adj. fun·ni·er, fun·ni·est
a. Causing laughter or amusement.
b. Intended or designed to amuse.
2. Strangely or suspiciously odd; curious.
Thousands of bloggers nominated their favourite on-line writers in the recently launched Mummy And Daddy (MAD) blogging awards, celebrating the brilliance of British parent bloggers. I voted. And not for myself, either, however a few of you must have done, as it seems I am a finalist in the funniest blog category. I’m chuffed beyond belief to be nominated, whilst also finding myself seized by an insatiable desire to beat the other four fabulously funny contenders…
This gives me a tremendous sense of pressure to be funny at all costs. I am therefore writing this whilst wearing a spinning bow tie and throwing a bucket of glitter over the children. The thing is, I’m not really that funny. Not all the time, at least. Everyone’s amusing a little bit of the time; except tax men and Gordon Brown. But very few people are side-splittingly, rip-roaringly, pants-wettingly hilarious on a minute by minute basis.
I write about life. Just the way it is. Sometimes it’s funny, often it’s quite dull and occasionally it’s really rather sad. A few years ago I stumbled through a tragedy so great I still wake up screaming for it to end. If I didn’t pick through the shattered pieces in search of a smile, the tears would win and life would be the poorer for it.
So for those of you who perhaps joined my blog during one of these darker moments, I’d like to introduce you to MTJAM’s six of the best. Enjoy. And then please vote…
Motorway tail-backs and the surprising capacity of a nappyA three hour traffic jam and incompetent pelvic floor result in desperate measures.
Secrets of an 18th century cupboard
I send a piece of furniture to be mended but the cabinet-maker will get more than he bargained for when he opens the cupboard…
A narrow escape from poo-related career down-fall
It is unlikely that things have sufficiently changed during the course of my three year career break for the presence of poo not to matter.
I risk the wrath of the trolley-wolley-nazis by improvising my own triple trolley as I skirt the alcohol aisle.
Is there sex after babies?
In which I explore post-natal relations and the mythical six week marker.
Asssessing Mary Poppins
I shamelessly exploit my three year old to establish if the nanny really is practically perfect in every way.
If you enjoy reading my blog, please consider tweeting it, digging it, joining my facebook page or utilising some other technobabble promotion technique. If you are a subscriber and this post has dropped straight into your inbox, please consider forwarding it to those friends of yours who could do with a laugh. Isn’t that all of us?