Everybody’s talkin’ about the Anya Hindmarch bags as sold by Sainsbury’s. I was keen to show off my green credentials with ‘I’m am not a plastic bag’ writ large. Hindmarch. Spindmarch! He-who-must-be-adored thought I should get up at 4am and queue. Don’t be ridiculous, I said, it’s a bag! I asked Sainsbury’s Manager at Highlands Village the previous day and she said, quite plainly, as did the website, the bags would be on sale at 8.00am when the stores opened.
I relented and got to Sainsbury’s Highlands Village at 7.30am. Was surprised at the lack of queue but did spot about six women sitting in their cars. Imagine then, my surprise, when at 7.45am I decided to form an orderly queue and read a hand-written sign on the store door saying they were all sold out. To add insult to injury they suggested if you really wanted one, look on Ebay. Gutted I was. Not only that they were sold out, without a queue, but before the store was actually open! Shock took over. Firstly by another customer’s angry reaction to the security guard – as if it was his fault, and no amount of shouting would make a bag materialise. Then by the store’s admission that the manager handed out tickets at 4am. 4am! Are these people mad? What happened to an 8am opening?
Worse was the thought of admitting defeat to He-who-must-be-adored. I drove to Sainsbury’s Winchmore Hill and was pleased to see a rather long queue. They had 90 bags and had already given out 90 tickets, but at least there is honesty in a queue. Three people were on standby to go to their local stores, on my behalf, in my desperation for one of the damn bags, including the pensioner mother of the Forensic Examiner. They all drew a blank.
headed home downhearted for He-who-must-be-adored’s ‘told you so’. He was surprisingly kind, saying if He’d known it was a ticket system, He would have got up at 4am for me, but there was no way He was prepared to fight with women over bags. Fair point.
As usual Supersis cheered me up. Not with a bag, unfortunately, but I’m trying to convince myself, unconvincingly, that I didn’t’ want one anyway. But I do. I have a pathological hatred of plastic bags at the best of times. I use the re-usable bags from M&S and Tesco for the weekly shop but they keep ripping at the bottom and the handles pop out which the Little One then uses as drumsticks in a really unhelpful and annoying manner. The Anya bag looked lovely, rather strong, and with comfy handles too. But, I’m over it now. NOT!
Supersis, being a Super Sis came to my retailing rescue last night by turning up with the other product everybody’s talkin’ about. The Boots No 7 cream - as featured on Horizon, as the only cream that really halts the march of time on the faces of oldies. And I now have some. A star my Supersis is. Just watch this face. In four weeks time I’ll be visibly younger. And everybody really will be talking about that.
Thursday, 26 April 2007
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
Just the two of us
He-who-must-be-adored and me had a rare day off together yesterday. Let’s face it though it’s hardly a day off when it only lasts ‘til school pick-up. Weekdays obviously still include sorting the dustbin lids out with breakfast and lunches; dropping them off; quick supermarket sweep for more milk and fruit; the compulsory couple of loads of laundry; plus impressions of a taxi driver for evening activities. Without wanting to sound ungrateful or resentful (moi?) …A half-day off was had and out to lunch we went. Together. Just the two of us. Just like it used to be.
Aimed for the Italian sarnie centre with cosy chairs but the route there took us past the pub. As it was just we two, and we being adults ‘n all, He and me dived into the pub. Twas all a bit odd though, just being two, instead of five. At least it was a non-smoking pub as the thought of being in a smoky old hole during daylight hours is so far removed from my reality I don’t think I’d have coped. So He and me had a pub lunch. Food was average. But as I wasn’t involved in its preparation it seemed averagely fab.
As soon as we’d eaten He-who-must-be-adored thought we might as well push off and do something useful. I made him sit there. And relax. Good time slightly marred by me having to explain that having lunch together isn’t just about the food. Now am not certain he sees the point in small talk and really think He regretted not bringing his Soduko book.
Wonder is it because he mixes with the Gorgeous Boy too much that after 20 minutes he’d hit his sitting-still-threshold. You could see him squirming in his seat. It being a day off, I relented and let him go.
Neither of us generally does booze during the day. Not because we have an aversion to it or have some sort of moral objections. In the case of He-who-must-be-adored nothing could be further from the truth. The reality is a combination of children that need entertaining/sorting/driving about and us both being over 40.
Booze slows us down. Things that need to done take twice as long with booze inside you. Then we get grumpy with the lids and it’s hardly their fault that they interfere with our drinking schedule. So beer-o-clock is put back to after the dustbin lids are abed. But rules are made to be broken. On holiday it slips forward to their bath-time. Other times its after the evening meal has been prepared. And obviously on h-days (high days, holidays and hormonal days) the rules go out the window.
For a long time I didn’t bother with booze at all. Couldn’t be doing with small demanding children in the night, or early mornings with a hangover. So just sort of stopped it. However, since giving up fags it’s all become rather attractive again. Yesterday I threw caution to the wind and had one lunchtime spritzer. Lethal. I had to have a lie down before I could prepare supper. How sad is that? A strange sensation came over me at 3.30 with my eyelids becoming horribly horribly heavy. As if lead weights were hanging off them. When I woke 20 minutes later the Little One was hanging off them. Think she was just trying to prize them open.
Aimed for the Italian sarnie centre with cosy chairs but the route there took us past the pub. As it was just we two, and we being adults ‘n all, He and me dived into the pub. Twas all a bit odd though, just being two, instead of five. At least it was a non-smoking pub as the thought of being in a smoky old hole during daylight hours is so far removed from my reality I don’t think I’d have coped. So He and me had a pub lunch. Food was average. But as I wasn’t involved in its preparation it seemed averagely fab.
As soon as we’d eaten He-who-must-be-adored thought we might as well push off and do something useful. I made him sit there. And relax. Good time slightly marred by me having to explain that having lunch together isn’t just about the food. Now am not certain he sees the point in small talk and really think He regretted not bringing his Soduko book.
Wonder is it because he mixes with the Gorgeous Boy too much that after 20 minutes he’d hit his sitting-still-threshold. You could see him squirming in his seat. It being a day off, I relented and let him go.
Neither of us generally does booze during the day. Not because we have an aversion to it or have some sort of moral objections. In the case of He-who-must-be-adored nothing could be further from the truth. The reality is a combination of children that need entertaining/sorting/driving about and us both being over 40.
Booze slows us down. Things that need to done take twice as long with booze inside you. Then we get grumpy with the lids and it’s hardly their fault that they interfere with our drinking schedule. So beer-o-clock is put back to after the dustbin lids are abed. But rules are made to be broken. On holiday it slips forward to their bath-time. Other times its after the evening meal has been prepared. And obviously on h-days (high days, holidays and hormonal days) the rules go out the window.
For a long time I didn’t bother with booze at all. Couldn’t be doing with small demanding children in the night, or early mornings with a hangover. So just sort of stopped it. However, since giving up fags it’s all become rather attractive again. Yesterday I threw caution to the wind and had one lunchtime spritzer. Lethal. I had to have a lie down before I could prepare supper. How sad is that? A strange sensation came over me at 3.30 with my eyelids becoming horribly horribly heavy. As if lead weights were hanging off them. When I woke 20 minutes later the Little One was hanging off them. Think she was just trying to prize them open.
Friday, 20 April 2007
Something got me started
It’s so long since I smoked I’ve given up counting. The smugness of me grows daily.
Benefit of giving up No 329: losing the grey pallor from my face. My new healthy glow has been noted and commented upon. It makes me happy ‘til the penny drops. With hindsight being a wonderful thing I can see now how they might have possibly jumped to the wrong conclusion given that a) I am not smoking b) healthy glow c) enlarged chest and stomach d) smock tops. So for the record: I am not expecting. Anything. At all. In any way, shape or form.
Believe that weight and debt have a lot in common: so easy for the numbers of both to creep up quickly without you noticing but it takes a long slow hard slog to get them down again. Trying to break the vicious cycle by moving my butt more in free activities – like cycling.
All’s not well with Gorgeous Boy’s new bike. First the flat tyre. Although we have a guarantee from toys r us, neither of us can face taking it back. Their prices are kept low by discouraging any inkling of returns or complaints, by making anything other than buying as difficult as possible. Sometimes this even extends to buying. A policy that works, as I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than face their customer services.
So, He-who-has-to-be-adored ordered an Internet inner tube. Strangely it didn’t show up. After a week He rang: they’d been busy, what with Easter n’all. Silly us, we believe Internet buying to be quicker, easier and more convenient than visiting shops…at the opposite end of the country perhaps?
Meanwhile we return to the boy riding his sister’s bike, she riding mine with me running along behind.
Hurrahs all round this morning as postie brings an inner tube that He-who-must-be-adored gallantly fits before going to save London on ‘lates’. I cycled down on the boy’s bike for after-school pick-up. More of a free wheel really as its mostly downhill with just a tad of difficulty dismounting the cross bar wearing a skirt. All so my Gorgeous Boy could enjoy his bike. He makes it to the zebra crossing outside school when the chain comes off. Not for the first time I picture myself taking a large hammer to the new bike. Instead I try, along with two other mothers, to get the chain back on. I fail. Defeated I wheel the thing up the hill.
Don’t suppose He-who-must-be-adored will want to fix that damn bike again. Secretly, without any pressure whatsoever, I hope he will so I don’t have to take it back to that damn shop. Am having a bit of a hate hate thing with the bike.
Also…have been trying the equally trying customer services at Virgin media. To close my account. Am disgusted with poor service, and loss of the Simpsons and News on the Hour, whatever the hour, since they took over from Telewest and fell out with Sky. Have now given up holding for a real person on four occasions. Shouldn’t have bothered as am certain they won’t speak to me as the account is in He-who-must-be-adored’s name. At work today Captain Chaos managed to get through and spent two hours discussing, with an extraordinary large number of people, the case of crossed wires between Virgin Media and BT. All this because he foolishly thought he could change suppliers on Friday 13th. Since then he’s had no land line and the phone number he’s had for the past 15 years has now been issued to a new customer. Think I may just leave well alone as am rather attached to my number.
It’s almost enough to make you want to leave the country. Or the city at least. But not quite. Think it’s just a reaction to having spent a blissful weekend with Supersis at her place in the country. A real green fix. Looking out on fields. Seeing children romping in the open air. Watching horses do their thing. The sight of Gorgeous Boy carrying a trophy of a dead pigeon after his first shoot was obviously the low point. But I’m told that’s what country folk do: have a more practical attitude to animals than us townies. There, animals either have a purpose ie dinner, or they are pests. I was happy when I could get away with being an over-controlling parent who banned all weapons of any type, real or toy. Mums don’t do guns.
Except water pistols. Maybe.
Benefit of giving up No 329: losing the grey pallor from my face. My new healthy glow has been noted and commented upon. It makes me happy ‘til the penny drops. With hindsight being a wonderful thing I can see now how they might have possibly jumped to the wrong conclusion given that a) I am not smoking b) healthy glow c) enlarged chest and stomach d) smock tops. So for the record: I am not expecting. Anything. At all. In any way, shape or form.
Believe that weight and debt have a lot in common: so easy for the numbers of both to creep up quickly without you noticing but it takes a long slow hard slog to get them down again. Trying to break the vicious cycle by moving my butt more in free activities – like cycling.
All’s not well with Gorgeous Boy’s new bike. First the flat tyre. Although we have a guarantee from toys r us, neither of us can face taking it back. Their prices are kept low by discouraging any inkling of returns or complaints, by making anything other than buying as difficult as possible. Sometimes this even extends to buying. A policy that works, as I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than face their customer services.
So, He-who-has-to-be-adored ordered an Internet inner tube. Strangely it didn’t show up. After a week He rang: they’d been busy, what with Easter n’all. Silly us, we believe Internet buying to be quicker, easier and more convenient than visiting shops…at the opposite end of the country perhaps?
Meanwhile we return to the boy riding his sister’s bike, she riding mine with me running along behind.
Hurrahs all round this morning as postie brings an inner tube that He-who-must-be-adored gallantly fits before going to save London on ‘lates’. I cycled down on the boy’s bike for after-school pick-up. More of a free wheel really as its mostly downhill with just a tad of difficulty dismounting the cross bar wearing a skirt. All so my Gorgeous Boy could enjoy his bike. He makes it to the zebra crossing outside school when the chain comes off. Not for the first time I picture myself taking a large hammer to the new bike. Instead I try, along with two other mothers, to get the chain back on. I fail. Defeated I wheel the thing up the hill.
Don’t suppose He-who-must-be-adored will want to fix that damn bike again. Secretly, without any pressure whatsoever, I hope he will so I don’t have to take it back to that damn shop. Am having a bit of a hate hate thing with the bike.
Also…have been trying the equally trying customer services at Virgin media. To close my account. Am disgusted with poor service, and loss of the Simpsons and News on the Hour, whatever the hour, since they took over from Telewest and fell out with Sky. Have now given up holding for a real person on four occasions. Shouldn’t have bothered as am certain they won’t speak to me as the account is in He-who-must-be-adored’s name. At work today Captain Chaos managed to get through and spent two hours discussing, with an extraordinary large number of people, the case of crossed wires between Virgin Media and BT. All this because he foolishly thought he could change suppliers on Friday 13th. Since then he’s had no land line and the phone number he’s had for the past 15 years has now been issued to a new customer. Think I may just leave well alone as am rather attached to my number.
It’s almost enough to make you want to leave the country. Or the city at least. But not quite. Think it’s just a reaction to having spent a blissful weekend with Supersis at her place in the country. A real green fix. Looking out on fields. Seeing children romping in the open air. Watching horses do their thing. The sight of Gorgeous Boy carrying a trophy of a dead pigeon after his first shoot was obviously the low point. But I’m told that’s what country folk do: have a more practical attitude to animals than us townies. There, animals either have a purpose ie dinner, or they are pests. I was happy when I could get away with being an over-controlling parent who banned all weapons of any type, real or toy. Mums don’t do guns.
Except water pistols. Maybe.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
I want to ride my bicycle
Holidays are over. Normal service has resumed: wake dustbin lids earlier than they want; run around like headless chickens stuffing lunchboxes, finding uniforms, homework etc until the lids go to their various institutions. Then the day really begins: dash to work, dash round the supermarket, dump car at home, collect lids, keep the peace, cook, do laundry, taxi them about. And smile. Miss them during the day like a love-sick puppy. For all of three minutes.
I like the holidays. You can sleep in. You don’t have to be anywhere. You can ride bikes. You can play in the park for ages. You can go swimming. And freeze. And not clock watch. And half freeze to death on the beaches of Suffolk even though the rest of the country is enjoying a freak heat wave.
Gorgeous boy’s bike is too small for him, so he rides the tweenager’s and she rides mine. I run along behind the Little One shouting encouragement. Last week I got a tad fed up with this so went off in search of new wheels for the lad.
Needing instant gratification we couldn’t wait three days for the sports shop to build one and they won’t sell ‘em flat packed. Halfords tried to sell me a flat pack and couldn’t get why I wouldn’t part with dosh on a bike in a box of which we had no idea of size or, more importantly, style.
Finally surrendered to the hell of Toys R Us and was shocked to find an adult sales assistant who knew his biking onions. Only half an hour later gorgeous boy, the little one and myself struggled across the car park with a large flat pack.
My marriage is a partnership with distinct divisions of labour: I give birth and deal with all emotional issues: He understands instructions and tools and does all the building stuff. But the Tweenager has feminist leanings, so as not to appear completely useless I emptied the box (difficult in itself) and studied the instructions, after all He-who-must-be-adored was doing a martyrish long shift saving London.
After 20 minutes discussion gorgeous boy decisively showed us the tools needed (despite our feminist leanings neither Tweenager nor I know the names of tools other than hammer and even I could tell that wasn’t needed).
Line one of the instructions stated that if you have nuts on the front wheel remove them. Tweenager, gorgeous boy and I struggled with spanners and wrenches for ages and finally dislodged the nuts and all the ball bearing things fell on the floor. We agreed this was a bad thing. Resisting the temptation to bash the bike to buggery with a hammer, we tied the bolts back up, left the bits of bike on the kitchen floor and went to watch telly whilst awaiting the return of He-who-must-be-adored.
We were all very keen to go on a bike ride the next day so didn’t think 10pm was too late to ask a man to build a bike. Surely its better to get these sort of jobs out of the way before you go to bed? He-who-must-be-adored did that shaky head thing that my father used to do. I decided this was not a good sign. When He asked why on earth we’d undone the bolts I went to tackle the urgent laundry and left the lids to explain. (It was their idea to have a go, when you’ve got 6 brothers and a husband why would you even try?)
From the laundry I heard him ask whether the ball bearings had fallen out. At this point I remembered some other urgent business upstairs so didn’t hear the response. By the time I came down the bike was built and the gorgeous boy was riding, in the dark, up and down the street with He supervising. Normal service was resumed.
At bedtime the Tweenager whispered to me that the nuts the instructions referred to were for transporting purposes and our front wheel didn’t have any of them. And how the hell were we supposed to just ‘know’ these things?
By the end of the following day I never wanted to ride a bike ever again. I had saddle sores and was grateful when Gorgeous Boy got a flat tyre so I could wheel his home whilst he rode mine. Think I preferred running along behind.
I like the holidays. You can sleep in. You don’t have to be anywhere. You can ride bikes. You can play in the park for ages. You can go swimming. And freeze. And not clock watch. And half freeze to death on the beaches of Suffolk even though the rest of the country is enjoying a freak heat wave.
Gorgeous boy’s bike is too small for him, so he rides the tweenager’s and she rides mine. I run along behind the Little One shouting encouragement. Last week I got a tad fed up with this so went off in search of new wheels for the lad.
Needing instant gratification we couldn’t wait three days for the sports shop to build one and they won’t sell ‘em flat packed. Halfords tried to sell me a flat pack and couldn’t get why I wouldn’t part with dosh on a bike in a box of which we had no idea of size or, more importantly, style.
Finally surrendered to the hell of Toys R Us and was shocked to find an adult sales assistant who knew his biking onions. Only half an hour later gorgeous boy, the little one and myself struggled across the car park with a large flat pack.
My marriage is a partnership with distinct divisions of labour: I give birth and deal with all emotional issues: He understands instructions and tools and does all the building stuff. But the Tweenager has feminist leanings, so as not to appear completely useless I emptied the box (difficult in itself) and studied the instructions, after all He-who-must-be-adored was doing a martyrish long shift saving London.
After 20 minutes discussion gorgeous boy decisively showed us the tools needed (despite our feminist leanings neither Tweenager nor I know the names of tools other than hammer and even I could tell that wasn’t needed).
Line one of the instructions stated that if you have nuts on the front wheel remove them. Tweenager, gorgeous boy and I struggled with spanners and wrenches for ages and finally dislodged the nuts and all the ball bearing things fell on the floor. We agreed this was a bad thing. Resisting the temptation to bash the bike to buggery with a hammer, we tied the bolts back up, left the bits of bike on the kitchen floor and went to watch telly whilst awaiting the return of He-who-must-be-adored.
We were all very keen to go on a bike ride the next day so didn’t think 10pm was too late to ask a man to build a bike. Surely its better to get these sort of jobs out of the way before you go to bed? He-who-must-be-adored did that shaky head thing that my father used to do. I decided this was not a good sign. When He asked why on earth we’d undone the bolts I went to tackle the urgent laundry and left the lids to explain. (It was their idea to have a go, when you’ve got 6 brothers and a husband why would you even try?)
From the laundry I heard him ask whether the ball bearings had fallen out. At this point I remembered some other urgent business upstairs so didn’t hear the response. By the time I came down the bike was built and the gorgeous boy was riding, in the dark, up and down the street with He supervising. Normal service was resumed.
At bedtime the Tweenager whispered to me that the nuts the instructions referred to were for transporting purposes and our front wheel didn’t have any of them. And how the hell were we supposed to just ‘know’ these things?
By the end of the following day I never wanted to ride a bike ever again. I had saddle sores and was grateful when Gorgeous Boy got a flat tyre so I could wheel his home whilst he rode mine. Think I preferred running along behind.
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
Chocolate
So that’s Easter done and dusted. Fab weather for the time of year - not so fab for warm little hands holding chocolate.
The best Easter news was the arrival of my new great nephew on what would have been my mother’s birthday. Just hope the lovely little fella isn’t blessed with her balmier aspects.
Easter Sunday started early with the Little One excitedly demanding the treasure hunt begin. In hangover fog I noticed He-who-must-be-adored wasn’t in bed. Thought he might be making tea. No such luck. As I slowly came round to the real world, I remembered he was off saving London. I was on my own, again, as the only responsible adult.
Don’t normally find that too difficult a prospect but Easter Sunday is different. It’s the Easter Hunt. That involves deciphering He-who-must-be-adored’s difficult clues. With the added problem that I remember He giving me instructions but too hungover to remember them. Was I supposed to hide eggs and bunnies and other such stuff? He couldn’t be that daft to rely on me for such crucial elements? Surely? This had the potential to go down as the worst hunt ever. Imagine the dustbin lids spending ages working out clues to find….nothing. The only upside being the potential to keep future therapists in business. As I battled with gravity to get my head off the pillow a vague memory flooded back of me stuffing kinder eggs in the freezer. All therefore could not be quite lost.
A few crucial texts later and we were all on track. Somehow, the Little One put gorgeous boy, the tweenager and me to shame by outwitting us all and resolving the hardest of His cryptic clues. There were only two that we decided would have to wait til He returned home at some point in the future. Once the majority of the edible treasure was found they all returned to my bed for the choc fest of all choc fests. The chocolate orange eggs were the only big mistake as fairly soon after eating them at xmas we were all struck down with the vomit bug – not a great association.
Regardless, much choc was chomped. Would never have eaten so much had He-who-must-be-adored been here to tell us enough was enough. By 10am we all had tummy aches. It was declared the best Easter Hunt ever.
Returning later to make the bed I decided melted choc is not such a good look for a white bedspread.
So I managed the whole of lent without a smoke, of which I am extremely proud. And I’ve only gained 16lbs, which over 40 days and 40 nights I deem not a bad achievement. More difficult is to go without chocolate and therefore to fit into the clothes I wore as a smoker. They mostly hurt round the mid-rift. And am only slightly depressed by the reality of my largest, most comfy, linen trousers no longer meeting in the middle.
Easter weekend is clearly not the time to be contemplating such matters when every surface I look at contains Easter treats. Moving up to the next size would allow me to look normal again, if slightly larger. Whereas squidging myself into clothes (not to mention underwear) suitable for a frame at least 16lbs lighter looks weirdly grotesque. No fabric can stretch that far, no matter how much lyrca it contains.
The double whammy is the bosoms. Strange old things at the best of times, mine have now become a large joke – and not just with Mr Smut. Weight gain now congregates around the bust and mid-rift. In an obviously attractive way – and again not just to Mr Smut.
The Little One and I have a game we play (stick with this it will make sense): when saying good bye to visitors we run along the pavement alongside their vehicle waving until we reach the end of the road, or we run out of steam. Last week we played this game and I was horrified to realise my bosoms had managed to both work their way lose from their holsters as I ran. So not a good look.
Then at the weekend I tried on a bikini. We were in a fairly inexpensive shop so I thought I’d go up two sizes to compensate for cheap cutting. Horrified that even two sizes up there was still no where near enough supportive fabric to even cover my nipples.
What do I do to console myself? Cook the meal with the highest possible fat content. It’s a comfort replacement thing.
The best Easter news was the arrival of my new great nephew on what would have been my mother’s birthday. Just hope the lovely little fella isn’t blessed with her balmier aspects.
Easter Sunday started early with the Little One excitedly demanding the treasure hunt begin. In hangover fog I noticed He-who-must-be-adored wasn’t in bed. Thought he might be making tea. No such luck. As I slowly came round to the real world, I remembered he was off saving London. I was on my own, again, as the only responsible adult.
Don’t normally find that too difficult a prospect but Easter Sunday is different. It’s the Easter Hunt. That involves deciphering He-who-must-be-adored’s difficult clues. With the added problem that I remember He giving me instructions but too hungover to remember them. Was I supposed to hide eggs and bunnies and other such stuff? He couldn’t be that daft to rely on me for such crucial elements? Surely? This had the potential to go down as the worst hunt ever. Imagine the dustbin lids spending ages working out clues to find….nothing. The only upside being the potential to keep future therapists in business. As I battled with gravity to get my head off the pillow a vague memory flooded back of me stuffing kinder eggs in the freezer. All therefore could not be quite lost.
A few crucial texts later and we were all on track. Somehow, the Little One put gorgeous boy, the tweenager and me to shame by outwitting us all and resolving the hardest of His cryptic clues. There were only two that we decided would have to wait til He returned home at some point in the future. Once the majority of the edible treasure was found they all returned to my bed for the choc fest of all choc fests. The chocolate orange eggs were the only big mistake as fairly soon after eating them at xmas we were all struck down with the vomit bug – not a great association.
Regardless, much choc was chomped. Would never have eaten so much had He-who-must-be-adored been here to tell us enough was enough. By 10am we all had tummy aches. It was declared the best Easter Hunt ever.
Returning later to make the bed I decided melted choc is not such a good look for a white bedspread.
So I managed the whole of lent without a smoke, of which I am extremely proud. And I’ve only gained 16lbs, which over 40 days and 40 nights I deem not a bad achievement. More difficult is to go without chocolate and therefore to fit into the clothes I wore as a smoker. They mostly hurt round the mid-rift. And am only slightly depressed by the reality of my largest, most comfy, linen trousers no longer meeting in the middle.
Easter weekend is clearly not the time to be contemplating such matters when every surface I look at contains Easter treats. Moving up to the next size would allow me to look normal again, if slightly larger. Whereas squidging myself into clothes (not to mention underwear) suitable for a frame at least 16lbs lighter looks weirdly grotesque. No fabric can stretch that far, no matter how much lyrca it contains.
The double whammy is the bosoms. Strange old things at the best of times, mine have now become a large joke – and not just with Mr Smut. Weight gain now congregates around the bust and mid-rift. In an obviously attractive way – and again not just to Mr Smut.
The Little One and I have a game we play (stick with this it will make sense): when saying good bye to visitors we run along the pavement alongside their vehicle waving until we reach the end of the road, or we run out of steam. Last week we played this game and I was horrified to realise my bosoms had managed to both work their way lose from their holsters as I ran. So not a good look.
Then at the weekend I tried on a bikini. We were in a fairly inexpensive shop so I thought I’d go up two sizes to compensate for cheap cutting. Horrified that even two sizes up there was still no where near enough supportive fabric to even cover my nipples.
What do I do to console myself? Cook the meal with the highest possible fat content. It’s a comfort replacement thing.
Thursday, 5 April 2007
On the road again
Easter holidays are going well. Have been visited by my two fave nieces (before noses are out of joint I have 17 fave nieces). He-who-must-be-adored has sort of relaxed for a few days, inbetween dropping and picking up various dustbin lids and pals and cousins. Was pleased to discover friends of the little-one also have a pit of despair outside their back door.
Weather not too bad either. Spring is certainly sprung. Just like the mattress of gorgeous boy. Spent yesterday trekking round the north peculiar to visit giant Swedish store. It’s cheap. The experience is crap. We know this to be the case. And still we go.
Beds and mattresses chosen we realise we can’t all fit in the car with the goods. I get the job of entertaining the lids in store whilst He-who-must-be-adored does check out and drive home. After parting I realise He has all the cash and wouldn’t it be nice to have lunch while we’re about it. Dumped my bag to catch He in the car park. But first had to spend a long time negotiating with children and the rabbit warren routes through the store.
Back in store, I wonder what did I have in that heavy shopping bag earlier? Clearly nothing neither needed nor useful. Again believe this to be all part of the Swedish shopping experience.
After a hearty lunch we meet up with He for more retail torture. Gorgeous boy has adopted same shopping technique as He ie asking on a minute by minute basis are we done yet. Finally head onto north peculiar with another large bag of unnecessary goods. We dismantle old beds, and count the broken wooden slats – of course my dustbin lids all deny ever jumping on any beds. Obviously those pesky burglars again.
Once the spaces were hovered and ancient smelly socks and other odd finds were removed we unpack the new beds. At this point I am tempted to surrender and drown my sorrows. One metal side is more bent than a nine-bob note and will never fit to anything. Negotiations between He and Me are swift and I get the short straw. Back on the north peculiar again. When I mentally factor in time and petrol I reckon it would have cost the same to pay through the nose at a proper department store, and have the damn things delivered.
My expectations of the customer service department are not huge, but was impressed with the new deli-style ticketing system. Got slightly scared by the customer having a tantrum (to herself) asking why oh why do they hate their customers so. The chap who served me was confused as to why I was only returning one box of a two-box product. I explained very slowly: am not returning it – want new one – not bent - tonight – for my child – to sleep in - the old bed is in pieces. After only an hour’s wait I could see a worried glint in his eyes as I insisted on opening the box to inspect the product. Just couldn’t face a fourth trip on the north peculiar.
Two beds built later, along with promises of never jumping on them, we finally sit down with a glass of wine at 10pm. All children abed. Hurrah. 10.10pm gorgeous boy and the little one are down complaining new beds are itchy.
Can’t think of a better way for He-who-must-be-adored to spend his time off.
Weather not too bad either. Spring is certainly sprung. Just like the mattress of gorgeous boy. Spent yesterday trekking round the north peculiar to visit giant Swedish store. It’s cheap. The experience is crap. We know this to be the case. And still we go.
Beds and mattresses chosen we realise we can’t all fit in the car with the goods. I get the job of entertaining the lids in store whilst He-who-must-be-adored does check out and drive home. After parting I realise He has all the cash and wouldn’t it be nice to have lunch while we’re about it. Dumped my bag to catch He in the car park. But first had to spend a long time negotiating with children and the rabbit warren routes through the store.
Back in store, I wonder what did I have in that heavy shopping bag earlier? Clearly nothing neither needed nor useful. Again believe this to be all part of the Swedish shopping experience.
After a hearty lunch we meet up with He for more retail torture. Gorgeous boy has adopted same shopping technique as He ie asking on a minute by minute basis are we done yet. Finally head onto north peculiar with another large bag of unnecessary goods. We dismantle old beds, and count the broken wooden slats – of course my dustbin lids all deny ever jumping on any beds. Obviously those pesky burglars again.
Once the spaces were hovered and ancient smelly socks and other odd finds were removed we unpack the new beds. At this point I am tempted to surrender and drown my sorrows. One metal side is more bent than a nine-bob note and will never fit to anything. Negotiations between He and Me are swift and I get the short straw. Back on the north peculiar again. When I mentally factor in time and petrol I reckon it would have cost the same to pay through the nose at a proper department store, and have the damn things delivered.
My expectations of the customer service department are not huge, but was impressed with the new deli-style ticketing system. Got slightly scared by the customer having a tantrum (to herself) asking why oh why do they hate their customers so. The chap who served me was confused as to why I was only returning one box of a two-box product. I explained very slowly: am not returning it – want new one – not bent - tonight – for my child – to sleep in - the old bed is in pieces. After only an hour’s wait I could see a worried glint in his eyes as I insisted on opening the box to inspect the product. Just couldn’t face a fourth trip on the north peculiar.
Two beds built later, along with promises of never jumping on them, we finally sit down with a glass of wine at 10pm. All children abed. Hurrah. 10.10pm gorgeous boy and the little one are down complaining new beds are itchy.
Can’t think of a better way for He-who-must-be-adored to spend his time off.
Monday, 2 April 2007
Into the Garden
Hurrah. He-who-must-be-adored has taken some time off from saving London to play happy families. What with the weather being so nice n’all we spent Sunday in the garden – getting rid of that wintry neglected look, ready for the fun and frolics of summer.
Some time ago, when the weather was not so nice, two fence panels deserted us. Such dull chores were neglected due to the bad bad weather and the busyness of us. The Easter holidays are just the time to attend to deserted chores. Trouble is, the whole of norf London has the same idea and fence panels are nowhere to be found. Heigh ho, onto another job.
Long before the fence panels moved on and before He-who-must-be-adored spent 18 months limping due to injury, I asked for a hard standing for the swinging bench. The lawn was worn out by all those happy feet. He-who-must-be-adored loves this sort of request as it involves digging. Digging is His thing. When stressed, digging is THE thing, so He says. The very next week a skip appeared, he took time off, and he started to dig. And dug he did. A lot. The result? A pit of despair some 16ft by 10ft. Since when his leg wasn’t capable of doing anything and then London needed a lot of saving. Two years later the pit of despair stands in the very middle of my garden full to bursting with weeds. Is this a good time to discuss it again?
We have, for the most part, been successful in avoiding talk of the pit. Mention of it erupts into a negative atmosphere between us. And it is fair to say we have enough of those. But do we really want a third summer with the pit of despair staring forlornly back at us? Do we want visitors to enquire what IS the plan here? When we don’t have an agreed one. Shall I bite the bullet and just order ‘stuff’ to fill it? What ‘stuff’ do you order? Where do you go to order such ‘stuff’? He was so proud of his digging achievement but then considered his part done.
The swinging bench still swings on mud.
Oh the heaviness of gardening.
Some time ago, when the weather was not so nice, two fence panels deserted us. Such dull chores were neglected due to the bad bad weather and the busyness of us. The Easter holidays are just the time to attend to deserted chores. Trouble is, the whole of norf London has the same idea and fence panels are nowhere to be found. Heigh ho, onto another job.
Long before the fence panels moved on and before He-who-must-be-adored spent 18 months limping due to injury, I asked for a hard standing for the swinging bench. The lawn was worn out by all those happy feet. He-who-must-be-adored loves this sort of request as it involves digging. Digging is His thing. When stressed, digging is THE thing, so He says. The very next week a skip appeared, he took time off, and he started to dig. And dug he did. A lot. The result? A pit of despair some 16ft by 10ft. Since when his leg wasn’t capable of doing anything and then London needed a lot of saving. Two years later the pit of despair stands in the very middle of my garden full to bursting with weeds. Is this a good time to discuss it again?
We have, for the most part, been successful in avoiding talk of the pit. Mention of it erupts into a negative atmosphere between us. And it is fair to say we have enough of those. But do we really want a third summer with the pit of despair staring forlornly back at us? Do we want visitors to enquire what IS the plan here? When we don’t have an agreed one. Shall I bite the bullet and just order ‘stuff’ to fill it? What ‘stuff’ do you order? Where do you go to order such ‘stuff’? He was so proud of his digging achievement but then considered his part done.
The swinging bench still swings on mud.
Oh the heaviness of gardening.
Wednesday, 28 March 2007
Cigarettes and Alcohol
Thought I'd mention, as am supposed to be blogging about being a non-smoker, that it's been a bloody long time since I had a fag. Today I really wanted one. But not enough to have one. Just wish my clothes didn't hurt - what with carrying all that extra weight. Alcohol am not doing so well on - although managing to keep it to weekends and only appear to be drinking fizzy stuff - a good thing me thinks!
The Roman Way
When looking for lost items what I mainly find is dirt, the odd bit of dust, and lots of hair ties. Made the mistake of attending domestic chores. Avoided breaking my neck bringing down dusty roman blind. Undoing knots is not in my skill-set so after 20 mins hacked off the strings with newly re-found sharp scissors. Pity I then used too hot a wash. Put blind back up hoping the crumpled shrunken edges wouldn’t notice. It notices. Will have to buy a new one. Surely it’d be cheaper and easier to employ a cleaner again? (That for the particular benefit of He-who-must-be-adored should he ever bother to read my blog).
Another weekend another costume drama. Despite providing Gorgeous Boy with white Roman costume ages ago, on Friday the school provided a red one. But School’s don’t cater for handsomely tall chaps like my Gorgeous Boy. Eventually discovered the cause of his bad mood on Friday evening was the thought of wearing a long red dress. Can’t have that, so spent Sunday afternoon running up a red Roman Soldier’s Tunic. Great he said. What about the grey bit? 4pm on Sunday is not a good time to discover the need for a grey bit. Somehow managed to find some silver fabric that I fashioned into Roman armour as drawn by 9-year-old boy. It wasn’t a masterpiece, and could have benefited from a tape measure being found (rather than all that guess work). But he was happy he no longer had to wear a dress. Drama over.
Should be at the junior school right now, enjoying gorgeous boy in An Evening of Roman Entertainment. Except they only allow 2 tickets per family. We are more than 2. And no, as I have said many times, my mother can’t help. What’s with the assumption that mothers are alive and prepared to baby-sit? Sometimes feel only families with one child and grandparents are catered for. Bitter and twisted? Moi?
So, rearranged work to watch the Roman Entertainment this afternoon and had to wipe away a tear of pride and joy at my boy’s solo singing. The voice of an angel. The little one was also allowed to watch during school time. She loved it so much she insisted on having the tweenager’s ticket for the evening performance. Now that’s dedication.
In truth was rather pleased at having to leave work early. Am getting distressed with Captain Chaos latest game. It’s something he and The Smiler have been doing since early childhood. But why am I suddenly included in their boy games? The shock of being jumped out on is no fun when your over 21 and despite your heart banging in your chest you pretend you knew they were hiding all along. Pretence being the most important aspect of the game. Of course. Just like the pretence that giving up your career (in a fashionable glass box in the city ) in exchange for being jumped out on by your brother (in a portacabin in the northest part of North London) is all you ever wanted. Bitter and twisted?
Doubly distressed to find a Maureen Lipman book on my shelf. Not that there's anything wrong with Maureen, just I have no recollection of buying, borrowing, nor reading the thing. Distress increases with quick read of page 2: “I have alas reached the stage when I can read a book until ¾ of the way through before realising I’ve already read it”. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?
Another weekend another costume drama. Despite providing Gorgeous Boy with white Roman costume ages ago, on Friday the school provided a red one. But School’s don’t cater for handsomely tall chaps like my Gorgeous Boy. Eventually discovered the cause of his bad mood on Friday evening was the thought of wearing a long red dress. Can’t have that, so spent Sunday afternoon running up a red Roman Soldier’s Tunic. Great he said. What about the grey bit? 4pm on Sunday is not a good time to discover the need for a grey bit. Somehow managed to find some silver fabric that I fashioned into Roman armour as drawn by 9-year-old boy. It wasn’t a masterpiece, and could have benefited from a tape measure being found (rather than all that guess work). But he was happy he no longer had to wear a dress. Drama over.
Should be at the junior school right now, enjoying gorgeous boy in An Evening of Roman Entertainment. Except they only allow 2 tickets per family. We are more than 2. And no, as I have said many times, my mother can’t help. What’s with the assumption that mothers are alive and prepared to baby-sit? Sometimes feel only families with one child and grandparents are catered for. Bitter and twisted? Moi?
So, rearranged work to watch the Roman Entertainment this afternoon and had to wipe away a tear of pride and joy at my boy’s solo singing. The voice of an angel. The little one was also allowed to watch during school time. She loved it so much she insisted on having the tweenager’s ticket for the evening performance. Now that’s dedication.
In truth was rather pleased at having to leave work early. Am getting distressed with Captain Chaos latest game. It’s something he and The Smiler have been doing since early childhood. But why am I suddenly included in their boy games? The shock of being jumped out on is no fun when your over 21 and despite your heart banging in your chest you pretend you knew they were hiding all along. Pretence being the most important aspect of the game. Of course. Just like the pretence that giving up your career (in a fashionable glass box in the city ) in exchange for being jumped out on by your brother (in a portacabin in the northest part of North London) is all you ever wanted. Bitter and twisted?
Doubly distressed to find a Maureen Lipman book on my shelf. Not that there's anything wrong with Maureen, just I have no recollection of buying, borrowing, nor reading the thing. Distress increases with quick read of page 2: “I have alas reached the stage when I can read a book until ¾ of the way through before realising I’ve already read it”. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?
Wednesday, 21 March 2007
All the small things
Twenty-eight days without smoking and one day without losing anything, including any weight! Not that I’m trying. Unless replacing crumpets with croissants count.
One person’s gain is another’s loss. Bestmumchum lost her car keys and with them the ability to demobilise the demobiliser. Calls to mechanics run anything but smoothly - if she could bring the car in she’d hardly need their services. In frustration she’s resorted to wearing trainers and running between appointments. And all this after being woken at 4am by the large cock next door - her neighbour has a rooster! If bestmumchum could mobilise her car she’d have bought an airgun by now. This seems out of character yet strangely not - since that chilling incident with the Truant Police.
The little one is under the weather after freezing on our wet Sunday out. Still we send her to school. A day at home is a waste when all she wants is to apply stickers. This is one of the few parenting issues we agree over – the irritating difficultly of removing stickers from household appliances, along with the embarrassment of not noticing them about your person. The lure of the school trip to the post office swung it for school.
Incapable of keeping a surprise we had to ring Supersis to warn her of impending mail. She asked was it true that I am all of a fluster at work? Captain Chaos’ hobby of ribbing me has gone too far.
True the majority of our customers would win, hands-down, any kind of ugly competition anywhere in the world. The exception is endearingly referred to as ze Charming French Bloke. The name gives some small hint of his special appeal. But no, his presence does not leave me flustered; nor do I flush red at mention of his name; nor have I been taking so much more care over my work appearance since his appearance. True he provides some light relief in an otherwise deadly dull place. But that’s all folks.
One person’s gain is another’s loss. Bestmumchum lost her car keys and with them the ability to demobilise the demobiliser. Calls to mechanics run anything but smoothly - if she could bring the car in she’d hardly need their services. In frustration she’s resorted to wearing trainers and running between appointments. And all this after being woken at 4am by the large cock next door - her neighbour has a rooster! If bestmumchum could mobilise her car she’d have bought an airgun by now. This seems out of character yet strangely not - since that chilling incident with the Truant Police.
The little one is under the weather after freezing on our wet Sunday out. Still we send her to school. A day at home is a waste when all she wants is to apply stickers. This is one of the few parenting issues we agree over – the irritating difficultly of removing stickers from household appliances, along with the embarrassment of not noticing them about your person. The lure of the school trip to the post office swung it for school.
Incapable of keeping a surprise we had to ring Supersis to warn her of impending mail. She asked was it true that I am all of a fluster at work? Captain Chaos’ hobby of ribbing me has gone too far.
True the majority of our customers would win, hands-down, any kind of ugly competition anywhere in the world. The exception is endearingly referred to as ze Charming French Bloke. The name gives some small hint of his special appeal. But no, his presence does not leave me flustered; nor do I flush red at mention of his name; nor have I been taking so much more care over my work appearance since his appearance. True he provides some light relief in an otherwise deadly dull place. But that’s all folks.
Tuesday, 20 March 2007
Breakfast in Bed
Yesterday Mother’s Day started brilliantly. Breakfast, handmade cards and Sunday papers all served in bed. Pity from then on a downward trend appeared.
For four years we’ve talked about the London St Patrick’s Day Parade. Mother’s Day was the perfect opportunity to do the deed. Despite being invited for lunch by Supersis we set off on the train.
Surfacing in town we were struck by the uncomfortable combination of freezing heavy winds and sheets of sheer ice sleeting upon us. A marathon trek finally landed us in a coffee shop with enough standing room to enter. We were lucky and found three seats for the five of us. Miserably sipping hot chocolate while defrosting the dustbin lids, He-who-must-be-adored asked whether it was worth seeing if the lunch invite still stood.
By the time the sun came out we’d managed to miss the big parade. Determined to enjoy the whole paddy experience we let the lids be conned out of their pocket money (and some more) in exchange for green and tacky memorabilia.
Covent Garden was a disappointment. Hearing the droning tones of Ken Livingstone in Trafalgar Square nearly finished us off. And comments from He-who-must-be-adored on the number of ‘traveller-types’ was not, apparently, an attempt to denigrate my cultural heritage.
The Irish dancing in Leicester square was the highlight of the day for me. Gorgeous boy, the Tweenager and the little one were horrified to see me joining in. Well if I can’t sing and prance about on Mother’s Day when can I?
The freak weather conditions took a turn for the worse again, and faced with three miserable children and a non-speaking partner I decided Hamleys was just the ticket. It did the trick, temporarily.
Homeward bound He made us run from the tube to our train. But then he’s not the one with little legs or a weakened bladder. Or both. I was hugely relieved to make it onto the train without anyone (including myself) either getting lost or wetting themselves.
Exhausted and chilled to the bone He asked whether I’d taken any meat out of the freezer for supper? Silly me. I had presumed that on Mother’s Day I would be absolved from any kind of catering responsibility.
He saw the writing on the wall and did what he does: chucked alcohol at the situation. He knows me well, as after two glasses of chilled champagne, I thought what could be more perfect and special as a Mother’s Day meal than kebab and chips?
Hung over this morning, me not working and him working lates, thought we might have a relaxing morning together. But the hunt for the missing item continued. We were searching for a necklace of mine, purchased by He after great effort in tracking down a supplier in London from a small picture in a magazine. The Tweenager borrowed it for a party and swears blind it came back into the black hole that is this house. All cupboards and hiding places have been emptied, sorted and searched.
The good news is I found my long lost bangle, wedding ring and the sharp scissors. No sign of any necklace though. The hunt continues.
For four years we’ve talked about the London St Patrick’s Day Parade. Mother’s Day was the perfect opportunity to do the deed. Despite being invited for lunch by Supersis we set off on the train.
Surfacing in town we were struck by the uncomfortable combination of freezing heavy winds and sheets of sheer ice sleeting upon us. A marathon trek finally landed us in a coffee shop with enough standing room to enter. We were lucky and found three seats for the five of us. Miserably sipping hot chocolate while defrosting the dustbin lids, He-who-must-be-adored asked whether it was worth seeing if the lunch invite still stood.
By the time the sun came out we’d managed to miss the big parade. Determined to enjoy the whole paddy experience we let the lids be conned out of their pocket money (and some more) in exchange for green and tacky memorabilia.
Covent Garden was a disappointment. Hearing the droning tones of Ken Livingstone in Trafalgar Square nearly finished us off. And comments from He-who-must-be-adored on the number of ‘traveller-types’ was not, apparently, an attempt to denigrate my cultural heritage.
The Irish dancing in Leicester square was the highlight of the day for me. Gorgeous boy, the Tweenager and the little one were horrified to see me joining in. Well if I can’t sing and prance about on Mother’s Day when can I?
The freak weather conditions took a turn for the worse again, and faced with three miserable children and a non-speaking partner I decided Hamleys was just the ticket. It did the trick, temporarily.
Homeward bound He made us run from the tube to our train. But then he’s not the one with little legs or a weakened bladder. Or both. I was hugely relieved to make it onto the train without anyone (including myself) either getting lost or wetting themselves.
Exhausted and chilled to the bone He asked whether I’d taken any meat out of the freezer for supper? Silly me. I had presumed that on Mother’s Day I would be absolved from any kind of catering responsibility.
He saw the writing on the wall and did what he does: chucked alcohol at the situation. He knows me well, as after two glasses of chilled champagne, I thought what could be more perfect and special as a Mother’s Day meal than kebab and chips?
Hung over this morning, me not working and him working lates, thought we might have a relaxing morning together. But the hunt for the missing item continued. We were searching for a necklace of mine, purchased by He after great effort in tracking down a supplier in London from a small picture in a magazine. The Tweenager borrowed it for a party and swears blind it came back into the black hole that is this house. All cupboards and hiding places have been emptied, sorted and searched.
The good news is I found my long lost bangle, wedding ring and the sharp scissors. No sign of any necklace though. The hunt continues.
Sunday, 18 March 2007
Don't stop me now
Yesterday was one of those days where the plan changed and changed again. I planned to walk to and from the Gym in a 5k circuit, do a Pilates class then attack the domestic mountain of chores. Dull I know, but the work out was needed to address the expanding girth and on the domestic front a 3 week leave of absence is starting to show. The plan changed at 9.05 after speaking to the Forensic Examiner whose day had already gone wrong. If hers had then mine would too.
After no persuasion I settled for just the walk. Half-way through my face was puce and my legs were like jello. Twas all I could do but turn round and head home. Thank god for the upbeat tempo on my ipod or I would never have made it. So very pleased heart attack sensations were relieved once home and sports bra (purchased when stone lighter) was removed.
Once recovered I set off to meet the Forensic Examiner at the designer’s house. Unfortunately the designer didn’t get the text saying we were visiting. After tracking her down in the Highstreet I wondered if being out was a deliberate act.
The designer baby was abed so couldn’t admire him. The forensic twins are beautiful, gorgeous and lovely. But twin babes are hardly conducive to a girly chat over coffee. The Designer saw the writing on the wall and headed off to an appointment, probably fictitious. After a 15 minute nap both twins woke screaming. Now I know why we haven’t met up during the day for over a year. The Forensic Examiner is right. What’s the point? Taking them out of their routine is a mistake. Also mistaken was the man asking for directions. Clearly blind and deaf he didn’t see us both struggling with kicking twins or hear their screams that they did not want to be put in a buggy under any circumstances.
Though the Designer was out it didn’t stop us banging on her door and demanding the lovely au-pair let us in to restore good humour to the babes. I made my escape soon after.
En route on the daily banana hunt I realised how completely over the whole babe thing I am. Then why, I ask myself, have I agreed to a summer holiday with my family, the Designer, the Forensic Examiner and all their families and babies? Pool looked good?
The Irish Rover
St Patrick’s Day. To be sure, there have been times in my past, when St Paddy’s night was spent jigging about with a belly full of the black stuff. Not so now.
He-who-must-be-adored spent the morning in grumpy git mode lecturing us about lost property, before heading off to save London. Just as well. Had he stayed a moment longer he would have needed saving himself.
My little one has promised to try really hard to not pick her nose all day tomorrow. Well it is Mother’s Day. Ah the joys of motherhood.
After no persuasion I settled for just the walk. Half-way through my face was puce and my legs were like jello. Twas all I could do but turn round and head home. Thank god for the upbeat tempo on my ipod or I would never have made it. So very pleased heart attack sensations were relieved once home and sports bra (purchased when stone lighter) was removed.
Once recovered I set off to meet the Forensic Examiner at the designer’s house. Unfortunately the designer didn’t get the text saying we were visiting. After tracking her down in the Highstreet I wondered if being out was a deliberate act.
The designer baby was abed so couldn’t admire him. The forensic twins are beautiful, gorgeous and lovely. But twin babes are hardly conducive to a girly chat over coffee. The Designer saw the writing on the wall and headed off to an appointment, probably fictitious. After a 15 minute nap both twins woke screaming. Now I know why we haven’t met up during the day for over a year. The Forensic Examiner is right. What’s the point? Taking them out of their routine is a mistake. Also mistaken was the man asking for directions. Clearly blind and deaf he didn’t see us both struggling with kicking twins or hear their screams that they did not want to be put in a buggy under any circumstances.
Though the Designer was out it didn’t stop us banging on her door and demanding the lovely au-pair let us in to restore good humour to the babes. I made my escape soon after.
En route on the daily banana hunt I realised how completely over the whole babe thing I am. Then why, I ask myself, have I agreed to a summer holiday with my family, the Designer, the Forensic Examiner and all their families and babies? Pool looked good?
The Irish Rover
St Patrick’s Day. To be sure, there have been times in my past, when St Paddy’s night was spent jigging about with a belly full of the black stuff. Not so now.
He-who-must-be-adored spent the morning in grumpy git mode lecturing us about lost property, before heading off to save London. Just as well. Had he stayed a moment longer he would have needed saving himself.
My little one has promised to try really hard to not pick her nose all day tomorrow. Well it is Mother’s Day. Ah the joys of motherhood.
Thursday, 15 March 2007
Those were the days of our lives
National no smoking day today. It’s enough to make you want to smoke. Or is that just me?
My little one had her first school assembly this morning. A proud moment. Even if she did have but three words to say. I like to think they were meaningful. And important.
He-who-must-be-adored took a day off from saving London to attend. And the school’s open afternoon. I’ve attended them for the last five years so thought it only fair that he should have a turn. Except I forgot he has a bit of problem with the whole school environment. In general. And the school our dustbin lids attend in particular. For some reason he keeps getting told off. And he doesn’t take kindly to that. I am there every day and never get told off. He got told off four times today. So then he comes home grumping that its like, its like, well like being back at school again. That’s because it is a school I say.
Off He harrumphs. For a cigarette. Behind the shed. So much for no smoking day.
My little one had her first school assembly this morning. A proud moment. Even if she did have but three words to say. I like to think they were meaningful. And important.
He-who-must-be-adored took a day off from saving London to attend. And the school’s open afternoon. I’ve attended them for the last five years so thought it only fair that he should have a turn. Except I forgot he has a bit of problem with the whole school environment. In general. And the school our dustbin lids attend in particular. For some reason he keeps getting told off. And he doesn’t take kindly to that. I am there every day and never get told off. He got told off four times today. So then he comes home grumping that its like, its like, well like being back at school again. That’s because it is a school I say.
Off He harrumphs. For a cigarette. Behind the shed. So much for no smoking day.
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Reflections
A sad day. Last year, on a beautifully glorious sunny spring day like today, I would have been in some green space with my little one. With some friends, with picnics and flasks, with bikes, trikes, buggies and gossip. Lots of gossip. Now my little one is institutionalised. She spends her days inside. As do I. Not even venturing out for a smoke. Twenty-one days is an awful long time. Three weeks and not one single little puff has passed my lips. Roll me a fag and call me a liar. But I still wouldn’t smoke it. Not now.
Have given up the patches as well and am missing the stimulating nature of nicotine. I liked the fact I used to be able to stay awake past 9pm. Have made deliberate effort tonight to not live the life of a slug – double dose of coffee helped.
So pleased one of my new year’s resolutions is finally holding. Even though I didn’t quite get into the swing of it til February.
Another reso was to finish the hallway. We’re on the home straight having made it down to the ground floor. It’s a kinda slow old business, what with life, the kids, He-who-must-be-adored saving London so much, etc etc. When I’m not sleeping I could pick up a brush. But have learnt after numerous demonstrations and lectures that my brushstrokes do not meet the high standards of He who normally wields the brush. Is three years to decorate a hallway excessive?
When it is all done and dusted (hardly likely) I’ve decided the long narrow space needs some reflection. Not the sort that questions life – just mirrors. And not just to widen the hallway and get rid of that Alice in Wonderland feeling. I have another motive: the strictly strategic reason of me saving face.
One morning, a while ago, in my former, smoking life, I was carefully beautifying myself with precision application of expensive cosmetics (ie 2 minute slap attack) when I was called away on a peace-keeping mission. Some time later (much later) that very same day I happened to briefly catch my reflection. All was not well in the face department. It took a few moments to work out. My averagely freakish appearance is usually enhanced with the magic of a mascara wand. This was a tad more tragic. I’d only got as far as applying mascara to one eye. Freaky one eye was disappearing into the back of my head whilst the other was swollen wide with long lashes. Worse was mentally counting all the bastards I’d bumped into during day who’d not mentioned it. What’s worse – them thinking that’s normal for me or just not noticing?
So far I have one small mirror hung quite near the front door. The recent sunshine – much as it is welcome and lovely – is not kind on the reflection of faces like mine, past the first flush of youth. Despite the position of new mirror, am still failing to remember to check my appearance before leaving. Plan to line the entire length of hallway with mirrors of all shapes and sizes in the hope that one will catch my unmascara-ed beady little eye.
I now wonder – those references to my being pale last week - could I have got disturbed when I’d only got as far as the base coat? Too grim to contemplate.
My bed beckons.
Have given up the patches as well and am missing the stimulating nature of nicotine. I liked the fact I used to be able to stay awake past 9pm. Have made deliberate effort tonight to not live the life of a slug – double dose of coffee helped.
So pleased one of my new year’s resolutions is finally holding. Even though I didn’t quite get into the swing of it til February.
Another reso was to finish the hallway. We’re on the home straight having made it down to the ground floor. It’s a kinda slow old business, what with life, the kids, He-who-must-be-adored saving London so much, etc etc. When I’m not sleeping I could pick up a brush. But have learnt after numerous demonstrations and lectures that my brushstrokes do not meet the high standards of He who normally wields the brush. Is three years to decorate a hallway excessive?
When it is all done and dusted (hardly likely) I’ve decided the long narrow space needs some reflection. Not the sort that questions life – just mirrors. And not just to widen the hallway and get rid of that Alice in Wonderland feeling. I have another motive: the strictly strategic reason of me saving face.
One morning, a while ago, in my former, smoking life, I was carefully beautifying myself with precision application of expensive cosmetics (ie 2 minute slap attack) when I was called away on a peace-keeping mission. Some time later (much later) that very same day I happened to briefly catch my reflection. All was not well in the face department. It took a few moments to work out. My averagely freakish appearance is usually enhanced with the magic of a mascara wand. This was a tad more tragic. I’d only got as far as applying mascara to one eye. Freaky one eye was disappearing into the back of my head whilst the other was swollen wide with long lashes. Worse was mentally counting all the bastards I’d bumped into during day who’d not mentioned it. What’s worse – them thinking that’s normal for me or just not noticing?
So far I have one small mirror hung quite near the front door. The recent sunshine – much as it is welcome and lovely – is not kind on the reflection of faces like mine, past the first flush of youth. Despite the position of new mirror, am still failing to remember to check my appearance before leaving. Plan to line the entire length of hallway with mirrors of all shapes and sizes in the hope that one will catch my unmascara-ed beady little eye.
I now wonder – those references to my being pale last week - could I have got disturbed when I’d only got as far as the base coat? Too grim to contemplate.
My bed beckons.
Sunday, 11 March 2007
I Try
Major miracle alert. Made it through to the third Sunday of Lent without smoking. Feeling ever so slightly smug.
Haven't blogged for a few days. Would love to say due to wild partying and general galavanting. Sadly, spent past three evenings sofa snoozing. The tabs for 'general well being' have generally left me being not quite so well. According to the great teller of medical truths, the Internet, when you take iron at the same time as thyroxine, as I have been, they cancel each other out. General tiredness therefore rules OK. Heigh ho, all bad things must come to an end. At least no more morning horse tabs for me.
My resolve to get out more – if only for the sake of the blog – took me to the west end on Friday. Arranged to meet my old pal, The Producer, to run round a gallery. How very cultural (and unlike me). But the sun was shining and after such a long dull winter, who can resist that feeling of warm sun on your face? So we had frothy alfresco instead. So pleased that after knowing each other for nearly 20 years age has not withered us – well not our tongues anyway. Did animated yackety yacking non-stop for more than three hours. Came away wondering why it's been so long. Oh yeah I remember. The small matter of my life not being my own.
Paid the price for an interesting Friday, by spending Saturday in Tescos. That was after I'd not resolved the issue of the mislaid bank card. I know it is in that big box of lost items in Morrisons. That's where it always is when not in my purse. Not that I have much previous for this. I haven't been anywhere else. Except the post office, and have already checked their box (surprisingly large number of spectacles this week). Despite this being a regular routine, and despite being married for a decade and a half, do try to keep this aspect of me behind the back of He-who-must-be-adored. For some reason I forgot this time. Lucikly I had Barclays lost and stolen pre-recorded option list to shush his lecture on how many years He has held a bank card, without loss.
Supersis came to the rescue, as ever, inviting us over for Saturday night supper. Delighted we accepted. When she called back half an hour later saying, she couldn't actually be bothered to cook, and had booked a table halfway between me and she, He couldn't get to grips with what sort of invitation was that? Perhaps it's because we're related but I couldn't see the prob. Great overindulgent time had by all. Think He-who-must-be-adored and Mr Pacing-with-fag/fone enjoyed themselves. It is not easy to determine as they spent most of the evening outside. Smoking.
Oh the smugness of me.
Haven't blogged for a few days. Would love to say due to wild partying and general galavanting. Sadly, spent past three evenings sofa snoozing. The tabs for 'general well being' have generally left me being not quite so well. According to the great teller of medical truths, the Internet, when you take iron at the same time as thyroxine, as I have been, they cancel each other out. General tiredness therefore rules OK. Heigh ho, all bad things must come to an end. At least no more morning horse tabs for me.
My resolve to get out more – if only for the sake of the blog – took me to the west end on Friday. Arranged to meet my old pal, The Producer, to run round a gallery. How very cultural (and unlike me). But the sun was shining and after such a long dull winter, who can resist that feeling of warm sun on your face? So we had frothy alfresco instead. So pleased that after knowing each other for nearly 20 years age has not withered us – well not our tongues anyway. Did animated yackety yacking non-stop for more than three hours. Came away wondering why it's been so long. Oh yeah I remember. The small matter of my life not being my own.
Paid the price for an interesting Friday, by spending Saturday in Tescos. That was after I'd not resolved the issue of the mislaid bank card. I know it is in that big box of lost items in Morrisons. That's where it always is when not in my purse. Not that I have much previous for this. I haven't been anywhere else. Except the post office, and have already checked their box (surprisingly large number of spectacles this week). Despite this being a regular routine, and despite being married for a decade and a half, do try to keep this aspect of me behind the back of He-who-must-be-adored. For some reason I forgot this time. Lucikly I had Barclays lost and stolen pre-recorded option list to shush his lecture on how many years He has held a bank card, without loss.
Supersis came to the rescue, as ever, inviting us over for Saturday night supper. Delighted we accepted. When she called back half an hour later saying, she couldn't actually be bothered to cook, and had booked a table halfway between me and she, He couldn't get to grips with what sort of invitation was that? Perhaps it's because we're related but I couldn't see the prob. Great overindulgent time had by all. Think He-who-must-be-adored and Mr Pacing-with-fag/fone enjoyed themselves. It is not easy to determine as they spent most of the evening outside. Smoking.
Oh the smugness of me.
Thursday, 8 March 2007
Mama
Have gone off email. Something's wrong when the junk outweighs the interest by 20 to 1. And, as if I don't waste enough of my life on the great banana hunt, the Supermarkets can get at me via email. Today Sainsburys told me to 'treat you mother'. John Lewis said 'spoil your mum this mother's day. It's a special day, so whatever kind of mum she is; new, embarassing, best friend, super - make sure you treat her…'. Nowhere did it make reference to mothers like mine – long ago dead and buried. Unlike the camp florist who says everyone has a mother, alive or dead. And they all love flowers. Kerching.
John Lewis slightly redeemed themselves by stating 'If you're having problems with this message click here'. Thought click to reincarnate sounded rather catchy.
Tweenager is dropping big hints on what I might like for mother's day, even though it's still some way off. I thought a day off from peace-keeping missions and general dogsbody duties. She thought 'the slummy mummy handbook'.
Felt like a bad mother at swimming tonight. And it wasn't just my ipod head bopping (how can you resist ABBA?). I marveled, through steamed up glasses, at how well my little one was doing. 'Til I noticed there was more than one little one in a blue swimsuit.
Can take heart from the fact I am not as bad as bestmumchum. Usually she wins the best mum contest hands down. (My hands being permanently up in the 'surrender' position). Where she can generally put us mere mommy mortals to shame I can have the last laugh this week. Yup, shock horror, bestmumchum got 'done' as they say, by the Truant Police. But what's to do when bowl patrol is over, and their institutions won't have them back 'til they've not upchucked for 24 hours. Shopping for sports wear may not have been the best choice.
John Lewis slightly redeemed themselves by stating 'If you're having problems with this message click here'. Thought click to reincarnate sounded rather catchy.
Tweenager is dropping big hints on what I might like for mother's day, even though it's still some way off. I thought a day off from peace-keeping missions and general dogsbody duties. She thought 'the slummy mummy handbook'.
Felt like a bad mother at swimming tonight. And it wasn't just my ipod head bopping (how can you resist ABBA?). I marveled, through steamed up glasses, at how well my little one was doing. 'Til I noticed there was more than one little one in a blue swimsuit.
Can take heart from the fact I am not as bad as bestmumchum. Usually she wins the best mum contest hands down. (My hands being permanently up in the 'surrender' position). Where she can generally put us mere mommy mortals to shame I can have the last laugh this week. Yup, shock horror, bestmumchum got 'done' as they say, by the Truant Police. But what's to do when bowl patrol is over, and their institutions won't have them back 'til they've not upchucked for 24 hours. Shopping for sports wear may not have been the best choice.
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
Congratulations
Congratulations to me. (Well, if I don’t say it no other bugger will.) Two weeks sans cigs. The idea of cigarettes still pops into my mind. Frequently. But it’s getting easier to dismiss. Less easy to dismiss is the state of my stomach. In addition to the increasing girth and the fluff-enhanced sticky residue left by nicotine patches, I now have some squares filled in with an eczema-like rash. Hmm attractive. Presume using out-of-date patches found at back of drawer from previous giving-up attempts wasn’t one of my better ideas.
He-who-must-be-adored has turned into a yo-yo smoker. One day he does one day he doesn’t. So long as he doesn’t do it anywhere near me what does it matter? It’s not as if I ever see him these days anyway.
Congratulations to the NHS on their latest ruse to reduce waiting lists. I finally remembered to chase within designated hours. Low and behold after much to-ing and holding I hear I will see a consultant before the end of April. Can’t give me an exact date. Can’t give me an exact explanation. My theory is if they write to me they’ll put me on a computer. If I’m on a computer I’m on a list. If I’m on a list it must be a waiting list. Despite not being on an NHS waiting list I continue to wait.
Congratulations to me again on getting another complaint about my blog. My brother, Inspector Gadget, doesn’t think he’s been fairly portrayed. Let’s see: whose new clipper gadget gave him tyre-like tracks on the back of his head? Who wasted a whole weekend playing with a mobile phone hands free gadget? Ah the magic of magnets. And, exactly what kind of gadget caused the removal of a strip of his forearm hair?
And congratulations to Godper (boyfriend of my niece, the Capitalist) for knocking the Geek off the top spot in potential son-in-law rankings. The rock chick thinks buying your girlfriend’s father books is a sad attempt at getting in the good books. Jealous me thinks as her Ready-to-rock-star beau is too cool to compete.
Hey even more congratulations to me on surviving two Mary Poppin’s moments this week. I helped in Class 1 for a whole afternoon and retained a smile. What’s not to like about lots of little ones? Snot perhaps? Lots! Believe any one who survives a day in that environment without shouting must be super human. Perhaps should add DNA to new teacher checks to ensure they’re not all aliens. Had a rare night off from taxi-ing last night so I thought it’d be good idea for lids to have some friends over. With hindsight what was I thinking with seven? But they had a ball. In the kitchen. And the hallway. And the playroom. And every other space in the house.
Isn’t a bit of sunshine a marvellous thing?
He-who-must-be-adored has turned into a yo-yo smoker. One day he does one day he doesn’t. So long as he doesn’t do it anywhere near me what does it matter? It’s not as if I ever see him these days anyway.
Congratulations to the NHS on their latest ruse to reduce waiting lists. I finally remembered to chase within designated hours. Low and behold after much to-ing and holding I hear I will see a consultant before the end of April. Can’t give me an exact date. Can’t give me an exact explanation. My theory is if they write to me they’ll put me on a computer. If I’m on a computer I’m on a list. If I’m on a list it must be a waiting list. Despite not being on an NHS waiting list I continue to wait.
Congratulations to me again on getting another complaint about my blog. My brother, Inspector Gadget, doesn’t think he’s been fairly portrayed. Let’s see: whose new clipper gadget gave him tyre-like tracks on the back of his head? Who wasted a whole weekend playing with a mobile phone hands free gadget? Ah the magic of magnets. And, exactly what kind of gadget caused the removal of a strip of his forearm hair?
And congratulations to Godper (boyfriend of my niece, the Capitalist) for knocking the Geek off the top spot in potential son-in-law rankings. The rock chick thinks buying your girlfriend’s father books is a sad attempt at getting in the good books. Jealous me thinks as her Ready-to-rock-star beau is too cool to compete.
Hey even more congratulations to me on surviving two Mary Poppin’s moments this week. I helped in Class 1 for a whole afternoon and retained a smile. What’s not to like about lots of little ones? Snot perhaps? Lots! Believe any one who survives a day in that environment without shouting must be super human. Perhaps should add DNA to new teacher checks to ensure they’re not all aliens. Had a rare night off from taxi-ing last night so I thought it’d be good idea for lids to have some friends over. With hindsight what was I thinking with seven? But they had a ball. In the kitchen. And the hallway. And the playroom. And every other space in the house.
Isn’t a bit of sunshine a marvellous thing?
Monday, 5 March 2007
Don't know why
I don't know why, but my bad mood blogs seem to have caused some confusion. To put the matter straight: I really love my family, especially the dustbin-lids.
I know as parents you are supposed to be the font of all knowledge. But I am only human and happily admit there's a lot I don't know. I don't know why most of my emails ask me to extend a penis I do not have. I don't know why, when I bother to write a blog my Internet browser will not allow me to view it. I can edit 'til the cows come home. So I must have loaded it. Just can't view it. As if I don't feel nervous enough sending my musings into cyberspace to then not be able to view it only encourages the conspiracy theorist within. On second thoughts, it's probably a good thing. Viewing your own is probably a cringe-maker too far.
I don't know why so many things beep in this house. The super-dooper-supposed-to –do-everything machine does nothing but bleep, like a hungry child. A discarded watch, beeps every hour, on the hour, yet I don't know why the beep doesn't last long enough to aid location and destruction.
I don't know why the boiler does nothing when it should chuck out heat. Nor why it chucks out heat when it should be doing nothing. I don't know why my telephone will not allow me to dial any phone number containing a 3 or a 6. Nor do I have any idea why every number I want to call contains a 3 or a 6? Why does the answerphone tell me that most messages are left in the wee small hours. Is everyone in my life an insomniac? Why does the wireless connection no longer work?
I don't know why when my doctor suggested I see an NHS consultant that 4 months later I still have no word of an appointment. Nor why can I only ring between 9 and 12 to chase the appointment. Or even why do I never remember this until 12.15?
I know not why, no matter how many bananas I buy there's never one left when I want one? And why brown bruised ones that have travelled to and from various schools, forgotten at the bottom of a bag, obviously no longer count as bananas.
And most shocking of all: I don't know why mother nature's evil and twisted twin, the wicked witch of aging, came and stole my glossy locks one night leaving in their place an outsized and past-its-sell-by-date brillo-pad?
I know as parents you are supposed to be the font of all knowledge. But I am only human and happily admit there's a lot I don't know. I don't know why most of my emails ask me to extend a penis I do not have. I don't know why, when I bother to write a blog my Internet browser will not allow me to view it. I can edit 'til the cows come home. So I must have loaded it. Just can't view it. As if I don't feel nervous enough sending my musings into cyberspace to then not be able to view it only encourages the conspiracy theorist within. On second thoughts, it's probably a good thing. Viewing your own is probably a cringe-maker too far.
I don't know why so many things beep in this house. The super-dooper-supposed-to –do-everything machine does nothing but bleep, like a hungry child. A discarded watch, beeps every hour, on the hour, yet I don't know why the beep doesn't last long enough to aid location and destruction.
I don't know why the boiler does nothing when it should chuck out heat. Nor why it chucks out heat when it should be doing nothing. I don't know why my telephone will not allow me to dial any phone number containing a 3 or a 6. Nor do I have any idea why every number I want to call contains a 3 or a 6? Why does the answerphone tell me that most messages are left in the wee small hours. Is everyone in my life an insomniac? Why does the wireless connection no longer work?
I don't know why when my doctor suggested I see an NHS consultant that 4 months later I still have no word of an appointment. Nor why can I only ring between 9 and 12 to chase the appointment. Or even why do I never remember this until 12.15?
I know not why, no matter how many bananas I buy there's never one left when I want one? And why brown bruised ones that have travelled to and from various schools, forgotten at the bottom of a bag, obviously no longer count as bananas.
And most shocking of all: I don't know why mother nature's evil and twisted twin, the wicked witch of aging, came and stole my glossy locks one night leaving in their place an outsized and past-its-sell-by-date brillo-pad?
Easy Like Sunday Morning
Considered starting smoking again when Friday's foul mood continued for the majority of Saturday. But then He-who-must-be-adored returned from work with a waft of woodbines. He stank. With the benefit of hindsight, it probably was not the best thing to say to a man, just home, after 16 hours at work. On a Saturday. Should have let him take his coat off first.
But his stench put my non-smoking resolve back on track. And I have survived without smoking through to the second Sunday of Lent. Even the truly honest tween says she prefers me shouting to smoking. And the little one likes the fact that I don't keep disappearing.
Last week three people told me I looked pale. Was I feeling OK? I was until three people told me I looked pale. It's my Celtic heritage. I'm always pale. Am so pale I have, on occasion, been mistaken for a corpse. But that's normal. Isn't it? On Friday I had to shop again for bananas (I'd only bought 45 at the beginning of the week and that's clearly not enough for this banana-obsessed family) when my eye was drawn to pills 'for general well-being'. I bought them. Hoping they'll do what they say on the can. In truth I don't hold much hope that one small brown pill of iron and multi-vits can shift my general ill feeling. As I don't think it's anything to do with being ill. Think it's tiredness. And being over 40. And motherhood. And domestic drudgery. And working. And having a husband that works long hours. And not having a live-in nanny. And giving up the fags. And OD'ing on super-strength patches. And sudden withdrawal of patches as I thought they were making me feel odd.
Took the first 'for general well-being' pill yesterday. Slept for 14 hours last night. Hope the two are not related.
Strangely, woke with much improved mood this morning. Slapped on a patch and greeted the day. Wanted to explain to lids that I am just an ordinary mommy and this is just an ordinary house. Not a café nor short order chef in sight. Instead bit my tongue and made four different breakfasts.
What I miss most about smoking is the escape, the break, the chance to re-gather your thoughts. Cig time was no-kid time. Children understand the fag-force-field they are not allowed near. It lasts just long enough for me to reclaim some small semblance of sanity. But being a non-smoker I have no escape. Just keep on going. For them, now every minute is a potential mad-mommy moment.
But spring was in the air today. The sun was shining. Blossom was on the trees. Green shoots were sprouting. The sound of men-folk playing out with their power tools. Except my man. He's at work. Again.
So I decided what this family needed was a day out. Perhaps a lovely woodland walk. Made four packed lunches (with the obligatory four different contents) whilst begging children to dress in suitable outdoor attire.
Some two and half hours later we were ready to leave. We piled in the car to the pitter patter of tiny raindrops on the windscreen. I ignored them hoping the lids wouldn't notice. Did feel a tad guilty when the pitter patter became huge wet dollops and the gentle kiddy moans grew to a giant crescendo of cries. But I needed to get out.
The tweenager made a call. Frantically. She sourced a family at home. And invited ourselves over.
Despite being technically true, eating our packed lunches round the Smiler family's table is not really a day out. Yet a good day was had by all. And, fresh tea is so much better than the stuff I'd stewed in the flask. And left at home.
Now I've got that Sunday night feeling. Homework not complete, (even though I personally don't have any). And regardless of the fact the washing machine has been on the go all weekend the laundry basket is full. And despite the declaration of war I cried on the domestic mess at the beginning of the weekend, it's still here. I did reclaim the dining room table at one point. But it was a short-lived thing. It's Sunday night and I surrender.
Anyway, have decided to subscribe to the belief that only dull women have clean homes (I must be sooooooooo interesting me).
But his stench put my non-smoking resolve back on track. And I have survived without smoking through to the second Sunday of Lent. Even the truly honest tween says she prefers me shouting to smoking. And the little one likes the fact that I don't keep disappearing.
Last week three people told me I looked pale. Was I feeling OK? I was until three people told me I looked pale. It's my Celtic heritage. I'm always pale. Am so pale I have, on occasion, been mistaken for a corpse. But that's normal. Isn't it? On Friday I had to shop again for bananas (I'd only bought 45 at the beginning of the week and that's clearly not enough for this banana-obsessed family) when my eye was drawn to pills 'for general well-being'. I bought them. Hoping they'll do what they say on the can. In truth I don't hold much hope that one small brown pill of iron and multi-vits can shift my general ill feeling. As I don't think it's anything to do with being ill. Think it's tiredness. And being over 40. And motherhood. And domestic drudgery. And working. And having a husband that works long hours. And not having a live-in nanny. And giving up the fags. And OD'ing on super-strength patches. And sudden withdrawal of patches as I thought they were making me feel odd.
Took the first 'for general well-being' pill yesterday. Slept for 14 hours last night. Hope the two are not related.
Strangely, woke with much improved mood this morning. Slapped on a patch and greeted the day. Wanted to explain to lids that I am just an ordinary mommy and this is just an ordinary house. Not a café nor short order chef in sight. Instead bit my tongue and made four different breakfasts.
What I miss most about smoking is the escape, the break, the chance to re-gather your thoughts. Cig time was no-kid time. Children understand the fag-force-field they are not allowed near. It lasts just long enough for me to reclaim some small semblance of sanity. But being a non-smoker I have no escape. Just keep on going. For them, now every minute is a potential mad-mommy moment.
But spring was in the air today. The sun was shining. Blossom was on the trees. Green shoots were sprouting. The sound of men-folk playing out with their power tools. Except my man. He's at work. Again.
So I decided what this family needed was a day out. Perhaps a lovely woodland walk. Made four packed lunches (with the obligatory four different contents) whilst begging children to dress in suitable outdoor attire.
Some two and half hours later we were ready to leave. We piled in the car to the pitter patter of tiny raindrops on the windscreen. I ignored them hoping the lids wouldn't notice. Did feel a tad guilty when the pitter patter became huge wet dollops and the gentle kiddy moans grew to a giant crescendo of cries. But I needed to get out.
The tweenager made a call. Frantically. She sourced a family at home. And invited ourselves over.
Despite being technically true, eating our packed lunches round the Smiler family's table is not really a day out. Yet a good day was had by all. And, fresh tea is so much better than the stuff I'd stewed in the flask. And left at home.
Now I've got that Sunday night feeling. Homework not complete, (even though I personally don't have any). And regardless of the fact the washing machine has been on the go all weekend the laundry basket is full. And despite the declaration of war I cried on the domestic mess at the beginning of the weekend, it's still here. I did reclaim the dining room table at one point. But it was a short-lived thing. It's Sunday night and I surrender.
Anyway, have decided to subscribe to the belief that only dull women have clean homes (I must be sooooooooo interesting me).
Saturday, 3 March 2007
Always look on the bright side of life
Since moving blog to mothergoat have been unable to log in. Ah the joys and wonders of modern technology.
Yesterday's most foul mood I have put down to experience and lack of patch. Thought I was doing well enough not to bother and the sticky residue was aggravating especially since every bit of fluff known to man was stuck around said sticky stuff.
He-who-must-be-adored was nearly He-who-is-no-longer. Luckily I had social arrangements last night and left him to his own devices. A quiet evening out. Met up with two dear old friends. Separately, they have recently endured more sadness than is fair, bearable or imaginable. Resolved on my way home to live life to the full, enjoy every moment as if it were my last and to celebrate every day.
New outlook slipped somewhat when tried to get into bed and found a child doing a starfish impression in my space. Struggled even further when greeted, at day-break, by a small cowboy looking for her gun. Ignoring this, Tigger returned 10 minutes later looking for her head.
This morning my spam filter asked if I wanted to add motherhood to my blocked list. Tempting....
Could be worse. I could be in his shoes. He-who-must-be-adored had to rise at 4am to work. Touching base via phones we manage a more civilised tone than yesterday (He also thought patches could be dispensed with hence his Cheery Bob routine).
Following my lead from last week, He spent the evening killing two birds with one stone: bought ten fags to satisfy craving and smoked them all, in quick succession, to destroy the evidence. Luckily for the future of our marriage He's at work and back on the patches today.
Yesterday's most foul mood I have put down to experience and lack of patch. Thought I was doing well enough not to bother and the sticky residue was aggravating especially since every bit of fluff known to man was stuck around said sticky stuff.
He-who-must-be-adored was nearly He-who-is-no-longer. Luckily I had social arrangements last night and left him to his own devices. A quiet evening out. Met up with two dear old friends. Separately, they have recently endured more sadness than is fair, bearable or imaginable. Resolved on my way home to live life to the full, enjoy every moment as if it were my last and to celebrate every day.
New outlook slipped somewhat when tried to get into bed and found a child doing a starfish impression in my space. Struggled even further when greeted, at day-break, by a small cowboy looking for her gun. Ignoring this, Tigger returned 10 minutes later looking for her head.
This morning my spam filter asked if I wanted to add motherhood to my blocked list. Tempting....
Could be worse. I could be in his shoes. He-who-must-be-adored had to rise at 4am to work. Touching base via phones we manage a more civilised tone than yesterday (He also thought patches could be dispensed with hence his Cheery Bob routine).
Following my lead from last week, He spent the evening killing two birds with one stone: bought ten fags to satisfy craving and smoked them all, in quick succession, to destroy the evidence. Luckily for the future of our marriage He's at work and back on the patches today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)