All About ME! · Review


This is not me. Just for the record.

Today, I would like to talk to you about boobs: How many do you have?

That may sound like a trick question, but until last week, I had four. Between losing weight, having a baby, gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight and so on a so forth, my boobs have suffered. Mainly because I’ve always stuck to the same bra size, never deviating despite severe discomfort and The Curse of the Four Boobs. You know, that thing where the top third of your chest looks like it’s trying to make a hasty escape from the confines of your bra?

So, when the lovely people at Marks and Spencer asked me if I’d like to give their bra fitting service a go, I thought I really ought, if only for the health and wellbeing of the girls. I’ve been for bra fittings before in other stores and actually found it a wholly unpleasant experience. I hate getting my kit off in front of anyone who’s not my Husband (except Sausage. Oh, and my Mum and my Sister, but you get my point) and if I’m being totally honest, I’m not a fan of physical contact with people I don’t know. Shut up, I know I’m a weirdo.

I visited my local M&S on a Thursday morning and the store was nice and quiet, but there were still two members of staff in the lingerie department, both of whom were trained to fit bras. The lady I got was probably about 5 years younger than me but was so polite and seemed to really know her onions. Or should that be melons?! I was led to a changing room, measured by the young lady and promptly told that not only was my current bra a back size too small, it was also a cup size too small! No wonder I’d been uncomfortable!

I was then told to wait in the changing room while the assistant went off and found bras in sizes and styles that would be right for me. We tried a couple of different combinations of sizes as she explained to me that everyone is a different shape, so while you may measure as one size, a larger cup and smaller back size may fit better, it’s all about getting all of your breast tissue to sit inside the cup. Anyway, we tried a ton of different ones and I chose this one to buy, because apparently, girls with enormous whammers should wear a full cup bra.

I was really impressed with the service I received, the professionalism of the assistant and the overall experience. Even the changing rooms were nice, none of the usual hideous glaring neon lights, the cubicles felt plush and cosy, and didn’t leave you feeling like you were standing topless in the middle of a warehouse. The store I visited had quite low stock of bras in my size (not surprising really, given that I am a large mammaried freak), but the assistant explained that they could order in anything that I wanted and it’d be there within a week.

One thing I really hate about bra shopping, because I have a large bust, is noticing a style I like then trawling through rail after rail of undies, only to discover they don’t do that style in my size. But something that I discovered about Marks’ bras is that the hangers are all clearly labelled to tell you what size the bras go up to, which saves a lot of time and frustration and really made me feel better about the whole thing.

I came away from Marks and Spencer feeling happy, comfortable and a lot better about myself. Wearing a bra in the correct size has even improved my silhouette in my clothes, as it’s not pinching and causing bulges in all the wrong places. I even thought the bras were great value too, with the one I bought costing me just £14. If you’ve got a large bust, you’ll know that it’s not only difficult to find a decent style on the high street but it’s also difficult to find anything vaguely pretty for under £30, so I’m super happy about that.

I think I can genuinely say that I am a true convert to the Marks and Spencer measuring service and their range of lingerie, and I’ll be going back six-monthly just to make sure I’m wearing the right size. Also, they’ve got an offer on at the moment where if you spend over £30 on anything in their underwear range, you’ll get £5 off, which is a brilliant deal and is also available online.

Click here to find your nearest Marks and Spencer store.

I was sent a £20 voucher for Marks and Spencer to test out their fitting service and purchase a new bra. This has not affected my review in any way and all opinions above are honest.

All About ME! · Competitions · Review · Vlog

Mum’s the Word’s First Vlog and GOSH Nail Glitters Giveaway

I’ve done some vlogging for other sites recently, but when I was asked to test out the new Nail Glitters from GOSH, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to do a video, right here on Mum’s the Word!

(For some inexplicable reason, I’ve decided not to film my forehead…it’s a perfectly normal forehead, I just didn’t angle the camera very well. Better luck next time!)



So, now for the good bit! I’ve got FIVE FULL SETS of the GOSH Nail Glitters to give away to five lucky readers, all you need to do is comment below, letting me know why you’d like to win. Obviously I can’t tell you to go and like their Facebook page or follow them on Twitter, but if you feel like going over there, go for it and don’t forget to tell them who sent you.

Winners will be chosen at random at midday on 29th September 2011 and will be notified via email, so don’t forget to leave me a way of contacting you in your comment.

All of the usual disclaimers, opinions are my own, didn’t receive any money just some free sparklies, yada yada yada.


In the words of Bjork…

“Violently happy, I’m daring people to jump off roofs with me”.

Wait. Wrong song. What I meant to say was:

“It’s oh so quiet…”

Although, to be fair, the jumping off roofs part might be more accurate. This week has been Sausage’s first week of full sessions at nursery, so she’s been out from 9am until we collect her at midday. And do you know what? I’m fucking miserable. I know I use the f-word too much, but this time the occasion really called for it. I needed some oomph and emphasis so you know that I really am truly miserable. I’m well aware of the fact that it’s entirely selfish and self-indulgent misery, but I don’t care.

“Take some time for yourself”, everyone keeps saying. So I am. I’m taking the time during these boring, lonely, shitty three hours to sit and miss my daughter.

Next week it’ll be different, I’ll be out at work while she’s at nursery, so I’m hoping it won’t seem as utterly pointless as it does now, to have other people looking after her while I twiddle my thumbs. And fortunately today is her last nursery day this week, she’s off now until next Tuesday, so I get to have four whole greedy days with her until it all starts over again.

I’m doing my best to keep in mind that it’s all for her. She’s been getting over the tail-end of a cold and has had a couple of not-so-great night’s sleep in the last week, but despite all of this she’s told me every day that she resolutely wants to go to nursery. I wanted to keep her at home, but as long as she wants to go, I have to let her. Although, if she ever tells me she doesn’t want to go anymore, it’s game over for nursery and I’m taking my kid back!

I realise I’m probably being entirely irrational and I know the benefits of her going (at the moment) outweigh the negatives, but I’ve spent every waking moment with that kid since we were allowed to take her home from hospital (bar the occasional night out and trip to the shops) so shipping her out for three non-compulsory hours, three times a week feels totally unnatural.

Sausage seems to love it. She skips to nursery every day, loves playing with her cousin, who is in her class, and runs in every day without a backward glance. We did have an incident yesterday where I walked in to collect her and she burst into tears, but her keyworker said she’d been happily playing all morning and hadn’t shown any sign of being sad. Maybe it was just tiredness?

But either way, as I sit here in my strangely quiet living room and contemplate my daughter being quarter of a mile away, I can honestly say that it sucks to be away from her. But, for her sake, I guess it’s something I’ll have to learn to deal with.

Anger · Rant

The Last Word.

Last year, not long after I started this blog, I wrote THIS post about how I collect straws. The basic premise of being a straw collector is that a person who collects straws goes about their day and if something negative happens, they store it up. Then the next minor thing happens and they store that up. They collect up all these ‘straws’ of anger, until they get to the final one and then they snap. I’ve been trying my hardest to not do this, and although I still have a bit of a temper if I’m pushed, I am a lot more chilled out in a lot of ways.

There is, however, a character flaw that I have which is something else that I should really work on, and that is the fact that I feel like I must have the last word. If I argue with someone or have a disagreement, I always feel like I’ve been totally wronged unless I get them to change their opinion. I’ve had disagreements with people in the past which still weigh heavily on my mind because I didn’t get an apology or a retraction from them, even though I know they were totally wrong. I’ll admit, I have a huge chip on my shoulder when it comes to people judging me wrongly. I know who and what I am, and I think I’m a very honest person when it comes to myself, but when people get it wrong, it winds me up terribly.

I have internal conversations which people where I say all of the clever things that I wanted to say during an argument, all of which prove them wrong, make me look wonderfully intelligent and urbane, whilst employing great amounts of grace and wit. Of course, arguments generally just degrade to a point where no one employs much wit, and all that’s being slung is something which rhymes with wit, so I never get to really employ all of these skills that I’ve honed so well inside my own head.

But it’s not very healthy, is it? Sometimes, when I’m walking the dog or washing up or going about some other brainless task, I go over petty rows in my head and I get so wound up that I end up with an ache in my gut and a mood like a bear who’s been disturbed, mid-hybernation. I suppose it’s a bit of longer-term straw collecting, but I just can’t seem to let it go.

I suppose I need to know that I’m not alone in this. Does anyone else do this, or am I the only one with an over-developed jaw muscle from all of the teeth grinding that I do? It can’t just be me, can it? Does this make me a terrible person, this need for people to know that I was right and they were wrong? Gosh, when I put it like that, it does sound that way, doesn’t it?


Cancer is a C*nt.

I feel that I should preface this post by saying that there is a lot of bad language, a lot of emotion and a whole load of anger. If you’re sensitive or easily offended, don’t read it as I will not apologise for a single word of it.

What do you say to a person who has been told they’re going to die? When a person is ill, even seriously ill, but there’s a glimmer of hope you can do your best with “I’m sure it’ll be fine” or “stay positive” or even “don’t worry, I’ll be praying for you”. But when someone has been sent home from hospital, being told that there’s no more that can be done to save them from a disease, what do you say? That’s not a hypothetical musing, I genuinely need some help with this.

Because what I really want to say is “Fuck you, cancer, you’re a cunt”.

It may be a complete cliche, but cancer is indiscriminate. Cancer doesn’t give a fuck whether you’ve been a brilliant person, whether you’re too young to die or have a shit load of potential that won’t be fulfilled. I’ve heard so many people say “It’s not fair, why do nice people get ill when there are paedophiles and serial murderers in prisons who never suffer?”. And the only answer I can give is that cancer DOES. NOT. GIVE. A. FUCK.

I cannot even begin to imagine how scary it must be to be told that you only have a certain amount of time to live. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m terrified of my own mortality and I think that comes from my internal conflict over the afterlife. See, I do believe in a ‘higher power’. I look at the universe and I feel that I couldn’t not believe in a higher power, at the very least something or someone to plant the seed from which everything as we know it grew. But I also have a more scientific, reasoned side to brain which tells me that everything is carbon and will be once again, and that’s all there is to it.

But then, I’ve not suffered, have I? I’ve not opened my eyes in the morning, only for the pain to kick in and just wish that it would all go away, wishing for sweet release from a body that’s letting you down.

I just don’t know how to get my head around it.

Maybe it’s down to experience. My Nan died about 7 years ago and while that was utterly heartbreaking, she was an old lady and she’d been ill for a while. It’s easier to reconcile something when you can get your head around the timing.  Old people are supposed to die. It’s shit, but they’ve had their life, left their footprint on the world and we can let them go with the most minute amount more ease than someone whose death is untimely.

I guess the point is, I’m really fucking angry.

I’ve not cried. I’m not quite sad yet. I’m numb, I’m waiting for the worst to happen, I swing from being confused to enraged to totally and utterly devoid of words to even explain how I feel. I can’t even begin to imagine how my Dad must feel, how her Mum must feel. All I know is, I’m devastated for them all.

So, I’ll say it again. Cancer is a cunt. And that’s all there is to it.

If any of you want to donate to Cancer Research, I’ve added a widget in my sidebar. Thanks.