As I get older, I just prefer to knit.
Tracey Ullman
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Monday, 25 April 2011
Jokes, jollity and juvenile jinks
A Scotsman walks into a bar. Meets a couple of friends, who hail from the wilds of Wales (a bit like the wild west only a tad damper) and a London Irish (not the rugby teams, just cultural heritage). They share a drink. Or maybe two. Later a bite to eat. And one for the road perhaps. The United Kingdom represented in one bar: except this being London, none in the bar were actually English.
An intro to a tacky joke? No just my usual, yet rare, night out with a couple of old mates. After a few giggles, and a lorra laughs we have another one for the road. Who knows when we’ll meet again. Except, with all the predictability of a bad bar joke, whenever the three of us are together, overexcitement tends to take over. We do have a little previous for throwing off the shackles of middle age and behaving as we once did, when we first met, a long long time ago. Which is totally becoming for our age and stature. Obviously.
Now on the wrong side of 40 I’m trying to wise up and avoid seeing them too soon after breakfast. Well that Scot clearly has hollow legs and we clearly do not. Especially when wearing killer heels (clearly not the Scotsman). I was overjoyed to find the late train home easy enough. All without a hint of Eurostar or any whispers of wandering towards Paris. And it wasn’t even the very last late train. I’d also powdered my nose before boarding. A clever trick, after having so many for the road. A fun night out, and a comfortable journey home, without crossed legs, eyes or fingers for a safe passage, with no mishaps, on the right line, and heels in tact too.
Like Cinderella, all my recent martyrdom has left me out of practice on how to stay out after midnight. Absentmindedly I wonder who’s having the house party down our way? The heaving music and loud laughter made me miss my youth when I may have tried my luck at getting into a do after the witching hour, instead of hearing my bed calling my name. Loudly and clearly. Alongwith an overwhelming desire to get those bleeding heels off.
Accepting I’m way past all that late night party malarkey I fumble for a key I hadn’t remembered to take out with me. I knock on my own front door and a stranger lets me in.
Guess that’s what you get for leaving Teengirl home alone for a whole evening. Thoughts of Facebook fuelled trash-fests swam round my head, or was that just the wine?
Rather regretted that last one for the road as a strange sensation took over my feet and I feared losing the use of them. Both. At the same time. Relieved to at least have made it home before realising my feet were broken. Just had to make it past all the teenagers before taking the heels off. Shoes off and I realise my mistake. It's the floors that are wrong. Teenagers are clearly not able to keep sticky drinks in their hands and prefer instead to throw them about the floors making it virtually impossible to pick one foot up after putting it down. The following day I discover vertical surfaces are included in the sticky drink target practice, but luckily when the house was full I wasn’t climbing the walls so didn’t notice. I saved that treat for Teengirl the following day.
I hobbled into the garden and found Teengirl. ‘Good party?’.
Sternly, she said ‘it’s not a party’. Apparently less than twenty people doesn’t count.
A little tired and emotional I may have been but I realise they aren't a bad bunch. Turning the music down a tad and engaging in a little washing up quickly did the trick in the teen clearing scheme of things.
Ah to be young again.
An intro to a tacky joke? No just my usual, yet rare, night out with a couple of old mates. After a few giggles, and a lorra laughs we have another one for the road. Who knows when we’ll meet again. Except, with all the predictability of a bad bar joke, whenever the three of us are together, overexcitement tends to take over. We do have a little previous for throwing off the shackles of middle age and behaving as we once did, when we first met, a long long time ago. Which is totally becoming for our age and stature. Obviously.
Now on the wrong side of 40 I’m trying to wise up and avoid seeing them too soon after breakfast. Well that Scot clearly has hollow legs and we clearly do not. Especially when wearing killer heels (clearly not the Scotsman). I was overjoyed to find the late train home easy enough. All without a hint of Eurostar or any whispers of wandering towards Paris. And it wasn’t even the very last late train. I’d also powdered my nose before boarding. A clever trick, after having so many for the road. A fun night out, and a comfortable journey home, without crossed legs, eyes or fingers for a safe passage, with no mishaps, on the right line, and heels in tact too.
Like Cinderella, all my recent martyrdom has left me out of practice on how to stay out after midnight. Absentmindedly I wonder who’s having the house party down our way? The heaving music and loud laughter made me miss my youth when I may have tried my luck at getting into a do after the witching hour, instead of hearing my bed calling my name. Loudly and clearly. Alongwith an overwhelming desire to get those bleeding heels off.
Accepting I’m way past all that late night party malarkey I fumble for a key I hadn’t remembered to take out with me. I knock on my own front door and a stranger lets me in.
Guess that’s what you get for leaving Teengirl home alone for a whole evening. Thoughts of Facebook fuelled trash-fests swam round my head, or was that just the wine?
Rather regretted that last one for the road as a strange sensation took over my feet and I feared losing the use of them. Both. At the same time. Relieved to at least have made it home before realising my feet were broken. Just had to make it past all the teenagers before taking the heels off. Shoes off and I realise my mistake. It's the floors that are wrong. Teenagers are clearly not able to keep sticky drinks in their hands and prefer instead to throw them about the floors making it virtually impossible to pick one foot up after putting it down. The following day I discover vertical surfaces are included in the sticky drink target practice, but luckily when the house was full I wasn’t climbing the walls so didn’t notice. I saved that treat for Teengirl the following day.
I hobbled into the garden and found Teengirl. ‘Good party?’.
Sternly, she said ‘it’s not a party’. Apparently less than twenty people doesn’t count.
A little tired and emotional I may have been but I realise they aren't a bad bunch. Turning the music down a tad and engaging in a little washing up quickly did the trick in the teen clearing scheme of things.
Ah to be young again.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Saturday, 16 April 2011
Nothing has no sides
My little-un knows and loves her mathematical onions. And sometimes, she can be more rigid in her stubbornness than a goat getting stubborn mule-slash-terrier-dog with a bone. Often this is charming and delightful. It can also be irritating and embarrassing. I have known this for a long time.
Her Student Teacher is on a steep learning curve. During a lesson on shapes the little-un said he was mistaken. I question her arguing with a teacher, but question more a teacher ‘Asking Jeeves’ to settle an argument. With a 9 year old. But I digress. Arguments, like shapes, have at least one side.
Another day, another lesson, another shape, another family meal dominated by maths talk. Before worrying about what kind of geek freaks I’m raising: maths doesn’t usually feature round our table, so prominently, nor for so long.
But we all agreed: nothing has no sides. A circle is not a nothing. Therefore it cannot have no sides. Both circles and rectangles feature in some 3D shapes, especially cylinders. Mr Student Teacher made a mistake. His more serious error, in the little-un’s book, was to argue, unconvincingly, otherwise.
Teachers have a tough job: it’s not all short days and long holidays. Teaching is an art. It’s not easy, and it's not for everyone, but done well it is beautiful and inspiring. The little-un knows a beautiful and inspiring teacher when she sees one.
She sees Mr Student Teacher and his math skills differently. Knowing her, I think he may just have a little bitty inkling about this. A quick chat and our usual uber-competent teacher is on the case. She talks the little-un out of losing her love of maths. But the little-un's mistrust grows and is starting to resemble a strong dislike.
Mr Student still teaches. Little-un still moans. I thought he redeemed himself by awarding her ‘star of the week’. Her reponse: ‘he knows I’m better at maths than him’. Hmmm.
It’s the holidays, so I’m the teacher now. This week a little tolerance might be on the cards.
As well as the ole chestnut that is the times tables.
Her Student Teacher is on a steep learning curve. During a lesson on shapes the little-un said he was mistaken. I question her arguing with a teacher, but question more a teacher ‘Asking Jeeves’ to settle an argument. With a 9 year old. But I digress. Arguments, like shapes, have at least one side.
Another day, another lesson, another shape, another family meal dominated by maths talk. Before worrying about what kind of geek freaks I’m raising: maths doesn’t usually feature round our table, so prominently, nor for so long.
But we all agreed: nothing has no sides. A circle is not a nothing. Therefore it cannot have no sides. Both circles and rectangles feature in some 3D shapes, especially cylinders. Mr Student Teacher made a mistake. His more serious error, in the little-un’s book, was to argue, unconvincingly, otherwise.
Teachers have a tough job: it’s not all short days and long holidays. Teaching is an art. It’s not easy, and it's not for everyone, but done well it is beautiful and inspiring. The little-un knows a beautiful and inspiring teacher when she sees one.
She sees Mr Student Teacher and his math skills differently. Knowing her, I think he may just have a little bitty inkling about this. A quick chat and our usual uber-competent teacher is on the case. She talks the little-un out of losing her love of maths. But the little-un's mistrust grows and is starting to resemble a strong dislike.
Mr Student still teaches. Little-un still moans. I thought he redeemed himself by awarding her ‘star of the week’. Her reponse: ‘he knows I’m better at maths than him’. Hmmm.
It’s the holidays, so I’m the teacher now. This week a little tolerance might be on the cards.
As well as the ole chestnut that is the times tables.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Family Reading
My Teengirl is currently reading ‘How to survive family life: they f*** you up’. Am bracing myself for the fallout of her newfound understanding of my parenting shortcomings. But, frankly, family life isn’t always easy. Dustbin lids don’t come with an instruction manual. Though one might prove useful, I’d probably ignore it.
This week I read reviews of 'Shattered: Modern Motherhood and the Illusion of Equality' by Rebecca Asher, a new mother. She’s angry about the inequality parenthood brings. Go figure sister: welcome to the real world. Life’s not fair. Equality may work at work, but the arrival of dustbin lids changes things indoors. For ever. She’s clearly not yet used to the sleep deprivation that comes with being a parent: it takes at least a decade. She suggests the government forces fathers into equality. I think she’s wasting her precious time and energy. She is yet to learn that just as tiredness can cause anger, motherhood can cause martyrdom.
Family life can be full of drudge. And mess. And poop. And laundry. Always laundry. And tears. And challenges. And joy. Deep joy. And laughter. Lots of laughter. Inequality starts in the earliest days of pregnancy: as the smell of his morning coffee makes you want to puke. The paths of motherhood and fatherhood are different, and in places uneven. With this realisation, the puke reflex returns.
Sadly, there wasn’t much mention of the lids in the reviews. I haven't read the book so I don't know where their perspective fits in. I lay no claims at being a perfect mother. Who'd want to be one of those? They seem smug and irritating. I don’t always get it right. And, what works for me, won’t work for my sister. But I know I’ve been blessed with children. They are a gift. To be treasured. And we don’t want to f*** them up any more than we were by our parents.
Do we?
This week I read reviews of 'Shattered: Modern Motherhood and the Illusion of Equality' by Rebecca Asher, a new mother. She’s angry about the inequality parenthood brings. Go figure sister: welcome to the real world. Life’s not fair. Equality may work at work, but the arrival of dustbin lids changes things indoors. For ever. She’s clearly not yet used to the sleep deprivation that comes with being a parent: it takes at least a decade. She suggests the government forces fathers into equality. I think she’s wasting her precious time and energy. She is yet to learn that just as tiredness can cause anger, motherhood can cause martyrdom.
Family life can be full of drudge. And mess. And poop. And laundry. Always laundry. And tears. And challenges. And joy. Deep joy. And laughter. Lots of laughter. Inequality starts in the earliest days of pregnancy: as the smell of his morning coffee makes you want to puke. The paths of motherhood and fatherhood are different, and in places uneven. With this realisation, the puke reflex returns.
Sadly, there wasn’t much mention of the lids in the reviews. I haven't read the book so I don't know where their perspective fits in. I lay no claims at being a perfect mother. Who'd want to be one of those? They seem smug and irritating. I don’t always get it right. And, what works for me, won’t work for my sister. But I know I’ve been blessed with children. They are a gift. To be treasured. And we don’t want to f*** them up any more than we were by our parents.
Do we?
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Happy Birthday Mom
Today is my mom’s birthday. I’m not at liberty to say exactly how old she would have been because she never ever admitted to being of any age at all. Shortly before she died she told me not to be getting any ideas about organising any kind of a surprise 70th Birthday party, because she knew what I was like, and she was not going to be 70, no matter what Dad, or anyone else said.
She was right. As ever. Because she never got to 70 and we were indeed thinking of a birthday party. We have a bit of form for surprises: because if you told her of party plans she’d try to cancel them. Although she loved to roar with laugher, she didn’t like a big fuss. We managed to pull off a surprise 40th Wedding Anniversary party for her and Dad. It was great. Mom loved it, because she didn’t have time to worry beforehand. But I think it may have been a tad embarrassing for her, especially in front of her newer friends.
I come from a predictably large Irish family and Mom was a bit coy about admitting exactly how many children she had: stereotypical responses are, afterall, predictable and annoying. But stereotypes exist and persist for a reason. It doesn’t fuss me but then having lots of siblings is different to having lots of children.
I love being part of a huge family, even if they are terrible teasers. But as one of my elder brothers said at the 40th Party: ‘You’re lucky, at least she admits you exist!’
Happy eighty-something Mom!
She was right. As ever. Because she never got to 70 and we were indeed thinking of a birthday party. We have a bit of form for surprises: because if you told her of party plans she’d try to cancel them. Although she loved to roar with laugher, she didn’t like a big fuss. We managed to pull off a surprise 40th Wedding Anniversary party for her and Dad. It was great. Mom loved it, because she didn’t have time to worry beforehand. But I think it may have been a tad embarrassing for her, especially in front of her newer friends.
I come from a predictably large Irish family and Mom was a bit coy about admitting exactly how many children she had: stereotypical responses are, afterall, predictable and annoying. But stereotypes exist and persist for a reason. It doesn’t fuss me but then having lots of siblings is different to having lots of children.
I love being part of a huge family, even if they are terrible teasers. But as one of my elder brothers said at the 40th Party: ‘You’re lucky, at least she admits you exist!’
Happy eighty-something Mom!
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Whimsy Momma
My horoscope said engaging in a little whimsy will do me good. It’s a sign: spend less time in the Nativity Room - where all laundry related business is contained, with 57 varieties of sports kit, made do and mend supplies, arts and crafts materials, the room of a thousand unfinished projects, and every other piece of homeless crap ever invented. Despite the extraordinary amount of time I'm in there, I know the likes of Mrs Beeton would have kittens if they saw the state of it.
Instead of hours failing with a needle and my forty-eye-tus, I ordered an Ancient Greek costume off t’net. A costume that is, not a threaded needle, although I can see the market potential for the sale of pre-threaded needles. Except as can so often be the way with purchases off t’net – a Roman one arrived. To my mind they’re pretty similar, both being white and all, but the little-un can read. And she read, very loudly and very clearly, repeatedly: ‘Roman’, ‘Roman’, ‘RO- MAN costume’, in the tone of voice usually reserved for the company of half-deaf-half-dead-half-silly old folks. I wasn’t about to give in with the needle-threading as I’m after a little whimsy afterall, so I resorted to my tried and tested trick for handling unbecoming behaviour in little-uns: I ignored it.
As my arms are no longer long enough to cope with the growing short sightedness, I realise the first flush of youth is now just a distant memory and flushes of another variety loom large on the horizon. So I invested in some reading glasses. They’re great… for reading, but otherwise disappointing as they smell of middle-agedness.
I needed a change so off to the hairdressers I went(remembering to go the long way round to avoid that salon that gave me that haircut that screamed so loudly of being so very way past the yoof-style-stakes-post – think Delia Smith in her pudding-bowl hey day). Feeling more bold than old, I asked for something different. It looked alright when it had been primped and preened, and dried and waxed and teased. By the following morning it looked like I’d hacked at it myself in some sort of emo statement, perhaps in sympathy with our poor demented dog. It’s short. It’s sharp. Yet not a hint of Delia in sight.
Can’t wait for the next bit of whimsy.
Instead of hours failing with a needle and my forty-eye-tus, I ordered an Ancient Greek costume off t’net. A costume that is, not a threaded needle, although I can see the market potential for the sale of pre-threaded needles. Except as can so often be the way with purchases off t’net – a Roman one arrived. To my mind they’re pretty similar, both being white and all, but the little-un can read. And she read, very loudly and very clearly, repeatedly: ‘Roman’, ‘Roman’, ‘RO- MAN costume’, in the tone of voice usually reserved for the company of half-deaf-half-dead-half-silly old folks. I wasn’t about to give in with the needle-threading as I’m after a little whimsy afterall, so I resorted to my tried and tested trick for handling unbecoming behaviour in little-uns: I ignored it.
As my arms are no longer long enough to cope with the growing short sightedness, I realise the first flush of youth is now just a distant memory and flushes of another variety loom large on the horizon. So I invested in some reading glasses. They’re great… for reading, but otherwise disappointing as they smell of middle-agedness.
I needed a change so off to the hairdressers I went(remembering to go the long way round to avoid that salon that gave me that haircut that screamed so loudly of being so very way past the yoof-style-stakes-post – think Delia Smith in her pudding-bowl hey day). Feeling more bold than old, I asked for something different. It looked alright when it had been primped and preened, and dried and waxed and teased. By the following morning it looked like I’d hacked at it myself in some sort of emo statement, perhaps in sympathy with our poor demented dog. It’s short. It’s sharp. Yet not a hint of Delia in sight.
Can’t wait for the next bit of whimsy.
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