the infection.

Anyway, as she is such a descriptive and vivacious storyteller, she got part way into a very detailed recount of all her medical prodding and poking and bodily fluid draining, when I started to feel woozy. 

Then a nurse came in carrying a massive fucking needle and I called a time out on myself.

Once I recovered, I set up a lovely, romantic shot of her gazing out the windows of The Royal North Shore hospital, featuring her cannula.... (retch).

Here is a list of other things that make me spontaneously hurl.

• Dog shit on a shoe
• Bird shit on a cafe table
• Chuy's litter tray
• Bin juice
• Southern Comfort
• Any type of guts or gizzards that I come across, including road kill.
• Pus of any type (apart from zits, but even then, only my own)
• When people talk intricately about bowl movements. WHY MUST YOU?
• Rancid dairy products produced from our fridge.

But the number one thing what reduces my stomach to completely high tsunami levels is without a doubt....

Public fucking toilets.

At Trop Fest last night. 

Are you a fellow sufferer?

What makes you want to hurl your cookies?

*worst name ever for an infection. They make it sound lovely. Apparently it is not. 

Sorting stuff.

The weather here today took a few hours to sort itself out with what it actually wanted to do, which was to ultimately piss down with rain. With Mr Woog taking the boys to the pool, I had some time to do something that I have been putting off for ages.

I needed to go in search of a pendant that Mr Woog bought me for Christmas in 2011 which had been MIA since about Boxing Day 2011.

I had a vague recollection that it had been sucked into the eternal bog of stench which is my jewellery collection, so a hunting I did go.

Back when she was a television reporter, my friend Uberkate used to live in Bondi and make beaded stuff, being the hipster that she was. Now she is a silversmith and these below are now considered "vintage".

Now this brings back some fond memories! I wore it when I MC'd The Divine Ms M's wedding. I may have given the impression to it's admirers that it was NOT from Diva, which indeed it was.

And then I found it. PHEW.

And I also found this from my high school boyfriend. Always?

LIAR!

Only for two years until I left to go to uni in Bathurst and he ran off with some skank girl.

I wonder where he is now. 

Do you know where your first love is?

What are you up to this weekend?

Want to come and help me sort this out?

WIN an Outfit from Ollie & Max!

Ten long days was all it took for the school drop off to go from being a complete nightmare, to a complete breeze. A fact that this  Mamma is extremely thankful for.

I am not going to lie to you. It has been very trying. But for the past 3 mornings, I have had a smile and a kiss and a wave at the gate.

I CANNOT EVEN BEGIN TO TELL YOU HOW RELIEVED I AM!

Thank you for all of your support and lovely words. And for those of us who are still battling the school drop off, it does get easier. I am walking, talking, living proof.

I got an email from one of my favourite designers, Sam from Ollie & Max, asking me if I would like a new shirt from her range.

I told her that instead of one for me, could I give one away to one of my gorgeous readers instead.

So she came back to me and wanted to know whether we could give away an entire outfit. OF COURSE I SAID YES PLEASE!

I first met Sam a few years back at the markets where she was selling her fantastic shirts. Since then she has gone on to expand her range and her business. I love her garments because they are of good quality, suit everyone and she sensibly stocks sizes 8-24.

Also works with pants or a skirt. Preferable.

The shirt is one of my wardrobe staples. There is nothing like a fresh, white, crisp cotton shirt to instantly lift your mood. This particular style, as I said, SUITS EVERYONE.

I bet a bottle of vodka on that fact. And I do not like to give away vodka to anyone that is not my liver.

What is the prize?

My favourite shirt, this amazing stretchy skirt and a lovely cotton silk scarf all from the Ollie & Max range. Valued at $200. Pretty nice right?

To enter? 

I will keep it simple. 

In 25 words (or thereabouts...) tell me in the comment section... 

Why should these pieces from Ollie & Max 

take up real estate in your closet.

Sam from Ollie & Max will choose a winner and I will let you know on Friday 22nd Feb who that person is. 

(I cannot choose winners, because I get too emotionally invested and it takes me far too long.)

So thank you to Ollie & Max for donating this prize. 

Please visit  http://www.ollieandmax.com.au for information on their complete range and you can find them on Facebook HERE.

And thank you to you, for putting up with my misery for the past few weeks xxxx

My To-Don't List

Today I am at The Hoopla, 

discussing things that I can cut out of my life 

to make it less frantic. 

Got anything you can add?

Click here.

Oven Slaving with Mrs Woog - Aunty Penny's Potatoes

 Today I am going to show you how to cook Aunty Penny's Potatoes, named as my Aunty Penny first cooked these up years and years ago and since then, they have become a family favourite. 

For those of us who shun the carb, this post is not for you.

For the rest of us, let us begin.

You will need red potatoes (no need to peel) a red capsicum, a couple of Spanish onions, garlic, olive oil, salt, pepper, rosemary, parsley and a couple slices of pig. Wine optional for your mouth.

Whack the oven on super hot. In the bottom of a dish, drizzle a bit of oil and stir through the garlic.

Now after last months Tight Pant Pasta tutorial, I am sure many of you rushed out and bought a mandolin. So now it is time to actually get it out of the box and use it. A knife also works.

Slice up your spuds.

Layer your potatoes like you might a lasagna, with the veggies. Drizzle the top with a little oil and lashings of salt and pepper. 

LASHINGS!

Pop the lot into the oven for 30 minutes and have a glass of vino. I am partial to a little Villa Maria these days. 

Clean up a bit and feed the g-pigs with any suitable scraps.

Chop up your herbs and bacon. By this stage your kitchen will be smelling quite nice!

Inspect the gash that the cat gave you the day before while trying to escape your clutches when you got knocked over by a jogger. 

Commit to moisturising more.

Stir through the bacon and herbs and whack her back in for 20 minutes. The veggies will have caramelised and the potatoes would have broken down to a tasty, tasty moosh.

Serve with whatever the hell you fancy.

Feel sorry for the fussy eater in your family.

Aunty Penny Potatoes are great for BBQ's and entertaining, and also do very well the next day mooshed up on toast, or so Mr Woog tells me.

What do you think? Give it a whirl?

What is your favourite way to eat spuds?

(apart from hot chips...der)

Why I am not allowed to play with remote controlled helicopters anymore.

I think this all happened because I tried to pass off deli bought enchiladas as my own by decanting them into a corning-ware serving dish. 

After the family praised my superior Mexican cooking skills, we decided to go and play with the remote controlled helicopter that Mr Woog bought back with him from his trip. So we were all outside and I was also trying to find Chuy the cat, who needs to come inside at dusk.

I couldn't find him, and it was my turn to pilot the helicopter. 

I took confident control of the controls and watched as it sailed up, up, up into the sky, over the fence and onto the neighbours roof.

"You did that on purpose!" Mr Woog hissed.

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh yes... of course I did that on purpose.... Do you think I am a complete idiot?" I told him to go and fetch the ladder and he told me to go and knock on the door of the neighbours house.

I walked past Harry, who told me that I was never to touch the helicopter again. I had to stop myself from telling them all that they were ungrateful assholes and no one had even really appreciated the enchiladas that I had slaved over.

Now, like most people, we have two sets of neighbours. One, a married couple in their 50's who wrote the book of Yuppi-dom. The even drive little matching black BMW's and their place is as neat as a pin.

The other neighbours are a couple in their 80's who are seldom seen, but when it does occur, you cannot help notice that they prefer to get about with not much kit on. And it was these neighbours whose roof accommodated the helicopter.

It is also these neighbours who remind you of the haunted house neighbours who inevitably lived in the same street as you did when you were a child. You know the ones. It was the house that you always ran past in case one of them grabbed you and made you their slave.

I pushed open their rotting fence and made my way through the weeds. I was surprised to find Chuy asleep on a chair on their verandah. Back cat, haunted house, it all made sense.

I rang the doorbell.

The lady came to the door wearing a pair of shorts and an apron with strawberries on it and nothing else. I explained to her that our helicopter had landed on her roof and could we please retrieve it.

She was horrified that a helicopter had landed on her house until I motioned with my hands the size of the helicopter and then she was ok. Mr Woog went through the bushes, using his ladder as a shield against the hundreds of spiderwebs housing large, black hairy arachnids.

I thanked our neighbour and mentioned that that was indeed our cat asleep on her chair. 

"I think she is one of those cats that get fed at every house." The neighbour told me. "But we don't feed her. Unless we have lamb chops. When we have lamb chops, we give her the bones. She really likes them."

So there were two awkward things about this exchange. One was the cat was a boy, but I was willing to overlook that, but the other was the lamb chop bones, which I am pretty sure would kill a cat.

"Just don't feed her," I said "I don't think she should eat lamb chop bones."

"RUBBISH!" She kind of yelled at me.

By this stage Mr Woog had fetched the helicopter and had made his way back through the quagmire and had returned to the safety of our house, passing me with a little smirk on his face.

I figured my small talk time had expired, so I scooped Chuy up a millisecond before the neighbour began a long, long, long story about something to do with the days of yore.

You may or may not know, but sometimes cats get sick of being held, so after some time, Chuy started getting restless in my arms. 3 times, I attempted to orate the sentence "Well, I had better be going...." and three times I was told to shush, she just needed to finish the story.

By the time she ended her story, Chuy was doing his impression of a hula hoop dancer, claws out and ass swinging around rapidly. I was not keen to let him go, as I was not keen to spend the next hour trying to find him again. I farewelled my verbally gifted friend and slowly, as to not  release my captive, opened the front gate and stepped straight out into the path of a speedy, head-phoned jogger.

Down, down, down I fell and landed surprisingly softly considering the high velocity impact the jogger delivered. He just kind of bounced off me, like a marble might project from the surface of a large beach ball.

Chuy took this opportunity the latch onto me as I fell, and I screamed as I felt his razor claws pierce my left boob and his back paws deliver a once inch gash on my right forearm.

I let go of the cat.

The jogger jumped up, told me he was sorry, which he clearly wasn't because he kept on his merry way. It was at this time, as I got up and started inspecting all the holes in my body, teeny tiny pinpricks and one big gash, that Harry appeared again to tell me never to touch the helicopter again.

THE END

PS Chuy appeared at the back door at about 8.30pm. I could not have cared less.

Weekend a-la Woog

7 Days Later...

Jack has taken to his new school like a duck to water. All it took was 7 days to confirm life-long friendships with everyone in his class and for his class to vote him in as their SRC Representative.

Life is easy for this kid. I need some of his tenacity and confidence, not to mention his natural flair for putting an outfit together.

*************

14 Days later...

My sister came over on Friday night to split a bottle of champers to celebrate the fact that I had successfully managed to keep all of my charges alive and ticking during my fortnight of single parenting.

It was just after I opening this bottle that the phone rang. It was Mr Woog telling me that he had fucked up his itinerary and would actually not be home until Sunday morning.

I put the phone down and asked my sister whether in fact Mr Woog had left me, but was too scared to let me know. Which I would not blame him, because he would feel the full wrath of a woman scorned. 

It would be most inconvenient as I am unable to get any of the balls down off the roof by myself, and dead rat removal freaks me out no end.

************* 

Would you like penis with your coffee?

It might be a cow skull, or a set of fallopian tubes and a uterus, but to me it was a penis.

Perhaps because I had not seen one for a fortnight.

*************

Birthday Gift Rockstar

At least it is not a bloody drum kit.

*************

 Dear Paddington, What happened to you?

Paddington is a suburb of Sydney that has been raped and pillaged by a mega mall up the road a bit. It made me sad to visit her. She used to be cool.

*************

New Year. New Club.

Mr Woog finally showed his face on Sunday Morning having not had the luxury of even one minute's sleep on the ten hour flight back from Japan. I listened without one ounce of sympathy before declaring that we were all going to the pre-season rugby training session.

Because if there is one thing I know for sure, life does not stop just because you want to. 

Have you managed to ever successfully drop out for a bit?

What is the secret?

The New School Mums Morning Tea.

I knew where I was supposed to be straight away. There was a long table with a lone, smiley faced lady lady waving frantically at me.

I was at the new mums coffee morning meet and greet getting to know you type situation. And as it transpired, I was only one of half a dozen new school mums that got the memo and bothered to come.

The rest of the large table steadily filled with ladies who all knew each other, coming to catch up and check out the fresh blood.

For a while there, I sat and listened. If I had closed my eyes. I could swear I was in England, as the accents floated softly around me.

There were your typical team players and the team caption. She was a super friendly soul who took it upon herself to take down all of my details and tell me who everyone else at the table was, the name, sex and age of all their children and other trivial tidbits.

And it was then when it struck me.

I was totally moving to Pleasantville!

Everyone was so pleasant and nice and pretty and organised and interested in everything.

As I relaxed a bit, I totally confessed to the original lone, smiley faced waving lady that I did have some unsubstantiated concerns that people of my new hood would be snobby.

She told me that when she moved into the hood, she too had some concerns about being accepted.... because she was big.

I looked at her. She was not even "big" and then I thought if that was one of the yardsticks that this tribe used as a factor to acceptance, I was totally fucked.

Someone asked what I did for a living. I told her that I was a writer which immediately preceded the question, "Oh really! What do you write?"

I told her that I write all sorts of things before very quickly and successfully shifting the conversation to another topic.

After a coffee and an hour, it didn't look like the party was breaking up any time soon, so I decided to take my leave while the going was good and I had not said anything offensive or embarrassing.

I stood up and thanked everyone for organising the gathering and one of the mums told me that there was a social event at the school in the coming weeks, and although it is not advertised, you are more than welcome to bring wine to it.

Hello!

"So, can I bring a hip flask of vodka as well?" I asked.

They sort of looked at each other and said.... "I suppose so.."

"Great!" I picked up my bag. "Can I bring my Orchy Bong?"

Crickets. A dog barked. Somewhere in the distance, a baby cried.

So close, Mrs Woog. 

So close.