Aimee Horton

When you love the little things.


I’m rubbish at joining in at this every week, but when I find the time I will do! Here’s this weeks “Love the little things” hosted by But Why Mummy Why. (more…)

Glazed Over


I love to shop.  I am exceptionally good at it.  I caught the bug early, from a young age my pocket money was burning a hole in the pocket of my St Michael dungarees and since then, I’ve flourished.  Fast Forward was replaced with fast fashion and I’m not talking £2 bargain t-shirts, I’m talking the speed I can swipe a debit card.  But recently, I’ve glazed over.  Looking back over the past couple of months / bank statements it’s been all white.  And more often than not, animal shaped.  In no way a conscious decision, I have spent my time wearing, writing on and pouring my tea from the stuff.  I’ve developed a penchant for porcelain.


Now I love tea and whilst a strong Earl in a novelty mug suited me just fine, when you move in with a boy things change.  What no one tells you is that this equates to visitors.  Family visitors.  Mums and nanna’s AKA tea aficionados.  And as someone with very little ammunition in her domestic armoury, what could I do to prove my homely prowess?  I could serve a good cup of tea that’s what and no Day of the Dead pink skull mug will do.  So I did what every homemaker does, I bought a milk jug.

When I moved in, the boy white mugs matched the boy white plates so the cuppa and HobNobs had certain uniformity.  But the 4 pint of semi skimmed slung on the worktop?  Lord no.  Clearly we needed a milk jug and that was my new found domestic domain.  A chance encounter in Marks and Spencer answered all Cow Creamer callings and at an unbelievable £5, I proudly mooved him in.  The tail is a handle; the mouth is a spout and the compliments continual.  It was at this point I was lulled into a false sense of tea set security.  I thought I had it covered, until three people came for tea and the standard plopping of a teabag on the side of the sink shattered my domestic dreams.  I needed a teapot.  I looked, I scoured, I sought and what followed was one hard house decision.  Did I want an elephant teapot or a camel teapot?  Both (obviously) but I settled on the camel.  I wasn’t planning on a menagerie of tea apparatus but you can’t help who you fall in love with.  OK, so my beloved wasn’t as enamoured as I and did get the hump (boom boom!) but for £14.74 (and now an even better £9.99 in the sale) no one can really begrudge the little fella gracing their kitchen.

Now the man flat habitat of the twenty-something male is LCD, hi def and remote controlled.  A gloss black, polished walnut and Bordeaux leather backdrop doesn’t really lend itself to hearts and flowers.  This is lucky, because I’m more leopard print and camel teapots, which by the way, go superbly with a black polished satin tile.  But there was one undeniably girly touch that did manage to sneak in and quietly settle on the hardwood coffee table.  A small beacon of femininity nestling next to a slate coaster is a Ceramic Notepad in – wait for it – the shape of a heart.  Complete with a dry wipe marker that handily slides into the back of the design, everything from love notes, shopping lists and phallic doodles can adorn the porcelain.  And say you hypothetically wrote something inappropriate for say, his mum’s eyes, one swipe of the sleeve sorts it.  Write on, wipe off, done.  Clever.

It is amazing what this cohabiting lark does to you.  I’d honestly never given two hoots about anything remotely homey.  As long as the wardrobe was big enough to hide the bags and the sofa was comfy enough for the necessary dropping from shopping, I was a-ok.  Then suddenly I’m getting excited about kitchen gubbins.  But I haven’t spent the last 27 years honing these skills to ignore the habits of days past, so when cermic jewellery caught my eye, who was I to resist?  Delicate, luxurious and handcrafted, a Nymphenburg Sign Amulet is perfectly sized to be worn around the neck or the wrist.  Made from fine glazed porcelain and sterling silver, the rather small charm is a touch expensive at €79 (a little over £62) and if I hadn’t found mine in the sale at an independent jewellery store, I fear my jewellery box would have remained Nymphenburg free.  But for the bargain price of £12, I could do little to resist.  So I bought the little Libra pendant, slipped it on a delicate silver chain and wear it as a necklace.

So from nowhere came a most unexpected porcelain passion but at least I can say I am happily left with a camel in the kitchen, a heart on the table and a sign around my neck.

When you need that cup of tea.


If you follow me on Twitter you are probably aware that I’m not a morning person.

I used to be. I’d happily wake up, and whilst Matt was still asleep skip downstairs make a cup of tea, heading to the study to do some work. This was probably at my peak of enjoying my marketing career, the retail peaks were exhilarating and created a natural buzz I used to love logging on and seeing what was happening.

Then I had the boys.

Suddenly my early mornings aren’t a choice any more. I no longer lie in bed for a few moments taking in the silence, before springing out happily preparing for my day. No. Not any more. I can’t say I don’t have a variety of wake up calls, because I do.  Its not just the boring alarm turning on Radio 1 (ok 2) and iphone ring tone for me any more. No. It can be any one (or more) of the following:

  • sob>scuffle>thud>*sobs proceed*
  • “Hellooo puppy calling do you want to play with me, let’s have fun together while you learn your A B C”
  • “I NEED RECTUS NOW MUMMAY” (rectus = breakfast)
  • noise of a door opening > thump of giant fat baby footsteps > dribble in eye as mouth closes over my nose

The list is endless, but whoever said variety is the spice of life is lying.  It’s not.  I liked waking up quietly, calmly, traditionally.  In a routine if you please.

Now my morning brew is required more urgently.   That sweet taste of tea and kick of caffeine is a must of a morning.  I often lie there next to Matthew and whine grunt “TEA”.  He used to be rubbish, never used to do anything, just headed straight for the shower leaving me with nappies, pooh, dribble, snot and general noise without having anything other then left over water to sip on and wake my brain up.

So one morning, after a particularly rough night where he was foolish enough to claim he was “exhausted” after I’d been up five MILLION times whilst he was snoring away, I formulated a plan.

When I say the words “plan” it may sound conniving. Perhaps makes me sound a tad manipulative. NO.  It’s a survival mechanism.  If I am going to make it through the day, even through the next few hours, I NEED a brew.  With two sugars. NO DARLING I DON’T CARE IF IT’S BAD FOR ME – STOP PUTTING ONE SUGAR IN, I NEED TWO!

Anyway, it’s not that bad.  I’ve just recently not found the time (I’m very busy at the moment *cough*) to iron him any shirts for the week.  Therefore, I crawl out of bed and throw myself into the shower, and leave him to nip downstairs, iron a shirt and while he’s there he might as well make me a cup of tea.  Is there anything wrong with that?

No. I didn’t think so.

I even let him take a sip of it.  If by “let” you mean “have no choice”.  By the time I’ve witnessed it from across the room and leapt across the bed dropping my hair dryer on the way, I can’t stop him, I can’t catch him, my “noooo” comes out in slow motion.  The first sip of a Mum’s cup of tea is sacred.  EVERYBODY know this!

No, I’m not being dramatic, it’s just that it’s probably the only warm taste of tea we’ll get in twenty-four bloody hours and we want to bloody enjoy it.