Biological Warfare

We bumped into Donna and her daughter Bella in town yesterday, they were returning some black-out blinds to a shop as they had fallen off the wall and nearly skewered Bella's skull. I am suspecting that this was no chance meeting and that Mummy has recruited them both to her cause in an attempt to weaken me. You see, Bella is always ill, she is always incubating some new strain of super-virus that she and her mother are suspiciously keen to share with me. They will turn up at my house uninvited, parading their exotic germs like a pack of pedigree poodles at Crufts. I rarely escape uninfected; every orifice I own has flowed freely with monstrous fluids thanks to Bella. I am convinced that she once even resurrected the Black Death; the pustulating buboes that plagued my armpits for a week last month definitely had a whiff of the seventeenth century about them. Must check to see if she keeps rats.

The mothers decided that they must have a coffee together, so I sat forlornly in my high chair and watched as Bella sucked, slavered and gummed my toys, methodically distributing her cocktail of diseases. Donna stuck her fingers in my mouth in the pretence of counting my teeth, but I knew what she was up to. I tried to breathe infrequently and shallowly while we were in their presence but it was to be in vain. The angry-looking hives on Bella's chest turned out to be chicken pox and lo, I was to wake up in the morning itching from head to toe and looking like a acne-ridden teenager. I sit here now, a crusty vision in calamine lotion leaving electric pink flakes all over my keyboard which are beginning to choke up the 'G' key. Darn it, it's broken now. How can I continue my missives without usin' that letter? Just wait until I see Bella next, I will 'ive that little 'it a piece of my mind.

Crash Test Mummy (or Rhinocerarse)

Mummy has found an elaborate new device with which to torment me. She has fixed a plastic child seat to the rear of her bike and while in theory this could be great fun, in practise it is most unpleasant. I had visions of floating through the park in the hazy summer sunshine with the scent of jasmine in my nostrils and the gentle breeze tickling my hair. But it wasn't to be, instead I have an enormous, eye-wateringly yellow helmet (made all the more humiliating by images of fluffy chicks all around the rim) clamped to my as-yet-unfused skull . It is supremely uncomfortable, I cannot rest my head anywhere because of its hulking size and it slips forward, rendering me blind as I hurtle along the roadside, potholes threatening to shake out my two and a half teeth as I choke on carbon monoxide fumes. You might think that I would enjoy watching the world flash by, well, consider that on the rare occasion that I do manage to remove the canary-yellow monstrosity from my eyes I am greeted by Mummy's ample rump, buttocks swinging freely either side of a persecuted saddle. It's even worse when we're going uphill as Mummy will actually stand up on the pedals, I shiver in the shade as her mighty arse heaves and strains before me and I'm thrown left and right as the unsteady bike slowly makes the ascent. I frequently have nightmares of her falling backwards on top of me and can only hope that my helmet's crash-test involves being sat upon by a rhino. In future I will welcome the helmet and wear it firmly over my eyes.

The Uniform

Before your mummy and daddy leave for work in the mornings you must ensure they're dressed properly. There are a few badges of parenthood they must never leave the house without:

1. Epaulets of dry vomit.
2. Suspicious-looking milk stain on trouser leg.
3. Toast / Weetabix / porridge deposit in hair.
4. Poo-poo under fingernail.
5. Red scratch-mark across face.
6. Gummed rusk in handbag / briefcase.
7. Jam on any important documents.
8. Deep, blue bags under eyes.
9. Smeared, opaque spectacles
10. Fug helmet.

No Heavy Petting

A great way of undermining Mummy's confidence and self-esteem is to ensure that she never gets to spend any intimate moments with Daddy. This is easy to achieve during the day, it's simply a matter of yelling out whenever they kiss or cuddle. Some self-sacrifice may be required however, I remember an occasion when they were so wrapped up in their hug that my moan didn't register with them; I had to throw myself to the floor and pull a chair on top of me in order to break their embrace.

When Mummy puts me to bed she and Daddy seem to think they have the green light for coitus. Fools! To thwart their lusty plans I have installed tiny Fisher Price video cameras in the eyes of some of my cuddly toys which I leave in strategic positions around the house: Ted watches over the kitchen table for signs of unhygienic activity; Ellie Funt keeps her beady eyes on the sofa for saucy snuggles; Quack the Duck patrols the bathtub borders and Wag the Dog peers out from between their bed pillows. Using the live feeds from my plush night-watchmen (I like to think of them as my Closed Circuit Teddyvision) I can spot any signs of friskiness and deliver a timely and libido-shattering howl from my cot.

The Enemy Within

Tormenting Mummy has never been easier. She’s been back to work for a couple of days over the last two weeks and has become a conflicted woman. One minute she’s desperate to jack in the job and stay at home with yours truly and the next she’s banging on about the exciting new projects she’s working on. The woman is unstable; I’d go as far to say she’s bipolar. She cries most nights and rather overdoes the waterworks on Sundays; it’s like watching an am-dram ham in action. However, when she gets back from the office in the evenings – panting and sweating from running from the station – she is so excited to see me that the last couple of hours before bed are a whirlwind of treats and fun. I even got whisked off to the park yesterday. Her overcompensating enthusiasm is a little cloying, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying the ride.

If you’re experiencing similar mummy madness then there are a few things you can be doing to season this already suppurating wound.
1. Pretend to enjoy your carer’s company more than your mummy’s. I have a nanny-share arrangement so it’s easy to show Nanny more affection and watch as Mummy goes ashen and picks me up for a protective cuddle to as if to remind me who the biological mummy is.
2. Do the opposite. Burst into floods of tears whenever you are left with your carer so your mummy worries that you are being neglected or mistreated. This one is particularly powerful and can lead to your carer being dismissed, so use it judiciously.
3. Start ignoring mummy. She will think you are angry with her for leaving you – as you have every right to be – and she will lose hair worrying about your relationship.

You see, your mummy is already experiencing Guilt (it’s so severe it warrants capitalisation) for not spending more time with you, for wanting a career and for leaving you with a virtual stranger. I have to say it’s only right she feels this way; her mummy brought her up so I don’t see why she thinks she has any right to outsource my upbringing as though it were one of her silly marketing campaigns. Truth be told, I do miss her but I also have a great time with my playmate Bobby, who Nanny looks after at the same time as me. I won’t let on to Mummy that this is the case, although I have heard Nanny telling Mummy what a nice time I’ve had which pulls the rug from under me somewhat. It’s pathetic to see how Mummy tries to stay in touch with what’s going on by having Nanny fill in a little notebook on what I’ve been doing and calling up from time to time from work. Pathetic. If you want me Mummy, you know where I am, all you have to do is not go for the train in the morning.

Anyway, I suggest you alternate the three strategies above, this will soon have your mummy worrying herself a step closer to insanity and this way lays your freedom, my friend. I’m slowly getting there; Mummy has developed a nervous tic as a direct result of the application of these tactics. Every time I look into Nanny’s eyes, hold out my arms and say “Mama”, Mummy involuntarily winks her left eye and tugs her left ear. Not a good look. The asylum awaits you Mummy dearest, I can almost smell the smoke from the ECT machine.

Demolition Derby

After a satisfactory morning unravelling and ingesting a toilet roll, I was whisked off to visit my arch enemy, Nora. Mummy imagines I enjoy spending time with this particular playmate, but she's wrong. We are bitter rivals. The main reason for this is that I am rather envious of her walking ability (although she still needs a trolley to keep her stable) and Nora is jealous of my speed-crawling. To make matters worse, all the Other Mothers turned up with their babies to show off their differing levels of perambulation.

To maximise the humilation we were all lined in the garden up like racehorses or, given the trolleys we needed for support, like contestants in a Liliputian Special Olympics. A rusk was placed a few metres away from us with one vacuous mummy grinning at us, rubbing her tummy and pretending to eat it. What infuriated me most was that although I was reluctant to play along with their silly games, I really wanted that biscuit, I really wanted to gum down on its crumbly surface and feel it go gooey on my tongue. My tummy rumbled and saliva glands slooshed into action. I had to have that rusk.

So off we went, slowly staggering, weaving, wobbling, mincing and lurching our way across the dewy lawn, more like drunken tramps with shopping trolleys than Special Olympic athletes.
Amy made good ground but then hit a stone and nutted the handle, she wailed and her mummy pulled her out of the race. Elsa was left behind as she got in her trolley and looked around for an ignition. Now there was just Nora, Ophelia, Marky, Henry and me, the odds were getting better. Ophelia purposefully lurched right and rammed into Marky's trolley sending him spinning off into the flower beds (my respect for Ophelia multiplied at that moment, I made a mental note to talk Mummy-baiting strategies with her later). I was alongside Henry who had stumbled and was trying to get on his feet again, I used this moment to remove most of the bricks from his trolley so that when he put his weight back on the handle the whole thing tipped up and decanted the rest of the bricks on top of him as he lay mewling on the grass. Chuckling, I set my sights on the remaining shufflers.

I tried to take a step forward and realised I had only moved an inch since we'd started. The blasted trolley was too unstable, I could push it forward but then I'd be overstretched and I'd simply have to pull the thing back again for fear of landing nose-first on the ground (my abdominal muscles were getting quite a work out). I fumed and watched Nora and Olivia trundle their way towards my rusk. I slid to the ground and crawled as fast as I could until I reached Ophelia's ankles and grabbed them, her trolley rolled away and I heard a soft mulchy sound as she bit the lawn. Then I set after Nora who was squealing and gurgling in delight as she covered the last few yards towards sweet mastication. She saw me coming, panicked and sped up, I was so close, I reached out a muddy palm to grasp her shoe when Mummy picked me up and took me back to the Other Mothers who were all consoling their babies. "Now, now, play fair Rosie" she chuckled as she wiped the soil from my knees. I was livid and had to sit there and watch Nora tuck into my biscuit. When no one was looking Nora winked at me and rubbed her tummy.

Nora's mummy brought her over and sat her next to me, I couldn't bear the close proximity to this gloating, munching horror and I resolved that if I couldn't have the rusk then neither could she. Stuffing my fingers into my gullet, I retched and deposited a frothy, pink Andrex mousse all over Nora and the biscuit.

I was very pleased with myself until I noticed that rusks were being handed out to everyone, everyone apart from me because my evil Mummy had declined on my behalf as "I think she's got an upset tummy, she'd better not have anything." I sat tortured, in the midst of all the gumming and crunching babies, a sweet sugary smell in my nostrils and a cup of boiled water in my hands.

Mummy will pay for this dearly. It's time to put phase two of Operation Destroy Dominatrix into action. Her decline will be slow and painful, that I guarantee.

The Knicker Debacle

Mummy went to the pub with the Other Mothers a couple of nights ago, luckily for me it’s close enough that I was able to slip the baby monitor into her bag and listen to the revelry from the comfort of my cot. I was disgusted to hear that they were all very excitable because they were away from their offspring and enjoying it! This is hardly the attitude to take regarding the propagation of the species; if it was left to women like this the human race would become extinct in no time. I seethed quietly and listened to rapidly deteriorating conversation.
There were a couple of gems amongst the inane babble. Apparently none of the women are having sexual relations as frequently as they used to because they’re exhausted from looking after their children. What rot! What about all those old Catholic families with sixteen children? These malingering mothers bring shame on their generation.

One mother told of a rare night of passion with her husband brought about by removing her knickers in the toilet of a restaurant and handing them to him over the petit fours. Mummy claimed that she would do the very same thing the following evening and giggled drunkenly at the prospect. From this point onwards the conversation became incoherent and from some of the thudding and wheezing I could hear I can only assume that dancing was involved – how undignified for ladies of that age, I cringe at the thought of being pushed around by that woman in public.

The next night I saw Mummy preparing her trap of seduction; she selected her prettiest and briefest knickers and popped them onto a plate and covered it over with a silver dish. She cooked Daddy a meal of scallops followed by dover sole with asparagus. Little did she know that while she had been cooking I’d replaced the sexy knickers with the largest, grubbiest and most repellent of her Capacious Greys. When Daddy lifted the cover off his dessert he almost gagged. “Jeesus, what the hell are these vile things doing here?” He looked at Mummy with real disgust in his eyes. Mummy was speechless; she grabbed the offending smalls which were dangling between Daddy’s thumb and forefinger as though he were holding a dead rat and ran up the stairs sobbing.

I think we can safely say there will be no slap and tickle for those two until Daddy can suppress the image of those knickers which must be burnt on his retinas for some time to come.

The Flash

Have you noticed how your Mummy has clothing of three different sizes: Forgiving (from pregnancy days), Optimistic (post-pregnancy but still a little too snug) and Unattainable (pre-pregnancy)? And three types of underwear: Capacious Greys (worn most days), Occasional Pinks (when she’s making an effort) and Redundant Reds (never seen her in these lacy numbers, not entirely sure of their purpose)? Well, the next time she’s wearing a pair of Capacious Grey knickers and Forgiving trousers (preferably ones with a drawstring or ill-advised elasticated waist) in public, use your new found clambering skills to stand up, holding on to Mummy’s trousers and when she’s in full view of a large number of people, an aisle in the supermarket perhaps, whip the trousers down to reveal the monstrosity beneath. There’s nothing more amusing that watching one’s Mummy shuffle rapidly down the aisle like a panicked penguin simultaneously trying to drag up her trousers and hide her shame behind the stack of beans. I urge you to employ this tactic when your mummy is similarly attired which, if you are less than nine months old, will be most of the time. Distress Rating: 4.5/5. Rampant Rose.

Festival of Lost Youth

Mummy - who is still in robust denial of her adulthood - took me to the Big Chill festival last weekend. A whirlwind of DJs, poets, artists, comedians and musicians; people in absurd outfits with twisted smiles; jugglers on stilts; unwashed people smoking shabbily-manufactured and strange-smelling cigarettes; brazen women who ought to know better in teeny bikini tops; just generally people lazily lounging all over the place imbibing from paper cups or troughing their way through fetid festival food of dubious origins. I was utterly disgusted with this wanton worship of hedonism and flagrant disregard for personal hygeine.

On closer inspection it seemed that the average age was a lot higher than one might expect for such behaviour and suddenly it dawned on me. The entire festival was geared towards those refusing to grow old gracefully. I couldn't decide whether I felt amusement or pity at this stage. The whole concept was underlined by the incongruous presence of a 'mums and dads tent' and a 'kids tent'. The former occupied by harried parents who didn't seem quite as chilled as they might have wished when they purchased their tickets, and the latter full of Dickensian urchins feverishly whirling hula hoops around their muddy midriffs.

Those without progeny either looked a tiny bit bored with all the frivolity or lay face down in the grass recovering from the night before. Others bounced manically up and down with their hands in the air in front of a po-faced DJ who would have looked more at home behind the counter at the Halifax than behind the oversized turntables.

While Mummy was chatting with her friends and Daddy was browsing the stalls in search of sustenance, I took the opportunity to slip away, unseen, and crawled my way to the stage with the mortgage adviser/DJ on it. The steps proved easy and I shuffled my way towards a big pile of cables. A few nibbles and tugs later and I was holding a live wire in my hand, the music had become considerably quieter and the DJ had swapped his look of superior ennui for one of confusion. I crawled to the front of the stage , now in full view of the crowd and moved the sparking cable towards my mouth - how the crowd screamed and lunged forward towards me! Some distance away Mummy, Daddy and their friends looked up to see me, centre stage, waving around live electricity. Oh for a camera! I had no idea they could be so athletic! As the crowd came nearer I waved the cable at them and they squealed and shrank away, as I moved it towards my mouth they gasped and lunged forward again. I repeated the actions in sequence, enjoying the to-ing and fro-ing. Before anyone could get to me the DJ picked me up and knocked the cable out of my hand, which landed on a nearby dreadlocked soul who danced a little more jerkily than before. He handed me over to Mummy who shook with shame beneath the united disgust of fifty thousand festival goers.

I'm not sure how much straw this particular camel can carry, but I'm pretty sure we're reaching the limits of her sanity. It shouldn't be much longer now as she's going back to work next week. She's been worrying about leaving me for months now so I think it's probably time to start seasoning this open wound. Watch this space.

A Beastly Tale

This week Mummy took me to Sprockett's Farm with her friends, Eleanor, Katherine and their babies, Amy and Elsa. It was a glorious outing, I experienced creatures of this earth that simply astounded me. As I recall we saw rheas, alpacas, pigs, cows, sheep, goats, llamas, chickens, rabbits, horses and all kinds of beasts that made one's head spin. To my boggled mind, some of the animals were rather pointless, I mean what on earth is the raison d'etre of a guinea pig? Does it exist simply to vibrate and be fluffy? I gather our Peruvian cousins eat them and I applaude this for what other purpose could they serve other then to form a gristly snack? I suppose one could hollow them out and make slippers of them when one gets older.

I have to say the highlight of the day was the pig race. The pungent pink dirigibles bounced along the track with as much enthusiasm as if there was an abattoir at the finish line rather than a bored student with a trough full of turnips. Our mummies, having had their fill of trotters for the moment, decided that a coffee break was in order (their cravings are only sated when there is more caffeine in their veins than blood). I took the opportunity, while the mummies were getting their fixes, to slip out of my push chair and, using my new-found crawling skills, explore the farm in a little more detail. Amy and Elsa followed my lead.

About five minutes elapsed before Katherine noticed we were missing. She yelped - spraying muffin all over Eleanor and my mummy - and gestured wildly at the empty buggies. Eleanor spilt her coffee and Mummy's face took on a bloodless hue that I shall call 'Petrified Palour' from here on in. From our separate hiding places we watched our mummies frantically search the farm.

Amy had snuck into the rabbit run and was napping luxuriantly and peacefully amongst a huddle of new warm and cosy friends. Being one with an eye for the finer things in life she chose to befriend the Angoras. Elsa made a bee-line for the gift shop and had dived into a bin full of handpuppets; her whereabouts was violently given away when an unsuspecting shopper tried to pick her up and try her out.

I could just make out Mummy - open-mouthed in disbelief - as I swept past her, half a ton of thundering pork between my legs. I was neck and neck with the sow on my left and was determined not to be beaten. I dug my bootees into the pig beneath me and with a plaintive squeal we shot forward to victory. Glory was mine in more ways than one. When Mummy disentangled me from my steed, cleaned me up and rejoined the other mothers to recount the tale, they clearly didn't believe her. I overheard Eleanor whisper something about 'losing the plot' to Katherine when Mummy went to the toilet.

Watch carefully comrades, as I undermine Mummy's support network and turn it against her, transforming her allies into my unwitting soldiers. A simple but effective strategy of divide and conquer.