Made in Britain

Sarah Smith Blog

Well I’m ready….

Posted by Sarah Smith on November 11, 2015

I have to say, the phrase “well I’m ready” makes me more furious than ANY OTHER in family life.  And when you’re away (we’re at Center Parcs) and as a result family members are proving themselves to be even more incompetent than usual about finding things.

I got it from my OH.  What it means is “I have got myself up, had my shower, made my coffee and eaten a banana.  I am now ready to leave the house.”

If I’d only done that, I too would be smugly ready.  As it is, I had loaded the dishwasher, removed the anonymous bug from the sink that was preventing both children from cleaning their teeth, got their clothes ready, found the swimming kit, gave them breakfast, lectured them on the importance of putting their plates in the dishwasher,  admired the enormity of a poo wedged in the U-bend, re-laced a shoe and texted the dog-sitter.

I was then ready…but was in such a state of fury that I cycled off at high speed forgetting that my rucksack was undone.  This meant that when I arrived at my destination, sweaty and cross, I realised I had left a trail of Tampax spilling from my open bag like a sort of hormonal Hansel and Gretel.

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Surviving Center Parcs

Posted by Sarah Smith on November 9, 2015

Last time was all about cycling round a forest with a rucksack full of wet swimming clobber.  This time was infinitely better because the children were capable of trundling off more by themselves and they were both old enough to do the same things, which meant I wasn’t left with the smaller one weeping with fury that he wasn’t allowed on the water slide/tree top walk etc.

I still had to run the gamut of the flipping swimming pool rapids every evening though.  I went roaring down the slide the first time and landed face first in the welcoming bosom of the largest lady in Wiltshire.  We both apologised politely,  I managed to haul myself out of her cavernous cleavage and whooshed off with as much dignity as I could muster, which when you are flat on your back zooming down shallow rapids in a disappearing swimming costume, is precious little.

I very much enjoyed watching a father on the tree top walk shouting ferociously at his nervous son to “man up” as he quaked at the high wire stepping stones, and then swearing and on the verge of tears when he had to do it himself.  Sadly he failed to fall off and break his stupid neck.

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And now…luxury!

Posted by Sarah Smith on October 3, 2015

Next on the agenda is a very civilised sojourn in Shropshire, near Ludlow, staying at beautiful Lakeside Retreat. Dog does not appreciate journey, throws up lavishly on arrival and wanders around stiff-legged and with an anguished expression for hours.

We spend an AWFUL lot of time in splendid National Trust houses enjoying afternoon teas, roaring around ‘natural play areas’ ie trees and rowing around the lake. On the last day a gigantic hornet comes roaring in the house. It embraces the light bulb and sits there buzzing gently. Both children have fit of screaming ab-dabs and dive under their duvets from where I can hear muffled cries of ‘make it go out’ from son and ‘has it gone? Don’t kill it though, will you, promise you won’t kill it?’ from tender-hearted daughter.

I am too scared to hit it with rolled up newspaper as a) I don’t want to get that close to it and b) I might simply enrage it. I try and entice it out by turning off the lights so that it gradually makes its way outside. It doesn’t and disappears under the venetian blind, where I leave it and then spend whole night imagining it has just climbed in my ear, will sting me on the brain and the children will have to drive home by themselves.




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Things you only say on a barge…

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 30, 2015

Day 10:

Dry land. We’ve done it. The whole way round the Cheshire ring. Really enjoyed it but will greatly enjoy not having to flatten myself against the cupboards every time anyone else wants to come in to the kitchen.

 Things you only say on a barge:

Put some music on loudly, I need the loo.

Have I got time for a wee before the lock?

What time is it? 9.15am? I’ll put the oven on for lunch so we can eat at 1.

Whose turn is it for the hot water? Who smells most?

What the hell sort of a knot is that?


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Near the end…

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 29, 2015

Day 9:

It is the children’s last lock. Thomas rushes up to it, only to be elbowed out of the way by Bean Goose family. “We’re going to help you,” says Bean Goose mother bossily. “Oh actually it’s fine, it’s their last lock and they’d really like to do it themselves,’ I say.

“But my children want to do it,” says Bean Goose mother in astonished tones that her children are being denied. Thomas is looking dangerously threatening and I can envisage a whole family in matching cagoules in the canal any minute.

“I think they’d really like to do it themselves,’ I say loudly, feeling furious.

“Oh,” she says, looking equally furious. “Well we’ll just stand here then.”

Thomas backs off and says ‘it’s alright, you can help’ although looks tearful and when back on boat shouts “I HATE Mrs Grey Goose.”

So do I.

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Paranoia sets in

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 28, 2015

Day 7:

Am becoming entirely paranoid about the pumping out of the bilge thing. The poo tank, as the children call it. I was cooking a roast chicken (which normally takes 1hr 20 minutes; on the boat oven it took 3 hours) and vaguely fretting about the poo tank when a group of elderly ramblers pass our boat. I put on my cheery ‘capable boatwoman’ face as they peered in (everyone does – privacy is non existent) when a sour faced old lady said “Oh dear, the smell from that boat.” I cringe in horror, and then she says “ All that garlic”.

Another rainy day. We pass a boat with an old man at the back steering and wearing two raincoats and a baseball cap. His wife is at the front of the boat under a makeshift tarpaulin cover, in a deck chair with a flask and a pile of paperbacks next to her. He has a megaphone and every so often he roars “Eileen! LOCK!” through it and she leaps up and attends to her duties.


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Revenge! Sort of…

Posted by Sarah Smith on

Day 6:

Our nemesis boat family, Grey Goose is grounded! Hurrah! We overcome our innate unpleasantness and help them out, and I actually get to touch something with a bargepole which is pleasing. They thank us, we are gracious, then they gun the engine (as much as you can in a 14 tonne narrowboat) and say “well, we’re still ahead of you!” and roar off. Buggers.

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It’s all going a bit wrong

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 25, 2015

Day 5:

Get stuck in equivalent of boat jam. A grandfather in front was so busy filming himself being Captain Pugwash he hit the side and his boat turned sideways on to the lock. We all stand in line patiently, making desultory conversation, keeping our boats in to the side. Dog clambers out of boat enquiringly to see what the delay is, realises he has an audience and begins delightedly goose-steppingup and down the queue in the hope of more dried sausage.   “Get him back in before the Germans see him!” hisses OH.

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The dog develops right-wing tendencies

Posted by Sarah Smith on

Day 4:

The dog has got the hang of it. He now pops in and out of the boat like a showjumper, greets other dogs on the towpath with the air of someone welcoming a guest to a cheese and wine. He’s feeling so affable he has indulged the children’s teaching him a new trick – holding up his paw to shake hands. They are bribing him with some nasty dried sausage I bought at a towpath shop and he’s now doing it so enthusiastically he appears to be performing some sort of Nazi salute.  His back legs go rigid and he sticks his right front paw out at right angles to his body. They can’t un-teach him it now…

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Day 3 in which I get my doodlebangers out

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 24, 2015

Day 3:

I am not getting to grips very well with the terminology. There bumper things that you need to put down the side of the boat when you approach a lock to stop it bumping against the sides. I have no idea what they are called but Tom, with his customary creative approach to the English language, calls them doodlebangers. We approach a lock, and I say loudly “Oh sod it”. A runner on the tow path stops and says ‘are you ok?” I smile winsomely and say “Oh yes thank you, I just forgot to get my doodle bangers out.” He jogs on again, slightly more slowly.

The awful thing is every time you stop, particularly if near a pub or cafe, everyone comes out to laugh heartily at your efforts not to bump the boat, get the ropes muddled, drift out in the middle, ram the gates, etc. It would appear that every single person walking along the towpath, sitting on benches or even driving by on the dual carriageway is a better sodding boat person than I am. I am wearing my ‘yes I know isn’t it all hilarious’ smile, my cheeks are hurting and I want to kill everyone.

I left my windlass at Whitchurch. Which sounds like a folk song.

Am cheered up by splendidly camp German man. “Oh yes, last year it vos us.”

“What was you?”

“Oh ve vere ze people who got everysing wrong, you know. Ve hit ze boat, and ve hit ze boats of ze ozzers. Zen ve smeshed into ze lock and ran agrounded. Oh hours vere ve here. Everyone hated us,” he said cheerfully.”Ven we got to one lock in ze middle of Vales someone said to us ‘did you hear about zose idiots who hit ze lock’ and ve said YES, that was US!”

He is delighted by this and I decide to stop caring what people think. I am starting to enjoy it more now. We moor up by a beautifully mown tow path next to a dairy cow pasture. The children find an ancient book of card games and we play several baffling rounds of what I believe is two entirely separate card games they have melded together. The book is written in very severe tones. “Turn to the player on your left and say “Michael, do you have spades?” The children find this uproariously funny and call each other and us Michael all evening which prompts a fresh bout of hysterics every time.

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Life on the ocean wave…

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 23, 2015

For any of you contemplating a narrow boat holiday, here is my account of ours.

Day 1: We are aboard the Kingfisher. Compact is the word. I give the children stern lecture on origins of phrase shipshape, and importance of keeping things in their correct place, then fall over carrier bag have left in gangway and severely bang head on kitchen worktop. Am listening to boat hire man talking about boat safety when suddenly notice son’s face looming above me through the roof window. Try and manoeuvre boat man so he does not notice. He does.

Dog is not keen on a life on the ocean wave. We haul him on boat where he sat quivering below deck.

Approach the delicate topic of the pumping out of the lavatories. The boatman says jovially “not many families have to pump out on the trip. Normally everyone can wait until the boat gets back to the yard. We always have a good laugh about the ones that have to empty half way round.” Am horrified by this and move the Sultana Bran to the back of the cupboard.

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We hate Grey Goose

Posted by Sarah Smith on

Day 2:

We are overtaken by family in boat called Grey Goose. The whole family are in matching cagoules (it is raining today more than it has ever rained anywhere ever) and are leaping on and off the boat like gazelles, encouraging each other with rallying cries as they open the locks with a demonstration of perfect team work. This contrasts with my family’s efforts – OH peering out from under his inadequate anorak hood, son singing tunelessly while exuberantly trying to turn the lock handle the wrong way, me screaming “I can’t jump off from here for crying out loud why are you trying to kill me” and daughter below decks with quivering dog, sobbing on his neck and shouting “He doesn’t like it I hate this stupid boat.” We develop entirely irrational hatred for Grey Goose and all its inhabitants and vow to not only retake the lead but ideally sink them too. There is a starter pack I’ve found that contains tea towels. But sadly no depth chargers.


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Bacon sandwich

Posted by Sarah Smith on August 19, 2015

Bump into my friend The Gangster in Epping Forest.  We walk past a certain car park which is renowned for its dogging and cruising attractions.  The atmosphere in the car park is somewhat febrile even at 9.30am.  There are lots of men on their own in BMWs with the engines running, studying each other then looking away.

The Gangster surveys them with gentle bemusement.  “Who wants to do outdoors shaggin’ this time in the mornin’?  You’d have a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, first, surely.”

New business idea:  coffee van.  ‘Purveyors of fine coffee to the dogging fraternity since 2015′.  ‘Get your coffee, then get your oats’.

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Boyfriend dreams

Posted by Sarah Smith on August 12, 2015

I am sleeping very badly.  OH’s friend, a Parisienne, gives me a tisane she swears by.  I feel very glamorous until I have a horrific night in which I dream that I had another baby and Kate Bush and Maureen Lipman were its godmothers.  Wake up exhausted, disorientated and feeling as I need sectioning immediately.

Cheer myself up by wearing my new ‘boyfriend’ jeans.  I think they look quite good.  I ask Terrifying Cleaner what she thinks.  She surveys me.  “Turn arahnd.”  I turn.  “Yep.  You’ve got the right sort of arse for them.  Big.”



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Water, water everywhere

Posted by Sarah Smith on August 10, 2015

Relaxing dinner with children somewhat ruined by the clarion call of “Mummy, the cellar’s full of water. That’s not right is it?” Nearly break ankle in effort to sprint to top of cellar steps and find lumps of coal floating around amid a load of tiles and old deck chairs. It’s been dry as the Gobi desert here so am completely mystified.

Ring Lugubrious Plumber who agrees to come out largely because he likes talking to me about the breakdown of his marriage which has been breaking down for the last two years and seems to involve a lot of sex and arguing which in my view is a marriage, and there’s nothing breaking-down about it, but anyway.

He arrives and sploshes about in the cellar for a while, then reappears. “You’ve got a spring under your house and the water’s risen,” he says.

I am impressed. “Gosh! How could you tell that?” I ask in awestruck tones.

“I saw your neighbour outside and she told me,” he says flatly.  He says he can pump it all out for me.  “I dunno if you fancy having a declutter,” he says, as a string of Christmas tinsel floats past him.  “Not right now, no,” I say briskly.

He pumps it out at vast expense, then has a cup of tea and tells me about The Missus. “We’re going on holiday next week,” he says. “And it might be awful.” Feel like telling him most people feel like that before they go on holiday with their families and if I was him I’d risk it and stop moaning.

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Getting blood from a stone

Posted by Sarah Smith on August 5, 2015

Clemmie is doing civic responsibility school project for holidays.  Decide to take her to watch me give blood. “Do you have to take your trousers off” she says suspiciously. I tell her not unless things going very wrong indeed. It’s in the town hall and she’s intrigued by the tippy-uppy chairs etc, but blanches at the finger tip test. “Does it hurt? It does, doesn’t it? I’m never doing it if it hurts.” Tell her it is a momentary twinge of pain but the result is something that is worth far more etc etc.

The waiting area is a bit cramped and I say to her jovially “move up, silly sausage.’ The man opposite says “Oh, I’m sorry’ and dutifully shifts up a seat. Clemmie is beside herself with amusement (“that man thought you meant him but you meant me didn’t you, ha ha that man moved” and then thankfully my name is called.

She is by my side peering interestedly at the needle going in etc. Unusually this time the blood doesn’t start to fill up the bag. I am squeezing the stress ball thing until my fingers hurt,but nothing’s happening, and my arm is starting to ache. The phlebotomist comes over and taps the needle and then says those words that strike fear into anyone when they’re doing something health related “Oh..that’s unusual….wait there, love,” as if I am about to spring to my feet off my tippy-uppy chair and roar out of the door with my IV stand clanking along behind me. There then follows an extremely painful interlude in which they realise that the needle is stuck. The more they wiggle it the more stuck it gets as as a bruise starts to form under the skin. Clemmie is still watching with a genial smile. “Gosh you’ve got more people helping you than anyone else, mummy. Is it hurting?” I assure her with my most relaxed and brilliant smile that mummy is absolutely fine and there is no problem at all and then turn my head away to mouth to the nurse “this really really sodding hurts”.

After about five minutes of wiggling the needle comes out. Clemmie, still unaware this is anything but usual, trots along next to me as I stagger out of the hall with a bruise rapidly blooming up my arm so that by the time I get home I can’t bend my elbow and I look like an extra from Trainspotting.

OH rings. “Mummy gave blood, and it wasn’t scary or hurting at all. It was quite boring, actually,” says Clemmie.



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You big chicken

Posted by Sarah Smith on July 29, 2015

Walked past riding school with dog, and it all smelled so beautifully rural and rustic and outdoorsy. I need a new project. I was thinking about chickens. Rescue hens are only £5 each. I got momentarily distracted by a website about Buff Orpingtons but I realised I only really liked them because they sound like a Victorian roue. “Damme madam, but you have beautiful eyes,’ said Buff Orpington roguishly. I could do with a Victorian roue, to vary the monotony. I wouldn’t want to live with one, but it would be nice to have someone casting lascivious glances at me every now and then. As long as he could shut up when the Archers was on. Anyway. I looked at hutches which are about eight million times the cost of the hens. I found the trendy ones, the ones that look like little space age pods, but they didn’t fit my rural idyll. They need the kind of garden that is full of Zen pebbles and architectural spiky plants, not my shambling mess of blowsy flowers and yellow patches where the dog’s wee’d. I found some hilariously Swiss chalet type affairs which are more the sort of thing, but they’re called ‘The Windsor’ and “Imperial’. Lizzie peered at them over my shoulder. “Jesus, that one’s bigger than my bedroom,’ she said, impressed. ‘How much are they? I might get one, live in it in the garden and rent my house out.’


Depressed self then reading about all the things chickens need and the ‘thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to’, and chicken flesh seems to be susceptible to pretty much everything. Knowing my luck I’ll own the first diabetic chickens with ADD or something and they’ll have to have therapy and Ritalin and the whole thing will cost me a fortune. Nothing I want to do is ever simple.


In order to Keep Children Involved with Family Discussions I mentioned having chickens to Tom who said ‘Lovely. Can we have potato wedges with them?” so I realised I’d basically been talking to myself for the last ten minutes.


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The Fete

Posted by Sarah Smith on July 25, 2015

Thank God that’s over. Was put on candy floss stall with Attractive Dad. The candy floss machine was like a sort of cement mixer. He did the heavy lifting of bags of sugar etc while I did the controls. I knew the Bodenmas would be out in force so I had made an effort and was wearing rather nice pale pink brocade type dress. It was all going very well. Attractive Dad and I were chatting away gaily, charming children were being polite and it was all very lovely when the candy floss machine jammed. The arm bit stopped whirring around. We turned it off and turned it on again, fiddled with the drum, still nothing, until I, keen to show that I was the sort of hands-on mum that doesn’t leave the machinery to the boys, peered down into the drum to see if I could see what was jamming it. Of course the bloody thing immediately roared into life, and a gust of wind lifted out a wedge of candy floss strands which immediately stuck themselves to my hair, face and neckline of dress. I reared back in alarm and used some appalling language which was overheard by three reception children and the deputy head. The candy floss was completely covering my fringe, and was looped round my dress and down my cleavage so i looked like some sort of diabetic Miss Haversham. One of the children started crying.   Attractive Dad looked suspiciously as if he would like to guffaw. “I think,” said the deputy head, “you’d better go and tidy yourself up,” as if I’d got bored and climbed into the candy floss machine on a whim.   I slunk off to the staff loos. “Oh goodness!” said one of the Bodenmas as I sidled past. “What a mess. Would you like to be swapped onto a less tricky stall?” I ignored her, stupid cow.

Candy floss is FANTASTICALLY difficult to get out of your hair. And off your dress. And your bra. When you put water on it it seems to sort of congeal and spread itself everywhere in a sort of spangly paste.

I’ve no idea why everyone in Ambridge screams with delight about the fete.  They are AWFUL.

I am home now, having a large glass of wine, and if I keep topping it up without actually putting it down anywhere I can pretend it’s only one glass and not the whole bloody bottle.

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A curse on the PTA

Posted by Sarah Smith on July 21, 2015

I should have remembered. The letter came back three weeks ago. PTAs are as adept at emotional blackmail as kidnappers, but rather than send a thumb in the post they mention the parlous state of the library, the amount they need to raise and the fact that it’s been a real struggle (their italics) to get anyone to help this year. The fact that the same letter has been going out for four years to my knowledge doesn’t lessen its effect. I’m still waiting for the letter that says “d’you know what, we’ve got shed loads of helpers this year, so don’t worry. Have a lie-in, stop feverishly baking cakes, wondering whether you can send baked beans for the tombola – it’s all fine. We’ve got it covered.”

Last year Tom took it into his own hands and I managed to grab him before he handed in a box of Tampax (maxi) as our contribution to the raffle prize. Had to explain that when they’d said toiletries they were thinking more in terms of hand cream. Friend Lizzie snorts and says when she went to the fete in her mum’s village there was a used vibrator on the White Elephant, which the elderly stall holder, oblivious, had labelled “Egg Whisk. Slow.”

Anyway. So it’s tomorrow. I have made no cake, I have no tombola prize, but I have said I will look after a stall, but only if whatever it is costs a round number so I don’t have to give difficult change.

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Pocketful of Rye loves Sarah Smith!

Posted by Sarah Smith on October 18, 2013

Lovely review on the joys of an eco kitchen from the great family website Pocketful of Rye – thanks guys!

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We’re in the Family way!

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 16, 2013

Thank you to the Madhouse Family for their lovely review of our beautiful new cloths!

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An end of school hols pick me up

Posted by Sarah Smith on September 2, 2013

Just before we descend into packed lunch/where’s my PE kit madness, celebrate the end of the summer hols with a Desert Healer, courtesy of @tabitha_tweedie on Twitter.

Desert Healer

1 measure gin
1 measure orange juice
1/2 measure cherry brandy
2 measures ginger ale
1 maraschino cherry.

Shake, enjoy, and toast yourself for surviving the last six weeks.
Then find that PE kit.

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Posted by Sarah Smith on June 18, 2013

* 4 chicken breast fillets, cut into strips
* 2 teaspoons of paprika
* 2 teaspoons of ground cumin
* One orange pepper, deseeded and cut into strips
* One red pepper, deseeded and cut into strips
* One green pepper, deseeded and cut into strips
* 140g fat-free natural yogurt
* 4 limes
* 1 large lettuce, torn
* 4 tomatoes, cut into wedges
* 1/2 cucumber, sliced
* Rice, to serve

* Mix the chicken, paprika and cumin together until the chicken is
evenly coated. Leave to marinate for 30 minutes
* Preheat a large, non-stick frying pan and drizzle it with a little
oil. Stir fry the peppers until they are soft. Put in a bowl and put
them in a oven on a low heat, to keep them warm
* Drizzle a little more oil in the pan and cook the chicken strips
for five minutes, until cooked through
* Mix the natural yogurt and the juice of three of the limes together
to make the dressing
* To serve, first plate a layer of the lettuce. Add large spoonfuls
of rice on top before arranging the vegetables and chicken on top of
the rice. Serve with a splodge of the yogurt dip and a lime wedge

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Winner of Sarah Smith poetry competition announced!

Posted by Sarah Smith on June 12, 2013

Thank you so much to all those who entered our poetry competition. We were extremely impressed by the standard of the entries, and our winner is Jadine Eagle, a bank administrator from Swindon.

Poet and comedian Kate Fox, our judge, said: ” It was really interesting to read such a variety of different takes on womanhood in the 21st century. It’s clear that lots of women are frustrated at being pinned down to just one identity, but at the same time fed up of being dictated to by media images of women doing everything all at once, which becomes another kind of pressure. The word “compassion” came up in many of the poems, which was interesting. “21st Century Woman” by Jadine Eagle concisely, and with a lovely lightness of touch, captures the need to find one’s own way of being whatever it is that womanhood means to you.”
And here it is….

21st Century Woman

Your glossy pages show a life of perfect cakes and wallpaper,
hand-stitched cushions and dinner parties.
Children fed with nothing but organic food
taken from the vegetable plot within a beautifully landscaped garden
and served on artisan plates.
You show a life where I am to be a sex goddess, a yoga guru, a feminist;
how I should wear full makeup in keeping with the seasons;
style my hair according to the latest trends
and spend evenings counselling sad friends
or partying with those whose life is grand.
Flaunt clothes from the Catwalk or the High Street,
depending on whether it is in vogue to be frugal or extravagant.
You show me I must invest my money wisely, give all to charity,
to eat my perfect cake but by the next article I must run a marathon
to lose that weight
even though you tell me to be happy with who I am.
To travel to off-the-beaten-track places
and soak up the culture and local faces because
a package holiday is just not good enough.
Be smart, be funny, dazzle and excite.
Be humble, be demure, agreeable and contrite.
Live for others, live for myself, take time out yet fill every moment of my life.
Choose the most impeccable gift, the most appropriate wine.
You guide me to be the ideal housewife, employee, lover, mother,
boss, woman, friend, daughter, eco warrior…
don’t you wonder why you need to write articles on depression?
You lay out a world of so much opportunity and push us to grasp
each and every bit.
We have so much to live up to and you gasp if we don’t manage it.
I sit amongst your scattered pages amplifying what I merely am
against a back drop of what you demand me to be.

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Summer Cotton Bag Sale in Aid of Za Foundation

Posted by cbirnie on June 3, 2013

This was so successful at Christmas that we thought we should do it again now that Summer is threatening to arrive!

As before all proceeds of the sale will be donated to Za Foundation to help continue the brilliant educational work they do in the Nkomazi region of South Africa.Za Foundation fund a drama group Zakhele who visit schools and clinics to run educational workshops about HIV and AIDS; they provide free school uniforms for orphans to enable them to go to school; they have built and will now run a new library giving people an unprecedented access to books; and every two years they bring the Zakhele  group to the UK as part of their partnership programme with schools in the North Somerset area and run educational workshops to remind our children that HIV is not just a developing world problem. The motto of Za Foundation is Support, Educate and Inspire. They rely entirely on donations. Every penny they raise is spent on the programmes they run and all their volunteers are unpaid, even those who work for the foundation full time. Sarah Smith Director Kate Birnie (pictured) is a also a Director of Za Foundation and we are proud supporters of their work. For more information on Za Foundation visit their website or Facebook page. Or you can follow them on Twitter.

Once again we are going for a straight forward sale. Below you will see details of three styles of our much loved cotton shopper bags. Available  in our red “Moo!” pattern,  pink “Scooby” or apple green “Confetti”. They are on sales here at £5 each which includes UK Post & Packing. If you are looking to buy from outside the UK please contact us first ( info AT sarahsmith dot co dot uk). All the bags are the same size 40 x 40 cm excluding the handle which is designed for over the shoulder use.

Just click on the appropriate BUY NOW button for the item you would like to buy and you will be directed to the paypal account of Sarah Smith co-owner Clive Birnie who has kindly offered to manage the donation collection for us. Any queries, questions etc just email us.



Sarah Smith Red “Moo!” Cotton Shopper Bag £5.00 each incl. UK P&P.



Sarah Smith Pink “Scooby” Cotton Shopper Bag £5.00 each incl. UK P&P.



Sarah Smith Apple Green “Confetti” Cotton Shopper Bag £5.00 each incl. UK P&P.

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