IPL and the Chocolate Starfish

In my latest reincarnation I'm a Social Media Manager. I'm finding there are certain downsides to having a few clients for my social media management gig these days (I'm in house for one, and freelance for four others), namely that the "Year of Content" has quickly taken a back seat. Because this blogging shit isn't paid, while faffing about on someones Instagram account is, and I have a mortgage to pay.

But it's not the daily grind that you think of when people mention going to work. It's pretty cool and there are the great perks that come with my job. Namely, that I can be in the office, tap tap tapping away on my laptop and then pop in to the next room for some IPL hair removal.

Such an event occurred the other day, and since it involves nudity and genitals I thought "I SHOULD TOTALLY BLOG THIS!". Because embarrassing myself on the internet is part of my very specific skill set. 

Now I am not a fan of the look of a Brazilian wax. In my mind it looks pre-pubescent, and that gives me the heebie jeebies. But I figured it might be a good idea to have one session of IPL the full South American way to reduce the amount of hair, and then just get my standard bikini line done from then on to actually permanently remove ALL of that straggly hair that usually sticks out my bathers. 

I'm no stranger to having people between my legs. You dirty bastards are thinking "oh yeah, I bet!", but what I actually mean is that I've been waxed before, I've had kids, I've had operations down there, so quite a few people have been exposed to my undercarriage. Plus I'm of the age where my giveashit factor is rapidly declining. It's just a vulva, yo.

I prepped for my IPL the night before by briefly considering the whipper snipper for the inital stage, but instead opted for the clippers (that will never be looked at the same by MapGuy mid beard trim). Wrapped in a towel, I lugged the trimmers, and the hand vac (because my Lady Garden was more Lady Hedge) to the bathroom, past MG who piped up "Need a torch? A headlamp perhaps?". Fucker. 

As it turns out, I could have used one. Or a hand mirror. 

I'm super bendy, but even with my attempts at contortion I couldn't see everything and did my best to feel my way around when I got the actual razor blade stage. Feel fanny, swipe swipe, feel fanny, swipe again, smooth, next bit. And on and on it went for seventeen hours until I just about blunted the razor. I'm not kidding - I have the fabulous, and not uncommon quirk, of all my pubes being "double pluggers" or even "triple pluggers"; two or three hairs growing out of each follicle. You're welcome for that visual. 

You have to shave before IPL because the light is distributed throughout the pigment, so having the pigment just under the skin in the follicle means you'll get a more power packed punch where it really needs it. Also, it's super heating that pigment and those hairs will singe. Legit catch fire if you're not careful. 

I head to work the next day and after an hour or so of Professional Facebooking, it was my time to go and get the actual IPL done (yes, we're this far in to the story and I haven't had it yet). 

I hopped on the bed and my lovely coworker, D, quickly did my underarms first - and a few little microscopic hairs that had popped through a millimetre from the night before singed. See, you thought I was joking about catching fire but I'm not. And we don't want a CROTCH FIRE, ya hear? I ripped my pants off doing the whole hide your undies thing - OMG why do we do that? She's about to see my vag but oh dear don't let her see my delicates! - and jumped on the bed legs akimbo. 

I was scared it was going to be super painful, but I'd witnessed (and filmed - you HAVE to watch it!) the gorgeous 1MotherBlogger having her IPL Brazilian and we chatted throughout the whole thing. Surely if you can have a bit of a chin wag it's not that painful... and she was right. Whilst it wasn't fun, but there were only a few really ouchy bits and I too was able to chat away the entire time while D manoeuvred the handpiece all over my bits, zapping my follicles to kingdom come. My underarms actually hurt more, which means I obviously have Labia of Steel. 

Aaaanywho, it came time for me to roll on my side so D could do my butt. Yes, they go ALL THE WAY.

But wait, it gets better. Because I heard the horrifying words "Oh, you've missed a bit shaving. It's OK, I'll get a razor". At which point my colleague, a woman who is so lovely and I enjoy working with, SHAVED MY ASSHOLE. 

She proceeded like it was nothing (because she's a nurse, a consummate professional, and has done this exact thing hundreds of times), and zapped my chocolate starfish. On the pain scale, it was only about a two to three, but on the embarrassment scale of 1 to FUCKING KILL ME NOW, it was right at the top. It's one thing to have your lady lips treated, but it's a whole new experience for a colleague to hold up your buttcheek and go to town. Or, I don't know, maybe it's not for you. You might have a very, err, progressive workplace?  

As the treatment finished I was relieved both that I could put pants back on and that it had barely hurt at all - honestly waaaaay less painful than waxing. In pondering how awkward it would or wouldn't be to look D in the face and think "you've seen me naked", I considered that it would be worse if she'd treated over the hair; I would be left explaining to the Fire Department and Emergency Room docs just how it came to be that my ass hairs caught fire and burnt the office down. 

Good Vibes

I try not to embarrass my kids too much when it comes to the online world. I'm very aware they have not signed up to be "blog kids", so I have always tried to not share things that could come back to haunt them. Having said that, I'm all for an embarrassing story or two that would not increase the chance of them being bullied or influence a future employer (one of the reasons my two have online monikers). Though I'm not sure if this is more embarrassing for Bobbin or me...

Tricky and Bobbin are now of an age where they don't need 24/7 supervision, and I must say, it's lovely to have come to the light at the end of the high dependency tunnel. I can go to the toilet and not worry she's climbed on top of the four wheel drive like she did when she was just about to turn two. I can do some work in the study and not have to stop to wipe a bum.

So after MG and I had a particularly late Saturday night a few weeks ago we thought we could just stay in bed on Sunday morning and let the kids entertain themselves. I mean, what could they possibly get up to?

Famous last words. Here's what went down:

I was in bed, my eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep and I could hear the kids playing. In my memory of this, my hair falls in tendrils around my serene face as the slightest smile plays on my lips, and I dream about running in to Chris Hemsworth at the shops and having a chat (because in my dream we're old friends). In reality my face was smooshed on the pillow, with a little puddle of drool, and my hair looking like a bird nest.

They were playing so nicely and I was thinking of how, in that very moment, life was pretty good. I love recognising those little times. The boring moments that are somehow magical because I'm surrounded by the people (MG, Tricks and Bobbin) and things (my bed) I love.

After about an hour or so I thought I should probably get up. Again, in my memory it's like a movie. I stretch lightly and slip out of bed, placing a silk dressing gown around me. In reality, I yawn so wide my jaw cracks, my eyes are puffy and I am wearing an old, stained maternity singlet with one boob threatening to pop out (and not in a good way). And right now I'm wondering how on earth the romance is still alive in my relationship.

I headed to our bathroom and found Bobbin looking at herself in the mirror, pretending to put makeup on with my brushes.

"Oooh what are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm a famous singer, I'm getting ready for another concert. I'm Libby" she said, referencing a LEGO Friends movie.

"Excellent. Can't wait to hear it, Bobbin."

She glared at me.

"Sorry, I meant Libby!"

Appeased, she continued on as I leaned over to give her a kiss on top of her head. When I stood up I noticed that our towels had been taken off the rail and were in a pile on the floor.

"What happened to my towels?" I asked, still half asleep.

"I couldn't get the microphone to stop buzzing so I covered it." she replied.

OH. FUCK.

No. No. No. No. NO!

I knew exactly what this meant.

Immediately wide awake, I lifted the towels to find the still-buzzing star of the aforementioned late night for MG and I: my, ahem, "body massager".

My sweet, innocent Bobbin had been pretending to be a purple haired LEGO rockstar, singing in to my vibrator for god knows how long. In her defence, it really does look like a microphone.

I had accidentally left it on our bathroom sink after washing it and then passing out asleep the night before, so there is the tiniest sliver of a silver lining here in that it was at least squeaky clean.

I switched it off, mumbling something about how it must be broken and I'll get rid of it. So far, she hasn't asked for her 'microphone' back and I'm hoping it stays that way!

Have your kids ever found something they shouldn't have? 

My Shitty Week

I have always had certain standards on this blog. They were low, but they were still there.

UNTIL NOW.

Because I'm about to talk about my shitty week, and I mean that quite literally. So settle in. Perhaps don't grab something to eat though, OK?

It all started when I went to the doctor to get a script for a lower dose of anti depressants (yay). In my doctor's assessment she was asking how I was going and I was all "still tired, still no energy, but I reckon that's motherhood, yo!" and to be thorough she ordered blood tests and sent me off with a script for half the dose I've been on since THE BREAKDOWN dun dun dunnnnn.

I rock up for my blood test and the phlebotomist was amazing, I didn't feel a thing. She took SEVEN VIALS of blood, all while Bobbin watched and asked about vampires. Awkward. We walked out and down the mall ten metres to the shop where I was exchanging Macaroni Cheese (because the world stopped turning when the incorrect Mac'n'cheese was bought the day before) only to look down and find my arm covered in blood.

Turns out as I picked up my bag, I dislodged the mini clot that was forming and looked like I'd been stabbed. You're all "I don't think so" right now, but I assure you, there was blood everywhere and I was in a dodgy suburb, so a stab wound is the first thing that would have come to mind.

A few days later I'm called back for the test results. I'm extremely anaemic and my B12 is through the floor. So the tiredness may not just be motherhood after all. Whodhavethunkit?

Doc wants repeat bloods (through the giant bruise - ouch) to check for other bits and pieces then casually remarks "and I think we should do a poo test, too".

Ah, shit. Lit-er-ally.

I am so poo phobic. I don't even do poo jokes, which makes living with a 7yo boy quite painful approximately 1,734 times a day.

Now my grandmother died of bowel cancer at 60 so despite the fear, It was time to put my big girl pants on, or rather, take my big girl pants off, and just do it. I straightened myself in the chair, suddenly aware of how many asses had sat on it and asked tentatively "Um, how do I do that?"

"Here," she said, grabbing a couple of tongue depressors, "use these."

What the actual fuck? What am I meant to do, shove these up my butt? You have GOT to be kidding me!

"Grab a kit from pathology on your way out, you just smear it on the cardboard and bring it in, it's just the same as the bowel cancer screening you mail in."

OK. I can handle this. A bit of a self pep talk, and she'll be right. It can't be much worse than seeing skid mark undies of kids who are learning to wipe, right? * clutches at straws *

I head to the pathology desk but instead of some pieces of cardboard she hands me three sample jars.

Dude. No.

Jars? THREE JARS?

They look just like the urine specimen jars except they're white so you can't see what is in them, with brown lids so you fucking know what is in them anyway. Thanks, specimen pot creator, as if this wasn't bad enough already.

The slip with jars says they're for a "faecal occult blood sample".

Err, is my poo joining the occult? Does it worship Satan or is it more of a dabbling in witchcraft? Does my poo like rams heads on the walls and listen to shitty music? Oh dear god, my poo better not be fucking emo. I couldn't handle that.

I have built up a rapport with my doctor and it was hard enough to ask her what I was meant to do, so asking a random pathology chick who had just stabbed me through a giant bruise was just not going to happen. So I did what everyone else does when they're afraid of medical things. I turned to Dr Google.

Dr Google, in her infinite wisdom, let me know that faecal occult and The Occult are, thankfully, completely different things. Well, yes, I did assume that, but it is nice to have it confirmed that I won't be yearning to listen to My Chemical Romance as I sit on the toilet any time soon.

It also informed me that I needed to make a "walnut sized" deposit in to said brown lidded jars on three occasions so that the health of multiple parts of the bowel could be tested in one go. I will never look at walnuts the same way again. Waldorf salads are henceforth banned in this house.

The sample is made, and now I just had to deposit the, err, deposit, back to the pathology desk... which didn't open that day. Fuck me dead, I had to STORE IT IN MY FRIDGE.

"Honey, where is the salami?"

"Oh, just next to my POO SAMPLE, dear!"

Kill me. Just bloody kill me.

Getting ready the next day looked slightly different to usual as I went through my check list and put everything in our bag for the outing:

• Water bottles
• Snacks
• Hats
• Sunscreen
• Poo sample
• Sunglasses

I've had two babies, which means I've had a whole lot of people with their hands up my jacksy, checking it all out, giving me ultrasounds and I've twice had my feet up in stirrups for surgery, and I thought that was pretty undignified. In my books, this was worse. I am such a wuss. I would take a gynaecologist with a cold speculum over this any day.

But (butt?) still, I did it. Because they've seen it all before, and I wouldn't be the first or the last to drop off a sample with a poo brown lid to the lady at the pathology clinic.

I haven't been called for any results, which in my local GP's world means nothing to report, so that means I'm not losing blood in my bowel. So yay for that. But next time can they just knock me out and stick a camera up there so I get a day of sleep?

Namaste? Try Namastink!

Image Credit CC: Lyn Tally

Picture it, if you will, a small mood-lit room. The smell of incense wafts through, its calming tendrils wrapping around each of the women as they stroke their ever-growing baby bumps.

Their long limbs, gently stretched for the past hour, now lie still, beginning the meditation.

It is then that I feel it. Deep down.

It isn't the inner peace that I've been searching for. There is no enlightenment, no nirvana, no spiritual awakening.

I try my hardest to refocus on my breath. In and out. In and out.

But it is no use. There is no meditative state for me tonight. The relaxation achieved from the past hour is now gone, replaced by a mounting anxiety.

It continues to stir inside. The feeling grows...

Oh my gawd. This is going to happen and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

It happens.

I let rip in to the silence of the yoga room.

The smell is thankfully masked my the feet of the woman in front of me. But her feet didn't just loudly herald their arrival so I'm not sure which is worse.

My saving grace is that I am in the back row and other than the women on either side of me no one would really be able to tell whose bottom trumpeted. Unless they turned around and noticed I was now the same colour as the beet red bolsters, of course.

The meditation is over and while the other women slowly rise from their unpronounceable yoga positions, I leap up, grab my keys and high tail it out of there to the safety of my car. Where I find the relaxation that was alluding me. Of course meaning I fart again.

Fuck, pregnancy is so glamorous.

Tell me where you've loudly bum trumpeted. Go on, it will make me feel better.

How to survive the first day of day care

Your sweet child is starting day care. None of this half day, play date, introduction bullshit. The actual real deal where you leave. For hours. What do you do? How do you cope?

Well, luckily for you I've put together this handy step by step guide on how to get through the day. You're welcome.

It's all about being prepared.

1. In the week leading up to day care, make sure to mention how much of an awesome time the child had the previous week. Try a sing-song voice, use jazz hands and interpretive dance to convey just how amazing it really is.
2. Run around like a man/woman possessed at 11:48pm the night before because you have only just remembered you need to label the thirty pairs of shorts and jocks you're sending along with your newly toilet trained toddler.
3. Act like a clown on crack on the morning of the big day. Happy, happy, joy, joy and all that shit. This is going to be The Best Day Ever!
4. When you arrive and the kid starts whingeing that they no longer want to go, despite having jumped for joy at the prospect mere moments ago, forge on in. Skip if you must.
5. Take the obligatory "first day photo". Wonder when your kid got so freakin' big.
   
   
6. Promise you'll be back, promise extra big cuddles, a trip to Disneyland, whatever it takes to make your spawn put away his quivering bottom lip. No matter what, KEEP IT TOGETHER!
7. Follow the lead of the carer who suggests your child wave over the fence as you drive off. Bolt to the car and burst in to floods of tears. Drive off tooting and waving like a maniac.
8. Come home and lay on the couch feeling like the worst parent ever despite the fact that this is going to be really good for the boy.
9. Do ALL THE HOUSEWORK. Make a mess preparing a massive casserole, drop some on the floor and pick it up and eat it - the floor is cleaner than an operating room right now so might as well.
10. Watch the clock. Wonder how soon is too soon to call and check.
11. Have a cup of tea. Marvel at how it tastes so different when consumed hot.
12. Call the day care centre. Fret when it goes to message bank four times. Finally get through and hear that your spawn has been whingeing a little bit for mum but not crying and easily distracted with ALL THE TOYS. On hearing that he is asleep at noon, feel sure that they must have drugged him.
13. Watch the clock some more. Clean some more. Put music on with swear words just because you can.
14. Cave in and pick up the kid half an hour earlier than you said you would. Find him sitting with his peers eating afternoon tea.
15. When he sees you and his lip quivers and he flops in to your arms with an "oh you DID come back" sigh, burst in to tears in front of the staff. They've seen it all before and will just ignore it but the other toddlers might think you're weird though... it's best they learn now anyway.
16. When your child hands you their first piece of "day care art" feel immensely proud despite the fact that it is just a box with red paint slopped all over it. Proceed to get teary again like the giant sap you are. Then feel a bit weird and wonder how long you actually have to keep it for.
    
    
17. Listen to him describe how he called "Mum! Mum!" as you drove off tooting the horn. Die a little bit inside.
18. Go home and give your kid an icecream and ask him if he wants to go back to day care next week. When he asks "Will you come back?" cry floods of tears again and promise that you will always, always come back for him no matter what.

I'm promised it gets easier. It better.

Were you a wreck on the first day of day care? Exactly how long do I have to keep the art work for?

This one time, I pissed myself laughing {with giveaway}

This post is about vaginas and balls. Hooray! I wasn't entirely sure if I should post it or not but after a discussion with my mothers' group about taking away stigma and making people feel less alone, I decided this was a community service thing. So here we go...

Childbirth isn't too kind to a gal's pelvic floor, ya know? Actually, even if your bub came out the escape hatch you're not immune because it's the act of carrying a watermelon for forty weeks that puts the most pressure on it.

Once you start showing a bit of baby bump it seems everyone wants to drill it in to you to do your pelvic floor exercises. From midwives to OBGYNs and passing motorists, they all seem to shout "Squeeeeeeeeeze! CLENCH!" the second you're within earshot. And now, it would seem, I'm getting in on the act, too.

If your pelvic floor is weakened it can mean light bladder leakage. LBL. Or, as it's known in my circles, PMSL. Now we don't want LBL or PMSL when we're on a night out in the CBD wearing our LBDs (with no VPLs!) while we drink UDLs. OMG, who drinks UDLs anymore? I mean, WTF?

So yes, for the record, if I've been coughing constantly or I'm a little *ahem* intoxicated and laughing with my girlfriends and I have a full bladder, then I have to clench like no one's business to prevent it happening.  Do you have three friends? Well one of you more than likely has LBL because 25% of women do - when coughing, laughing, sneezing, jumping or sometimes just because.

For the handful of men that may happen upon this, don't panic, when we tell you we might piss ourselves laughing it's not like we empty our entire bladders as soon as you say something bordering on witty. It's different for everyone but it might just be a drop or two which, after discussing with Map Guy, feels exactly the same as when you put it away "a shake short". Not the nicest.

20c piece for comparison

Anyway, back to the laydeez. This little Ben Wa-ish ball will help strengthen your pelvic floor muscles to help with bladder control. It's called a Laselle Kegel Exerciser from Intimina and yes, it goes inside of you. There are different weights you can try (it's like resistance training for your vag!) and you can connect more than one together depending on if you've read 50 Shades of Grey how advanced you are... do you have an advanced vagina?

"Beneficial to all women, Kegel exercising is recommended to reduce the risk of incontinence, prepare for a healthy pregnancy, help regain pelvic strength after childbirth, and maintain vaginal tightness"

This little sucker makes it less likely you'll be avoiding jumping up and down since the exact same muscles are used to have a really great time in the boudoir it can have a positive effect there too... which is sorta just jumping up and down of a different nature, really. In short, it can make your sex life a-maaaay-zing. 

If you freak out every time you're going to sneeze, cough or laugh then you'll benefit from this. If you've always wanted to try one and have been too embarrassed to buy one, then now's your chance.


I have eight of these fab little things valued at $19.95 each to give away and no, I'm not going to make you comment publicly or share it on your Facebook wall in order to enter.

Complete the entry form below to go in to the running to win one of the beginner balls - your name will not appear anywhere. Then think about emailing this post to your mothers' group, your sisters, your mums and your friends... 25% of them will be effected.

This competition is now closed.

Thanks to the 1038 people who entered!

This is not a sponsored post. However an admin fee was charged. Full terms and conditions can be found here.

Run DMC Vs Tricky

Oh look, it's a three minute vlog where I say about half a dozen words... that should be, er, interesting.

Jump for Joy

I put Tricky in his Jolly Jumper a few weeks ago. I was all excited that my little boy would jump up and down looking adorable but it didn't happen... he just hung there in it like a swing. He refused to put his feet on the ground no matter how much I encouraged him (even me jumping in front of him didn't work, although I'm sure I looked great doing it).

Apparently Tricky wasn't aware that it's not a Jolly Stand-There-And-Drool, it's a Jolly JUMPER and thus JUMPING is required. He did seem to like it though - and by that I mean he didn't cry.

This week I decided to try again. Something in his head just clicked (not literally, it wasn't the sound of his springs coming out). He jumped. Then jumped some more. Sometimes with both feet, sometimes with one foot (which I suppose is technically hopping, but I digress). There was  no stopping him. Finally it was living up to it's Jolly Jumper name - although Jump-n-Drool would also be appropriate.

Because I'm an evil mother I whipped out the video camera to capture such a precious moment for future blackmailing purposes... then I got a funny idea. Enjoy!

Berlioz and Boobs

What better way to celebrate my 100th post than by getting my gear off in public.

I didn't buy many pregnancy specific clothes. I got one pair of pants and a few t-shirts second hand (with tags still on because the chick I bought them from had a premmie baby and didn't get the chance to wear them) but when I needed some other bits and pieces I just bought normal clothes a size or two larger - because when you put a maternity tag on something the price doubles, and I'm too stingy frugal to pay extra for something I'm only going to get a few months wear out of. I don't see the point in it all. But breastfeeding friendly clothes? I definitely see the point in them.
 
I have a few specific breastfeeding tops that are purpose made to allow easy feeding without hiking up your top - perfect for when you don't want the entire world to see your flabby, stretch marked belly. But I also just have a few tops that are button up and they do the job just as well. Add to this a nursing bra (which, due to their peep show panels, I like to call my stripper bras) and I'm all set to feed Tricky whenever, wherever. I've even got the whole breastfeeding in public thing down to a fine art - I do use a thin blanket to cover myself up when I'm putting him on and taking him off, not because I think I have to, or I think it's indecent exposure, but just because I'd prefer that not every man and his dog see my nips - which immediately after a feed look like they've come straight from page three of a National Geographic magazine.

So the other evening I was lucky enough to be taken to the symphony by Aunty Penny. I dolled myself up and decided that since Tricky was staying home with Hubby and a few bottles of expressed milk that I wouldn't need to wear any of my feeding tops - I could actually put on something that didn't scream 'lactating mother'. I put on one of my favourite dresses, a multicoloured, silk maxi dress. I dressed it up with some killer heels and a bit of bling. It was pretty exciting (sad, I know).

When I got to the Concert Hall I did what all good mothers do when they have a night off... I went straight to the bar. I nearly fell over and it had nothing to do with the heels I was wearing, rather the $9.50 pricetag on my glass of chardonnay. I figured, hey, how often do I get a chance to get dressed up and go the symphony? So I splurged. $9.50 on a glass of vinegar. Great. But I wasn't going to let it get to me. I was at the Concert Hall seeing the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, baby! And they were about to perform Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz! *Insert excited geeky muso squeals here* See, I'm a big music lover - I studied it for years and have even performed right there on the very stage we were looking at. I was having flashbacks (possibly caused by the foul wine) and it was brilliant.

At intermission, Aunty Penny and I were having a chat and laughing at all the random stupid things we normally laugh at when for some reason - possibly because there were lots of posh looking people - I said "Wouldn't it be funny if there was a streaker?" Being obsessed with social media I even tweeted it! Who would have thought those words would foreshadow the rest of the night's events?

Tweeting at the symphony - I'm all class

When it finished Aunty Penny and I made our way down to where Hubby was picking us up and I didn't even have to open the car door to hear it... Tricky was crying. My poor bubba had been yanked out of bed in the middle of the night (see, you don't like it much do ya, Tricks? So stop doing it to your mother!) and to top it off he had a fever. It had only been a couple of hours since he'd had paracetamol so I couldn't give him any more, so the sure fire way to comfort him when he is upset like that is to feed him so Hubby turned off the engine, Aunty Penny jumped in the passenger seat while I climbed in to the back to feed Tricky. But there was a slight problem. The super-fabulous-non-breast-accessible-dress. Crap. I couldn't pull down the top half of the dress (it was a racer back and wouldn't come down) so I had no choice... I would have to take it off.

Now normally, stripping off in the back seat is done for an entirely different reason and therefore the car is usually in a secluded spot (if it's not then you're probably an exhibitionist). But we were parked at the steps to the Concert Hall whilst three hundred of our fellow concert-goers walked past to get to their own cars. I couldn't get out of the car to take my dress off, there were too many people - so after a crack from Aunty Penny about this not being the first time to take my clothes off in the back seat of a car, I stripped. If any of the people walking by looked in they would have seen me, sitting on the back seat, wearing my stripper bra and undies with my dress laid over my lap and my child at my breast.

What a night - symphony AND a peep show.