You have met Mr & Mrs H previously, and I can assure you that you will meet them many more times. When I said they were friends to keep, I meant it. We have made so many memories together and accumulated so many stories that there is no way they had all fit into a single blog.

This particular adventure started with the bright idea of a night out in Liverpool then staying in a rented apartment for the night. The line-up consisted of me, the other half, Mr & Mrs H, their daughter, and her friend. Some members of the group had the foresight to book half a day or even a full day off work. Naturally, me and the other half had not. He had had an interview for a job that day, he was successful, but it was emotional and stressful fitting it all in.

I finished work, we jumped in the car, and immediately became acquainted with Britain’s greatest mystery: the motorway that never closes, except for the fact that it always seems to be closed. Armed with warm beer, warm wine, and empty stomachs, we crawled our way towards Liverpool fuelled entirely by excitement and the promise of seeing good friends.

Meanwhile, at the apartment, Mr H demonstrated far better planning skills than the rest of us and nipped out to buy ice.

After what felt like several days sitting in traffic, we eventually arrived, and the weekend had already started for everyone else.

The apartment was soon filled with chatter, laughter, the familiar crack of cans opening and the satisfying plop of ice cubes landing in wine glasses. I do not usually put ice in wine, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I am sure everyone would agree that cold wine is preferable to warm wine.

The next challenge was food.

What culinary masterpiece did we choose to line our stomachs before a night of drinking?

Chicken nuggets.

Obviously.

With our gourmet meal consumed, we headed out into Liverpool. We stopped at a bar on the way to the comedy club where Mr H kindly bought the other half a beer. What none of us appreciated at the time was that this beer appeared to have the alcohol content of aviation fuel. The other half and Mr H happily knocked them back as though they were disappearing from circulation.

The bar itself was lovely enough, although I have a vague recollection that the toilet cubicle doors opened directly into the bar area. Whether that was actually true or merely a product of the evening’s refreshments remains unconfirmed.

Then came the comedy club.

The comedians were hilarious, but apparently the biggest talking point amongst the men was the toilet situation. According to reports, there was some sort of communal urinal arrangement that involved far more social interaction than anyone had signed up for.

What is it with Liverpool and its toilets?

The evening continued with more bars, more drinks, and more laughter. I know we visited several places, but if you asked me to name them all, I would struggle. One venue I do remember was Sergeant Pepper’s, mainly because it was there that the other half reached his limit.

While the rest of us were enjoying a very loud live band and making the most of the dance floor, the other half had taken a different approach to the evening. Perched on a bar stool, completely alone, he was fast asleep.

Not swaying.

Not nodding.

Actually asleep.

At that point, it was unanimously agreed that it was time to call it a night.

As everyone rushed across the street for a takeaway, I found myself propping the other half against a lamppost while we waited for the taxi. Now, he is not exactly a lightweight in either sense of the word, and when someone is completely incapable of supporting their own body weight, they become astonishingly heavy.

To make matters even more challenging, every brief moment of coherence was spent expressing heartfelt concern for the homeless people sitting in nearby doorways. It was touching, albeit entirely unhelpful given that I was effectively holding him upright single-handedly.

Eventually the taxi arrived, and we made our way back to the apartment.

Did I mention the apartment was on the first floor?

Because the stairs certainly remembered.

Between us we somehow dragged, pushed, and manoeuvred the other half up the stairs and into the apartment. Once inside, we deposited him face down on the bed and left him exactly where he landed.

There was nothing more to be done.

Fortunately, I managed to share some of their takeaway, partly because I was hungry and partly because future me deserved at least some protection from the inevitable hangover.

Now, I have always maintained that there is a little bit of Peter Pan in me, and the temptation was simply too much.

We went to check on the other half.

He was exactly where we had left him.

Not moved an inch.

Still breathing.

Just completely and utterly unconscious.

Naturally, there was only one sensible response.

Everyone launched themselves onto the bed at the same time and posed for photos with him.

The next morning, he emerged from the bedroom from precisely the same condition and position into the living room where we were sat. Staring at the empty takeaway boxes scattered around the apartment, he looked around in disbelief and uttered the immortal words:

“You bastards… you ate without me.”

And that, dear reader, is just one of the adventures involving Mr & Mrs H. With friends like these, there are plenty more stories still to be told. 🍻😂

When you reach the ripe old age of seventy-five, you would think there would not be many firsts left in life.

Not my mum.

At 75, she somehow managed to acquire her very first speeding ticket.

What is even more impressive is that she had recently spent a small fortune on designer driving glasses. Fancy ones. The type that are supposed to help you see things more clearly.

Things like road signs.

And large marked police speed vans.

Apparently not.

According to Mum, she did not see the police van at all.

Not even a little bit.

Her defence was immediate.

“But I was only doing 22 when I got to the top of the hill.”

Which would be a reasonable argument if she had been caught at the top of the hill.

She was not.

The speed camera had already recorded her driving past at 25mph in a 20mph zone.

A busy road, too. The sort where cars are parked on both sides, forcing everyone to weave carefully through the gaps. The sort of road where you would think a large police van would stand out.

Yet somehow, Mum remained oblivious.

The evidence was fairly comprehensive.

Two photographs.

A video.

A calibration certificate for the speed detection equipment.

In short, enough proof to convince any reasonable person.

Mum, however, is not always a reasonable person when she believes she is right.

“It’s not fair,” she protested. “They trapped me.”

No, Mum. That is not how speed enforcement works.

“They were following me.”

Again, no.

The pictures very clearly showed a stationary police van videoing Mum driving away from it, up the hill. The speed dropped to 22mph afterwards, presumably because she was going up the hill and was relying on that to slow her down.

“See? I slowed down.”

A little late, unfortunately.

What fascinated me most was not that she had been caught speeding. Plenty of people get caught speeding.

It was her unwavering determination to argue with photographic evidence.

The woman was essentially trying to win a debate against a camera.

I can only imagine how successful she would be on a speed awareness course.

“Are you willing to accept responsibility for exceeding the speed limit?”

“Well, actually…”

Perhaps the silver lining is that this happened before she gets her new car. A shiny 2-litre model that apparently has considerably more enthusiasm than her current one.

Before she drives it anywhere, however, there is one essential lesson she needs to learn.

How to use the speed limiter.

Because if she can miss a marked police van in broad daylight while wearing designer glasses, I suspect technology may be our only hope.

Although, knowing Mum, she will probably argue with the speed limiter too.

You grow up thinking you know your family. After all, you have spent years around them. You know their habits, their favourite sayings, and their place within the family hierarchy.

But sometimes there are the quiet ones.

The sweet ones.

The God-fearing ones.

The charitable ones with the gentle, sincere voices who seem incapable of causing trouble. The sort of people you would swear would not say boo to a goose.

Then you get older.

And they start oversharing.

Or perhaps you just start paying attention.

I remember visiting my other half’s grandma one afternoon. His aunt was there helping to look after her. She was in the kitchen doing what good daughters do: making tea, pouring coffee, arranging biscuits on plates, and generally making sure everyone was looked after.

Our son wandered into the kitchen looking for something in the fridge. A few moments later, he emerged looking rather amused.

Apparently, nestled discreetly among the milk and butter was a bottle of vodka.

The aunt quickly explained that Grandma did not know about it and encouraged him to keep it that way.

That was probably the beginning of me realising that perhaps she was not quite as saintly as I had first assumed.

Over the years I have heard plenty of stories from her time living overseas. Tales involving cheeky barbecues, passport control incidents, and somehow talking her way out of minor traffic offences with the police. Every story seemed to reveal another layer of a woman who was far more mischievous than she appeared.

But there is one story that remains firmly lodged in my brain.

A story that sits squarely in the category of oversharing.

A story that, once heard, can never be unheard.

She was staying with Grandma one day while the carers were helping her get washed and dressed in the bathroom. The carers were on a schedule and did not have much time, so Aunt did not want to interrupt them.

Meanwhile, she was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

And suddenly she was desperate for the loo.

She looked towards the bathroom.

Occupied.

She shuffled from foot to foot.

Still occupied.

Then she looked down.

And there, sitting innocently nearby, was the cat’s litter tray.

Need I say more?

A short while later, Grandma emerged from the bathroom in her wheelchair, pushed by the carers.

Unfortunately, a certain smell was impossible to ignore.

Without missing a beat, Aunt blamed the cat.

The carers eventually left.

The truth, however, did not leave with them.

At some point she confessed the entire episode to Grandma.

And then, for reasons known only to herself, she eventually shared it with me too.

Some stories really do not need to be told.

This was one of them.

Because once you have heard that your seemingly sweet, respectable aunt once used a cat litter tray as an emergency toilet, there is no deleting that image from your mind.

Ever.

Some family secrets are better left buried.

Preferably deeper than cat litter. 😄

I am a dog lover — there is absolutely no doubt about it. 

I was brought up around dogs. In our home, there was never a long gap between one passing over the rainbow bridge and welcoming another into the family. Some people might call that “replacing” them. I do not. Not at all. 

Dogs are never replaceable. They are with us for such a brief time, yet they fill our lives in the biggest way. They are part of your family. Your children grow up with them. They are there in your everyday routines, your milestones, your memories. When one leaves, they take a piece of your heart — and somehow, opening your home to another dog is not replacing them… it is continuing that love. 

There was only one period in my life where I did not have a dog. That was when I first moved out of home into a maisonette where pets were not allowed — well, dogs were not allowed anyway. So, naturally… I got a cat. 

A house cat. 

A cat who, in all honesty, thought it was a dog. And I must take full responsibility for that. 

Eventually, I moved into a house, and my little animal family finally felt complete when I got my very own dog again. Except by that point, things had taken an interesting turn. 

The cat had firmly established itself as the pack leader. 

The dog, on the other hand… well, he seemed to think he was a cat. 

The cat would charge down the street chasing dogs twice its size without a second thought, while the dog happily lounged along the back of the sofa like it was the most natural place in the world. To anyone passing by, I imagine it looked completely backwards — but to us, it was just normal life. 

And then there were the dogs themselves — each one bringing their own version of chaos. 

My first dog, Max I… well, he was basically Houdini. That dog could escape from anywhere. Gates, gardens, you name it — he found a way out. My other half spent most of the early days of our relationship not wining and dining me but chasing Max I around the estate. 

Max had his favourite spots too. He would either turn up outside my sister’s door or at my grandma’s bungalow, like he was doing his own little social rounds. 

“Ah, sweet,” you might think. 

Not so sweet when we took in a guard dog from my other half’s dad’s pub… and Max decided to train him in the art of escaping too. Suddenly it was not just one dog doing the rounds — it was two. 

Then there was Max III, my other half’s rescued German Shepherd. We decided one lovely Sunday afternoon to play hide and seek with the kids. Sounds wholesome, doesn’t it? 

What actually happened was that Max decided he wanted to be with his dad — and nothing was going to stop him. Including me. 

He dragged me straight through a graveyard. Jeans ripped, knees scraped, dignity gone. That dog was unbelievably strong, and clearly not interested in the rules of the game. 

And then… there was my baby. 

Big D, the Doberman. 

He was my princess, my shadow — but also a nag, a thief, and an absolute bully when he wanted to be. I have genuinely chased him around the streets in my onesie, kids in tow (no judgment, please). 

He did also, on one memorable occasion, shove me towards the road in front of a bus because he did not like the noise of the rain and traffic one early morning on a walk. Thanks for that, Big D. 

But here is the thing… 

Every single one of these moments — the escapes, the chaos, the injuries, the madness — they are the stories I treasure the most. 

Because for every muddy paw print, there is a wagging tail. 

For every chewed-up shoe, (and with Big D, there were quite a few!) there’s unconditional love. 

For every “accident” … there is a memory that becomes part of your story. 

I have been lucky enough to have had a few dogs in my life, and each one has left their mark — not just on my home, but on my heart. 

All these memories, and many more, are the reason I am — and always will be — a dog lover. 

Because when it comes down to it… 

You can rely on a dog. 

When you go on holiday, it happens almost instantly, doesn’t it?

Within about 24 hours, you’ve already sorted people into two very distinct groups:
The ones who irritate you… and the ones you just click with.

The kind where it feels like you didn’t just meet them—you actually went on holiday together.

That’s exactly what happened when we went to Marrakech to celebrate my 40th.

Straight away, we gelled with another couple. Well… “family” feels like a stretch, considering they left their teenage daughter at home with their parents while we turned up with our teenage son and daughter in full force. But still—instant connection.

Let’s call them Mr & Mrs H.

It started with the usual bonding rituals:
Same football team (well, the husbands anyway), shared sense of humour, and mutual appreciation for the chaos of an all-inclusive with very questionable WiFi.

And when I say questionable WiFi… I mean our teenage son was the only one who could get it.

So naturally, he became Head of Technology for the entire holiday.
Need something googling? Ask him.
Want to check anything online? Ask him.

He even generously allowed me a full hour to check my birthday messages. One whole hour. Spoilt, I know 😏

Days were spent lounging by the pool, people-watching like it was an Olympic sport, while the husbands would mysteriously disappear at key moments…

“Just popping to watch the football.”

Which, on one occasion, resulted in a romantic candlelit dinner… for my husband and Mr H—as they rushed to eat early so they could secure their spot at the bar to watch the football.

Later that evening, we found them clutching brandies, attempting what can only be described as ambitious broken German/English conversation with a group of Germans who had stolen their usual seats.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were focused on the real entertainment: the people-watching.

There was one particular lady who quickly became a bit of a legend around the hotel.
Loved by the staff… and, let’s be honest, most of the men.

She had a very enthusiastic commitment to topless sunbathing, which earned her the nickname:

“Twin Peaks.”

And honestly? The name stuck.

But then… there were the others.

Every hotel has them.

Let’s call this pair Mrs & Miss Entitlement.

Now, I happened to share a birthday with Mrs E, which I think gave them the impression we were destined to be best friends.

We weren’t.

Because these two operated on a completely different level.

We’re talking:

• Better-than-everyone energy
• And the absolute cheek to demand a bottle of champagne be sent to their room… from Mr H

I mean… the audacity.

Personally, I’d have told her exactly where to go.
Mr H, however, played along… only for us to later discover he’d actually charged it to her room.

Genius.

Well… genius until checkout.

Because when she realised what had happened, she kicked off and demanded he pay for it.

And normally? You’d stand your ground.

But when you’re about to spend four hours on a plane together…

Mr H folded.

Paid the champagne. Peace restored.

Me?
Absolutely not. I’d have dug my heels in all the way home.

Miss Entitlement, meanwhile, spent most of the holiday drunk, loudly bad mouthing  her husband back home, and getting very friendly with the entertainment team.

Which, to be fair, provided top-tier people-watching all week… much to her mother’s ongoing horror.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse… she earned herself another nickname:

“Licky Face.”

I’ll let you paint the picture—but let’s just say it involved one of the entertainment team and a level of enthusiasm that no one was quite prepared for.

Honestly… you couldn’t make it up.

But here’s the thing.

The Entitlements made for great entertainment…
but Mr & Mrs H?

They were the real highlight.

Because the right holiday people don’t just make your trip better—they stick.

We’re still friends now, 10 years on.
We meet up regularly, and it’s like we’re right back in that all-inclusive in Marrakech.

Only now… their daughter—who’s basically one of ours—is finally allowed to come along too.

And somehow, what started as a chance meeting in the bar…

Turned into one of those rare friendships that lasts long after the tan fades.

Now, I am not saying that my husband is basically an additional child in our family.
I am not saying he always has to be the centre of attention.
I am not saying he is needy.
And I am definitely not saying he is a hypochondriac…

…but I am not not saying it either.

You see, in our house, there is a very interesting pattern.
If my back hurts, suddenly—his back hurts.

If his back hurts?
Well. Apparently, no one in the history of humanity has ever experienced such agony. Not even me… and I gave birth to our eldest without pain relief. But who is keeping score?

And do not even get me started on presents.
Whenever we are buying someone a birthday or Christmas gift, he has this magical ability to suggest something that—pure coincidence, I am sure—he also desperately needs. Funny, that.

We have been married for many years now, and honestly, it is just part of the furniture. The kids have grown up with it and, if anything, they have made it worse indulging him with surprise birthday parties, meals out, and even premium hospitality football tickets.

Yes. You read that right.
He really is one spoiled bugger.

But every so often, there comes a moment where I think:
Surely… surely this is where he draws the line.

Reader, he does not.

Let me take you back to the incident.

For years, I had the contraceptive implant—one of those little rods inserted into your arm that stays there for three years before it is replaced or removed. After I was sterilised, I went to have my final one taken out.

Now, I am not great with medical things. Bit squeamish. So, naturally, my husband came along “for support.”

Lovely, right?

So, there I am, lying on the bed in the doctor’s office, trying not to look as he is snipping away at my skin, while I mentally disconnect from my arm altogether…

…and out of nowhere, my husband casually pipes up:

“While we’re here, doctor, could you just take a look at this skin tag that’s been bothering me?”

I froze.

I tried to catch his eye—the look. You know the one.
The look that says: This is not the time. This is not the place. Stop talking immediately.

But no. Oblivious as ever, he carried on merrily mithering the doctor about his skin tag, as if we were all just having a relaxed catch-up over coffee.

Meanwhile, I am lying there, mid-procedure, thinking:
Is this really happening?

The doctor finishes my arm, wraps it all up nicely, and I think—great, we can leave now, crisis averted.

Oh no.

Instead, he turns to my husband and says, “Come into the next room.”

And just like that—OFF comes the skin tag.

No waiting days.
No booking another appointment.
No navigating the minefield of receptionists guarding the diary like it is Fort Knox.

Nope.
Straight in. Job done. VIP treatment.

My husband walked out of there absolutely beaming. Proud as punch with himself, like he had just achieved something remarkable.

And me?

Well… let us just say it is a miracle he made it home in one piece.

But that is just him, isn’t it?
Completely unaware, slightly ridiculous, and somehow always managing to turn any situation back to himself.

And, if I am being honest…

That is also what makes our marriage as funny as it is.

Have you ever given feedback and instantly wished you had not? I think, at some point, we all must have.

Sometimes it is not even what you say—it is the look on your face. Someone asks you a question, and before you can carefully craft your response, your expression has already answered for you.

In my case… my resting face (yes, you know the one) gives everything away. Years of practice have not helped. I have often walked away thinking I kept my thoughts hidden, only for someone to later say, “Did you see your face when you were talking to them?”

Awkward.

Then there is the formal, forced feedback at work:

“Please tell me what I do well and what I need to improve on.”

Danger zone.

This is something I have learned to approach very carefully. Because, in my experience, people do not actually want feedback on what they could do better. They want reassurance. They want to hear they are doing brilliantly and everything is perfect.

Even when I try to balance it—start positive, gently suggest an improvement, wrap it nicely—it can still feel like I have punched them in the face.

Or you get the classic:

“Thank you for your feedback… however, you are wrong!”

And let us be honest—the people who should be asking for feedback? They rarely do. And that, is for obvious reasons.

Then, of course, there are those who offer unsolicited feedback. You did not ask, you did not hint, yet somehow their opinion arrives anyway.

It is funny how you cannot go through life without someone telling you what you could do better. And you are left thinking: “If I really wanted your advice, I would have bloody asked for it!”

And then we reach the ultimate danger category: family feedback.

With your husband or partner, it is less a question and more a test:

“Does this make me look fat?”

Go on—I dare you to answer honestly.

Or:

“Do you think we should do this?”

Translation: We are absolutely doing this, and you will agree.

Then there are your children. You think you are doing a fantastic job—everything is going smoothly—and suddenly, after 20-odd years, they share opinions that do not quite align with what you remember in your version of events!

Feedback really is a trap. One minute you are offering something helpful, the next you are in damage control.

Honestly, I would love an optional filter for feedback—one that knows when to share it… and when to keep it incredibly quiet.

“Because not all traps look like traps… some sound like ‘What do you think?’”

Cooking for two is supposed to be easy, right? Kids have flown the nest, fewer mouths to feed, less chaos in the kitchen… job done. 

Wrong. 

Because what no one tells you is that when it is just you and your other half, you suddenly realise… he has become ridiculously picky. One minute he will eat anything with veg, the next he is acting like the only acceptable meal on earth is a pork chop. Honestly, I do not know who I am cooking for half the time. 

Take Spaghetti Bolognese, for example. 
Our daughter’s favourite meal growing up. 

Back in the day, if I asked what they wanted for dinner, he would shout, “Pork chop!” and she would immediately kick off because she was sick to death of it. So, naturally, she would shout back “Spag bol!”—purely to wind him up. It was like living in a food-based battleground. 

Now? The kids have gone, and I still do not get an easy life. 

Because here is the thing… I love pasta. 
My other half? Not so much. 
Unless it is a cold pasta salad (which, let us face it, barely counts). 

So, whenever I fancy spag bol, it is basically a solo craving. Well, not entirely solo—because whenever we cook too much, the leftovers get sent into work with my husband… usually for Daz. 

Now Daz, on the other hand, is my kind of eater. Loves his food, appreciates a good meal, and never complains. In fact, he enjoys it so much he even tells his other half that my cooking is better than hers. I am not sure how well that goes down at home, but I will happily take the compliment! 

Anyway, a few weeks ago I was really craving Spaghetti Bolognese. Proper comfort food. So, I made it. 

My other half walks in from work and asks the usual question: “What’s for dinner?” 

Without even thinking, I said: “Me and Daz are having spag bol… you’re having a pork chop.” 

The look on his face was priceless. Absolutely priceless. But I carried on as normal, did not think much of it. 

A couple of days later, he comes home from work, and I casually ask: “Did Daz enjoy his dinner?” 

Well. 

Not only did Daz enjoy it but he was also making that much noise eating it, his son came downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. Tried it. Declared it the best Bolognese he had ever had. 

Then everyone else got involved. His other half. Her friend. One by one, drawn in by the hype… and every single one of them agreed: 

The best Bolognese they had ever had.! 

They could not stop talking about it. 

I am stood there thinking, all this over my spag bol? 

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, my husband tells me he’s also been sharing the story at work—about the night he asked what was for dinner and got told I was cooking for me and Daz… while he got a pork chop. 

So now, apparently, I have gained a bit of a reputation. 

Cooking for two might be a nightmare… 
…but cooking for Daz? 

Now that is clearly where I shine. 

I know what you might be thinking from the headline—here we go again. Another rant about equality, ready to rip strips off men. 

But that is not what this is. 

I do not believe all men are the same. I believe in real equality—the kind where people are valued for exactly who they are, not judged by a demographic label. We all have different strengths and weaknesses. That is not a design flaw; it is just being human. 

Take my own home, for example. My husband and I do not assign chores based on an outdated rulebook; we just play to our individual preferences. He genuinely loves managing the garden and dealing with the heavy lifting. Me? I am far happier handling the cooking and the laundry. We balance each other out because we function as a team, not because we are trying to fit into rigid boxes. 

When it came to raising our kids, we made sure they knew how to survive on their own. I taught both our son and our daughter how to cook, clean, and run a household. No one is growing up here thinking they need to find a partner just to get through day-to-day life. Their dad brought his own strengths, too sharing his passions, watching sports with them, and teaching them how to switch off and just have fun. 

That is what equality looks like in real life. It is not forced or loud. It just works. 

But outside of my front door, I keep running into a completely different dynamic. It is a very specific, stubborn mindset that should have been left behind decades ago, yet somehow still lingers. 

I am talking about that casual, retro-sexism. The kind of thinking that still treats women’s opinions as secondary, or views equality as a threat to be managed rather than progress to be celebrated. You see it in the workplace when a woman is spoken over in a meeting, or at social gatherings when a lazy, sexist joke is thrown out under the guise of “just a bit of banter.” It has tired, and frankly, it is boring. 

And let us be clear: I am not talking about generations who grew up in a completely different era. I am talking about my own peers—those of us who became adults in the 1990s. 

We grew up during a massive cultural shift. We watched conversations about respect, opportunity, and inclusion become mainstream. We have had decades to learn, adapt, and grow. We have absolutely no excuse for holding onto prehistoric views. 

So, it is deeply disappointing—frustrating, even—to still see these outdated attitudes clinging on in mid-life. 

This is not an attack on men. It is a challenge to a specific behaviour. There are so many incredible men out there who support, respect, and uplift the people around them—men like my husband and my son. They are not threatened by equality; they are strengthened by it. Those are the men worth celebrating. 

The problem is not a demographic. The problem is a choice. It is the choice to carry an old, entitled mindset into a world that has moved on. 

And honestly? We are well past the point where that should be acceptable. 

Sometimes it is people we do not even know, sometimes it is people we know very well. Either way, once you have been given a nickname, that is it. It sticks. Forever. 

I can’t remember exactly when it started. It might have been on our first package holiday together. You know the kind—sunbeds, questionable entertainment, and people-watching at its finest. 

That is where we met “Triple Nipple.” 
A man, possibly Russian or German (we were never quite sure), who appeared—at least from a distance—to have three nipples. Once you have seen it, you cannot unsee it. 

Then there was “There Are Kids in the Pool.” 
Another holidaymaker, also possibly Russian, who very loudly disapproved of the men messing about in the pool during one of the entertainment team’s games. He only shouted it once, but that was enough for it to stick! 

But I think the moment it became an actual thing in our house was when I discovered my husband had saved someone in his phone as “Bob Over the Road.” 

Now here is the best part—Bob was a great neighbour. Not some random stranger. My husband went running and cycling with him. They got on really well. 

And his real name? 

Bob. 

Yet somehow, he was still saved as Bob Over the Road, as if there were dozens of other Bobs, we needed to distinguish him from. 

Since then, it has only got worse. 

We have had “Crack Head Karen” from down the road… I feel like that one needs no further explanation. 

Then there was “Roadkill Man.” 
One of our lovely neighbours from our old house who once popped round… and, for reasons known only to him, left a piece of roadkill outside our front door in a bin liner just the period that he called in to see us and then took it home with him. 

You cannot really come back from that. The name just writes itself. 

And then there is us. 

Linda and Debs. 

Yes, it has even happened to us. 

Our daughter started calling my husband Debs, after repeatedly accusing him of being a “Debbie Downer.” It stuck so well that she saved him in her phone as Debs—and now that is just who he is. 

My name, however, has a much more random origin. 

It came from a video—one of those clips you watch once and then end up watching a hundred times because it makes you laugh every single time. It was a little boy trying to convince his mum to give him a cupcake, calling her “Linda” then saying “Listen, Linda” in the most dramatic way possible. 

Our daughter loved it. And just like that… I was Linda. 

Fast forward a few years, and now we are Linda and Debs to our grandchildren. 

It has become so normal that I barely respond to “Mum” anymore when my daughter calls me. In fact, I have been accused of ignoring her—when in reality, my brain is just waiting for her to say “Linda,” because that is what it recognises now. 

And that, right there, is how deep this nickname thing has gone. 

It is odd, really. These names start as little throwaway jokes, moments of humour that probably shouldn’t stick—but they do. And somehow, they become part of everyday language, part of how we remember people and the stories tied to them. 

Because that is what all these names really are—little snapshots of moments. Holidays, neighbours, funny incidents, random memories that we have captured in the most ridiculous way possible. 

And honestly? I would not have it any other way. 

Although I do sometimes wonder what people would think if they ever knew or saw how they are saved in our phones.