does anything taste as good as skinny feels?

check it out at www.jennyrudd.com

If you like the blog (fingers crossed you do) then you can subscribe to receive an email each time a new post is published.  You can do it at www.jennyrudd.com Thanks xx

Making the most of the world wide web

This evening a friend came over for dinner.  In between slicing onions and putting the children to bed I threw on what I considered to be appropriate evening wear for a relaxed dinner at home a deux.  Tight gold jeans and patent red high heels ensured my children were all twitchy and wanted to know where I was going.

Ever thoughful of my responsibility as a hostess I had organised the Tesco delivery man to arrive around 10pm.  He arrived bang on time to unload my carefully prepared pudding - a Terry's Chocolate Orange.  They were 20% off.  It'd be rude not to.

Do you think Kate Rothschild and Ben Goldsmith are mad to air their dirty laundry?

''To all the vultures harassing and taunting me, the people calling me a whore and a bad mother, the threatening emailers and callers: I have been with my husband since I was 17, my whole life from then until now has been dedicated to him and our children. Ben in a rational mood would be the first to say that my devotion to my children is unshakeable."  Kate Rothschild defended herself this week in a Twitt-war with husband Ben Goldsmith.

At best, my own parenting skills leave a huge amount to be desired.  The rest of the time they are merely dire.  There are times when my brain seems to unhinge itself from the tepid, liquidy comfort my skull offers and thrusts mouth and limbs into the most unsavoury of behaviour and speech.  Which is why I sympathise with Kate Rothschild and Ben Goldsmith with the highly public airing of the breakdown of their marriage over the last week.  It's a bit like Prince William allowing himself to be interviewed by Heat magazine after Kate snogs Harry in the toilet at Boujis nightclub.  It's also the reaction of two people who are involved in a most common but deeply upsetting facet of marriage and who have become removed from rationale.


In other news, here is me and my chum enjoying a quiet few drinks.

New job

The husband has found a great job.  I'm very proud of him as it's no mean feat at the moment.  The only snag is the job's in London which is 250 miles away from where we are living.  He is staying in the big smoke during the week then coming home for weekends.  Apart from the obvious downside of us not seeing each other or him not seeing the children, I can see a number of upsides.

The pay is way better then he'd get up here and there is masses of work.

One of the main reasons to be here is to see my parents.  I can see ma and pa constantly.

I can spend every evening on skype chatting to my mates in New Zealand without my husband raising his eyebrows in irritation at the content of our conversations.

The sky plus recorder is now rammed with series links of Made in Chelsea, The Only Way Is Essex, Peter Andre: My Life.

I can eat tinned spaghetti on toast with the children at 5pm and not cook dinner.

When the twins wake up in the night and want to sleep in our bed, there's plenty of room for them.

Every cloud and all that.

Tonight I'm off to stay at a friend's house for a sleepover with the children so we can focus properly on drinking wine and talking shit until late.

Internal and external photoshopping

Last night the husband and I went out for dinner.  I got changed about 18 times, tried to work out if I wanted to channel Liz Hurley/Mary Quant summer chic with white trousers and a glittery black top or show off my past two summer's efforts at eliminating strap marks by donning a new red strapless number I'd rather cleverly bought on ebay super cheap.
'Is that the one you bought online?' The husband buttons up his shirt.
'Yes, why? Do you like it?'
'It looks super cheap.'
I make a mental note to re-list the thing BNWOT and tap my lip whilst scrutinising my wardrobe.  In the end I decide to pay homage to Barry Gibb by sporting a black, flared jumpsuit, vintage (looking) silver belt and high heels.  Two kir royales later and I feel like the cleverest, funniest, most alluring person ever.  After dinner we go back to the bar and bump into some 20 year old friends.  I say friends - they are actually the offspring of friends.  Two of the girls very sweetly feign shock at my being a 37 year old mum of 3 children.  I simper and fob them off only half heartedly with a limp wrist and 'Oh don't be ridiculous'.

A band starts up and I dance like Bez from the Happy Mondays, making my fresh young friends look at me oddly then stumble home with the husband, happy and glowing.  Still warm with my imagined youth I skype a friend in New Zealand.  Her husband answers the call, looks at me and sucks in his cheeks with a whistle and says 'Fuck me, Rudd, are you at the back end of an all-nighter?'

It doesn't matter how generous you are with your internal photoshopping, the truth will out.