moosifer jones's lair & grouch – online home & blog of Mags L Halliday

When shopping on Sunday I foolishly asked Georgina what she wanted on her cake. I’d been planning a Stuffy cake but no. Her response was immediately “Spider-man.” I foolishly agreed and then had several days of being reminded by her about the “Spider-man cake”. So I made a simple vanilla sponge cake, based on a hummingbird cafe cupcake recipe and iced it.

Clearly borrowing How to Draw the Marvel Way from the library as a teenager paid off. Although my lettering sucks.

After having a portion last night, she demanded “tiny bit more” but didn’t get it. The cake recipe has 10oz of sugar in it for making 12-18 cupcakes – no way does she get more than one portion of cake a day. This morning, one of her first requests on waking was for the Spider-man cake.

I am aware you can buy professionally produced cakes in the supermarket but that’s not the point. Until she gets to an age where she is horrified by wonky homemade things, she’s getting a cake made by me. I’m just hoping she asks for something easy to do…

Two years ago I had the Tour de France on in the background in a delivery room at the local hospital. This year, Georgina has got her own wheels.

The trike is a handmedown from my neighbours, and has been locked in the bike shed for about 18 months. I don’t think she’s be rivaling Bradley Wiggins or Victoria Pembleton just yet.

Continuing the “make do and mend” theme of the day, her other big present was a handmade toy. She loves Show Me Show Me on Cbeebies. It’s an unusual show in that it doesn’t have mountains of tatty tie-in merch. So, in the footsteps of my mother’s bold attempt to make me a Bagpuss in the 70s, I made her a Stuffy.

This is partially because she loves him, and partially because even 25 years after my last sewing class I can still make a cube. Tracking down all the fabrics took longer than the actual sewing. She’s already taken to putting things in his back pocket.

Here’s his song on the CBeebies site.

The last part of the day will be a Spider-man iced cake. I baked it last night and haven’t had a chance to ice it yet. I asked her last night what birthdays meant and she has told me it involves hats. So expect a photo she will be embarrassed about tomorrow.

She’s learnt her numbers (although is prone to starting to count at 4) and colours. She can also load the DVD player, with favourites such as Singin’ in the Rain, Kiki’s Delivery Service and Bagpuss. I moved them to a lower shelf after asking her to “put it back on the table” only to find her standing on tiptoe on a chair trying to reach the shelf where they were then kept. Her current bedtime books include The Tiger Who Came to Tea and the Tony Robinson version of Odysseus. She helps water the garden, and weed it.

More tomorrow…I have to go and ice a cake the Marvel way.

welcome to the future!

I’m using the silly function on my iPhone to dictate this. Look no typing whatsoever!

silly. S I RI.

which clearly needs to learn how to hear its own name.

dodgy voice recognition aside, this will mean I can do the notes on posts whilst travelling. And annoying people in the quiet coach on the train.

siri! Bring me gin and tonic!

I have a backlog of books to review, never forgetting the epic ‘to be read’ bookcase (aka where GJ plays librarian). So in an effort to clear it, I’m experimenting with reviewing each book in under 200 words, excluding the key book info.

The reviews will also post at 8.30am. Not because I’m free to post then, I’m not. Just for consistency.

So that was year 1. Here’s the final photos in the series…

New things this month include walking with her brick truck or our hands, cutting a seventh tooth, helping feed herself with the spoon. Sometimes. When she feels like it. Also, she’s had cake. And her first party. Here’s the aftermath (photo c/o Michelle Monahan).

It’s been an interesting year. I’m still on a writing sabbatical as it’s just beyond me to combine a full time job, motherhood and writing. My spare time is taken up with sorting out things like GJ’s room so there’s nothing left. I know some people would say “if you want to write you make the time”. I could make the time. I can’t make the desire though. My brain is too full of other things. And I rather like sitting reading That’s Not My Penguin* for the hundredth time, instead of sitting at a PC.

Here’s a slideshow of just the tartan rug photos.

There are also slideshows of the whole monthly series, or of other photos.

Now, I really ought to clear the backlog of book reviews, and do a second coat of satin on the door to GJ’s room, and check the bus route to a friend’s house as it’s too muggy to walk there and back, and make those salmon fishcakes, and make sure I’ve a week’s work outfits hanging up ready for Monday, and pay the sparks, and… it’s amazing how much you can cram into someone’s nap time, isn’t it?

*I’m working on a version called That’s Not My Feminist to counter the range’s actual girly books of That’s Not My Princess, That’s Not My Dolly, etc.

Ages ago I wrote about the horrors of maternity clothes shopping if you have a, ahem, vintage figure (see What would Betty Draper wear?). And I admitted to being rather more of a Joan.

Since having a baby, I have discovered all kinds of strange things. Dresses fit much better, and for some reason I can fit in size 14s (a skirt from GAP and a dress from Laura Ashley). But then in other shops I take in lots of stuff. My favorite black – very Joan – dress is from Monsoon and is an 18. WTF? I’m fairly sure my dimensions aren’t shifting about on a daily basis.

Retrochick has noticed this too, and has started a campaign for clothes to be labeled clearly with measurements rather than the opaque mysteries of sizes. She brings together all the consumer survey stuff, and why making people who don’t have beanpole-like measurements feel bad is, you know, bad.

So I’m adding my voice. I’m 5’9″. In 2009 I was 36-30-42. I’m currently 38-34-44 (baby-weight, people, baby-weight). There is NO WAY I can be both a size 14 and size 18. Bring back labels in inches, not sizes. Make trying clothes on fun again, not a game of sizeist Russian roulette.