Rosie Scribble

Even more addictive than Twitter

This weekend a new and exciting avenue has been explored in our little household, and the result is a brand new addiction - an addiction that has even taken me away from the computer. It is slightly more addictive than Twitter and I am a little bit in love with it.

At least I would be if I had played with it, which I haven't of course, honestly, really, not even a tiny weeny bit.

It's Lego. I would imagine that if I had played with IJ's first ever set then I would be hooked on slowly but surely building something incredibly impressive. I would find the distraction it offered incredibly therapeutic and I would be impressed at my own ability to follow instruction to the letter and produce something that really looks like it does on the box, unlike my baking.

If I had played with it while IJ was in bed, over-excited at being able to construct the castle from the Kingdom's range in peace and quiet, and anxious to get in finished so I could marvel at the end result, I would imagine that I would have found it incredibly addictive. I would, no doubt be very keen for IJ to purchase even more products and I may even have my eye on an even bigger project next time.

And ultimately with pride and an overblown sense of achievement, I would be presenting this:

Which of course I have  not painstakingly built myself, nor have I spent half an hour photographing my work (given that Lego is difficult to photograph with the flash on), in an attempt to find the best picture to display with pride on my blog. Not at all.

This is all the work of a seven-year-old child, you understand.

Life, laundry and Louis Theroux

Scribbling Mum (great name!) has tagged me in a question and answer session. I haven't tagged anyone else, but feel free if you'd like to have a go.

Look over your right shoulder.  What do you see?

An odd mixture of Scooby Doo and Cinderella wall transfers. My little office upstairs used to be the playroom so I have to work every day surrounded by pink walls and cartoon characters and Disney princesses. It could be worse.

Do you wear make-up. If so, how much and how often?

I just wear foundation and concealer (which I seem to have been using since my teens), plus mascara on special occasions. I once had a make-over for a magazine shoot and I felt completely artificial. Lots of make-up isn't really me.

What, if anything do you wear in bed?

You know you are getting old when ...

You know you are getting old when ...

1. Your child asks you what a CD is and wonders how it ever fitted into an ipod.
2. You start to find the television show 'Loose Women' uncomfortable viewing.
3. You realise the 'blond' bits in your hair can't possibly be blond because you're brunette.
4. Your child asks you if you had white teeth when you were younger.
5. The market research guy asks if you would be very offended if he asked your age.
6. You start tweeting that the skirts on the contestants in #Dorothy are just too short.
7. You realise that even your younger sister has little memory of Margaret Thatcher.
8. The reality hits you that the country could soon be run by someone not much older than you.
9. The ache in your left knee can't be the result of your latest jog around the park because you never jog.
10. You query if you need a more expensive brand of anti-wrinkle cream.
11. You conclude that Topshop is for teenagers.
12. The clothes in Marks & Spencer suddenly look surprisingly durable, and you make a note for future reference.
13. You pay greater attention to washing instructions when buying clothes.
14. A stint of gardening suddenly seems a sensible form a exercise.
15. A reduced subscription offer to Cosmopolitan magazine no longer appeals.

I'm calling this the birthday effect, when suddenly that extra year seems to make a lot of difference.

Returning to work in a digital age

The goal -- to return to work full time within two years. The dilemma -- what to do, specifically, and what skills I need to gain in the meantime now that the world has gone digital yet my qualifications were gained pre-internet.

After a positive week which involved emerging from behind the computer screen (where the majority of my day is spent editing Word documents, writing web content and generally cursing all things Microsoft), and meeting a fabulous group of bloggers, I am more motivated and determined than ever, and my focus is now on work.

However, my drive and determination is slowly turning into stress and frustration as I've realised that my skills are outdated, the world has moved on and gone digital and, to an extent, I have been left behind. I have a great deal of catching up to do.

I also want to achieve everything now which of course is not possible, yet I am impatient and  want to make up for lost time.

I'm half way through a marketing course which I'll complete by the end of the year. Aware that the business degree I gained in the 1990s needed updating, I chose an area that particularly interested me. However, marketing is too general; I need to specialise further.

So the dilemma is where to go now considering that so much these days is online rather than off. There are numerous areas that interest me -- marketing communications, journalism, writing, editing, copywriting, PR, social media ... but my concern is that time is not on my side. I turn 37 next week. There is so much that I need to learn; I am unsure where to start.

My week has been spent looking at various courses, considering childcare options and weighing up finances. There is so much information out there to help me develop some sense of direction, possibly too much. And now I'm wondering if I now need a Mac.

I think my head may explode.

So the idea of returning to full-time work now that IJ is approaching an age when she relies on me less is very exciting, it is also very overwhelming and the world of work I once knew no longer exists.

We are off tomorrow to the press day at Drayton Manor where I may be found swinging from the monkey bars talking rather incoherently about search engine optimisation, website design and target markets.

If, by then, I have not gone completely mad!

Overheard...

On the train home from London earlier this week, I overheard the following conversation between two thirty-something men.

I'll call them Spiky and Short, in honour of their respective haircuts.

Spiky: So what does your wife do?

Short: She's a counsellor.

Spiky: She works for the council?

Short: No, she's a psychotherapist.

Spiky: Does she talk to you about her work?

Short: No, we're not on speaking terms at the moment, we've had a falling out.

Spiky: So who does she work for?

Short: Relate.

Spiky: Oh!