The art of craft

I was inspired the other day by a fellow mummy blogger who said when her little one got up at 6.30am the other day she set him to work with a papier maché letter 'H', some glue and a torn up Boden catalogue. An hour later she uploaded a photo of a beautifully decoupaged 'H' to hang in his bedroom. In contrast, when Isla wakes up at 6.30am on a Sunday exclaiming, "Mummy, its sunny time!" I promptly park her in front of a Peppa Pig DVD for half an hour while I go back to sleep.

So yesterday, when I was in John Lewis shopping for some thank you presents for Isla's nursery carers, I had a brainwave.  I had been struggling to find a gift that looked more expensive than it actually was, but even being never knowingly undersold, John Lewis's price tags and the contents of my wallet didn't seem to be seeing eye to eye. And then I remembered Hobbycraft - the answer to every frustrated Blue Peter presenters dream. Two whole floors of wall-to-wall PVA glue, coloured pipecleaners and glitter. Isla and I could make some gifts for just a few pennies, which would be alot more personal than anything shop bought and my guilt would be assauged by spending quality time doing creative play with the wee one.

Thirty minutes and thirty quid later, I was beginning to realise homemade gifts is something of a false economy and the nursery girls would no doubt much prefer some Molton Brown soap than a crappy looking fridge magnet. Much as I like to think of myself as the next Tony Hart, somehow the finished product never quite lives up to the image in my head. Not that that has ever been reason enough to quell my enthusiasm and to this day I still can't understand why Isla's easter bonnet didn't win first prize in the Easter parade. Robbed.

So today, instead of enjoying the sunshine like most, Isla and I were hunched over the table with our papier maché heart-shaped magnets, surrounded by reams of tissue paper, ribbons and glitter. All Isla needed to do was tear up a few bits of tissue paper, stick them on the hearts in a haphazard fashion and job done. But a few mintues later glue was all over the floor, water was all over the table, the carefully torn paper was scrunched up into tiny balls and those few pieces that did make it onto the magnet, were stuck on upside down.

"I know, why don't you watch Peppa Pig for half an hour while I finish these off?" I said. And so for the next half an hour I sat absorbed making shabby chic magnets while Isla sat equally transfixed by Peppa and George jumping in muddy puddles.

I can't understand mothers who are able to sit back and watch while their toddlers stick things the wrong way round and upside down, mix all the paint up so everything ends up brown and exclaim how beautiful it looks when its 'finished'! I would have to be gagged and bound before I could stop myself from putting in my twopence worth. And as for that other mummy blogger - you can't fool me, if your two and half year old created that decoupage materpiece then either he is the next Tony Hart or you are even more of a control freak than me!

internet dating

Its Saturday night, Isla and Monkey are tucked up in bed. I have glass of wine in one hand, Ben & Jerry's in the other and my computer on my lap, cruising for men. Such is the life of the modern day single parent.

I suspect I fall into the category of dating site whore, jumping from site to site as each fails to deliver Mr Right. My first experience of internet dating was back in the day when speed dating was at its height, c. 2004.  I was fresh faced from travelling, full of hope and optimism and certain I was just one click away from my elusive soul mate. My confidence was dented by my virgin outing - the guy took one look at me and told me he only had an hour, before proceeding to deliver a series of questioned blatantly downloaded from, 'what to say when you're stuck for conversation' which included in his repertoire 'if you had to choose between losing your arms or legs, which would you do?'

But I wouldn't let one bad egg mean the rest were rotten so I persevered with the guy who slammed the table emphatically every time he had a point to make (alot), swiftly followed by the hedge fund manager who announced he 'forgot his wallet' just as we got to the entrance of Ronnie Scott's. Every guy I winked at wasn't interested and all those that were turned out to have some pretty obvious reasons behind their 'single' marital status. A few more encounters later and my ego was feeling sufficiently battered and brusied to steer clear of the cyber scene for some time to come. But 7 years later I have come to realise that its become pretty much the only way to meet single men when you spend 6 nights out of 7 holed up in your living room with only Dale Winton on the box for company.

Yet, even though over the last seven years it has become totally socially acceptable and I must know at least half a dozen people who have met and married with the help of cupid.com, I am encountering just the same problems. Match.com and mysinglefriend are for the young at heart - confess to having children and you are blocked for life. Mums Date Dads - sounds promising, but only if you want cynical overweight men who bemoan the fact all their hard earned cash is being equally divided between the ex wife and George Osborne. Muddy Matches I was assured provided a better class of men. True on paper but the one I met told me within half an hour that most of his dates were much like this one - nice women but no physical attraction - ouch. So now we're contemplating Guardian Soulmates but i can't quite bring myself to part with another £60 for another six months of wondering why I attract all the oddballs.

I mean given they are on these sites to meet women, I am staggered by the number who drop out before they've even got as far as arranging a date, who are avidly emailing one minute and then falling silent the next, never to be heard from again. Is it something I'm saying, or not saying? Is the competition just too fierce? What is it they are looking for?

Or maybe it is simply that for every success story you hear, there are a thousand women sitting in their living rooms just like me on a Saturday night wondering where have all the good men gone?