Tilly Pitt and Herbie Pitt in Disneyland

As far as Tilly was concerned, Disneyland was the sole purpose of this holiday. Forget the champagne region, the historic chateau, the cave paintings, Toulouse, Perpignan and our two weeks in Mallorca. This holiday was about going to Disneyland and I would be lying if I did not admit to being slightly apprehensive as we left the Lemon Hotel And started our drive towards DISNEYLAND.

We were staying in the Davey Crockett Ranch and I checked the booking information and it said nothing about having to check in first - so we headed straight for Disneyland. Again, our information had let us down. We drove into the main entrance with Tilly screaming 'DISNEYLAND' in the back on the car., we drive up to the toll both with Tilly screaming 'MICKEY MOUSE' only for them to tell us to drive to the ranch and check in.

Fine, we get straight there - check in within 10 minutes and are beck at Disney for 8.25am. We have 1 and a half hours before those not in Disney hotels ate even allowed in. We are there!

Then creeps in my apprehension again - what if Tilly finds out that it isn't the real Disney? A boy at school had already told her that they aren't the real princesses - only for me to utter my best 'YES THEY ARE!' Fort £150 for a meal with them - they better bloody be!

We parked in the front row - no need to remember the character name - and headed in. From that point onwards my apprehension never again arose. This is no longer Eurodisney, this is non longer a poor man's version of Disney, or more accurately a French version of Disney. This is the real deal.

Everyone speaks English. Now this is not me being a typical Brit abroad. I will always try to speak French and hate those Brits that don't try at all. The traditional British person speaks in a weird slow version of English and if they don't understand you, then they repeat it only this time even louder and even slower! NO, my problem with Eurodisney of the past is that everything was French, its a small world was French, Goofy was not called Goofy and the biggest sin of them all! Mickey spoke in French! This is not an English abroad issue it is a Disney issue. Cinderella is American, Belle is American, Pinocchio is American, The Arsitcoats are American, Ariel is American, Baloo is American, Those girls from Frozen are American, Samba is American, Basil The Great Mouse Detective is American!!! Hang on, something seems a bot wrong with that lost of characters. Anyway, Pocahontas is really American and whatever Disney have done to alter books or geographical locations of their films, Mickey Mouse is most definitely NOT FRENCH.  C'est la vie!

Anyway that is my final rant of this blog entry over and done with as the rest of the day was truly great.

The Peter pan ride had a queue of 5 minutes, Dumbo ride - 5 minutes, tea cups - 5 minutes.
Mickey Mouse 1 hour 50 minutes - but Tilly was terrified of men in outfits and so we went nowhere near this queue. The boy at her school had done us a favour. As much as we would have loved a family picture with Mickey, a day without any kind of queuing in a Disneyland Park is incredible.

We crossed to the other park and met Piglet (the only character in a costume Tilly would go anywhere near) and then off to Disney Junior Live. Clare tells me that we watch too much Disney Junior but when Tilly and I were dancing and singing to Mickey Mouse Club House, Little Einsteins, Handy Manny (ok, he is allowed to speak some Spanish) and Winnie the Pooh, this really was Disney at its best.

We returned for one more go on Its a Small World (Tilly's favourite Ride) and then went back to the ranch. When I was 18 and in Florida, Its a small world would be an annoyance, an extra ride that I believed no one would want to venture into. Now, as a dad of a young girl - it is the best ride in the world. No queue, relaxing and it teaches (however stereotypically) about world cultures and differences. By the 5th time, I was still enjoying seeing Tilly's eyes light up as she saw the people of New Zealand and the mermaids in Hawaii (maybe they are really there, I don't know, I have never been).

The ranch was also excellent. Normally I would rant about the price paid for a lodge that was actually a caravan painted like wood. But this is not the point. The point is that we each got a room, the kitchen area meant we could cook as a family, open a bottle of wine and get a much needed good night's sleep after the horrors of the Lime Hotel. Already I believe a part of me is lost there forever, that like in the Shining there is a picture of me in the lobby from 1802 and that part of my soul is never going to be returned.

The other main reason for the lodge is the excellent village centre. With shops, bars, restaurants and an amazing swimming pool. This was a Disney Holiday Park!

As we checked in the people looked disappointed that we were there for only one night. I thought this was some kind of pressure to get us to book for more but being in the village made it clear that this was made for people to stay for longer. Horse rides through the woodland, tennis courts, basketball courts, a petting zoo. This was again a reminder that this was no longer Eurodisney. This was DISNEYLAND!

Tilly and Herbie we t to sleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, we followed shortly after and all the apprehension of the previous night with the gypsies and Lemon Hotel Dread was replaced with real excitement for the day to come. Exactly as Disneyland should be.

Day 2 of the European Adventure

After an elongated Day 1 introduction that even managed to miss out the champagne shops in Reims and sitting outside the room in a typical motel with everyone looking at us like strange foreigners "les enfants, dormer" being the typical reply given when looks are too strange.

However, we actually managed to get to sleep. The 4 in a cheap hotel room experiment had worked, the fact that other families were returning with their screaming kids at 10 o clock at night and then spent hours trying to calm them down only helped the smug looks on our faces - even if the smug look was  covering an underlying mantra of 'please don't wake herbie, please don't wake herbie!'.

We woke the next morning with our normal alarm clock of 'mummy can I come into you bed' and we turned to our new best friend in the world - the travel kettle. In a few minutes you can have a cup of incredibly, mouth scaldingly hot coffee which may not taste the best but that gets you ready for a day of travelling the French countryside in search of glorified car boots sales or the more impressive name of Brocante Fairs. The Chipping Norton antique world dream of these fairs, hoping for a glimpse of some rusting old French stuff that can be called shabby chic and can be priced up to sell to the wealthy women of the Cotswolds.

We were up, showered in the impossibly small all plastic cubicle and ready to go by 7.30. We had a list of fairs to try and a plan of action through the corn lined roads of North France.

The first stop was an accidental Brocante - signposted to what looked like Brasilville - we drove into a tiny village where the people literally had a wall paper pasting table open outside their front door and were selling any old tat they had in their house - needless to say, Clare was in her element. Like Herbie on a bad day, I had turned my back and she was down the street, I did not even have time to put the reigns on her!

Within 2 minutes, she had bought a huge antique vase and then continued to find treasures in amongst the piles of limbless barbies and dust filled hotwheels cars. Tilly managed to secure herself a vintage Barbie - If vintage means a few years old and with mangled hair that looks heroin chic but is actually just toybox tangled. We were soon overtaken by professionals who swarmed on stalls to look for old postcards and champagne caps. Old men had their champagne cap guide books and looked intricately at the boxes of old caps hoping to find that one rare lid. It is the first time since my almost finished Jurassic Park card collection of 1993 that I have almost been tempted to start collecting. These men look transfixed as they hope to find that one year of Verve Clique lid where the lady has a small squint or where the Lanson logo was printed slightly differently. Other are just enjoying the fresh air with their old palls as they hope the previous nights hang over drifts away.

At our next Brocante, the old men had found a better way to get rid of their hang overs - more champagne! The stall in the centre of the market stalls was selling coffee, croissants and because it was 8.00 in the morning, most were enjoying plastic cups of champagne. When the coffee costs a Euro and the champagne costs 2.50 - there is only one option.

Again Clare whirled around the stalls breathlessly hunting out the antique gems. I was beckoned over to ask prices and haggle. Although we did have the rare event of us haggling up the price. One old lady was clearly fed up as the rain was cascading down and as we asked the price of two old jars and honey pots, she only asked for 50 centimes for the two - I gave her 50 centimes each as her boredom was clearly blurring her ability to think straight. Her look of confusion as I handed over too much money was already being recognised as 'stupid foreigners' after the previous nights corridor sitting.

As I write this, a French man has asked if we want to go out to the pub with him rather than sitting in the corridor. We are like mini celebrities in the high rolling world of Formula 1 hotel corridor sitting. When gay French couples, old walkers, builders and workmen for hire come together there is one point of conversation - the weird English people. I only hope the two gay men opposite who have clearly come away for a forbidden meet up are not too loud.

The 2nd Brocante was thought to be our last but when we arrived in Meaux there it was on the bridge - Like London Bridge before 1666. A bridge lined with Brocante stores. Clare's eyes lit up, we parked up and off she went again hunting out the antiques. The police have sniffer dogs that cannot find a packet of crack cocaine as quickly as Clare can find an old French door sign (dear God one of the gay men has just left his room in a towel - now this is not a gay Adonis that you would see on a podium on G.A.Y. (I would imagine) it looks like Mario on a cheeky weekend away from Princess Peaches - no wonder she keeps getting 'captured' by Bowser).

Where was I, Oh yes - Brocante number 3.

The hunt was finally ended as our stomachs rumbled. We found a little Italian (no not Mario again) and sat down. I ordered a pizza and a sandwich for the 4 of us to share, speaking my best French. Only for the lady behind the counter to forget that she had said she did not speak English as she uttered the phrase, 'I don't think so'. 'Que' I exclaimed.
'you cannot share' she replied.
'ca va' I said as I scooped up our family and we left. This was not some exclusive Italian restaurant. We were not next in a line of people queuing for a space. This was a glorified kebab shop with plastic cutlery, plastic tables and one of those amazing child seats that looks like it is made from recycled bits of old robin reliants.

We left with the pride of knowing that lady, with her feigned ignorance of the English language and her incredibly badly highlighted hair would not be enjoying the profits of the Pitt Family's hard earned cash. Instead, like in the streets of Reims, we wandered the streets of Meaux in hope if food. This was the second time we learnt the rule of France - they love food but only at the times that they think food should be served. No cooked food before 1 and no cooked food between the hours of 2 and 7! No exceptions unless you want a burger and even then they push the definition of 'fast' food to its absolute limits, even in the national chain of burger joins that is ironically called 'Quik'.

We found a bar that was still serving food - Tous la jour, it said at the door but I am pretty sure that we were the only people that had ordered food that particular jour. A few pancakes and paninis arrived but we could not eat comfortably as the lady behind the bar just sat staring at Herbie. If this had been a grabber game from the arcade, he would have been that one teddy bear sticking out with a clear liftable appendage and she looked like she had a pocket full of 20pences ready to have a try. We ate very very quickly, also due to the fact we were painfully hungry, grabbed our children very tightly and ran out.

A friendly French man then offered us some free tickets to the rides at the funfair that was accompanying the Brocante and so we no longer had to pretend to Tilly that we did not have any money. She could go on the rides- and what's more, we found out the Herbie also loves rides. Jack Osborne has nothing on our little one year old adrenaline junkie. He leapt onto the space ship, Tilly followed suite, he grabbed the controls and whooshed them up and down as the carousel also whirled quickly around. Clare was getting nauseous just looking but Herbie was loving it and thankfully, so was Tilly. The little girl that had previously made me call out to stop a ride mid programme at Lego Land Windsor was being given a new found confidence by her little best friend Herbie.

Full of quickly eaten Panini and tired from an early start to get the best offerings at the Brocantes, we returned to the car to find our hotel. The guidebook had warned of foreigners littered around the hotel when they stayed and that they were worried for their car's safety but no one believes the guides on Trip adviser, let alone the left wing over bearing motherly rants of mumsnet. However, this time Mums net actually had a point. The Lemon Hotel - I kid you not that was the name, was found at the end of a cul de sac at the outskirts of Meaux. In England outskirts can mean nice suburban living with large driveways and spacious green belt plots - In France in means scumsville with horses roaming the land not because it is a riding school but because they don't let the gypses into their town centres.

As we arrived near the hotel, there were the gypsy horses, there were the wild untamed kids running around, there were the groups of men with no women to be seen for miles. If this was a game of traveller lottery, we would just be waiting on the actual caravan itself before screaming 'House' - well sort of house, on wheels that means you don't pay council tax or any kind of tax at all.

As it turned out the caravan was the hotel itself. The place was filled with gypsy people. The lobby was full of children and one particular man that just held his mobile phone in his hand. He walked with a strange semi limp and you were unsure whether he was a dodgy character to stay away from or whether he just wanted a friendly bonjour as you walked by. I settled for a British nod, although I was worried that he may think the nod was actually me mocking the fact that he nodded as he walked. I panicked a bit wondering how he would plan his revenge when we were asleep.
Fortunately the man with the phone never left the lobby. He sat there on the serving counter like a lost man in a blue flanellette tracksuit waiting for the breakfast buffet that would never come. In the morning he was still there sat by the microwave with his phone in hand, maybe their was a text from a lost loved one that is being forever blocked by the radiation of the microwave. It had arrived years ago but he still stares blankly at the screen thinking she was the one that got away.

Thoughts like this (AND WORSE) span through my mind all night as we heard hours of gypsy kid screams, freak mother screams and tears and strange men staring at the Jeep sign on our new car. TERRIFYING!!!! If the first night was surprisingly restful this night was the opposite of that.

Clare and I tossed and turned all night in the cheap sheets of the lemon hotel. Strange African women spoke too loudly outside the room on their massive mobile phones. more kids screamed at hours well past any normal kids bedtime and the lady continued to cry. Should I help, is she even there? was the sleepless night just playing tricks on me. At some point sleep must have won over the worried reveries of my imagination as I awoke with the normal child friendly beckoning of Tilly. Clare and I both looked at the window and sighed with relief that the car was still there - we quickly dresses and rushed to the car. This was not just to get away from the hellhole that is the Lemon hotel but because it was the day we were going to DISNEYLAND!!!!!

Herbie Pitt has his first proper adventure

With Tilly having travelled to Peru, Argentina and Brazil in her first year, we always felt a tad guilty that Herbie's adventures had been limited to Rugby, Daventry and Leicester (although the John Lewis is very nice).
It is therefore with great excitement that we started out travels at 3.00 in the morning (certain people still wandering the streets drunk after leavers ball), all packed, Tilly and Herbie wrapped in their blankets, an we headed to Folkestone - this wasn't the extent of Herbie's adventure, it was just where we caught the Eurostar.

So I sit writing this blog from a slightly dodgy hotel in Poitiers, on the 4th day of our travels. We are sat on the floor outside a hotel room waiting for Tilly and Herbie to fall asleep. This has been our plan every day and it has somehow worked a treat. Herbie goes down in the travel cot, Tilly has to ignore him till he falls asleep and then she has to then get her head down. 4 nights in and 4 full nights of sleep (sort of, see the later adventures at the Lemon Hotel).

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We arrived in Folkestone not really knowing what to expect; how do you get a car on train? where is customs? do all our fluids have to go in little bags? what happens if it breaks down? (a fact that the passengers the next day actually found out - crikey I got stuck on the ghost train at Drayton Manor when I was 10 and that was bad enough). Anyway, it turns out you get your passport briefly glanced at, there is no giant car x-ray machine, and all of your toiletries are fine your bags, like normal. Clearly they don't believe in terrorists under the sea? Or maybe its because they don't have a Boots store at the Eurotunnel who are interested in you only being able to buy big toiletries from them - or maybe I am just being cynical. Sorry I am going off track.

We manage to get an early train (a very rare concept in England), there is a giant arrivals board in the waiting car park that beckons you through and then you wait to go onto the train. They call you in and then you drive to the end of the train. It is the weirdest experience (well the second weirdest after falling asleep on your hand and then waking up with wobbly stranger hand - wooo wobbly hand, aaargh pins and needles). It was like driving into the future, with shoddy 90s surroundings and display panels. But before you know it, they have started the train - no driving senselessly around a runway, no boring safety talk, no overpriced cuppa soups and pringle deals.

Within an hour (well within 6 programmes from CBEEBIES on the ipad), we have arrived in France. You drive off the train, where they carefully guide you on the right of the road, another person glances nonchalantly at your passport cover, and you are then shepherded onto the motorway that is conveniently titled, the Inglish road.

And the best part is that it is still only 8.30  in the morning. We are in France and still have a full day ahead of us. Herbie has just woken up and he has a proper adventure ahead of him that is going to be more exciting than navigating the Leicester one way system.

We continue on the Inglish Road; all the French have diverted off, strange you think until you then realise that this is a toll road. Those crafty French!

15 Euros later, we arrive at The Somme Museum of the Great War. With it being the 100th anniversary of the start of WW1, it would only be polite to visit. As you drive in, you expect rows of poppy filled fields, acres of cemeteries like at the start of Saving Private Ryan (I know that is a different War but my mind only really works in film references). Instead you get a normal road, normal houses and a market that looks like a Saturday morning in Rugby (this is not a compliment). We go around the market looking for beautiful food, French baguettes, fresh vegetables; instead there are tens of stalls selling plastic bands for children and clothes that would best be worn at a gypsy wedding or alternative chavvy engagement - the ones where the children look like they have never dressed out of tracksuits in their lives and have been forced to wear a shirt with a garish pattern on, never tucked in, with some kind of 1990s gel on their hair and trainers that could only have been found in a hidden away corner of sports direct.
Then you turn the corner and there it is - FRANCE! Not the outskirts of Paris France (although we accidentally went there as we tried to navigate around the traffic jam that is Northern Paris) but real, dreamlike, French France. The market stalls stopped selling fake Barbie Dolls and toy guns made illegal in England years ago and actually started selling real French things. Local food, local vegetables, live chickens (although we did not say what they were for), French baguettes, cooked chickens, garlic, strange stuff that we did not know what it was but it was most definitely FRENCH!  and there at the end of the street was a giant fortress that had been turned into the Museum of The Great War.

Tilly instantly thought we had found a castle and posed for multiple photos, Herbie just loved the water that surrounded it and Clare and I wandered in to see the museum. Tucked away it may be, but this is certainly worth a visit. The controversy of the war itself is left well behind and instead it just deals with adverts, maps, posters, uniforms, kits, cannons, tanks and an overall sense of the pointlessness of the war. Wilfred Owen would be proud. It is also, most importantly, a museum in honour of the war without making you feel overly depressed. Instead you are depressed for those that are dying today, that the War to End All Wars did nothing but cause many many more.

The Somme was left behind by driving through fields and field of more Frenchness. The scenery of Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan is laid out in front of you and it can only be described as beautiful.

Our end destination of Day 1 as Reims. Although I am now Head of Geography at Rugby School, my Geography was shown up by Clare who knew this was the centre of the Champagne region - I however just kept getting Rouen and Reims confused.

We arrived at the first of our budget hotels (the whole hotel spend over our 8 days cost less than one night at Disneyland Paris Hotel (and we were staying in the cheapest ones)), on the outskirts of Reims. And it actually wasn't too bad. It had a weird double bed with a bunk bed above it and just enough room for the travel cot before the strange wipe down bathroom (this was to be a feature of the budget hotels (why clean when you can jet wash it)).

We dragged out bags in (no lift, its budget!) and left to visit Reims. We stopped at the first Cathedral we saw and got out to find the shops. One huge great cathedral stood in front of us, but no shops. We walked the streets and saw nothing but dodgy looking immigrants (not that immigrants are dodgy, just that these ones were), huge piles of dog muck and still no shops or places to eat.
We returned to the car only to see a real life mafia wedding starting in the church (we had now found out that t was not the real Cathedral of Reims and just a huge impressive, massive church). The church was packed with people actually wearing those black and white spats, with hats on. I almost expected Tom Soprano to waltzdown the street and Pauly to be the best man.

We stared open mouthed at the wedding for a few minutes and found the real Reims. This one really was impressive. The Cathedral was really really huge this time and there were hundreds of impressive shops and, most importantly, food restaurants. We had been travelling since 3am and had only eaten a few scraps in the car. We sat down at a hugely overpriced burger restaurant opposite the cathedral (tourist error number 607) and ordered. This is when France comes into its own. In London you would end up at an Angus Steak House where they serve 10 day old horse meat. In France, they label their horse meat and serve it to your taste with exquisite garnish. Needless to say the food was amazing and Herbie nearly made it through without screaming (nearly).

Introducing Vero Pitt

Ok, so Herbie never got a full Pittperu welcome as I was not blogging at that point but now we have gained an extra Pitt (at the same time as losing one (Lil) - oh, she got married in case anyone thought this was a very blunt statement of death!).
Our newest Pitt is Mrs Vero Pitt, an English pointer that was rescued from Spain by Pointer Rescue. Now the last blog was not just a promo for Laura's new business but also a way for us to put another picture of Vero onto the blog.
We ventured to a random pub just outside Leicester to go and see Vero for the first time. We were told that she is called Vero, it says Vero on her doggy passport but we still have a slight belief that a non Spanish speaker just misunderstood the word pero and so we have a dog that has a weir name just because someone at border control didn't listen in school.

Anyway, the landlady of the pub had clearly fallen for Vero and was reluctant to see her go - although it clearly had not overtaken her love for large props as a life-size cut out of Dan Cole dominated the pub's main room. I would imagine that she kept a her George Schuster one in the bedroom.

So we went to look at a possible dog and left with a new member of the Pitt family.

4 months later and Vero has calmed down but it has been an up and down few months for the poor girl.

Attacked at the park by a random dog, panicky every time we leave the house and with a fascination with fecal matter that is actually unmentionable in a public forum, we have worked a minor miracle to turn her from abandoned Spanish street dog into a loveable house pet with a love for anything edible and AGAs.

When walking the streets of Rugby, we treats the walk as a giant buffet. Anything that looks even slightly worth putting in her mouth will be tested and ultimately devoured. Big Macs, Griggs Steak Bakes, deep fried chicken. Chewing gum and even dead mice have all been sucked and crunched down by the gluttonous dog. (rspca please be aware that we feed her regularly and have treated her amazingly well - she just loves food!). Yesterday saw us all spring into action as she grabbed a chocolate Easter egg off the table. Her long legs and long neck mean that no surface is unreachable as she stretches up like a brachiosaur in Jurassic Park.

However, she is brilliant with the children. The human tank that is Herbie walks around the house barging anything out of the way - including the giant dog. He crashes around the house, bashes Vero ib the head with sticks, spoons, metal Easter eggs and all she does is just walk away. They are a great team and complete our section of the Family Pitt quite nicely indeed!

Shaggy Chic Dog Grooming Cheltenham

http://www.shaggychicdogs.com/

Clare's sister Laura is moving on from her mobile dog grooming service and now has a shop in Cheltenham.

We have used her many many times for cuts, washes, nail clipping and general pooch pampering and I am honestly amazed by how good the dogs look (and I am not just saying this as she is a relative).

Please check out the website and get down to Shaggy Chic Dog Grooming Cheltenham.

http://www.shaggychicdogs.com/ 

Herbie Pitt and the Rugby Adventure

As Herbie turns 18 months, the whirlwind experience that has been our life seems to finally be calming down and Rugby Town and Rugby School has embraced us. Having been teaching at Rugby School now for nearly 2 years, Clare also teaches here as the head of fashion and textiles. Plus Tilly is doing great and is flourishing into a lovely little girl. The baby that w's being pushed around Lima is a distant memory as we chat away to our little Tilly often forgetting that she is only 4 years old. This time 4 years ago, we were in Lima, having watched the winter Olympics with random Canadians in the American bar and then collecting beer glasses in Plaza Veal in anticipation of the World Cup and here we are again, having just watched the winter Olympics and waiting for England to yet again disappoint in a world cup. Last world cup, we watched the final surrounded by foreigners in Lima and this time around it will not be too dissimilar. As much as Rugby is a breathtakingly beautiful school, walking through the town often feels similar to Miraflores. Everywhere you look people are talking in a foreign language (Polish and Romanian this time), and at the local park Herbie is stared at for his blonde hair. The echoes of our Peruvian adventure are still in our memory and we are still using those world cup glasses (no matter how much Clare tries to stop me! And use the correct glasses for the correct drink). I have also recently had the pleasure of introducing people to Cuscena. The beer of the Andes is now stocked in the local ASDA, and as much as they do not let you refill your glasses, the taste is still a treat for the pallet compared to the usual British bland lagers - although one of the boys' parents at the school own a brewery and the Iron Maiden beer that he recently supplied should be tasted by any beer lover - it comes highly recommended. So as I head into the coming months as Head of Geography at Rugby School and with Tilly starting 'big school', Clare taking the textile department of Rugby School into uncharted territory and Herbie running around like a mad man - it is a very exciting time for the Pitt family. I will be updating the blog more often (as I have finally received a new password (the heartbleed bug is good for some things - sorry mumsnet users), and chatting about the life of the Pitt family in their new settled era.

Tilly Pitt Potty Training and the Legoland adventure

After a rather stressful term of job hunting, baby worries, water polo finals and general work, we decided to spend a relaxing half term potty training and packing. Packing went well, with me doing the housework to save pregnant Clare from too much work - although this plan actually led to Clare doing far too much by being left to pack up the multitude of trinkets and antiques that have accumulated around our house. Some of these things include: An antique head that shows you where to massage, a glass bell shaped thing that I am told is expensive but have no idea what it could ever have be used for, old jars, old pots, old bottles. Things that Victorians would have put out for Ye Olde Recycling box, we have displayed proudly around the house. Emma Bridgewater pots, Emma Bridgewater plates, Emma Bridgewater jugs, Emma Bridgewater tea towels, Emma Bridgwater coffee pot, Emma Bridgewater pasta jar ......basically if its got spots on it - we've got it! And whilst all of this was being wrapped in bubble wrap, further wrapped in newspaper and then carefully shoved into a box.....Tilly was being potty trained. Last time we tried this it ended up with a 2 year old girl becoming terrified of the potty and more pairs of wet knickers than at a Daniel O Donnell concert. So we waited a half term... and tried again! First day ......... The potty no longer seemed scary...phew! but Tilly seemed to think that going for a wee and then telling us about it was the best plan. End result = lots of washing for Clare (I still don't know which buttons to press on the machine!). Second Day ........ Tilly starts weeing, then tells us and so some of the wee actually ends up in the potty. Clare and I then follow this with a rousing rendition of "pee pee on the potty" song and progress is clearly being made. Third Day ......... We finally have success. "Mummy, mummy, wee wee" is actually said before the event, this follows by a mad run over to Tilly and throwing Tilly onto the potty just in time. Cue Double rendition of "pee pee on the potty" with added dance, jig and waving of the arms. This potty thing looks easy. We even managed a trip out to see Grandma and Nanny without any incidents (although Tilly has found that disabled toilets have sinks that she can reach and so says she needs the toilet just to use the sink - rather than for any wee events). Fourth Day ......... We have the great idea of a tube trip into London. Drive to the staion ..... no accidents (although we do have to stop of the hard shoulder for a false alarm). Tube into London ..... no accidents. Then on the circle line "Mummy need a wee wee". Dilema... what do you do. Daddy takes Tilly to the end of the carriage, daddy gets out the potty by the doors to the tube and then Tilly wees away. We stop at a station half way through the wee event and the passangers on the platform give me somewhat of a wierd lookas I am sat holding a two year old girl on a potty in the centre of London. Tilly finishes and Daddy is left carrying a potty full of wee along Baker Street until we find a toilet to empty it into. Elementary My dear Tilly. We manage to have a full day in London, trip to the Olympic Site (although this does look more like a giant industrial site than anything else) and a drive home.... without any accidents at all. This deserves 3 renditions of "pee pee on the potty". So packing is well under way. Potty training is going well and Saturday is both the only non-raining day of the week but it is also Charlie's birthday (Tilly's cousin for those of you that do not know). There can only be one option..... A trip to Legoland. The child inside me gets excited just thinking about it. Legoland, the place I have dreamed of going to ever since I first put two plastic bricks together (and then lost three teeth trying to bite them apart again), the place that was once a fantasy (as it was only in Denmark), is now a reality (as it is only a 30minute drive from where we live). Legoland - Scandinavian's greatest gift to the world that is not made of MDF or bacon. Legoland - like Alton Towers without the chavs. Legoland - the only place where you go to look at a plastic skyline of London instead of looking at the horizon where that actual skyline is there in reality. We get there early and have time for a look around Lego Starwars before the main gates actually open. Just when I thought the child in me couldn't get more excited.. I see the many worlds of Starwars made out of Lego. I see the big walking things from the Empire Strikes Back made out of Lego, the ewok tree houses made of Lego, the Millenium Falcon made of Lego, the crap Jar Jar Binks army made of Lego and then a shop selling every starwars character (you guessed it) made of Lego. Fortunately for Clare (and our bank balance) the main gates had opened just as I stepped into the shop and so I only had time to buy one keyring. The wierd man behind the counter also put me off a bit as he tried to talk to me a bit too much (with me looking around the exhibition on my own, it seemed like he was trying to recruit me into some ,kind of grooming club). So with my CRB check now laminated and hung around my neck, I entered Legoland with Tilly and Clare. Lee and Emma (Charlie's parents)had their map ready, their plan of action ready and so we set off at warp speed to get around with the aim of getting as many rides into the first half hour as possible. A course had been planned after weeks of meticulous preparation and not since Ranolph Fienes first placed his foot onto the Artic Continent has a route been so well prepared. We did the roller coaster in 5 minutes and were just about to go on the runaway train when diaster struck. Now, Tilly was allowed on this ride and we were sat happily waiting to go when Tilly suddenly decided that this was not the ride for her. The train had slowly started moving, the man on the loud speaker was getting everyone psyched up for the ride, and the bar had descended to keep everyone in place. Everyone apart from Tilly - who stood up and said "Tilly want to get off!". I tried to sit her down - no luck. I tried to push her down - no luck. I tried asking her to sit down - "no! Tilly get off!". The man on the loud speaker said "will you get your child to sit down sir!" - No luck! The ride was stopped, we were escorted from the ride area and Tilly started smiling again with the knowledge that she had won. Yet again, Tilly had got her own way. Nothing could stop her - not even a theme Park! Needless to say - I was a little bit embarassed as the people on the ride stared at us, the people waiting in the queue stared at us and for a moment it seemes that even the Lego models turned their heads and stared at us. Tilly just smiled nonchalantly as all she was aware of was the fact that she had won! I was even more embarassed then when she was on the tube pointing at 2 men sat opposite us and saying- little man.... big man ..... little man .... big man...... as she pointed at the two men one after the other leaving no chance that they could misunderstand which one was big and which the smaller of the two. "I don't like that ride" was then her new favourite saying of the day. Tilly do you want to go on the mini pirate ship - "No, I don't like that ride". Tilly do you want to go on the carousel - "no, I don't like that ride!". Tilly do you want to go on the hot air balloons - "No, I don't like that ride". So we gave up on rides and headed to the Duplo Theatre and Duplo World. The 3 Little Pig show and the Duplo train ride were sure to work and like Tiger Woods at a nightclub - Tilly could just not resist!The Duplo Train was finally a ride that Tilly got onto, followed closely by the Duplo Play area, the 3 Little Pigs theatre Show and the Lego fairytale Boat Ride. The Girl that at 3 months old went on Dune Buggies and Speed boats was now the 2 year old that would go on the somewhat more subdued slow trains and paddle boats. But at least we did not have to stop any of these rides. We then watched Charlie get his Lego driving licence and ride the wave rider before seeing the Lego Miniworld, riding the rapids and then returning home. We began the week wanting to relax, not put too much strain on Clare and make sure that we went back top work refreshed, relaxed and ready to go. Instead we had chased Tilly with a potty, done the hellrider, packed 7 billion antiques (rounded up) into hundreds of boxes and walked 50,000 miles around Legoland (when adjusted to the scale of Lego miniworld). We wre definitely ready to go back to work - if only to get some rest. So here it goes - The final 4 weeks at HABS!