The hunt continues

So this finding a house lark is proving to be somewhat trickier than expected. Yes, there are some amazing houses out there, but they all seem to require us to win the lottery, which as we've had one number in the last four weeks isn't looking like something that's going to happen any time soon. Unfortunately. The rest all seem to be either too small, too smelly, or too empty - where on earth do these people keep their books?

But M is becoming very useful at charming middle-aged female estate agents. We're suddenly very memorable if I pop into an office or when I ring up, particularly if she's gurgling adorably in the background. It's amazing how quickly a viewing can be arranged at times. And handily M seems to have the dual purpose of putting off the slightly slimy male variety of estate agent (usually to be found in shiny suit with a lingering smell of aftershave).

The professional editor in me is fuming about most of the house details that I have to read through. If one more house is "warmed by gas central heating" and requires "a detailed internal inspection" to appreciate how "deceptively spacious" it is I am going to scream. It seems that no house in Low Fell is complete without a sun lounge or "atrium", and no house in Whitley Bay is without some sort of "sea view", even if you'd have to be a contortionist with a periscope to see it. Aaaargh. Will somebody somewhere please set up a school for estate agents to tell them how to (a) write and (b) spell?

That's jazz

To the Sage Gateshead today, for a bit of lunchtime jazz. Sounds very pretentious, but wasn't - bands from the local college were playing, people were milling about chatting goodhumouredly, and M sat and covered herself in yoghurt from head to toe. Nobody batted an eyelid. It's an essential part of listening to music, obviously.

If thrashing arms and legs are a sign of enjoyment, then she quite digs jazz. Maybe I should invest in some black polonecks for her?

Cake, anyone?

As a newbie YM who attends a fair few coffee mornings/chats over cups of tea with M, I can safely say that any biscuit or cake consumed would be much improved by being placed on one of these... And if you could happen to find a couple of fairy cakes to go on them (why do the Americans call them cupcakes? Just why?) then so much the better.

According to The Guardian, fairy cakes are now all the rage in LA. Marvellous. Ship me over now. But if you could just do something about the awful Liptons Yellow tea bags that are over there, that would be perfect.

Feeling sick

I am pursued by a trail of vomit, of a feline and baby variety. I'm not sure what I've done to deserve this, but I really wish it would stop. Last time I checked it definitely wasn't in the small print.

More houses today, all of them vastly unsuitable. One 1920s terraced house had two gas fires, and a woman who didn't know if they worked or not, as she was "allergic to gas". A very realistic (but undoubtedly cuddly-toy) dog sat in a basket next to one of the fires, which was rather weird. The next house was artexed to death (every wall and ceiling in the house, in a delightful shade of prison grey-blue), and contained a black onyx dining room table and chair set which wouldn't have looked out of place in a James Bond villain's lair. In fact the lampshades, clock, tv set and sofas could have belonged there too. I know you're supposed to "look past the decor", but it would have cost thousands to put right. So maybe another one that wasn't really for us. The search continues.

Just a wafer-thin mint?

Not content with the veg strike of the last few days, M has now decided all solid food is the work of the devil (with the exception of dried apricots, rice cakes and toast, which she can hold in her hand and proceed to mush into any available fabric/surface). It's hurting my YM credentials somewhat, given that I've been very good and made half a hundredweight of cubes of organic fruit and veg puree (Annabel Karmel-style, naturally), which are now sat redundantly in the freezer, for no-one to see. If she's not careful, I'll go the whole hog, and give her some chips. With gravy on the side.

House-buying gets more complicated, as plan A to move to the beach has fallen through. But we've seen a really nice place that's too expensive, as is always the way. All we now have to do is explain to the vendor that a low offer is not meant to be insulting to them or the condition of their house, it's simply that we don't have enough money, and are chancing our arms... Think it'll work?

Poetry, please

"Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir..." has been running through my head all day. It's Patroclus' fault. So I went and looked up the whole thing in a very ancient (well, 1970s) book that I had as a child called "I Like This Poem". M and I have been getting into poetry recently, especially stuff that is silly and has lots of rhymes. She likes the Ning Nang Nong, and a bit of A A Milne. I'm rather partial to Macavity the Mystery Cat. We're both not overly fond of Roger McGough.

Housey housey

The house madness continues - our offer has been accepted, and raspberry-fuelled summer dress fantasies are go. Obviously as the house we want is at the coast it will be a summer of sea frets and mist-obscured loveliness, while M and I sit indoors, watching endless reruns of ER and bewailing the demise of Anthony Edwards.

All being well, everything will descend into a chaotic mix of estate agents, builders, mortgage advisers and removal men, who will all proceed to suck their teeth and charge us a fortune. Something to look forward to, then.

Summer lovin

Not content with (a) dealing with 6-month-old M (b) attempting some freelance editing (c) trying to find some spare time to play with nail varnish, we're contemplating moving house. I'm seduced by the idea of somewhere with a garden, so M and I can float around in white dresses picking raspberries in the soft-focus sunshine. Which obviously is what we'll be able to do every day in the summer up here in the frozen north. If anyone can come up with a method of moving Newcastle to California would they please let me know?

The perfect finish

No 7 Stay Perfect Pink a Dink
No 7 Stay Perfect Chiffon
No 7 Stay Perfect Rose Truffle
No 7 Stay Perfect Pearly Pink
No 7 Stay Perfect Elixir
Bourjois Very Vernis Rose Lounge
Botanics Elderberry
NYC Passionata

As every yummy mummy knows, it's important to have a wide range of nail varnish, preferably with ridiculous names (I especially like Pink a Dink). Unfortunately, I've not had time to put any on for months (see yesterday), and in any case I suspect the endless washing up would play havoc with the finish. Darn. Will have to find some other way to boost YM credentials.

Time, gentlemen please

One of the least attractive things about motherhood is the lack of time. Or rather lack of free time. There's no lunch breaks, coffee breaks or sneaky fag breaks allowed. And although time might stretch and sag when M is fractious, it runs at double and triple speed for the rest of the day, especially in the evenings. It feels like there is always something still to be done, no matter how many things are crossed off the list. Saturday's newspaper sits on the side, mostly unread (it seems rather pointless now to trawl through the news section), friends are left untelephoned, floors are left uncleaned. The small things take so long, that it's all too easy to discover that it's 11.30pm, time for bed, and the luxury time to paint your toenails or read that magazine has disappeared.

I sloped off last night, minus M, to sit in Starbucks with a coffee and a trashy magazine and find some of my missing luxury time. It felt like only 10 minutes, but it was wonderful.

Cheapskate

I have become a cheapskate, scouring the charity shops for 'new' clothes for M, who will be leaving the 3-6 month sizings in a matter of days. This week saw the ultimate jackpot - a charity shop with a half-price sale. It's maybe more a reflection on how poor the area of the city is (people can't afford to pay a lot, even in a charity shop) rather than a shop which has found itself with too much stock after Christmas. But no matter. I can clothe M for a fiver (and on my last month of maternity pay that's no bad thing), be environmentally friendly and feel good about donating to charity all in one go. It's a jackpot in more ways than one.

An outing

To the coast today, for a brisk walk along the harbour wall to the lighthouse. Cartwheeling seagulls breezed past as giant ferries rolled through the choppy sea. M slept, while I battled against the wind. Pushchair-makers should bolt on stabilisers for days like these.

Introduction

M is 5 months and 10 days old. Once I used to know her exact age in days, weeks, hours even. Now I have to work it out, counting on my fingers like I used to at school, complicated by the fact that I often no longer know what the date is. Befuddlement is a common state of mind in our house.

Over the past few months we've come to a compromise, she and I. She is the centre of my daytime world. I am the recipient of questioning looks, playful laughter and unfiltered love. It seems a fair return for such a small investment.