There is nothing like a long weekend break spent within the bosom of your family to help you feel the love. Or to see the cracks. You know the ones that you knew were there all along. But you made a conscious effort to ignore. Over a long weekend, all together, you can ignore them no more. You see them, right before your eyes, getting bigger. And bigger. With every passing hour. Until they are so huge you fear total collapse. Or is that just me?
The holidays started well enough. He-who-must-be-adored returned to saving London for ridiculously long hours. I worked in the mornings and spent the afternoons touring the parks of North London with friends, furry and not so furry, alike. By mid-week I had to kick the teenagers out. I was sick of their vampire ways. Call me old fashioned, but when the sun is out so too should they be. I know they’d rather be sitting in the dark. Snogging. But enough is enough. Or rather I’d had enough. Maybe it was jealously rather than old fashion-ness. Agin I wonder is it just me?
Over the past seven days I managed good serious marching on five. I also stayed on the wagon for five days. That’s become a whole lot easier recently but more of that later. The major personal achievement of the week, for it is Easter after all, was, no weight lost, but none gained either. I see it as the start of my reverse back to the shape I was before finding freedom from fags. The past two days I’ve marched more than usual. But this time it’s the mental health benefits that I’m really after. And I know that’s just me.
So, to Good Friday. The signs were there and I missed them: not one, but two Jesus’ on a cross were spotted in the High Street. It looked, at one point, as if their paths might cross. Who’d have thought, in this day and age, that religious parades were all the rage? Or so like buses? It also transpires that one of those dragging a cross was, in fact, female. Glad to live in such a modern borough. Tallmumchum didn’t share my enthusiasm for the beauty of modern equality and bemoaned the traffic chaos caused by two large wooden crosses, plus entourage, of whatever gender or persuasion. Despite He-who-must-be-adored’s fondness for playing the martyr we didn’t have anyone on a cross in the garden this weekend. That is not to say it hasn't crossed my mind.
We celebrated the fact that He was home and all sporting events were cancelled for Easter, by having a bit of a doo. So very pleased to see the Geeky girl and my fave niece from the sticks joining us, and some friends, for a bite to eat and a few drinks. I think a good time was had by most. Pity then that at the end of the night one appeared to have enjoyed it all a bit more than everyone else. So the small matter of a late night dog walk, and a trip, into the gutter, a scrape with a wing-mirror and being escorted into bed by your long-suffering wife (who's the martyr now?) sister, middle-lid, teenager and boyfriend, should be quickly glossed over. Yet, I somehow think the effects will be long-lasting: I’ve now seen He-who-must-be-adored going to bed sober for two nights in a row. That’s double the number of nights in a row I’ve seen him going to bed sober since we first got hitched - 18 years ago. Tonight we are well into the evening and still the kettle boils and not a bottle-opener in sight.
Time will tell whether this really is the start of the pledge, or just a little ride on the wagon. Either way it's rather refreshing to have a different view.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Snore Bore
Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder was mistaken. More than a fortnight of having my own bed, with only a little-un's fever to disturb me, has been nothing short of bliss. Complete bliss.
The last three nights have seen me a) on the wagon and b) laying awake full of murderous intentions. Is torture by snoring a justifiable defence for, if not murder itself, then GBH at least?
My sympathy for his long day evaporated as my head hit the pillow: I hear heavy breathing. I ignore it and read. It doesn't seems so bad. Yet...
Slowly it builds. Like an orchestra. Of roaring lions. And wheezing birds. Quietly at first, with a bit of rhythmn. Of sorts. When the open mouthed nasal sounds start to pump up the volume I find a swift small kick in the shins gives my ears a 30 second breather. A huff and puff and over He turns. And then it starts proper. With gusto. Small repeated rabbit punches in the back eventually register and, my worse nightmare begins: He rolls onto his back. Now I know there is no hope as the full force of a fortnight's missed snoring begins. And continues. Long and loud into the night. I put my head under the pillow: no difference. I slap and punch him: not one snorey breath is lost. I consider the options of sharing with each of the dustbin lids in turn. I reject them all - by size or too close for comfort factor.
After an hour I am resigned to a third disturbed night in a row. Then suddenly, without warning, it stops. I close my eyes and take deep breaths: knowing it's now or never: my one chance to nod off.
At least I can get some rest today in the office!
The last three nights have seen me a) on the wagon and b) laying awake full of murderous intentions. Is torture by snoring a justifiable defence for, if not murder itself, then GBH at least?
My sympathy for his long day evaporated as my head hit the pillow: I hear heavy breathing. I ignore it and read. It doesn't seems so bad. Yet...
Slowly it builds. Like an orchestra. Of roaring lions. And wheezing birds. Quietly at first, with a bit of rhythmn. Of sorts. When the open mouthed nasal sounds start to pump up the volume I find a swift small kick in the shins gives my ears a 30 second breather. A huff and puff and over He turns. And then it starts proper. With gusto. Small repeated rabbit punches in the back eventually register and, my worse nightmare begins: He rolls onto his back. Now I know there is no hope as the full force of a fortnight's missed snoring begins. And continues. Long and loud into the night. I put my head under the pillow: no difference. I slap and punch him: not one snorey breath is lost. I consider the options of sharing with each of the dustbin lids in turn. I reject them all - by size or too close for comfort factor.
After an hour I am resigned to a third disturbed night in a row. Then suddenly, without warning, it stops. I close my eyes and take deep breaths: knowing it's now or never: my one chance to nod off.
At least I can get some rest today in the office!
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
I want to ride my bicycle
Am pleased to say He-who-must-be-adored finally returned to London. Two days later than scheduled. And a day after the outlaws came to stay. He came bearing gifts in time for lunch with us, and the lovely outlaws. It was a proper Sunday affair, and as is the nature of that beast (lamb in actual fact) far, far, far too much was consumed. This was a bad thang, given my Monday morning appointment with the Nurse.
An annual telling off/check up isn’t a great way to start the week. I had to fast for 12 hours for a blood test. Given my alcohol consumption over the previous fortnight am uncertain that 12 hours would have made much difference. In the waiting room, starving and dry mouthed, I think of my favourite food and drink. I fail to get past the perfect ness of my missed morning cuppa. I salivate when finally called into Nursey as she sips a fragrant coffee. Right under my nose. To add further insult she weighs me. Then measures my ‘girth’ (has there ever been a more unfabulous word, or a more insulting measurement?) The good news: my blood pressure is perfect. Then Nursey gets her little chart out and gives me the bad and the bleeding obvious: I am heavier than I should be. As I say, not the best start to any week.
As my brother says: you can lose the weight, you can’t grow a new lung. I am pleased when Nursey tells me I only have to lose 10lbs. I have actually gained 22 since finding freedom from fags. But 10 feels so much more manageable.
Without wanting to sound like a stuck record I am therefore, this week, back on the wagon. And marching. Here, there and everybleedingwhere. The dog is shagged out and the little-un is saddle sore from her bike: she pedals as I follow. Depending on how far into the journey we are, I run, march, walk, or crawl behind.
Gorgeous Boy’s friend, Frodo, was here today. I paid the Teenager to babysit the boys whilst I worked. But apparently, the boys amused themselves. Thankfully, BestMumChum had the little-un. The Teenager and The Boyfriend watched movies. In the dark. Words were exchanged over some competitive pancake making. And pancakes gone bad. Some more words have been exchanged. This will not happen again. Mmmm. That’s me not holding my breath.
Tonight, instead of driving Frodo home, I let him ride my bike up the hill while I run/march/walk/crawl behind. It felt a lot easier freewheeling downhill afterwards. With hindsight though, I should have checked the tyres for air before setting out.
The news this week tells me what I’ve always known: sisters are doing it for themselves. Apparently sisters spread happiness where brothers breed distress. I have three times as many brothers as sisters and double daughters to my one son. And so very very happy to have my Supersis.
An annual telling off/check up isn’t a great way to start the week. I had to fast for 12 hours for a blood test. Given my alcohol consumption over the previous fortnight am uncertain that 12 hours would have made much difference. In the waiting room, starving and dry mouthed, I think of my favourite food and drink. I fail to get past the perfect ness of my missed morning cuppa. I salivate when finally called into Nursey as she sips a fragrant coffee. Right under my nose. To add further insult she weighs me. Then measures my ‘girth’ (has there ever been a more unfabulous word, or a more insulting measurement?) The good news: my blood pressure is perfect. Then Nursey gets her little chart out and gives me the bad and the bleeding obvious: I am heavier than I should be. As I say, not the best start to any week.
As my brother says: you can lose the weight, you can’t grow a new lung. I am pleased when Nursey tells me I only have to lose 10lbs. I have actually gained 22 since finding freedom from fags. But 10 feels so much more manageable.
Without wanting to sound like a stuck record I am therefore, this week, back on the wagon. And marching. Here, there and everybleedingwhere. The dog is shagged out and the little-un is saddle sore from her bike: she pedals as I follow. Depending on how far into the journey we are, I run, march, walk, or crawl behind.
Gorgeous Boy’s friend, Frodo, was here today. I paid the Teenager to babysit the boys whilst I worked. But apparently, the boys amused themselves. Thankfully, BestMumChum had the little-un. The Teenager and The Boyfriend watched movies. In the dark. Words were exchanged over some competitive pancake making. And pancakes gone bad. Some more words have been exchanged. This will not happen again. Mmmm. That’s me not holding my breath.
Tonight, instead of driving Frodo home, I let him ride my bike up the hill while I run/march/walk/crawl behind. It felt a lot easier freewheeling downhill afterwards. With hindsight though, I should have checked the tyres for air before setting out.
The news this week tells me what I’ve always known: sisters are doing it for themselves. Apparently sisters spread happiness where brothers breed distress. I have three times as many brothers as sisters and double daughters to my one son. And so very very happy to have my Supersis.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Family life
Whether successful or not there are two basic ingredients for a blog: energy and wherewithal. For me, this week both energy and wherewithal are like my post-giving-up-fags knicker elastic – stretched beyond the boundaries of safe or natural. We’re talking danger levels. The worry of recent mornings is fear of a catapult in the tummy just by un-careful dressing. Or worse, given my tiredness stupor, a fear of whether I’d notice. Or care.
What’s it all about anyways? Whilst He-who-must-be-adored suns himself/works abroad I take on the role of blue-arsed fly. For the treat of a weekend away with He I spend my day off running round to organise dustbin lids, luggage, activities, social lives, homework and animals. The 24 degree weather disappears as soon as I land. As I hit the airport again on Sunday the Spanish sun re-appears. It can't just be paranoia. I am being followed by a black cloud.
My flying visit to Madrid coincided with the international stamp collectors fair. See above re black cloud. Friday night we continued my walking obsession and left his ‘lads pad’ to head to town. In this context walk is a sorry excuse for a-kinda-bar-crawl. We start the warm balmy evening outside in a square full of families and playing children. As we’d left our dustbin lids at home and the sun started to set and the temperature truly plummeted (thank goodness I’d packed a wrap) we moved on. Our next pit stop was in the arty/young/fashionable district. Clearly outta place there we next found ourselves in the gay zone. Without wishing to peddle stereotypes: as He is neither bald, skinny nor fashionable, and I, even on my worse days, can't be mistaken for a bloke, we didn’t hang around there too long. None of this stopped us enjoying a drink and tapas and that age-old sport of people watching at any place. Odd that at no point during the entire evening of many and varied bars did we find ourselves amidst middle-age, dull, grumpy, old gits. Or perhaps we did. And perhaps in our natural habitat, some glasses and dishes later, we simply didn't notice.
He-who-must-be-adored continues to sun himself over there whilst I get on with the business of trying to organise our family and a working life. Of sorts. Any Monday Morning after a weekend away, with no time devoted to uniforms, homework or lunchboxes is clearly not going to be a huge pleasure. Moving swiftly on…
Last night was worse. For every five minutes spent stripping, sponging and drugging the little-un I got twenty minutes peace and slumber from her fever. Poor thang. Pity all my maternal kindness was used up by 6am. Lucky then, at that point, she finally hit a deep drug-induced sleep. I had a small window to sort the broken washing machine (yes the new super dooper hugely expensive whiz banger of a thang), create a 60s costume for gorgeous boy, and send the Teenager off relaxed and happy to her internal exams (cash and a hug were all I could muster, and I now realise all she ever really wants). My 20 minutes on the sewing machine were rejected by the boy. He settled for the 2009 look re-styled into 1961 with the addition of his sister’s cardy. Luckily she had already left for her institution.
The little-un re-awoke as I waved gorgeous boy off. She was begging me to come upstairs for a cuddle. I followed her voice. I collapsed back into bed. And all murderous feelings evaporated.
Ah family life.
What’s it all about anyways? Whilst He-who-must-be-adored suns himself/works abroad I take on the role of blue-arsed fly. For the treat of a weekend away with He I spend my day off running round to organise dustbin lids, luggage, activities, social lives, homework and animals. The 24 degree weather disappears as soon as I land. As I hit the airport again on Sunday the Spanish sun re-appears. It can't just be paranoia. I am being followed by a black cloud.
My flying visit to Madrid coincided with the international stamp collectors fair. See above re black cloud. Friday night we continued my walking obsession and left his ‘lads pad’ to head to town. In this context walk is a sorry excuse for a-kinda-bar-crawl. We start the warm balmy evening outside in a square full of families and playing children. As we’d left our dustbin lids at home and the sun started to set and the temperature truly plummeted (thank goodness I’d packed a wrap) we moved on. Our next pit stop was in the arty/young/fashionable district. Clearly outta place there we next found ourselves in the gay zone. Without wishing to peddle stereotypes: as He is neither bald, skinny nor fashionable, and I, even on my worse days, can't be mistaken for a bloke, we didn’t hang around there too long. None of this stopped us enjoying a drink and tapas and that age-old sport of people watching at any place. Odd that at no point during the entire evening of many and varied bars did we find ourselves amidst middle-age, dull, grumpy, old gits. Or perhaps we did. And perhaps in our natural habitat, some glasses and dishes later, we simply didn't notice.
He-who-must-be-adored continues to sun himself over there whilst I get on with the business of trying to organise our family and a working life. Of sorts. Any Monday Morning after a weekend away, with no time devoted to uniforms, homework or lunchboxes is clearly not going to be a huge pleasure. Moving swiftly on…
Last night was worse. For every five minutes spent stripping, sponging and drugging the little-un I got twenty minutes peace and slumber from her fever. Poor thang. Pity all my maternal kindness was used up by 6am. Lucky then, at that point, she finally hit a deep drug-induced sleep. I had a small window to sort the broken washing machine (yes the new super dooper hugely expensive whiz banger of a thang), create a 60s costume for gorgeous boy, and send the Teenager off relaxed and happy to her internal exams (cash and a hug were all I could muster, and I now realise all she ever really wants). My 20 minutes on the sewing machine were rejected by the boy. He settled for the 2009 look re-styled into 1961 with the addition of his sister’s cardy. Luckily she had already left for her institution.
The little-un re-awoke as I waved gorgeous boy off. She was begging me to come upstairs for a cuddle. I followed her voice. I collapsed back into bed. And all murderous feelings evaporated.
Ah family life.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Five minutes peace
Should be packing. I’d rather have five minutes peace. In order to have two days off, I’ve crammed the effort of a whole week into my day. But now am on top. Almost. Except for the fish. I haven’t the brain space for them. Am sure they’ll survive.
Have called in favours from the world and his wife. Just to cover the three dustbin lids and the moulting mutt. Luckily Supersis is not known as Supersis for nowt. Although I don’t think she knows the half of it now the Teenager has a busy social life. With ever-changing details.
The last time I sloped off to see He-who-must-be-adored in the so-called sunny city, it was the coldest weather in 40 years. The rain in Spain falls mainly not on the plain, but in Madrid this Saturday. Sunday morning the clocks spring forward, and I have a lunchtime flight.
He rang tonight. With a slight slur he said he is sitting outside a bar in a cotton shirt. I got caught in the torrential downpour today and got soaked down to my underwear. I am still to pick up from Rugby, dump the dog and pack.
Have never felt so like Eyeore.
Have called in favours from the world and his wife. Just to cover the three dustbin lids and the moulting mutt. Luckily Supersis is not known as Supersis for nowt. Although I don’t think she knows the half of it now the Teenager has a busy social life. With ever-changing details.
The last time I sloped off to see He-who-must-be-adored in the so-called sunny city, it was the coldest weather in 40 years. The rain in Spain falls mainly not on the plain, but in Madrid this Saturday. Sunday morning the clocks spring forward, and I have a lunchtime flight.
He rang tonight. With a slight slur he said he is sitting outside a bar in a cotton shirt. I got caught in the torrential downpour today and got soaked down to my underwear. I am still to pick up from Rugby, dump the dog and pack.
Have never felt so like Eyeore.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Spooked
Was gonna write about the weird and wonderful folks I have met since dog walks became my life. Now am too spooked: since 10/02/09 the number of visitors to my blog has been 666.
'Nuff said?
'Nuff said?
Monday, 23 March 2009
Walk away
Trying not to lose heart with the walking. Tis not easy when He-who-must-be-adored is sunning himself/working overseas whilst I play single parent 24/7 (will I find time to unwrap Sunday supplements before bin night?) I failed to create an energy gap. I did up my energy use. But my appetite upped itself. After a week of walking endlessly I gained a pound. Am happy my lungs are cleaner without the fags, but am stretching the elastic allowance of my clothes beyond their limits. I thought I looked bad when I had only one extra belly!
Hurrah for the fish have arrived! The little-un loves them. And their poop. We get a running commentary: poop length plus how long it takes to disengage from their bodies (and I thought my life lacked excitement before!) The boredom abated briefly when they started doing bubble tricks at the surface. We have a geeky Teenager. She read the fish book. She said we were being entertained by fish gasping for air. Through lack of oxygen in the water. Whoops. We immediately performed an emergency 50% water change (with expensive de-clorination of course). As directed by the Teenager. I know it’s wrong but I miss the cute little gasping motions. The Teenager told the little-un she had to be more responsible. (at this point I walked away to deal with laundry). Or else the fish might die. (She’s a teenager so allow dramatic licence.) The little-un said ‘I’ve never touched a dead fish. I’d like to try’. Should I worry? Perhaps the goldfish police were right after all.
Today was a double grumpy day. It’s Monday. Not only did the sun not shine, but I got drenched. I’d forgotten just how horrible that damp feeling is (not to be confused with the other non-horrible damp feeling, though I can hardly remember it).
Speaking of…He-who-must-be-adored was supposed to sort out the chicken coop for Spring. It is spring. We have no chicks. We have no coop (just plenty of dog poop!) The real reason is our disagreement: I want a small two-hen thang. He, being male, wants some Peckingham Palace effort. That involves major groundwork. That involves He being around. Perhaps it’s a stalling device as He doesn’t want to spend his rare days off dealing with chicken shit as well as all the other shit I save up for such days. So I drive to Supersis for fresh eggs. This weekend I try a new egg recipe: crème brulee. The little-un says it tastes like tinned custard. Why do I bother?
I just caught sight of a Sunday supplement heading: 'birth with multiple orgasms' – they can go straight to the recycling bin this week. He-who-must-be-adored very nearly didn’t survive the birth of our third child – because I very nearly killed him.
Which brings us on to Mothers Day. Not much cause for celebration: my mother is long dead and buried and He-who-must-be-adored hasn’t forgiven his mother for a miserable childhood. Whilst He was sunning himself overseas my day started with the little-un prizing my sleeping eyes apart to admire her hand-made handiwork of a card. This was at least two hours before my eyes were ready to open. I then endured/enjoyed cold toast and tea as breakfast in bed, whilst reading my cards: ‘we’ve turned out OK, so you must be a good mum’. Faint praise indeed.
Could be worse. We could be living the life of my forensic friend: her little-un puked in the car. She left puke and weekly shopping-filled car at home with Mr Smutty whilst she did volunteering work for the benefit on her little-un, even though her little-un was too poorly to attend. Upon her return she finds the sun had been shining strongly on the car. And the puke. And the shopping. Mr Smutty had neither emptied nor cleaned. His poor excuse: dealing with a poorly little-un. Plus even smaller twins. Plus Granny. Who had fallen. On her face. Ouch! Needless to say my forensic friend didn’t respond to texts nor calls. All day.
Am hoping for sunshine tomorrow.
Hurrah for the fish have arrived! The little-un loves them. And their poop. We get a running commentary: poop length plus how long it takes to disengage from their bodies (and I thought my life lacked excitement before!) The boredom abated briefly when they started doing bubble tricks at the surface. We have a geeky Teenager. She read the fish book. She said we were being entertained by fish gasping for air. Through lack of oxygen in the water. Whoops. We immediately performed an emergency 50% water change (with expensive de-clorination of course). As directed by the Teenager. I know it’s wrong but I miss the cute little gasping motions. The Teenager told the little-un she had to be more responsible. (at this point I walked away to deal with laundry). Or else the fish might die. (She’s a teenager so allow dramatic licence.) The little-un said ‘I’ve never touched a dead fish. I’d like to try’. Should I worry? Perhaps the goldfish police were right after all.
Today was a double grumpy day. It’s Monday. Not only did the sun not shine, but I got drenched. I’d forgotten just how horrible that damp feeling is (not to be confused with the other non-horrible damp feeling, though I can hardly remember it).
Speaking of…He-who-must-be-adored was supposed to sort out the chicken coop for Spring. It is spring. We have no chicks. We have no coop (just plenty of dog poop!) The real reason is our disagreement: I want a small two-hen thang. He, being male, wants some Peckingham Palace effort. That involves major groundwork. That involves He being around. Perhaps it’s a stalling device as He doesn’t want to spend his rare days off dealing with chicken shit as well as all the other shit I save up for such days. So I drive to Supersis for fresh eggs. This weekend I try a new egg recipe: crème brulee. The little-un says it tastes like tinned custard. Why do I bother?
I just caught sight of a Sunday supplement heading: 'birth with multiple orgasms' – they can go straight to the recycling bin this week. He-who-must-be-adored very nearly didn’t survive the birth of our third child – because I very nearly killed him.
Which brings us on to Mothers Day. Not much cause for celebration: my mother is long dead and buried and He-who-must-be-adored hasn’t forgiven his mother for a miserable childhood. Whilst He was sunning himself overseas my day started with the little-un prizing my sleeping eyes apart to admire her hand-made handiwork of a card. This was at least two hours before my eyes were ready to open. I then endured/enjoyed cold toast and tea as breakfast in bed, whilst reading my cards: ‘we’ve turned out OK, so you must be a good mum’. Faint praise indeed.
Could be worse. We could be living the life of my forensic friend: her little-un puked in the car. She left puke and weekly shopping-filled car at home with Mr Smutty whilst she did volunteering work for the benefit on her little-un, even though her little-un was too poorly to attend. Upon her return she finds the sun had been shining strongly on the car. And the puke. And the shopping. Mr Smutty had neither emptied nor cleaned. His poor excuse: dealing with a poorly little-un. Plus even smaller twins. Plus Granny. Who had fallen. On her face. Ouch! Needless to say my forensic friend didn’t respond to texts nor calls. All day.
Am hoping for sunshine tomorrow.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Walk this way
Have been marching the local streets and green spaces for five days now. Too early to see any physical benefits yet. But am certainly feeling something. Bleeding knackered I think. Surprised how easy it’s been to fit the walking in. Then again we have had completely unseasonal gorgeous weather. Would it be so easy to nip out with the dog in the rain or snow? No, obviously not. This is clearly going to be one of those short-lived faddy things which I shall try and enjoy/endure whilst I can.
Haven’t done much in the way of writing though. Am fearful of using the dustbin lids as blog fodder since the ‘my son is a druggie and I’m gonna make money’ story broke. The mother also authored the Guardian’s ‘living with teenagers’ column. The one I used as a yardstick – and smugly thought we’re not as bad as them. Yet! But then mine are a bit younger. I will stave off the smugness a while longer. Added to that Gorgeous Boy was grumpy with me for writing about the tin man costume. Me thinks he’s turning into a grumpy teenager and any excuse will do. I put effort into making it, so I’ll take the credit. But it made me think. Should I respect their privacy a little more?
I concluded probably. Yet…my blogs are dull enough, without the lids? Let’s take yesterday: He-who-must-be-adored left to save London before I awoke and returned after I went to bed. (Not much relationship fodder there then). How can I be sure he came home? Little tell-tale signs: the lion’s share of the duvet was on his side of the bed this morning; some dirty clothes and an empty red wine glass had appeared overnight. Whilst He was out I walked, catered, taxi’d and provided cash and laundry service for the ‘others’ that live in my house. I went to work during the school hours. I walked some more. More than 11,000 steps to be precise. Who cares?
So back to the lids. I stupidly believed letting a dog live with us would satisfy the pet cravings of my youngsters. Clearly I was mistaken. This has always been my kid theory: give them an inch and they take a mile. This weekend a certain small person wore us down with her logic. She still has Christmas cash that was burning a hole. It’s lasted this long because we’re teaching the value of money. After some long hard thinking she decided a goldfish would not be wasteful. A goldfish is a good thang. The goldfish police think otherwise. She frugally chose a bowl, some un-naturally coloured gravel, and a net. He-who-must-be-adored had to be restrained (by me) from buying into the whole lighting filtered effort. (Who needs the money/value lesson?) So off to the tanks we trot. Except, apparently, these days, you can’t just buy fish and tank on the same day. You have to de-chlorinate the water (at more expense). For at least five days!
When I was younger I won a goldfish at the fair. My father said it wouldn’t last long so I was not to waste my money on a fancy tank (clearly he wouldn’t have wasted his). It lived in a pyrex dish (a fairly biggish one), with no interesting features, on the windowsill of the downstairs toilet. I never cleaned or fed him. Somebody else must have because he lived to be the oldest goldfish in town. There was something strangely soothing about sitting in that small room watching him swim round and round the pyrex. But Mom was very pleased when he eventually passed on so she could have her dish back.
Now, we sit on the sofa admiring the water bowl and un-natural coloured gravel. No fish. Tis neither soothing nor interesting. A bit like this blog. Thank goodness it’s not long ‘til fish on Friday.
Haven’t done much in the way of writing though. Am fearful of using the dustbin lids as blog fodder since the ‘my son is a druggie and I’m gonna make money’ story broke. The mother also authored the Guardian’s ‘living with teenagers’ column. The one I used as a yardstick – and smugly thought we’re not as bad as them. Yet! But then mine are a bit younger. I will stave off the smugness a while longer. Added to that Gorgeous Boy was grumpy with me for writing about the tin man costume. Me thinks he’s turning into a grumpy teenager and any excuse will do. I put effort into making it, so I’ll take the credit. But it made me think. Should I respect their privacy a little more?
I concluded probably. Yet…my blogs are dull enough, without the lids? Let’s take yesterday: He-who-must-be-adored left to save London before I awoke and returned after I went to bed. (Not much relationship fodder there then). How can I be sure he came home? Little tell-tale signs: the lion’s share of the duvet was on his side of the bed this morning; some dirty clothes and an empty red wine glass had appeared overnight. Whilst He was out I walked, catered, taxi’d and provided cash and laundry service for the ‘others’ that live in my house. I went to work during the school hours. I walked some more. More than 11,000 steps to be precise. Who cares?
So back to the lids. I stupidly believed letting a dog live with us would satisfy the pet cravings of my youngsters. Clearly I was mistaken. This has always been my kid theory: give them an inch and they take a mile. This weekend a certain small person wore us down with her logic. She still has Christmas cash that was burning a hole. It’s lasted this long because we’re teaching the value of money. After some long hard thinking she decided a goldfish would not be wasteful. A goldfish is a good thang. The goldfish police think otherwise. She frugally chose a bowl, some un-naturally coloured gravel, and a net. He-who-must-be-adored had to be restrained (by me) from buying into the whole lighting filtered effort. (Who needs the money/value lesson?) So off to the tanks we trot. Except, apparently, these days, you can’t just buy fish and tank on the same day. You have to de-chlorinate the water (at more expense). For at least five days!
When I was younger I won a goldfish at the fair. My father said it wouldn’t last long so I was not to waste my money on a fancy tank (clearly he wouldn’t have wasted his). It lived in a pyrex dish (a fairly biggish one), with no interesting features, on the windowsill of the downstairs toilet. I never cleaned or fed him. Somebody else must have because he lived to be the oldest goldfish in town. There was something strangely soothing about sitting in that small room watching him swim round and round the pyrex. But Mom was very pleased when he eventually passed on so she could have her dish back.
Now, we sit on the sofa admiring the water bowl and un-natural coloured gravel. No fish. Tis neither soothing nor interesting. A bit like this blog. Thank goodness it’s not long ‘til fish on Friday.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Shock shock horror horror
Changing the habits of a lifetime appears easier than previously imagined. Or else aliens have stolen the brain of He-who-must-be-adored. It’s not that I have no faith. I just thought the towel would be thrown in on the second night, as per usual. But no, to my shock and horror, He’s taken this weekday-wagon seriously and returned from a ‘do’ last night…sober! Apparently, and this is the real shock shock horror horror: a pint and a half was enough!
I, on the other-hand, think the night-cap is the only way forward. To my delight I no longer have to cope with less fizz as I discover mini-bottles containing under a glass and a half. A perfect night-cap limit surely? Even better still, the tiddly bottles are currently to be found on ‘special’ offer. What more could a girl want?
No longer a smoker. A low-level drinker. I’ve even been going to bed early (and not just in night-cap desperation). It’s the eating to be tackled next: the weekly weigh-in shows a substantial post-fag gain of 19 pounds. I’d rather not buy a whole new wardrobe (even though the wardrobe is the only thing I can comfortably wear right now). And I’d rather not be destined to a life of elasticated waist-bands. Drastic times and all that leads me to conclude that I need to create an ‘energy gap’. Shock Horror: I really need to move my butt more. Gave myself a severe talking to, plugged into Paul McKenna for a brain retrain (aka lie down) and came up with a new regime brimming with positivity.
Although a journey begins with one small step and all that jazz, I just don't think you can go straight out and shake it all about. I got myself a plan. And obviously the plan demands proper equipment. I know I have previously owned at least 3 pedometers (I come from a long-line of gadget lovers). But He-who-must-be-adored is sometimes left alone in the house. When alone he either tidies (his stuff) or dumps (everyone else’s stuff).
A new pedometer was needed before I could start: I must have taken at least 2000 steps before I found one. I’ll keep the price to myself just in case He-who-must-be-adored ever reads this…these are, after all, strange and unusual financial times (we are still broke). But, oh, have I got a whiz-banger of a piece of kit. Now I really can back up my bragging with numbers: ordinary steps, aerobic steps, kilometers marched, and weirdly calories consumed. I presume this is piss-poor translation as how can such a small device be so clever as to know what I’ve consumed? Really really hoping it means calories burnt as today’s ‘consumed’ level doesn’t cover my pre-breakfast snack. Anyways, as I’ve invested so heavily I feel obliged to ensure cost per use ratio pays off. So now I march about like a madman, sometimes dragging the dog to keep up my ‘healthy heart’ target.
Yesterday I broke through the healthy heart barrier and achieved the aerobic fitness target, almost making it to the ‘energy gap’ level (despite niether myself nor the little electro-sucker knowing whether I stuck to the recommended daily intake). But, even in my ever-the-optimist mode I can’t see that one day counts for much. So, this morning, instead of sitting sipping coffee my forensic friend and I marched. Am hoping if I keep this up my not-insubstantial chest will, once again, stick out further than my belly. Just like we know it should.
For added calorie consummation I’ve worn the old tigger-type MBT shoes. As they say, every little helps!
I, on the other-hand, think the night-cap is the only way forward. To my delight I no longer have to cope with less fizz as I discover mini-bottles containing under a glass and a half. A perfect night-cap limit surely? Even better still, the tiddly bottles are currently to be found on ‘special’ offer. What more could a girl want?
No longer a smoker. A low-level drinker. I’ve even been going to bed early (and not just in night-cap desperation). It’s the eating to be tackled next: the weekly weigh-in shows a substantial post-fag gain of 19 pounds. I’d rather not buy a whole new wardrobe (even though the wardrobe is the only thing I can comfortably wear right now). And I’d rather not be destined to a life of elasticated waist-bands. Drastic times and all that leads me to conclude that I need to create an ‘energy gap’. Shock Horror: I really need to move my butt more. Gave myself a severe talking to, plugged into Paul McKenna for a brain retrain (aka lie down) and came up with a new regime brimming with positivity.
Although a journey begins with one small step and all that jazz, I just don't think you can go straight out and shake it all about. I got myself a plan. And obviously the plan demands proper equipment. I know I have previously owned at least 3 pedometers (I come from a long-line of gadget lovers). But He-who-must-be-adored is sometimes left alone in the house. When alone he either tidies (his stuff) or dumps (everyone else’s stuff).
A new pedometer was needed before I could start: I must have taken at least 2000 steps before I found one. I’ll keep the price to myself just in case He-who-must-be-adored ever reads this…these are, after all, strange and unusual financial times (we are still broke). But, oh, have I got a whiz-banger of a piece of kit. Now I really can back up my bragging with numbers: ordinary steps, aerobic steps, kilometers marched, and weirdly calories consumed. I presume this is piss-poor translation as how can such a small device be so clever as to know what I’ve consumed? Really really hoping it means calories burnt as today’s ‘consumed’ level doesn’t cover my pre-breakfast snack. Anyways, as I’ve invested so heavily I feel obliged to ensure cost per use ratio pays off. So now I march about like a madman, sometimes dragging the dog to keep up my ‘healthy heart’ target.
Yesterday I broke through the healthy heart barrier and achieved the aerobic fitness target, almost making it to the ‘energy gap’ level (despite niether myself nor the little electro-sucker knowing whether I stuck to the recommended daily intake). But, even in my ever-the-optimist mode I can’t see that one day counts for much. So, this morning, instead of sitting sipping coffee my forensic friend and I marched. Am hoping if I keep this up my not-insubstantial chest will, once again, stick out further than my belly. Just like we know it should.
For added calorie consummation I’ve worn the old tigger-type MBT shoes. As they say, every little helps!
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
First Night
The first night was the worst. Without the sedative effects of alcohol, He-who-must-be-adored had trouble sleeping. What with the creaking floorboards, the neighbours, the dog’s noisy dreaming and the little-un climbing aboard. He escaped to her bed. She’s refusing to accept the difference between a reading light and a night light. Consequently in her bed He feels like He’s slumbering under a search light.
So, on the shopping list is yet another night light. And a new bathroom door. Actually it’s an old door. That matches the bedroom door. Therein lies the problem - a failure to match anything up to our old stuff syndrome. Without a door I hear the boiler kick in just before 5am. Just after that I hear He-who-must-be-adored getting ready. I am drifting back off when the Teenager thunders in for her shower. By 6.30 I give up the ghost and rise to take my lack of sleep out on lunchboxes and laundry.
Unsurprisingly there is a weariness about the Weekday Wagon Day 2. Yet at 200 calories a glass and our fear of angry liver syndrome we are determined to keep going. He-who-must-be-adored is home in time for tea. Hurrah. But not necessarily in the best of moods. He’s in busy mode. Again. And wants to know, unreasonably in my opnion, why there was a vase-sized Vat on my side of the bed. Err…because we are on the wagon with the exception of night caps!
I persuade him to take the dog out. I cook, although I am not eating. I am having supper with my girly-fab-mob. I should have plated a small portion for myself. Instead I hover and hoover straight from the hob. The left-overs enjoy a similar fate. Don’t you just hate waste? On the road to my dinner date I plan to stick to water. I am defeated by the open bottle of fizzy already on the table. As a driver I have only one and a half small glasses. And a good night out was had by all in less than two hours. Upon my return home all was quiet with everyone abed. I pour my nightcap. A first for me: the same bottle of fizzy in the fridge since Sunday. It tastes foul. But I take it upstairs anyway. I check on the little-un. She is sound asleep. Arms above her head she sleeps in the surrender position with the reading light trained directly on her face. I point the lamp to the floor and hit the sack.
Everyone stays in their beds ‘til this morning. He-who-must-be-adored says He feels worse than He’s felt in years. Mmm my plan is working.
So, on the shopping list is yet another night light. And a new bathroom door. Actually it’s an old door. That matches the bedroom door. Therein lies the problem - a failure to match anything up to our old stuff syndrome. Without a door I hear the boiler kick in just before 5am. Just after that I hear He-who-must-be-adored getting ready. I am drifting back off when the Teenager thunders in for her shower. By 6.30 I give up the ghost and rise to take my lack of sleep out on lunchboxes and laundry.
Unsurprisingly there is a weariness about the Weekday Wagon Day 2. Yet at 200 calories a glass and our fear of angry liver syndrome we are determined to keep going. He-who-must-be-adored is home in time for tea. Hurrah. But not necessarily in the best of moods. He’s in busy mode. Again. And wants to know, unreasonably in my opnion, why there was a vase-sized Vat on my side of the bed. Err…because we are on the wagon with the exception of night caps!
I persuade him to take the dog out. I cook, although I am not eating. I am having supper with my girly-fab-mob. I should have plated a small portion for myself. Instead I hover and hoover straight from the hob. The left-overs enjoy a similar fate. Don’t you just hate waste? On the road to my dinner date I plan to stick to water. I am defeated by the open bottle of fizzy already on the table. As a driver I have only one and a half small glasses. And a good night out was had by all in less than two hours. Upon my return home all was quiet with everyone abed. I pour my nightcap. A first for me: the same bottle of fizzy in the fridge since Sunday. It tastes foul. But I take it upstairs anyway. I check on the little-un. She is sound asleep. Arms above her head she sleeps in the surrender position with the reading light trained directly on her face. I point the lamp to the floor and hit the sack.
Everyone stays in their beds ‘til this morning. He-who-must-be-adored says He feels worse than He’s felt in years. Mmm my plan is working.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Dry Lines
When the Teenager brings me tea in bed at daybreak I think she is lovely. I do hope she never learns that it takes a whole lot more than tea in bed for me to agree to a Monday morning bunk off. It was a great start to a new week.
And a new chapter. He-who-must-be-adored and I are jointly on a weekday wagon. Because of a small incident last week. I can't decide what's worse: using the dog’s needs as an excuse or my need for an excuse? The development of an emergency alcohol run is hardly one my life’s finer moments and is not something worth bragging about. Not on a blog anyways! But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do! Last week the dog and I walked the emergency bottle home. After walking, a bottle of the fizzy stuff is best left alone. For a wee while at least. But this was an emergency. And the best laid plans…sadly the majority of the fizz didn’t make it into my glass. Before I could enjoy even a sip I was wiping the wastage from walls and cupboards.
It stank of come-uppance. So onto the weekday wagon we climb.
He-who-must-be-adored conceded that since finding freedom from fags He, like me, may just have gained a little extra weight. And, giving up liquid calories could be a good thang. He only drove me slightly mad tonight by keeping himself busy. He attacked the everything drawer in the kitchen. You know the one. It contains everything. But nothing of worth – those things have proper homes. I do not like to be quizzed on the contents of my drawers. I do not like to play Mastermind with my un-chosen subject of the last time certain objects came in useful. Or not. And I do not like to admit that yes, dammit, I do need all those thangs. At all times.
Not much later...apparently when on the weekday wagon, according to He, it is perfectly acceptable to take a nightcap to bed. He went to bed early tonight.
Thank goodness for small mercies.
And a new chapter. He-who-must-be-adored and I are jointly on a weekday wagon. Because of a small incident last week. I can't decide what's worse: using the dog’s needs as an excuse or my need for an excuse? The development of an emergency alcohol run is hardly one my life’s finer moments and is not something worth bragging about. Not on a blog anyways! But hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do! Last week the dog and I walked the emergency bottle home. After walking, a bottle of the fizzy stuff is best left alone. For a wee while at least. But this was an emergency. And the best laid plans…sadly the majority of the fizz didn’t make it into my glass. Before I could enjoy even a sip I was wiping the wastage from walls and cupboards.
It stank of come-uppance. So onto the weekday wagon we climb.
He-who-must-be-adored conceded that since finding freedom from fags He, like me, may just have gained a little extra weight. And, giving up liquid calories could be a good thang. He only drove me slightly mad tonight by keeping himself busy. He attacked the everything drawer in the kitchen. You know the one. It contains everything. But nothing of worth – those things have proper homes. I do not like to be quizzed on the contents of my drawers. I do not like to play Mastermind with my un-chosen subject of the last time certain objects came in useful. Or not. And I do not like to admit that yes, dammit, I do need all those thangs. At all times.
Not much later...apparently when on the weekday wagon, according to He, it is perfectly acceptable to take a nightcap to bed. He went to bed early tonight.
Thank goodness for small mercies.
Friday, 6 March 2009
Once upon a time...
Once upon a time there was a penguin. And a Tin Man. The penguin was happy. Even though she had to walk like a geisha girl. She loved being penguin. She is not Pingu. She is penguin.
The Tin Man was not so happy. He didn’t like the silver stuff his Mommy tried to smear on his face. It tickled. The Mommy gave up with the face-smearing. The Tin Man did not want to go to school. The Mommy told him not to be so silly.
The Tin Man walked in quite a self-consious way. It was difficult to be inconspicuous: with the silver funnel on his head he stood at almost 6ft. He walked like Boris Karloff. Thermo lining is a reflective substance. It was a sunny morning. He glistened like a star. That he is.
The Tin Man worried he would stand out. He had a point. On the walk to school he didn’t see any other dustbin lids in costumes. That was the cause of some concern. In the distance ahead, we saw some furry ears. Apparently that’s not unusual and means nothing. We saw some lids behind carrying plastic bags. The Tin Man wanted to know why he didn't bring his Tin Man-ness in a plastic bag? Because then the Mommy wouldn’t have been able to gaffa tape him into character. A couple of passing cars almost crashed when blinded by the sun reflecting off the shimmering Tin Man and the geisha -walking penguin.
A kind nice parent would have stroked the Tin Man’s ego and said encouraging words. But his Mommy had put time and effort into that bloody costume so he was not going to be allowed to rip it off half way down the road. Even if the thermo leggings were tickling his bottom and he was unable to walk properly because the silver shoe cover thangs were making him trip. You didn’t hear the little penguin moaning about having to walk weirdly? No because she was entering into the spirit of the thang.
The Mommy knew she shouldn’t have ranted. The Tin Man tried to hide his sadness beneath his tin chest. She felt bad and squeezed his silver hand. This made it worse. The nearer they got to school the more small children started to stare. And point. And laugh. Eventually someone said ‘brilliant’. Finally the Tin Man smiled. It nearly broke the Mommy’s heart.
The Tin Man was not so happy. He didn’t like the silver stuff his Mommy tried to smear on his face. It tickled. The Mommy gave up with the face-smearing. The Tin Man did not want to go to school. The Mommy told him not to be so silly.
The Tin Man walked in quite a self-consious way. It was difficult to be inconspicuous: with the silver funnel on his head he stood at almost 6ft. He walked like Boris Karloff. Thermo lining is a reflective substance. It was a sunny morning. He glistened like a star. That he is.
The Tin Man worried he would stand out. He had a point. On the walk to school he didn’t see any other dustbin lids in costumes. That was the cause of some concern. In the distance ahead, we saw some furry ears. Apparently that’s not unusual and means nothing. We saw some lids behind carrying plastic bags. The Tin Man wanted to know why he didn't bring his Tin Man-ness in a plastic bag? Because then the Mommy wouldn’t have been able to gaffa tape him into character. A couple of passing cars almost crashed when blinded by the sun reflecting off the shimmering Tin Man and the geisha -walking penguin.
A kind nice parent would have stroked the Tin Man’s ego and said encouraging words. But his Mommy had put time and effort into that bloody costume so he was not going to be allowed to rip it off half way down the road. Even if the thermo leggings were tickling his bottom and he was unable to walk properly because the silver shoe cover thangs were making him trip. You didn’t hear the little penguin moaning about having to walk weirdly? No because she was entering into the spirit of the thang.
The Mommy knew she shouldn’t have ranted. The Tin Man tried to hide his sadness beneath his tin chest. She felt bad and squeezed his silver hand. This made it worse. The nearer they got to school the more small children started to stare. And point. And laugh. Eventually someone said ‘brilliant’. Finally the Tin Man smiled. It nearly broke the Mommy’s heart.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Thermo, Tin and Other Things
Against my atheist instincts I pray its cold tomorrow as the Tin Man is materialising from General Purpose Thermo Wrap. Every cloud … after tomorrow The Tin Man will be recycled behind our radiators. As Peter Pan would say ‘Oh the cleverness of me!’ Currently awaiting further cleverness on what to do with the General Purpose Thermo Wrap. That Boy had better be grateful.
To the Junior institution this morning to complain. It seems a small matter but to Gorgeous Boy it is becoming a big thang. At 11 years old he is already almost 5 foot 8 so most of his classmates look up to him. As do the majority of the female teaching staff. He handles the kids cusses and is happy to have a bit of a reputation as the Cuss King. However he knows he can’t use this particular coping mechanism on teachers. Especially the short ones. They say ‘you are too tall’, ‘stop growing’, and my least favourite: ‘what is your mother feeding you’. This is already a sore point between us. I don’t want the Risotto thang coming up again, so to speak. I do not put baby bio in his milk, nor do I put him to bed in a grow bag. They wouldn’t dare make comments about the shapes and sizes of other kids. I am extremely grateful to have Tallestmumchum to talk to about the insensitivity of it all.
Again, against my atheist instincts, let us pray that the Tin Man will not be mistaken for the Iron Giant tomorrow.
Now I really need to get on with the tin.
To the Junior institution this morning to complain. It seems a small matter but to Gorgeous Boy it is becoming a big thang. At 11 years old he is already almost 5 foot 8 so most of his classmates look up to him. As do the majority of the female teaching staff. He handles the kids cusses and is happy to have a bit of a reputation as the Cuss King. However he knows he can’t use this particular coping mechanism on teachers. Especially the short ones. They say ‘you are too tall’, ‘stop growing’, and my least favourite: ‘what is your mother feeding you’. This is already a sore point between us. I don’t want the Risotto thang coming up again, so to speak. I do not put baby bio in his milk, nor do I put him to bed in a grow bag. They wouldn’t dare make comments about the shapes and sizes of other kids. I am extremely grateful to have Tallestmumchum to talk to about the insensitivity of it all.
Again, against my atheist instincts, let us pray that the Tin Man will not be mistaken for the Iron Giant tomorrow.
Now I really need to get on with the tin.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
London Calling
London must be in a sorry old state as He-who-must-be-adored has been so busy saving London He’s hardly been home this week. He treats this place like a bleeding hotel. Now I know the keeping of scores is not the mark of maturity. But, dammit. I am what I am and I want it known. For the record. That’s the second week in a row I’ve done the bin thang. This is not the deal I thought we had.
Moving swiftly on: surprisingly, Postie managed to deliver the secondary school letter in time for afternoon pick-up. Unsurprisingly, given the sibling policy, Gorgeous Boy will be joining the Teenager at her school next September. Sadly, but again unsurprisingly, there are a lot of disappointed Year 6 parents. The majority got a local school. Just not one in their top five. Fortunately, by a freak of fate, the Teenager’s school wasn’t all that when she started. So she got a place easily. Since then, driven by a new Head, its star has been on the rise. Would like to think it’s because of my Teenager. Ha! I know we was just lucky: this year almost 1400 kids applied for 240 places. Is this not a bit of a crazy situation?
Unfortunately, Postie didn’t do as well with the book club: my book was a tad too big for the letter-box. Usually he sticks it in the recycling bin. This time he re-routed it to the depot. The not-so-local depot. The not-so-local depot that is only open for a few odd hours. The very same few odd hours that the parking restrictions outside apply. The very same not-so-local depot that will refuse to give me the parcel addressed to my husband (he opened the Amazon account) as all my ID is in my maiden name. Just because I couldn’t be arsed to write a few dull letters when we first got married (alongwith a deep desire not to have the same name as my mother-in-law). So me and He have different surnames. He also hasn’t confirmed on the social networking site that He is married to me. I wonder is He trying to tell me somefing?
Yet, this week I have started to use my married name. But only on social networking sites. I lay the blame with my fave eldest neice. The one that still has the same name as me, because the lovely boyfriend still hasn’t made an honest woman of her. Even though they have two dustbin lids! Anyways I find I am questioned about thangs. Thangs I have no recollection of saying or doing or posting on social networking sites. Thangs my eldest unmarried fave niece with the same name as me (you know who you are) has posted online. I have moments of worry: was I so high on bubbly that I didn’t know I was bored – there was me thinking I’d had a good time. What the hell would I want with a waxing client? Why was I cross border living? My hair is already short. Isn’t it? Despite what it says I said: I feel quite well. The whole thang has been a bit too vivid an early insight into living with Alzheimer’s. And way way way before my time. So the married name it is. Oddly, given that my dustbin lids have both our surnames, the Teenager likes to be known by her father’s and Gorgeous Boy by mine. The little-un is too young to make choices.
My least favourite aspect of Gorgeous Boy starting his online life is his critique of my gastric attempts. Master chef has a lot to answer for. I really don’t appreciate my chicken risotto being rechristened ‘Risotto Horrible’ online. For all to see. Will carefully plan my revenge.
Aha! His World Book Day costume. So far we have hat, and cardboard clock and poor attempts at shoe-cover-type-thangs which in all probability will be destroyed by the time we walk the half mile to school. So of a more pressing nature is the unfortunate fact that there have been no (none whatsoever) developments on the Tin-Man costume front since Monday evening. I should spend tomorrow in a tin-man sewing and/or spraying frenzy. What will be sewed or sprayed? I am not yet certain. But Gorgeous Boy is expecting a costume to materialise by Friday morning. At breakfast tomorrow I shall point out that if he continues his public and negative critique of my cooking, I just might, very publicly, let him whistle for it.
My reality will be the day spent rumaging in make and do mode. Hmm so pleased about the penguin.
Moving swiftly on: surprisingly, Postie managed to deliver the secondary school letter in time for afternoon pick-up. Unsurprisingly, given the sibling policy, Gorgeous Boy will be joining the Teenager at her school next September. Sadly, but again unsurprisingly, there are a lot of disappointed Year 6 parents. The majority got a local school. Just not one in their top five. Fortunately, by a freak of fate, the Teenager’s school wasn’t all that when she started. So she got a place easily. Since then, driven by a new Head, its star has been on the rise. Would like to think it’s because of my Teenager. Ha! I know we was just lucky: this year almost 1400 kids applied for 240 places. Is this not a bit of a crazy situation?
Unfortunately, Postie didn’t do as well with the book club: my book was a tad too big for the letter-box. Usually he sticks it in the recycling bin. This time he re-routed it to the depot. The not-so-local depot. The not-so-local depot that is only open for a few odd hours. The very same few odd hours that the parking restrictions outside apply. The very same not-so-local depot that will refuse to give me the parcel addressed to my husband (he opened the Amazon account) as all my ID is in my maiden name. Just because I couldn’t be arsed to write a few dull letters when we first got married (alongwith a deep desire not to have the same name as my mother-in-law). So me and He have different surnames. He also hasn’t confirmed on the social networking site that He is married to me. I wonder is He trying to tell me somefing?
Yet, this week I have started to use my married name. But only on social networking sites. I lay the blame with my fave eldest neice. The one that still has the same name as me, because the lovely boyfriend still hasn’t made an honest woman of her. Even though they have two dustbin lids! Anyways I find I am questioned about thangs. Thangs I have no recollection of saying or doing or posting on social networking sites. Thangs my eldest unmarried fave niece with the same name as me (you know who you are) has posted online. I have moments of worry: was I so high on bubbly that I didn’t know I was bored – there was me thinking I’d had a good time. What the hell would I want with a waxing client? Why was I cross border living? My hair is already short. Isn’t it? Despite what it says I said: I feel quite well. The whole thang has been a bit too vivid an early insight into living with Alzheimer’s. And way way way before my time. So the married name it is. Oddly, given that my dustbin lids have both our surnames, the Teenager likes to be known by her father’s and Gorgeous Boy by mine. The little-un is too young to make choices.
My least favourite aspect of Gorgeous Boy starting his online life is his critique of my gastric attempts. Master chef has a lot to answer for. I really don’t appreciate my chicken risotto being rechristened ‘Risotto Horrible’ online. For all to see. Will carefully plan my revenge.
Aha! His World Book Day costume. So far we have hat, and cardboard clock and poor attempts at shoe-cover-type-thangs which in all probability will be destroyed by the time we walk the half mile to school. So of a more pressing nature is the unfortunate fact that there have been no (none whatsoever) developments on the Tin-Man costume front since Monday evening. I should spend tomorrow in a tin-man sewing and/or spraying frenzy. What will be sewed or sprayed? I am not yet certain. But Gorgeous Boy is expecting a costume to materialise by Friday morning. At breakfast tomorrow I shall point out that if he continues his public and negative critique of my cooking, I just might, very publicly, let him whistle for it.
My reality will be the day spent rumaging in make and do mode. Hmm so pleased about the penguin.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Hey Mr Postman
Thanks to Royal Mail we now have one penguin costume. With 3 days to spare. And it fits. It was tried on before breakfast. At the point in the day when there is so much spare time! What we don't have is the secondary school letter. I did not complet an online application so I can not check the website. By 7.00am it had crashed.
Monday, 2 March 2009
Sex, socks and secondary schools
I read on Facebook that my teenager is now ‘in a relationship’. This explains the increase in phone credit usage and why no-one can get through on the home phone (it's usually only Supersis that tries). It explains why the friend-who-happens-to-be-a-boy now features in every conversation. When not msn’ing or ‘phoning or texting, the boyfriend is here. Or she is there. The upside: I am mostly kept sober as I can’t bear either of them getting the bus in the dark. Equally unbearable is them in the den. In the dark. Apparently watching TV. The little-un has had a lot of errands to run in there.
To supersis’s on Saturday. On an egg hunt and it’s not even Easter yet. The pesky Bantum chickens keep finding new places to lay. The little-un found 17 eggs in the goat house. Wonder is fairy liquid the best substance to remove shit from eggs? It works. But is it ethical or organic?
Paid the price for being out and about on Saturday by Sunday spent tackling laundry mountain. After trying 4000 different settings on the new washing machine I discover programme 5 fits all: with adjustable temp and spin button. Secretly get v frightened of the top spin speed. It sounds like the Nativity Room is preparing for take off. On the upside there are no more torn t-shirts or single socks. That’s a lie. There are always single socks because a) the dustbin lids think it funny to fire dirty socks like missiles (the target is never the laundry basket) and b) all three insist on never ever wearing pairs. No matter that much of my life is wasted on sorting socks. Pairs pairs are ripped apart as if the wearing of matching socks is some sort of crime against ...against feet?
For some reason, only understood by the smallest in this house, the little-un has been asking for a penguin costume for the longest time. With World Book Day this week I relented and ordered one from t’net. Panic is on lowest setting for post office doing its thang and delivering by Thursday. I have a back-up plan. It is crap. But it is a plan. It involves lots of bandages. However Gorgeous Boy, for his last year at primary, wants to go all out on the costume front. So far we have home made hat (He-who-must-be-adored sprayed funnel silver and nearly gave us all asthma attacks in the process) and shoes (silver fabric overcoat for trainers) for the Tin Man. Am hoping inspiration for his middle bit will come over the next 48 hours.
Also, eagerly awaited in tomorrow’s post is Gorgeous Boy’s secondary school placement letter. Am assuming he’ll get place with his sibling. Second-time round have found it easy to avoid the Year 6 parental hysteria. Assuming the sibling thang will work. Assuming the post office will deliver tomorrow. Assuming haven’t got to do the hideous appeal thang.
Hmmm ….think both my mental health and this blog might benefit from getting out and about a bit more!
To supersis’s on Saturday. On an egg hunt and it’s not even Easter yet. The pesky Bantum chickens keep finding new places to lay. The little-un found 17 eggs in the goat house. Wonder is fairy liquid the best substance to remove shit from eggs? It works. But is it ethical or organic?
Paid the price for being out and about on Saturday by Sunday spent tackling laundry mountain. After trying 4000 different settings on the new washing machine I discover programme 5 fits all: with adjustable temp and spin button. Secretly get v frightened of the top spin speed. It sounds like the Nativity Room is preparing for take off. On the upside there are no more torn t-shirts or single socks. That’s a lie. There are always single socks because a) the dustbin lids think it funny to fire dirty socks like missiles (the target is never the laundry basket) and b) all three insist on never ever wearing pairs. No matter that much of my life is wasted on sorting socks. Pairs pairs are ripped apart as if the wearing of matching socks is some sort of crime against ...against feet?
For some reason, only understood by the smallest in this house, the little-un has been asking for a penguin costume for the longest time. With World Book Day this week I relented and ordered one from t’net. Panic is on lowest setting for post office doing its thang and delivering by Thursday. I have a back-up plan. It is crap. But it is a plan. It involves lots of bandages. However Gorgeous Boy, for his last year at primary, wants to go all out on the costume front. So far we have home made hat (He-who-must-be-adored sprayed funnel silver and nearly gave us all asthma attacks in the process) and shoes (silver fabric overcoat for trainers) for the Tin Man. Am hoping inspiration for his middle bit will come over the next 48 hours.
Also, eagerly awaited in tomorrow’s post is Gorgeous Boy’s secondary school placement letter. Am assuming he’ll get place with his sibling. Second-time round have found it easy to avoid the Year 6 parental hysteria. Assuming the sibling thang will work. Assuming the post office will deliver tomorrow. Assuming haven’t got to do the hideous appeal thang.
Hmmm ….think both my mental health and this blog might benefit from getting out and about a bit more!
Friday, 27 February 2009
Why Why Why Delilah?
Don’t know why but I felt sorry for He-who-must-be-adored in having to work such a long shift on Wednesday. So, to show some solidarity I waited up for his return with a chilled bottle. Much much later I’d quaffed the lot before He fell in the door. Yes that’s right. Fell. Drunk. As a skunk. That’s the last time I feel any kinda pity for him. I am owed. Again.
Why did it shock me on the supermarket sweep to see so many Easter Eggs already? Tried not to salivate at the wall of cardboard and chocolate but I love it more than…well something chilled and fizzy. The chocolate, not the cardboard. But before mother’s day? Yet…in for a penny…I threw a few in the trolley for the Easter Egg hunt and made mental note to try to think up some clues before Easter Saturday.
Why, after only a brisk walk with the dog, did all the early Easter eggs get eaten? Well…who’s to know?
To Grovelands today. Just the two of us. He and me. Plus the dog. With no dustbin lids. Weird or what?
Why did it shock me on the supermarket sweep to see so many Easter Eggs already? Tried not to salivate at the wall of cardboard and chocolate but I love it more than…well something chilled and fizzy. The chocolate, not the cardboard. But before mother’s day? Yet…in for a penny…I threw a few in the trolley for the Easter Egg hunt and made mental note to try to think up some clues before Easter Saturday.
Why, after only a brisk walk with the dog, did all the early Easter eggs get eaten? Well…who’s to know?
To Grovelands today. Just the two of us. He and me. Plus the dog. With no dustbin lids. Weird or what?
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Beholder's Eye
In snooping round Facebook photos worry I am alone on the ageing front. Or does everyone else post old pictures? Or use software? I see my young fave nieces on there. Being young they get away murder. Jealous? Ha!
When we were young He-who-must-be-adored and I agreed. I would give birth to dustbin lids more beautiful than ourselves. Even in our young and beautiful days. Those days before the growth of extra chins and bellies. Before gravity took its toll. Before the ability to shake off pillow creases from our faces was lost. In return, He agreed to do the duty of bin night. And re-fueling the car. Today, with the poor excuse of a ridiculously long shift saving London, He broke the rules. I am owed.
Yesterday the little-un thought she was owed. But even I, with my low resistance to her pestering, draw the line at ice-cream on breakfast pancakes. I was kind about it and offered to dial child-line for her.
Is this cruel? During the dog’s usual post-supper sniffing round the kitchen she became still. And focussed. She stalked the fridge. I thought of mices. Then her tail wagged. She tried and tried before realising her tongue wasn't quite long enough to retrieve that which was under the fridge. I laughed as she tried different positions. And there’s only so much paw digging to be done on a hard floor. She switched between digging and stretching her tongue. And back again (whoah there Mrs is this an adults only blog now?) He-who-must-be-adored retrieved the discarded nectar and gave it to her. Killjoy.
To my book group last night. Was it my poor choice of book that led to such little bookish discussion? Or is the book just another excuse to sit about with other wimin smoothly sipping the bubbly stuff? A problem? Moi?
When we were young He-who-must-be-adored and I agreed. I would give birth to dustbin lids more beautiful than ourselves. Even in our young and beautiful days. Those days before the growth of extra chins and bellies. Before gravity took its toll. Before the ability to shake off pillow creases from our faces was lost. In return, He agreed to do the duty of bin night. And re-fueling the car. Today, with the poor excuse of a ridiculously long shift saving London, He broke the rules. I am owed.
Yesterday the little-un thought she was owed. But even I, with my low resistance to her pestering, draw the line at ice-cream on breakfast pancakes. I was kind about it and offered to dial child-line for her.
Is this cruel? During the dog’s usual post-supper sniffing round the kitchen she became still. And focussed. She stalked the fridge. I thought of mices. Then her tail wagged. She tried and tried before realising her tongue wasn't quite long enough to retrieve that which was under the fridge. I laughed as she tried different positions. And there’s only so much paw digging to be done on a hard floor. She switched between digging and stretching her tongue. And back again (whoah there Mrs is this an adults only blog now?) He-who-must-be-adored retrieved the discarded nectar and gave it to her. Killjoy.
To my book group last night. Was it my poor choice of book that led to such little bookish discussion? Or is the book just another excuse to sit about with other wimin smoothly sipping the bubbly stuff? A problem? Moi?
Monday, 23 February 2009
Monday morning
Up before the larks, a few pages under my belt I bake bread and pack up lunches. Uniforms are pressed and laid out. Extra-curricular kits are bagged and ready. Homework assignments are complete. Showered, fully dressed and ‘slapped’ I call the dustbin lids with a spring in my step. I lovingly prepare breakfast as they greet me with love in their eyes. A small chirping bird flies through the open window and lands on my finger. Then I wake up.
And it’s Monday Morning Take Two. Minus the calm charm. And the tweeting bird.
Does everyone leave half-term homework ‘til the last day? We coulda shoulda woulda gone out. Instead I supervise the older ones homework and cook. Against the grain I do some of the homework myself –explaining penicillin and making gravy was beyond me. Meanwhile He-who-must-be-adored gardens with the little-un. Well, not so much gardens, as hacks ferociously whilst the little-un ‘weeds’. My foxgloves. The foxglove seedlings I lovingly nurtured last year. The foxgloves that take two years to flower.
The joys of a family Sunday in the ‘burbs.
And it’s Monday Morning Take Two. Minus the calm charm. And the tweeting bird.
Does everyone leave half-term homework ‘til the last day? We coulda shoulda woulda gone out. Instead I supervise the older ones homework and cook. Against the grain I do some of the homework myself –explaining penicillin and making gravy was beyond me. Meanwhile He-who-must-be-adored gardens with the little-un. Well, not so much gardens, as hacks ferociously whilst the little-un ‘weeds’. My foxgloves. The foxglove seedlings I lovingly nurtured last year. The foxgloves that take two years to flower.
The joys of a family Sunday in the ‘burbs.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Glory days
Three alcohol-free days plus a mammoth sleepfest made for a little trouble settling to sleep last night. To Paul McKenna I turned. It has been over a month since I bought ‘Change Your Life in 7 days’. At last I’ve been sober enough to make it to Day 2. At this rate I should be sorted by the summer. When sleep finally came I dreamed of sunny days sipping champagne. When I first ditched the cigs the boy band I was managing (in my dreams obviously) kept making me smoke. Talk about living in a dream world!
There must be something about Paul because peace descended upon us today. For a few hours, at least. The sun shone. We all quietly did our own thang whilst He-who-must-be-adored was away saving London. Yesterday’s scenes of shouting were long forgotten.
But perhaps a little perspective: yesterday, as usual, I was not the first to shout. I rarely am. Neither was I born yesterday. So I knows things. Like, when the usually gorgeous boy is rude and shouts. Then is rude and shouts again in an aggressive sort of way. I know he has either overheard one of our laundry lessons or there is, somewhere hidden in this house, unbeknownst to me, a horribly violent video game. Being only 11 the boy knows not to snitch on his farter. ‘Hand it over’ I say and after only a small protest, hand it over he does. As is our way, we soon manage to make it up with some baking then taking the dog out to get wet and muddy again.
Back to the glory day of today: the dog walk was dry, so no added laundry or extra showers needed. When He-who-must-be-adored returned we went out for an early meze. Early because we had to be back home in time for Ant and Dec, or the little-un would be difficult. Let’s not kid ourselves about who really rules this roost.
I had to tear my eyes away from the newspaper story on Jade’s story this morning when the little-un announced ‘Mommy, You’re doing really well’. I swelled with pride and with eyes moistened asked what made her say that. ‘I’ve checked your blog and you’re had over 200 visitors now, I check it everytime I go on the ‘puter’. So neither my parenting nor blog visitors are as good as I thought.
The Cava is calling.
There must be something about Paul because peace descended upon us today. For a few hours, at least. The sun shone. We all quietly did our own thang whilst He-who-must-be-adored was away saving London. Yesterday’s scenes of shouting were long forgotten.
But perhaps a little perspective: yesterday, as usual, I was not the first to shout. I rarely am. Neither was I born yesterday. So I knows things. Like, when the usually gorgeous boy is rude and shouts. Then is rude and shouts again in an aggressive sort of way. I know he has either overheard one of our laundry lessons or there is, somewhere hidden in this house, unbeknownst to me, a horribly violent video game. Being only 11 the boy knows not to snitch on his farter. ‘Hand it over’ I say and after only a small protest, hand it over he does. As is our way, we soon manage to make it up with some baking then taking the dog out to get wet and muddy again.
Back to the glory day of today: the dog walk was dry, so no added laundry or extra showers needed. When He-who-must-be-adored returned we went out for an early meze. Early because we had to be back home in time for Ant and Dec, or the little-un would be difficult. Let’s not kid ourselves about who really rules this roost.
I had to tear my eyes away from the newspaper story on Jade’s story this morning when the little-un announced ‘Mommy, You’re doing really well’. I swelled with pride and with eyes moistened asked what made her say that. ‘I’ve checked your blog and you’re had over 200 visitors now, I check it everytime I go on the ‘puter’. So neither my parenting nor blog visitors are as good as I thought.
The Cava is calling.
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