(To the tune of 'Away in a manger')
Away in a manger, (well, his Digger bed),
My little lad Charlie laid down his sweet head.
Next door in her boudoir, his sister did sleep,
her head filled with dreams of the haul she would reap.
T'was the eve before Christmas, and the lounge was packed
Of stockings and giftbags and presents in sacks.
The kids had been spoiled, with toys by the tonne.
The cats had a present, the guinea pigs had none.
In the morning so early my children did wake.
The Daughter so excited her hands they did shake.
Like tiny tornadoes they ripped through their stuff,
for goodness sake kids - is 5 sacks not enough?!
Completely spolit rotten, those two kids of mine!
Those hours spent wrapping, that effort and time!
And all of it done with in less than an hour,
no sooner had they finished, the mood it turned sour.
The kids they were rowing, the tears they did flow.
All of us stuck in with nowhere to go.
When dinner was ready we sat down to eat,
"But I don't like roast dinner!" the Daughter did bleat.
Two dinners went untouched, two plates full intact.
The veg went to the dustbin, the turkey to the cats.
I knew what was coming, my time I did bide,
as it got to half two and "I'm hungry!" they cried.
As day turned to evening, the mood got more light,
knowing the kids would soon retire for the night.
Christmas is stressful, no doubt about that,
there wouldn't be this headache if we just had the cats!
They say that Christmas is a time for good cheer,
Well I say good riddance - and roll on New Year!!
Wednesday 26 December 2012
Friday 21 December 2012
So this is Christmas...
Well, we are but a few days away from the birth of our Lord, if you're a religious person (or the birth of Santa, if you're my three year old) and yes, finally, I'm feeling rather festive. The tree and decorations are up - despite the best efforts of the cats, all the presents are wrapped and the food shopping is done. None of it has gone smoothly though, as is to be expected; this is me after all! I thought I was being clever, buying a 'slim' tree, as space in our lounge is quite limited. Slim is definately the word - it's 7ft tall with the circumference of my waist. On first glance it's ok, but look at it too long and it's just a long twig with tinsel on. As for the wrapping, I ran out of sellotape with just a few to go and had to use brown parcel tape (sorry kids, Santa went to the Co-Op but refused to pay four quid when all he had left to wrap was a pack of hair bobbles and a tube of Smarties). It's The Daughter's fault I ran out anyway; her and her obsession with wrapping anything and everything up as 'gifts' for people. Over the last week I've been presented with parcels of Hama Beads, one of the cat's toys, a coaster and half of her Sylvanian families. It was sweet the first few times but kind of lost it's charm after the hundredth unwrapping of a bottle top. Especially as each 'gift' was given wth the words "I want it back"!
As for the food shopping, that went as expected. I joined the queue to get in Sainsbury's, the queues to pick stuff off the shelves in Sainsbury's, the queue to pay for stuff in Sainsbury's and the queue to get out of the carpark at Sainsbury's. I could have cried as I handed over my debit card - both at how much I'd spent on festive filth, and at the thought of how fat I'm going to get eating it all. And then I got home and realised I'd forgotten sausage rolls. Never mind your 'onion bhaji dippers' and your 'tempura king prawns with sweet chili and glitter dip' - a self respecting buffet isn't a buffet without sausage rolls.
I've had my festive illness (tonsilitis this year). I've bought the cats their present (Dreamies). The kids have some new festive pyjamas. And I've bought Santa a bottle of Stella and some maltesers. So I think we're good to go. Before I know it, it'll all be over and I'll be settling down with a selection box and some onion bhaji dippers to watch the demise of Derek Branning (I know Kat Slater is a bit of a grubber, but Derek Branning, seriously? He looks like a balloon with a slow leak!!) and festive versions of family favourites that were filmed in August. I shall see you on the other side - with a waist significantly bigger than our skinny tree and a desperate urge to take the decorations down so I can dust properly. Happy Christmas everyone Xxx!!
As for the food shopping, that went as expected. I joined the queue to get in Sainsbury's, the queues to pick stuff off the shelves in Sainsbury's, the queue to pay for stuff in Sainsbury's and the queue to get out of the carpark at Sainsbury's. I could have cried as I handed over my debit card - both at how much I'd spent on festive filth, and at the thought of how fat I'm going to get eating it all. And then I got home and realised I'd forgotten sausage rolls. Never mind your 'onion bhaji dippers' and your 'tempura king prawns with sweet chili and glitter dip' - a self respecting buffet isn't a buffet without sausage rolls.
I've had my festive illness (tonsilitis this year). I've bought the cats their present (Dreamies). The kids have some new festive pyjamas. And I've bought Santa a bottle of Stella and some maltesers. So I think we're good to go. Before I know it, it'll all be over and I'll be settling down with a selection box and some onion bhaji dippers to watch the demise of Derek Branning (I know Kat Slater is a bit of a grubber, but Derek Branning, seriously? He looks like a balloon with a slow leak!!) and festive versions of family favourites that were filmed in August. I shall see you on the other side - with a waist significantly bigger than our skinny tree and a desperate urge to take the decorations down so I can dust properly. Happy Christmas everyone Xxx!!
Wednesday 12 December 2012
Where are the Elves when you need them??
I have what is known as 'Wrappers Back'; a condition quite common at this time of year. It comes from sitting on the floor for hours at a time while surrounded by 8000 gifts - all of which are mocking me with "Stop getting distracted by Emmerdale and wrap us goddammit, there's only 2 weeks to Christmas and we're still sitting in carrier bags!". There are little bits of sellotape stuck all over the nearby furniture, to save me having to use my elbow to hold a flap of paper down while I try to break off tape with my teefs, and scrappy bits of paper that I cut a bit too small for the slow cooker but will do for the jigsaw I need to wrap in 28 presents time.
I start off wrapping with gusto, but the novelty doesn't take long to wear off. As the backache sets in and I'm missing Eastenders thanks to figuring out how to wrap a triangle shaped present (with great difficulty), my mind starts to wander to Christmas morn... Will my offspring marvel over those carefully wrapped gifts? Will they chime "Oh mama! We can scarcely bring ourselves to open these gifts, so beautifully are they presented!"? Will they open each one with decorum, reading each label in turn and appreciating the time and effort that has gone into each one? Will they chuff. If this year is anything like the last, they'll both be tearing through the paper with all the fervour of a starving dog in a bin! The Boychild will want every single thing taking out of the box to play with (why does everything come screwed and wired into the box these days? What's wrong with a bit of polystyrene?) which means he'll still be opening his mid-afternoon. While The Daughter goes through her sacks like a tiny tornado, barely even looking at what she's got. Maybe she'll be momentarily slowed down by the dog-poo game though, and I swear - if that game comes as an almighty disappointment after all the wheedling she's done - it's going on Ebay first thing boxing day! There is ONE thing I like about wrapping - instead of cutting the paper, I do that 'Szchuszching' thing, where you slide the scissors through the paper. Makes me feel like a ninja.
Well, I'd better get wrapping, there's a 15 minute window til Emmerdale starts. On the other hand, I could just stick a load of sellotape round the carrier bags and save us all the effort..?
I start off wrapping with gusto, but the novelty doesn't take long to wear off. As the backache sets in and I'm missing Eastenders thanks to figuring out how to wrap a triangle shaped present (with great difficulty), my mind starts to wander to Christmas morn... Will my offspring marvel over those carefully wrapped gifts? Will they chime "Oh mama! We can scarcely bring ourselves to open these gifts, so beautifully are they presented!"? Will they open each one with decorum, reading each label in turn and appreciating the time and effort that has gone into each one? Will they chuff. If this year is anything like the last, they'll both be tearing through the paper with all the fervour of a starving dog in a bin! The Boychild will want every single thing taking out of the box to play with (why does everything come screwed and wired into the box these days? What's wrong with a bit of polystyrene?) which means he'll still be opening his mid-afternoon. While The Daughter goes through her sacks like a tiny tornado, barely even looking at what she's got. Maybe she'll be momentarily slowed down by the dog-poo game though, and I swear - if that game comes as an almighty disappointment after all the wheedling she's done - it's going on Ebay first thing boxing day! There is ONE thing I like about wrapping - instead of cutting the paper, I do that 'Szchuszching' thing, where you slide the scissors through the paper. Makes me feel like a ninja.
Well, I'd better get wrapping, there's a 15 minute window til Emmerdale starts. On the other hand, I could just stick a load of sellotape round the carrier bags and save us all the effort..?
Wednesday 5 December 2012
It's beginning to look a lot like...dog poo?
All my Christmas shopping is done! Hurrah!! I actually thought I'd finished last week, but then The Daughter decided to write a letter to Santa, and none of the things she'd been rabbiting on about all year - or that I'd bought - were on the list. Eek. She'd asked the bearded fella for a photograph maker (neither The Husband or I were able to figure out what she meant unfortunately. "A camera?" we asked. "No! A photograph maker!" she shrieked, giving us the 'You're both morons' look), some Lego (out of the question, she's only just started playing with the bits she got for her birthday. In March. Plus I resent paying £30 for something so tiny it finds its way up the hoover from the other side of the room), a secret diary thing that looks like it has to scan your retina and verify your fingerprints before you can open it (I obliged with this one, only I bought her a cheaper version with a little key you keep on a bracelet. I mean, seriously, what sort of secrets can a five year old need to keep? 'Monday - stole a mini Twix from the fridge and wiped a bogey on the wall next to my bed'?).
The last item on the list was something called 'Doggie Doo'. Now, for those not down with the kids (there's no need to be ashamed, I had to Google it), this is a game whereby a plastic dog poos, and the players have to collect it - the one who collects the most, wins. This is all the rage amongst her peers by all accounts, kind of like Furbies and Girls World's were when I was growing up. I felt so bad at hardly getting her anything she'd asked Santa for, that I went to town and bought it yesterday. I can't actually believe that I parted with £18 for a game where she has to collect poo to win. If I'd known that was the sort of weird dickens she was into, I'd have wrapped up a cheap scoop, a bag of cat litter and an envelope containing a years pass to clean out our cat trays!
We didn't have anything like that when I was a kid. Although, to be fair, I would have wanted the dog-poo game too. Not that I would have got it though! I asked for 'Mr Frosty' every bloody year for about a decade and never got any closer to it than gazing wistfully at the picture in the Argos book! Yes, that is a hint of bitterness you detect. I was almost tempted to buy it for myself a few years back when I discovered they still sold it. But I bet the long-held dream wouldn't live up to the reality. I wonder if it will be the same for The Daughter when she unwraps her Doggie Doo on Christmas morn. I shall have to refrain from muttering "What a load of crap...literally!".
The last item on the list was something called 'Doggie Doo'. Now, for those not down with the kids (there's no need to be ashamed, I had to Google it), this is a game whereby a plastic dog poos, and the players have to collect it - the one who collects the most, wins. This is all the rage amongst her peers by all accounts, kind of like Furbies and Girls World's were when I was growing up. I felt so bad at hardly getting her anything she'd asked Santa for, that I went to town and bought it yesterday. I can't actually believe that I parted with £18 for a game where she has to collect poo to win. If I'd known that was the sort of weird dickens she was into, I'd have wrapped up a cheap scoop, a bag of cat litter and an envelope containing a years pass to clean out our cat trays!
We didn't have anything like that when I was a kid. Although, to be fair, I would have wanted the dog-poo game too. Not that I would have got it though! I asked for 'Mr Frosty' every bloody year for about a decade and never got any closer to it than gazing wistfully at the picture in the Argos book! Yes, that is a hint of bitterness you detect. I was almost tempted to buy it for myself a few years back when I discovered they still sold it. But I bet the long-held dream wouldn't live up to the reality. I wonder if it will be the same for The Daughter when she unwraps her Doggie Doo on Christmas morn. I shall have to refrain from muttering "What a load of crap...literally!".
Thursday 29 November 2012
How to behave in the nude **warning - not for little eyes!**
We women are strange creatures *cue men across the globe agreeing like a sea of nodding dogs*. I was at the gym this morning, and was getting myself dried after a shower, when a woman walked in and put her stuff down on the bench. Until this point I had been on my own, and quite happily skipping about in the nude. Well, not actually skipping, that would have been a bit strange. But as soon as she came in, I yanked the towel up and began the 'trying-to-get-dressed-under-a-towel dance', like I was in the middle of a crowded beach. I go to the gym 3 or 4 times a week, and keep myself in fairly decent shape, so why I was suddenly overcome with modesty, like I was covered in scales and warts the size of satsumas. Which I'm not, by the way. I could get into a deep debate about how women are made to feel insecure thanks to all the airbrushed images we are subjected to in the media blah blah blah. But the fundamental difference is that men do not give a rats ass. There's none of the awkwardness, the fretting over cellulite, surreptitiously comparing boobs while trying to hold a conversation about how much things at Asda have gone up recently. In fact, I think this pretty much sums the two genders up perfectly...
HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A WOMAN:
And if you needed further proof that men truly are a different species when it comes to nudity...
HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A WOMAN:
- take off clothes and place them sectioned in a laundry basket according to colour.
- walk to bathroom wearing dressing gown
- if you see husband along the way cover up any exposed areas
- look at your physique in the mirror, make mental note to do more leg lifts/sit-ups in the morning and wonder if bingo wings are bigger than they were last week
- get in the shower
- use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah and pumice stone
- wash your hair once with sage and cucumber shampoo with 43 added vitamins
- condition your hair with grapefruit and mint-enhanced conditioner
- wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for ten minutes until red and close to bleeding
- wash the rest of your body with gingernut and jaffa cake body wash
- shave armpits and legs
- turn off shower
- sponge off all wet surfaces in the shower
- spray mould spots with tile cleaner
- dry with towel the size of a small country
- wrap hair in super absorbent towel
- return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head
- if you see husband along the way cover up any exposed areas
- spend 40 minutes drying hair with hand held jet engine
- take clothes off while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave in a pile on floor
- walk naked to the bathroom
- if you see wife along the way, shake your willy and make a "woo-hoo" sound
- admire your physique in the mirror and the size of your manhood. Scratch backside
- get in shower
- wash your face
- wash your armpits
- blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse the snot off
- spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area
- wash your hair with stuff from the bottle nearest to hand
- make a shampoo mohawk
- pee like a racehorse and schusch the yellow water down the drain with your feet
- rinse and get out of the shower
- fail to notice water on the floor because the curtain was hanging out of the bath
- admire size of manhood in mirror again
- leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on
- return to bedroom with towel around waist
- if you pass wife, pull off towel and make a "woo-hoo" sound as you shake your willy at her
- throw wet towel on bed
- run fingers through hair twice to dry it
And if you needed further proof that men truly are a different species when it comes to nudity...
I rest my case.
Thursday 22 November 2012
It could be MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Being skint is pants. I know I shouldn't really complain; we're not completely impoverished to the point where Charlie has to wear his sisters handmedowns (unless I'm feeling particularly cruel), or having to sell body parts on Ebay. Yet. But as I look out the window at the rain, and our blue bin being blown across the road like it's got a motor and someone very small driving it around, I yearn to be able to afford to just sod right off somewhere hot. Being on one wage, things are tight at times, and (like many others) I've been trying to economise. Aldi is good, but I can't manage to get a whole weekly shop there so end up popping to Asda for lettuce, and come out with £20 worth of sweets and a jumper.
When it comes to the food shopping, it's quite difficult to make cutbacks when you're a) an impulsive bi-polar who has as much self-control in a shop as a dog on heat at Crufts and b) you're a bit of a food snob. I refuse to compromise on certain things, because in many cases it's a false economy. Cheap meat has more fat on it than erm, something very fat. Economy bread tastes like cotton wool. And Smartprice chopped tomatoes are basically tins full of all the cores from the tomatoes that go into the decent brands.
As I check my bank balance, I can't help but wistfully dream of what I could do with a decent lottery win. I wouldn't be greedy about it - I'd be happy with a few million. Actually, I'd be happy with twenty quid at the minute, but you know what I mean. A holiday would be the first thing on the list, somewhere very hot and luxurious, where I'd lay roasting myself while minions brought me beer and Haribo. *Sigh*. Of course, I'd pay for the very finest boarding kennels for the cats...and the kids. Only the best for my lot! When I get back I'll go shopping for a new car, and for new clothes to go new car shopping in. I'm still undecided about a new house. Part of me can see myself as Lady of the Manor, allowing the cats to live in the West Wing and a private cinema/gym/bar in the East Wing. But then another part doesn't want to leave this house. Maybe I could offer him-next-door lots of money to move out, and just have his house as well? Plus, that way I wouldn't have to listen to his girlfriend and her excessively loud laugh. Yes, I'm liking that idea. Maybe I would buy The Husband a new car, if he was nice to me. If he wasn't nice I'd just set a bit of cash aside for him to get his aircon fixed and for the regular turnover of tyres his car seems to have. I'd pay for the kids to have proper haircuts at a top salon, instead of having to hold them down chanting "Head up! Sit still or I'll cut your ears off!" as they get DIY trims.
The only tiny thing standing between me and a life of luxury is odds of 1 in 13,983,816. Oh, and buying an actual ticket. That might help...
When it comes to the food shopping, it's quite difficult to make cutbacks when you're a) an impulsive bi-polar who has as much self-control in a shop as a dog on heat at Crufts and b) you're a bit of a food snob. I refuse to compromise on certain things, because in many cases it's a false economy. Cheap meat has more fat on it than erm, something very fat. Economy bread tastes like cotton wool. And Smartprice chopped tomatoes are basically tins full of all the cores from the tomatoes that go into the decent brands.
As I check my bank balance, I can't help but wistfully dream of what I could do with a decent lottery win. I wouldn't be greedy about it - I'd be happy with a few million. Actually, I'd be happy with twenty quid at the minute, but you know what I mean. A holiday would be the first thing on the list, somewhere very hot and luxurious, where I'd lay roasting myself while minions brought me beer and Haribo. *Sigh*. Of course, I'd pay for the very finest boarding kennels for the cats...and the kids. Only the best for my lot! When I get back I'll go shopping for a new car, and for new clothes to go new car shopping in. I'm still undecided about a new house. Part of me can see myself as Lady of the Manor, allowing the cats to live in the West Wing and a private cinema/gym/bar in the East Wing. But then another part doesn't want to leave this house. Maybe I could offer him-next-door lots of money to move out, and just have his house as well? Plus, that way I wouldn't have to listen to his girlfriend and her excessively loud laugh. Yes, I'm liking that idea. Maybe I would buy The Husband a new car, if he was nice to me. If he wasn't nice I'd just set a bit of cash aside for him to get his aircon fixed and for the regular turnover of tyres his car seems to have. I'd pay for the kids to have proper haircuts at a top salon, instead of having to hold them down chanting "Head up! Sit still or I'll cut your ears off!" as they get DIY trims.
The only tiny thing standing between me and a life of luxury is odds of 1 in 13,983,816. Oh, and buying an actual ticket. That might help...
Tuesday 20 November 2012
I'm a 'celebrity'...get me a career revival!
Most reality tv bores the bellybutton fluff out of me. I stopped watching 'Big Brother' years ago, mainly because watching a houseful of ego's with enough talent between them to fill a thimble is about as much a form of entertainment as picking the hard skin off my feet. The so called 'celebrity' version of it is no better, and is cringeworthy for all the wrong reasons. But once a year, I make an exception. The hilarious Geordie munchkins Ant'n'Dec (think I've finally grasped which is which thanks to Ant always standing on the left, like his name-see!) bring some sunshine into the dark winter days in the form of 'I'm a Celebrity - get me out of here!'. I bloody love it! Whoever thought of it is a genius. Even The Husband, who doesn't watch crap like that, sits down and says "I'll just watch this bit and then I'll go and wash the pots" and is still there an hour later.
Taking a mixed bag of (mostly) famous, privileged people into the middle of the hot, humid, creepy-crawly filled (and I know - I've been) Australian rainforest is brilliant viewing and I never tire of it. Granted, there are a few no-marks on that programme too, but there's nothing like having to crap in a hole in the ground and eating possums bumholes in order to eat to level the playing field! There are a couple of them in this year who I've no idea about. The lanky posh bloke with legs like knotted string is from another reality show, so I'm clueless about him. And the female mp means nothing to me, other than she looks a bit like Bianca's mum Carol in Eastenders. I didn't know much about David Haye either, but I now know is a thoroughly nice man. With the abs of a superhero and buttocks like two hardboiled eggs in clingfilm. Limahl ("from the 80's" he said, like he'd just arrived in a time machine) is literally the most boring man ever to walk the earth. Everything about him makes me want to take a nap. But Helen Flanagan - her what was Rosie off of Corrie before she left to become a full time WAG - is hilarious. Mostly unintentionally. She was made for programmes like this - the public cruelly voting her in for every bushtucker trial, just to see her shrieking like a big blouse and failing miserably. Despite looking like a tramp and smelling like dirty bums, she's still so aware of the cameras on her that she walks round pouting like a fish that's been yanked out the tank.
there isn't a thing I don't like about this programme. Even when I'm dry heaving along with the eating trials, I love it. I get somewhat disappointed when some of them are ruled out of trials on 'medical grounds' (which is a nice way of saying they're too old or fat), but then you get a classic televisual moment like Rosemary Shrager trumping in Limahls face when they'd only been acquainted for about ten minutes. Brilliant. And the best thing of all? Knowing that there will always be a constant stream of celebs so desperate for cash or airtime that they'll do practically anything. Bring it on!
Taking a mixed bag of (mostly) famous, privileged people into the middle of the hot, humid, creepy-crawly filled (and I know - I've been) Australian rainforest is brilliant viewing and I never tire of it. Granted, there are a few no-marks on that programme too, but there's nothing like having to crap in a hole in the ground and eating possums bumholes in order to eat to level the playing field! There are a couple of them in this year who I've no idea about. The lanky posh bloke with legs like knotted string is from another reality show, so I'm clueless about him. And the female mp means nothing to me, other than she looks a bit like Bianca's mum Carol in Eastenders. I didn't know much about David Haye either, but I now know is a thoroughly nice man. With the abs of a superhero and buttocks like two hardboiled eggs in clingfilm. Limahl ("from the 80's" he said, like he'd just arrived in a time machine) is literally the most boring man ever to walk the earth. Everything about him makes me want to take a nap. But Helen Flanagan - her what was Rosie off of Corrie before she left to become a full time WAG - is hilarious. Mostly unintentionally. She was made for programmes like this - the public cruelly voting her in for every bushtucker trial, just to see her shrieking like a big blouse and failing miserably. Despite looking like a tramp and smelling like dirty bums, she's still so aware of the cameras on her that she walks round pouting like a fish that's been yanked out the tank.
there isn't a thing I don't like about this programme. Even when I'm dry heaving along with the eating trials, I love it. I get somewhat disappointed when some of them are ruled out of trials on 'medical grounds' (which is a nice way of saying they're too old or fat), but then you get a classic televisual moment like Rosemary Shrager trumping in Limahls face when they'd only been acquainted for about ten minutes. Brilliant. And the best thing of all? Knowing that there will always be a constant stream of celebs so desperate for cash or airtime that they'll do practically anything. Bring it on!
Friday 16 November 2012
When I were a lad..
Thanks to the constant barrage of toy adverts on kids tv, my two have been chanting their mantra "I want that for Christmas!" for what feels like months. Although The Boychild still doesn't really understand what Christmas is actually about, so he's been saying it when he sees adverts for crisps and yogurt, bless him. And I know I'm showing my age but Sweet baby Jesus! Everything is extortionate! The crappiest plastic toys cost an absolute fortune! I guess I should be grateful that my two are still at an age where they're not demanding a widescreen tv and blue-ray player - each - or the latest games console. I could buy everything from the Pound shops and leave the price tags on, and they wouldn't know the difference (cue evil laugh). I wouldn't; things haven't quite got that bad. Yet.
I must admit, now we've got the kids, Christmas has become quite exciting again. There's a phase in your life when it's all a bit pants - apart from your mum and best mate, people have stopped buying you presents because you're too old, and you have to cook your own Christmas dinner. But when you have kids, you get excited because they are, and it reminds you of what it used to be like all those years ago. I used to go to bed at 5pm on Christmas Eve, because my mum used to say "the sooner you're in bed, the sooner Santa will come!". So there I would lie - for about 4 hours usually - willing myself to get to sleep. Of course, I would be awake at insane o'clock, like kids across the world, practically weeing myself with excitement. I remember once getting out of bed, clicking on the light and seeing that "He's been!", and unwrapping all of my presents like a miniature tornado. And then midway through my first selection box mum coming in and giving me the mother of all rollickings because it was 2.30am. Well, if Santa was stupid enough to leave my presents in my bedroom...!
I still believed in Santa until an age that is probably deemed ridiculous by todays standards. And even when an older friend of mine, Paul, told me that he didn't really exist, my mum argued with him with a fury never before seen in an attempt to keep the pretence going for a little longer. The kids today seem to grow up so much faster that I wonder how many years we have to enjoy the glorious innocence of it all. But for now, I shall revel in the traditions of old - leaving a bottle of Rekorderlig and box of Matchmakers out for Santa on Christmas eve (I've heard he doesn't like sherry and mince pies anymore) and try to forget that I'll hardly get any presents and will be in the kitchen for 4 hours on Christmas day, cooking a dinner the kids won't touch because they're desperate to get back to their ridiculously expensive bits of crappy plastic. Magic.
I must admit, now we've got the kids, Christmas has become quite exciting again. There's a phase in your life when it's all a bit pants - apart from your mum and best mate, people have stopped buying you presents because you're too old, and you have to cook your own Christmas dinner. But when you have kids, you get excited because they are, and it reminds you of what it used to be like all those years ago. I used to go to bed at 5pm on Christmas Eve, because my mum used to say "the sooner you're in bed, the sooner Santa will come!". So there I would lie - for about 4 hours usually - willing myself to get to sleep. Of course, I would be awake at insane o'clock, like kids across the world, practically weeing myself with excitement. I remember once getting out of bed, clicking on the light and seeing that "He's been!", and unwrapping all of my presents like a miniature tornado. And then midway through my first selection box mum coming in and giving me the mother of all rollickings because it was 2.30am. Well, if Santa was stupid enough to leave my presents in my bedroom...!
I still believed in Santa until an age that is probably deemed ridiculous by todays standards. And even when an older friend of mine, Paul, told me that he didn't really exist, my mum argued with him with a fury never before seen in an attempt to keep the pretence going for a little longer. The kids today seem to grow up so much faster that I wonder how many years we have to enjoy the glorious innocence of it all. But for now, I shall revel in the traditions of old - leaving a bottle of Rekorderlig and box of Matchmakers out for Santa on Christmas eve (I've heard he doesn't like sherry and mince pies anymore) and try to forget that I'll hardly get any presents and will be in the kitchen for 4 hours on Christmas day, cooking a dinner the kids won't touch because they're desperate to get back to their ridiculously expensive bits of crappy plastic. Magic.
Tuesday 13 November 2012
What a coincedence!
I don't know that I'm a big believer in fate. Nor do I entirely believe you make your own luck. Some people seem to have more than their fair share of suffering, while others by comparison seem to be born lucky. I read an article recently which claimed people who open themselves up to chance encounters increase their chances of good things happening. Which I suppose makes sense, but surely that also opens you up to the likelihood of bad things happening too? Anyhoo. No matter what you believe, there are some things that happen in life that make you go a bit *brrrrrrr*. Take today for example. I was merrily cleaning out the cat trays (actually, merrily is probably the wrong choice of word when describing scraping cat crap into the bin) and all the time I had Alicia Keys new song 'Girl on fire' in my head. I was still singing it when I got into the car to go to the gym, and as I turned the key in the ignition the radio came on - with Alicia Keys new song! There I sat, momentarily paralysed by the thought that I may have developed magical powers overnight.
It's not the first time weirdy things have happened to me (which I'm sure comes as no surprise to my friends!), and having spoken to other people I am convinced this phenomena is quite widespread. When I lived with my parents I frequently used to get the feeling the phone would ring, and it did. This ability seemed to stay at that house though as I've not experienced it since. There were also several instances where I lost something that I desperately needed to find (homework, credit card, a toddler) and out comes the failsafe prayer - 'Dear God, if you help me find my homework/credit card/toddler I promise I'll never swear again/ stop bringing animals home' - that sort of thing. And it worked, moments later the lost item would surface as if by magic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be psychic or anything or saying that there's some sort of divine intervention helping me; I once thought my hamster was hibernating so left it by the gas fire to warm him up and hopefully revive him. But no, he was just dead. Nearly singed, and dead.
I watched a documentary a few years ago about a psychic who was undoubtedly very good; at reading minds or Googling people to find out when their Aunty Beryl died, I'm not sure, but he was very convincing. And what was even more convincing was that he didn't charge through the nose to sit in someone's house throwing names and places around hoping to hit the nail on the head. He did it all for free, and made his money writing books on his 'psychic experiences'. I believe that 99.9% of so called psychics are nothing more than money grabbing opportunists, who use peoples grief and desire to obtain some comfort to their own advantage. The vast majority of people who want the services of psychics are bereaved, and there are countless ways of finding clues as to who and when - the internet, photos around the house, body language and verbal clues. The experts know what they're looking for and how to find it. And they know that the person sat in front of them, wringing their hands with hope all over their face, either believes what they're saying, or wants to, which is just as effective. I guess if it gives the bereaved peace of mind, then there is a silver lining, but it's the taking money under false pretences that gets me.
So suffice it to say, despite my obvious abilities and links to the psychic world, I'll not be setting myself up as 'Mystic Bobs' anytime soon. Because although I could tell you when your phone's going to ring and what song will be on the radio when you get in the car, there is so much still to learn. I'll not be satisfied until I've honed my 'predicting hamster deaths' abilities. Watch this space.
It's not the first time weirdy things have happened to me (which I'm sure comes as no surprise to my friends!), and having spoken to other people I am convinced this phenomena is quite widespread. When I lived with my parents I frequently used to get the feeling the phone would ring, and it did. This ability seemed to stay at that house though as I've not experienced it since. There were also several instances where I lost something that I desperately needed to find (homework, credit card, a toddler) and out comes the failsafe prayer - 'Dear God, if you help me find my homework/credit card/toddler I promise I'll never swear again/ stop bringing animals home' - that sort of thing. And it worked, moments later the lost item would surface as if by magic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming to be psychic or anything or saying that there's some sort of divine intervention helping me; I once thought my hamster was hibernating so left it by the gas fire to warm him up and hopefully revive him. But no, he was just dead. Nearly singed, and dead.
I watched a documentary a few years ago about a psychic who was undoubtedly very good; at reading minds or Googling people to find out when their Aunty Beryl died, I'm not sure, but he was very convincing. And what was even more convincing was that he didn't charge through the nose to sit in someone's house throwing names and places around hoping to hit the nail on the head. He did it all for free, and made his money writing books on his 'psychic experiences'. I believe that 99.9% of so called psychics are nothing more than money grabbing opportunists, who use peoples grief and desire to obtain some comfort to their own advantage. The vast majority of people who want the services of psychics are bereaved, and there are countless ways of finding clues as to who and when - the internet, photos around the house, body language and verbal clues. The experts know what they're looking for and how to find it. And they know that the person sat in front of them, wringing their hands with hope all over their face, either believes what they're saying, or wants to, which is just as effective. I guess if it gives the bereaved peace of mind, then there is a silver lining, but it's the taking money under false pretences that gets me.
So suffice it to say, despite my obvious abilities and links to the psychic world, I'll not be setting myself up as 'Mystic Bobs' anytime soon. Because although I could tell you when your phone's going to ring and what song will be on the radio when you get in the car, there is so much still to learn. I'll not be satisfied until I've honed my 'predicting hamster deaths' abilities. Watch this space.
Tuesday 6 November 2012
Say Cheese!
For an old bird, I don't think I'm in bad nick. With a bit of slap and some forgiving lighting ( semi darkness, a bit of alcohol and poor eyesight in the beholder doesn't hurt either) I'm not too shabby. So why do I have to be the most unphotogenic person in the world? Stick me in front of a lense and it all goes wrong. What I hope is a cheeky 'girl next door' grin actually makes me look like a maniac. If I'm captured mid-laugh, I look like I've had way too much Ribena and need a lie down. What is 'good bone structure' in real life gives me the sharp features of Winnie the Witch once captured by 8megapixels.
My mum gave up trying to look decent in photos years ago, bless her, and consistently pulls a 'look at me, I'm a bit drunk and lairy!' face. Which is fine, of course, if you are a bit drunk and lairy, but I had to step in and stop her giving (what is known to schoolkids everywhere as ) 'The Chin' in our wedding photographs. It's safe to say this affliction runs in our family as The Daughter is also exhibiting the same symptoms. When she was a toddler she had a lovely smile for photos; not a glimpse of self-consciousness. But over the past year or so she's become so aware of the camera and pulls the most awful fake smiles. I've had to politely decline her last two school photographs because they were, quite frankly hideous. Surely professional photographers are able to get even the most reluctant child to relax and smile, but not my girl. Oh no. She had a smile so mean it could turn you to stone, and eyes like slits because she hates the flash. In real life she's so pretty and animated and I wish photographs reflected that instead of turning her into a freaky little bean.
The Husband says that photos don't do me justice, but he has to say that - it was one of the conditions of us getting married that he told me ego-boosting falsehoods as often as possible. Of course I know he's lying but I have to try and believe him. If I thought I actually walked around looking like a maniacal Winne the Witch on a sugar high, I would start saving for plastic surgery right now! I wonder how much I've got in that penny jar...?
My mum gave up trying to look decent in photos years ago, bless her, and consistently pulls a 'look at me, I'm a bit drunk and lairy!' face. Which is fine, of course, if you are a bit drunk and lairy, but I had to step in and stop her giving (what is known to schoolkids everywhere as ) 'The Chin' in our wedding photographs. It's safe to say this affliction runs in our family as The Daughter is also exhibiting the same symptoms. When she was a toddler she had a lovely smile for photos; not a glimpse of self-consciousness. But over the past year or so she's become so aware of the camera and pulls the most awful fake smiles. I've had to politely decline her last two school photographs because they were, quite frankly hideous. Surely professional photographers are able to get even the most reluctant child to relax and smile, but not my girl. Oh no. She had a smile so mean it could turn you to stone, and eyes like slits because she hates the flash. In real life she's so pretty and animated and I wish photographs reflected that instead of turning her into a freaky little bean.
The Husband says that photos don't do me justice, but he has to say that - it was one of the conditions of us getting married that he told me ego-boosting falsehoods as often as possible. Of course I know he's lying but I have to try and believe him. If I thought I actually walked around looking like a maniacal Winne the Witch on a sugar high, I would start saving for plastic surgery right now! I wonder how much I've got in that penny jar...?
Thursday 1 November 2012
Food, glorious food
The Daughter hates mushrooms. She hates a lot of things, food-wise, but she really hates mushrooms. So imagine my confusion when, as we were in Asda shopping this morning, I asked her what she wanted for lunch and she said "mushroom soup". I didn't question her choice until after she'd finished eating. "Why is it you turn your nose up at anything I cook that has mushrooms in it, but you've just eaten a bowl of mushroom soup?" I asked. She gave me that withering 'Crikey, you're a moron mother' look and said "Well, it's not like it's a bowl of mushrooms is it?!". Hiding my smirk behind my hand so as not to provoke her rage further I steeled myself and said "Yes, that's exactly what it is sweetheart; mushrooms, vegetable stock and a bit of cream". She was visibly torn. Should she flounce off upstairs, having been proved wrong? Or should she man up - stay and grudgingly accept that, yes, she did indeed like something she's been painstakingly picking out of meals for the past two years? She chose the middle ground and simply said "Humph. S'pose they're ok in tiny pieces". I went solemnly into the kitchen and did a small celebration dance of smugness.
The Husband was vegetable-repellant until he moved in with me, it's a wonder he didn't hit adulthood with scurvy, rickets and severe anaemia. And I'm determined the kids aren't going to grow up eating nothing but supernoodles and chicken nuggets. I've always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with food, these days mainly it's the 'love' side. I think back to what I was allowed to get away with eating (or not eating, as was fairly often the case) as a child and it's nothing short of horrific. I never used to have breakfast; occasionally choosing a bag of beef Monster Munch to eat on the way to school. Lunch would be a sausage roll and chips and a cream doughnut - every day!, or tomato ketchup sandwiches if I took pack up. I was never made to eat any fruit or veg, and my 'passing fancies' were ignored. Fancies like eating nothing but banana flavoured toffees for a week. Or the one where I ate nothing but boiled white cabbage with salt and pepper. This was actually quite nice...for a day or two. It wasn't until I got to University, and lost a ridiculous amount of weight by eating nothing but the odd cheese toastie, that I realised my eating habits were abysmal and actually began to crave fruit and veg.
Of course, the majority of kids go through fussy stages, and it's during these times that I believe you should never give in to their whims just to get them eating something. I would rather my two ate a few bites of something healthy than a plateful of something with the nutritional value of Lego. It's even more important when you have kids, that you encourage them to eat well. And the best way to do that is to lead by example. How can you expect your kids to tuck in to boring veg (and let's face it, most people throw their veg down while it's piping hot because as soon as it gets cold it's total ming) when you're sitting there eating cheap hotdogs made of pigs bumholes, and 'potato' in the shape of numbers and letters? Girls have it hard enough these days, without the issues of diet and appearance following them round. I wish someone had told me as a teenager that it's better to eat well and have a strong, healthy body, than it is to survive on diet Coke, ciggies and Haribo because you don't want a fat bum.
Those who know me know that I can put a serious amount of food away, and a fair bit of it is crap I admit. It's just that I save the crap for after the kids have gone to bed. Partly for their own health benefits, but mainly because I'm a greedy cow and I don't want to share! But I'm healthy, and fit, and a better role model now than I ever would have been years ago. So tomorrow I shall continue with my small but significant victory, and serve up something with mushroom...in tiny pieces of course!
The Husband was vegetable-repellant until he moved in with me, it's a wonder he didn't hit adulthood with scurvy, rickets and severe anaemia. And I'm determined the kids aren't going to grow up eating nothing but supernoodles and chicken nuggets. I've always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with food, these days mainly it's the 'love' side. I think back to what I was allowed to get away with eating (or not eating, as was fairly often the case) as a child and it's nothing short of horrific. I never used to have breakfast; occasionally choosing a bag of beef Monster Munch to eat on the way to school. Lunch would be a sausage roll and chips and a cream doughnut - every day!, or tomato ketchup sandwiches if I took pack up. I was never made to eat any fruit or veg, and my 'passing fancies' were ignored. Fancies like eating nothing but banana flavoured toffees for a week. Or the one where I ate nothing but boiled white cabbage with salt and pepper. This was actually quite nice...for a day or two. It wasn't until I got to University, and lost a ridiculous amount of weight by eating nothing but the odd cheese toastie, that I realised my eating habits were abysmal and actually began to crave fruit and veg.
Of course, the majority of kids go through fussy stages, and it's during these times that I believe you should never give in to their whims just to get them eating something. I would rather my two ate a few bites of something healthy than a plateful of something with the nutritional value of Lego. It's even more important when you have kids, that you encourage them to eat well. And the best way to do that is to lead by example. How can you expect your kids to tuck in to boring veg (and let's face it, most people throw their veg down while it's piping hot because as soon as it gets cold it's total ming) when you're sitting there eating cheap hotdogs made of pigs bumholes, and 'potato' in the shape of numbers and letters? Girls have it hard enough these days, without the issues of diet and appearance following them round. I wish someone had told me as a teenager that it's better to eat well and have a strong, healthy body, than it is to survive on diet Coke, ciggies and Haribo because you don't want a fat bum.
Those who know me know that I can put a serious amount of food away, and a fair bit of it is crap I admit. It's just that I save the crap for after the kids have gone to bed. Partly for their own health benefits, but mainly because I'm a greedy cow and I don't want to share! But I'm healthy, and fit, and a better role model now than I ever would have been years ago. So tomorrow I shall continue with my small but significant victory, and serve up something with mushroom...in tiny pieces of course!
Tuesday 30 October 2012
Everybody needs good neighbours
I love where we live, I really do. I think it's really rare to find a house that you love, in an area you love, with neighbours that don't post dog poo through your letter box as part of their hate campaign. This is mine and The Husbands first house and we've been here for eleven years. It might not be the biggest or grandest house in the World but I fell in love with it as soon as I walked through the door; The Husband was not so enamoured however. It had been empty for a few years, as the elderly lady owner was in a care home. As soon as it became apparent that she wouldn't be returning home, the house went on the market and we joined the estate agent and a few other interested parties for a viewing. I should probably explain that the house was stuck in a time vaccum. The bright blue bathroom suite, faux-wood panelling, 1960's kitchen cupboards and headache inducing soft furnishings seemed to deter the other viewers just as much as it did The Husband. I, on the other hand, skipped around the house clapping with glee, unable to hide my joy. As we stepped into the jungle at the rear of the house, him that pays muttered "We are never buying this house!". And eleven years (much replastering, two kitchens, one replacement bathroom, brand new carpets, a loft conversion and 7 total redecorations) later - here we are!
We have only had one new neighbour in the time we've lived here; an elderly lady who joined the predominantly pension-aged population of the street. Our adjoining neighbour is a quiet middle aged man who we don't see from one month to the next. He also very kindly pretended he doesn't hear any of our noise - a total lie, given that neither The Husband or the kids are capable of doing anything at a volume that doesn't make your ears bleed. On the occasions we do see him, he's very polite and thoughtful. Take the time I banged a Chocolate Orange on the lounge wall to break up the segments, and he came round to ask if there was anything wrong. That was nice; quite embarrassing as I stood there in my pyjamas looking sheepish, but nice all the same. He's had a 'girl'friend for the last two years, and although we still never hear him, we do frequently get blasts of her laughter and overly loud tv through the wall. And as irritating as her saturday night mooing can be, I try to remember that they are regularly subjected to my two thundering around the house shrieking "Go on! Kick me in the head!" and "That's MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!", and attempt to unclench my jaw.
On the other side, we have a single lady the ripe side of middle age who lives with her Lhasa apso puppy - a small thing that looks like a Popple (remember them, children of the 80's?) and that, I have been informed, likes to eat the turds that my cats deposit in her garden. I am referring to the dog by the way! Despite her efforts, the kids still seem a tiny bit afraid of her, which can be embarrassing. As she's jovially asking "Aren't you talking to me today?", The Boychild is hiding behind my legs peering at her like she's the Childcatcher. It's this neighbour that gave us the carrier bag full of fish, the fish that outlived the ones I spent a small fortune on at Pets At Home. I might be the crazy cat lady, but she's the fish equivalent - I once nearly pooped myself when, having a nose over the fence to shout one of my cats, I saw three goldfish swimming around in her waterbutt! One way of having a pond on the cheap I suppose.
Apart from the incident years ago where I crashed the car into a lamp-post when angrily reversing off the drive, and shouting at the neighbours who were standing aghast, we've had no fallings out or neighbourly disputes. Even having our shared drain blocked by some unknown minger (not me, I hasten to add) dropping sanitary towels down the toilet wasn't enough to cause a rift. Oh, there was the time that the neighbour we call "Ooo-ooh!" made me mow over the lawnmower powercable, but I've forgiven her for that. Just about. So here I want to stay; in the home I've spent time, money and effort getting to the way I like it. Unless I win the lottery, in which case there's a huge 7 bedroomed pile in the village I've set my sights on. I can always move the neighbours into caravans in the garden to make me feel at home..!
We have only had one new neighbour in the time we've lived here; an elderly lady who joined the predominantly pension-aged population of the street. Our adjoining neighbour is a quiet middle aged man who we don't see from one month to the next. He also very kindly pretended he doesn't hear any of our noise - a total lie, given that neither The Husband or the kids are capable of doing anything at a volume that doesn't make your ears bleed. On the occasions we do see him, he's very polite and thoughtful. Take the time I banged a Chocolate Orange on the lounge wall to break up the segments, and he came round to ask if there was anything wrong. That was nice; quite embarrassing as I stood there in my pyjamas looking sheepish, but nice all the same. He's had a 'girl'friend for the last two years, and although we still never hear him, we do frequently get blasts of her laughter and overly loud tv through the wall. And as irritating as her saturday night mooing can be, I try to remember that they are regularly subjected to my two thundering around the house shrieking "Go on! Kick me in the head!" and "That's MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!", and attempt to unclench my jaw.
On the other side, we have a single lady the ripe side of middle age who lives with her Lhasa apso puppy - a small thing that looks like a Popple (remember them, children of the 80's?) and that, I have been informed, likes to eat the turds that my cats deposit in her garden. I am referring to the dog by the way! Despite her efforts, the kids still seem a tiny bit afraid of her, which can be embarrassing. As she's jovially asking "Aren't you talking to me today?", The Boychild is hiding behind my legs peering at her like she's the Childcatcher. It's this neighbour that gave us the carrier bag full of fish, the fish that outlived the ones I spent a small fortune on at Pets At Home. I might be the crazy cat lady, but she's the fish equivalent - I once nearly pooped myself when, having a nose over the fence to shout one of my cats, I saw three goldfish swimming around in her waterbutt! One way of having a pond on the cheap I suppose.
Apart from the incident years ago where I crashed the car into a lamp-post when angrily reversing off the drive, and shouting at the neighbours who were standing aghast, we've had no fallings out or neighbourly disputes. Even having our shared drain blocked by some unknown minger (not me, I hasten to add) dropping sanitary towels down the toilet wasn't enough to cause a rift. Oh, there was the time that the neighbour we call "Ooo-ooh!" made me mow over the lawnmower powercable, but I've forgiven her for that. Just about. So here I want to stay; in the home I've spent time, money and effort getting to the way I like it. Unless I win the lottery, in which case there's a huge 7 bedroomed pile in the village I've set my sights on. I can always move the neighbours into caravans in the garden to make me feel at home..!
Sunday 28 October 2012
I'm S.A.D.
Ok, I give in. Summer's gone and it's bloody freezing. I hand myself over to winter, with a sadness in my heart that I'll have months of windows running with condensation thanks to washing drying on all of the radiators. I hate winter. Who wants to spend 4 months either wet through or with ear-ache and chilblains? Snow is lovely - so long as you don't have to either walk or drive in it. Or leave the house at all really. I wince everytime I put the heating on, wondering what insane figure NPower will be plucking out of the air to increase our direct debit to this time. Honestly, you'd look at our bills and think we were powering a stately home.."Fire up the hearth in the west wing dear!". I reckon I have that SAD (seasonal affective disorder) because I'm even more miserable than normal during winter. Unless I regularly cover myself in fake tan, I remain a lovely shade of grey with chapped hands and windswept hair. Swit-swoo.
Even events like Halloween and Bonfire night aren't enough to rouse a bit of excitement. Halloween is a tricky one. The Daughter goes to a church school, so you'll not see them all trotting through the school gates dressed as Zombie cheerleaders or blood spattered serial killers. And having a three year old boy that is frightened of pretty much everything doesn't bode well for Halloween celebrations at home. This time last year I took the kids to Asda, and as I pushed them past the Halloween display in the trolley, a life-sized witch gave a loud cackle and the pair of them started crying and shaking like shitting dogs. They won't be 'Trick or Treat'ing either. There's something very weird about spending all year telling your offspring not to talk to strangers, take sweets from strange men, or damage other peoples property. But then on Halloween you send them out dressed as miniature vampires to knock on random doors and ask total strangers for treat-size Mars bars or they'll key their car...!
Bonfire night is also very traumatic for the Boychild. Loud noises are a no-no, which rules out fireworks. Even the supposedly family friendly quiet ones we purchased last year had to be abandoned after 2 Rainbow Fountains because he was petrified and wanted to go inside. They remain, gathering dust, on top of the bookcase in the hallway. The fact that he's also scared of the flames on the gasfire in the lounge gives me an inkling he'll not be too keen on a raging bonfire either. I would try him with a sparkler but there's a fairly good chance he'll try and stick it in his sisters ear.
So, you see, there's very little about this time of year that I'm happy about. I won't allow myself to get excited about Christmas for another few weeks either, so it's a bleak few months Chez Bobs. I often think, as I'm chuntering away scraping ice off the windscreen at half eight in the morning, how wonderful it would be to be one of those elderly people that just ups and buggers off to Majorca for the winter. Kind of like pensioners migrating. But why wait til the twilight of your life to feel the sun on your cold and weary bones! The Husband could manage without me for a few months...couldn't he??
Even events like Halloween and Bonfire night aren't enough to rouse a bit of excitement. Halloween is a tricky one. The Daughter goes to a church school, so you'll not see them all trotting through the school gates dressed as Zombie cheerleaders or blood spattered serial killers. And having a three year old boy that is frightened of pretty much everything doesn't bode well for Halloween celebrations at home. This time last year I took the kids to Asda, and as I pushed them past the Halloween display in the trolley, a life-sized witch gave a loud cackle and the pair of them started crying and shaking like shitting dogs. They won't be 'Trick or Treat'ing either. There's something very weird about spending all year telling your offspring not to talk to strangers, take sweets from strange men, or damage other peoples property. But then on Halloween you send them out dressed as miniature vampires to knock on random doors and ask total strangers for treat-size Mars bars or they'll key their car...!
Bonfire night is also very traumatic for the Boychild. Loud noises are a no-no, which rules out fireworks. Even the supposedly family friendly quiet ones we purchased last year had to be abandoned after 2 Rainbow Fountains because he was petrified and wanted to go inside. They remain, gathering dust, on top of the bookcase in the hallway. The fact that he's also scared of the flames on the gasfire in the lounge gives me an inkling he'll not be too keen on a raging bonfire either. I would try him with a sparkler but there's a fairly good chance he'll try and stick it in his sisters ear.
So, you see, there's very little about this time of year that I'm happy about. I won't allow myself to get excited about Christmas for another few weeks either, so it's a bleak few months Chez Bobs. I often think, as I'm chuntering away scraping ice off the windscreen at half eight in the morning, how wonderful it would be to be one of those elderly people that just ups and buggers off to Majorca for the winter. Kind of like pensioners migrating. But why wait til the twilight of your life to feel the sun on your cold and weary bones! The Husband could manage without me for a few months...couldn't he??
Sunday 21 October 2012
Living with kids..
Living with kids isn't easy,
in fact it's sometimes a grind.
The rowing, the fighting, the helluva mess
is enough to drive you out of your mind.
They make noise from the time they wake up
'til the second they get into bed.
Many's a pill that Mummy doth pop
to numb her poor aching head!
'"Choose your battles" they say,
"It's the easiest way" - that's simpler said than done.
When your kids have been bickering for five hours straight
Well, I'd choose a smack to the bum!
Toys broken, books ripped, the house looks like a tip.
Yet still Mummy battles through,
trying in earnest to tidy and clean,
interrupted by cries of "Need to poo!".
Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad news;
Sometimes they're good as gold.
They give moments of tenderness, love and pure joy
which are a true sight to behold.
Granted, it's mainly when given a treat,
some sweets, a comic or cake.
Spoiled rotten by grandparents every weekend,
they're given new toys to break.
There's rarely a moment of quiet and peace
unless they're fast off in their pits.
And that's mummy time, to rest and recoup
and forget that they've been little gits.
So as one day ends, and the house is in peace,
I've finished my ranting rhyme.
I've plenty to say on 'Living with cats',
but well - that's for another time!
in fact it's sometimes a grind.
The rowing, the fighting, the helluva mess
is enough to drive you out of your mind.
They make noise from the time they wake up
'til the second they get into bed.
Many's a pill that Mummy doth pop
to numb her poor aching head!
'"Choose your battles" they say,
"It's the easiest way" - that's simpler said than done.
When your kids have been bickering for five hours straight
Well, I'd choose a smack to the bum!
Toys broken, books ripped, the house looks like a tip.
Yet still Mummy battles through,
trying in earnest to tidy and clean,
interrupted by cries of "Need to poo!".
Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad news;
Sometimes they're good as gold.
They give moments of tenderness, love and pure joy
which are a true sight to behold.
Granted, it's mainly when given a treat,
some sweets, a comic or cake.
Spoiled rotten by grandparents every weekend,
they're given new toys to break.
There's rarely a moment of quiet and peace
unless they're fast off in their pits.
And that's mummy time, to rest and recoup
and forget that they've been little gits.
So as one day ends, and the house is in peace,
I've finished my ranting rhyme.
I've plenty to say on 'Living with cats',
but well - that's for another time!
Wednesday 17 October 2012
Roll up, roll up!
I can't believe I forgot to mention, but I took The Daughter to the circus a while back. It's been years since I went, in fact so long ago that I don't actually remember if I have been or if I'm just getting my memories mixed up with having watched 'Dumbo' so many times. It was named 'Uncle Sam's American Circus', but despite the name (and the 'We need YOU' type posters, and the Stars and Stripes overload) I couldn't find anything remotely Stateside there. The Ringmaster was an extraordinarily camp and round Englishman who liked to say "Twooooo thousand aaaaaaand tweeeeeeelve!" alot, as though we'd all walked into the Big Top and thought we'd dropped into a timewarp. The ladies in the ticket booth were either Russian or Polish, the women in the overpriced 'Diner' (which was a burger hut selling thrice cooked chips for the price of a kidney) were Jeremy Kyle fodder, and the acts themselves were Russian and Chinese. So quite lacking in the American department.
I have to say though, I really enjoyed myself! Yes, it might have cost a small fortune to sit on ringside seats so rickety and unsafe the Health and Safety Executive would have burst into tears on the spot, but I was totally spellbound by most of it. There were tiny but perfectly formed Chinese acrobats doing mesmerising things at the top of ropes, a troup of Russian gymnasts so ranging in size they looked like Russian dolls. Two huge burly ones with large beer bellies were jumping onto a springboard, catapulting skinny ones into the air, where they would somersault like mad and then be caught in a net by some middle sized men. All of them wearing shiny black lycra trousers and red satin shirts. Eek. Then there was the juggler, who could catch his clubs in pockets on his belt. Who says men can't multitask? I was particularly wowed by a female gymnast with arms like a dockside navvy and buttocks that could crack walnuts. Seriously, they were like two satsumas in clingfilm. The finale was two motorcyclists inside a round metal cage and wow, was that impressive. And noisy. But mostly impressive. And out of all of the acts - the fantastic gymnasts, the bendy acrobats, the daredevil motorcyclists - which one did The Daughter pick out as her favourite? Some people dressed in quite frankly terrifying giant Toy Story costumes who came out at the interval and waved at us for less than two minutes. Ah well, at least we didn't get food poisoning from the chips..there's always next year!
I have to say though, I really enjoyed myself! Yes, it might have cost a small fortune to sit on ringside seats so rickety and unsafe the Health and Safety Executive would have burst into tears on the spot, but I was totally spellbound by most of it. There were tiny but perfectly formed Chinese acrobats doing mesmerising things at the top of ropes, a troup of Russian gymnasts so ranging in size they looked like Russian dolls. Two huge burly ones with large beer bellies were jumping onto a springboard, catapulting skinny ones into the air, where they would somersault like mad and then be caught in a net by some middle sized men. All of them wearing shiny black lycra trousers and red satin shirts. Eek. Then there was the juggler, who could catch his clubs in pockets on his belt. Who says men can't multitask? I was particularly wowed by a female gymnast with arms like a dockside navvy and buttocks that could crack walnuts. Seriously, they were like two satsumas in clingfilm. The finale was two motorcyclists inside a round metal cage and wow, was that impressive. And noisy. But mostly impressive. And out of all of the acts - the fantastic gymnasts, the bendy acrobats, the daredevil motorcyclists - which one did The Daughter pick out as her favourite? Some people dressed in quite frankly terrifying giant Toy Story costumes who came out at the interval and waved at us for less than two minutes. Ah well, at least we didn't get food poisoning from the chips..there's always next year!
Wednesday 10 October 2012
I'll have a Pee please Bob...
I hate potty training!!!!!!!!!!! If ever I feel even remotely broody, the thought of having to guide yet another piss-happy toddler through this necessary torture is enough to make me get booked in to have my tubes tied! My memory has no doubt been dulled over time, but I swear it wasn't this lengthy and arduous with The Daughter. I never had to chisel poo off tiny pairs of peppa pig pants, whilst gagging and hissing "Jesus" through gritted teeth. I didn't have to leave the house with a binbag full of spare pants and trousers in case of accidents. So why, for the love of god, WHY is it so difficult this time round?
Yes, I know they say boys do things later than girls, and this has proved to be the case with most milestones so far - walking, talking, stopping trying to stick fingers up the cats bums. But I'm started to have this image that fleetingly pops into my head, of him leaning over the bench in his GCSE science class, his teacher asking suspiciously "Are you pooing Charlie?" and him replying sheepishly "No, just trumping". It really does look like I'll have an un-potty trained teenager. And lets face it, whipping his trousers and pants down every five minutes to see if the turtles head is out, well - that'll be more than weird. But that's what I have to do now. Every 25-30 minutes, I drag him to the toilet to make sure he's wee'd and therefore lessening the chance of a urine soaked settee or carpet. And he seems to be getting the hang of it (apart from today when he was literally two yards from his potty and just stood looking at me with a damp patch spreading over the front of his trousers). But that boy point blank refuses to poo on the toilet and it's driving me mad. Any parent will recognise the 'Having a poo' stance and facial expression. He stands there, with his tiny little posterior sticking out, trying to pretend he's just casually leaning on the table playing. "Do you need to poo?" I repeat, parrot-like at him, knowing full well he'll try and make out he's "just trumping". Since when has trumping left you with a little tail sticking out the back of your trousers, I'll never know.
Several times I've almost cracked and retreated, sobbing, to the nappy bag. But I know I can't go back now we're on this long and winding road. We must soldier on, armed with multipacks of pants with diggers and ambulances on, in the hope of one day reaching our destination. And I'll tell you something, I'm putting 'Potty training a small boy' under the Achievements section of my CV, because if I can do this - I can do anything!
Yes, I know they say boys do things later than girls, and this has proved to be the case with most milestones so far - walking, talking, stopping trying to stick fingers up the cats bums. But I'm started to have this image that fleetingly pops into my head, of him leaning over the bench in his GCSE science class, his teacher asking suspiciously "Are you pooing Charlie?" and him replying sheepishly "No, just trumping". It really does look like I'll have an un-potty trained teenager. And lets face it, whipping his trousers and pants down every five minutes to see if the turtles head is out, well - that'll be more than weird. But that's what I have to do now. Every 25-30 minutes, I drag him to the toilet to make sure he's wee'd and therefore lessening the chance of a urine soaked settee or carpet. And he seems to be getting the hang of it (apart from today when he was literally two yards from his potty and just stood looking at me with a damp patch spreading over the front of his trousers). But that boy point blank refuses to poo on the toilet and it's driving me mad. Any parent will recognise the 'Having a poo' stance and facial expression. He stands there, with his tiny little posterior sticking out, trying to pretend he's just casually leaning on the table playing. "Do you need to poo?" I repeat, parrot-like at him, knowing full well he'll try and make out he's "just trumping". Since when has trumping left you with a little tail sticking out the back of your trousers, I'll never know.
Several times I've almost cracked and retreated, sobbing, to the nappy bag. But I know I can't go back now we're on this long and winding road. We must soldier on, armed with multipacks of pants with diggers and ambulances on, in the hope of one day reaching our destination. And I'll tell you something, I'm putting 'Potty training a small boy' under the Achievements section of my CV, because if I can do this - I can do anything!
Friday 5 October 2012
Bah, humbug!
I'm all for Christmas. Really - I am. JUST NOT IN FRICKING SEPTEMBER!! There's nothing wrong with getting excited about the festive season, just not while the cricket season is still in mid swing. I love Christmas as much as the next woman, but having it rammed it down my throat while I'm out sunbathing, trying to squeeze out the last dregs of summer, is not what I want. The constant spamming of my Facebook newsfeed with festive pictures and 'Only 89 days 'til Christmas!' countdowns really gets on my chuff. How, just how is it possible to keep up that level of enthusiasm for months on end? When it gets to December, by all means get a squeaky bum walking round town looking at the decorations and buying your gifts. But getting excited about putting your tree up in October? Nutty, totally nutty.
I'm not a total Grinch. I love the (short!!) build up to Christmas day; dragging the dusty decorations out the garage and seeing which are still in decent enough condition to use, spending 48 hours straight wrapping the kids' 8000 presents, anchoring the tree to the wall in twenty places to stop the cats from bringing it down, shouting at the cats to leave the bloody baubles alone and retrieving said baubles from under the settee each morning. My OCD starts to get in after a few days though, and by Boxing day I'm itching to take them all back down so I can dust the surfaces properly. See, I reckon that the longer you spend building up to Christmas, the bigger the drop you face when it's all over. That period between Christmas and new year is just no mans land, when you hate being back at work but it's too long a period to take as holiday because you seriously risk killing your partner or starting the new year by presenting them with divorce papers. And once you get into January, that's just nothing but misery; months of cold to look forward to, 5 weeks til payday and not so much as a bank holiday in sight. Surely all this is just intensified when you've spent the last 4 months of the year emitting little "Squeea's" of excitement over Santa?
So, I'm placing a total embargo on Christmas talk until at least the middle of November. And not just for my benefit - it's to try and stop all of my friends sinking into deep depression once the festivities are all over. But in the meantime, if anyone knows where I can buy a cat resistant tree..?
I'm not a total Grinch. I love the (short!!) build up to Christmas day; dragging the dusty decorations out the garage and seeing which are still in decent enough condition to use, spending 48 hours straight wrapping the kids' 8000 presents, anchoring the tree to the wall in twenty places to stop the cats from bringing it down, shouting at the cats to leave the bloody baubles alone and retrieving said baubles from under the settee each morning. My OCD starts to get in after a few days though, and by Boxing day I'm itching to take them all back down so I can dust the surfaces properly. See, I reckon that the longer you spend building up to Christmas, the bigger the drop you face when it's all over. That period between Christmas and new year is just no mans land, when you hate being back at work but it's too long a period to take as holiday because you seriously risk killing your partner or starting the new year by presenting them with divorce papers. And once you get into January, that's just nothing but misery; months of cold to look forward to, 5 weeks til payday and not so much as a bank holiday in sight. Surely all this is just intensified when you've spent the last 4 months of the year emitting little "Squeea's" of excitement over Santa?
So, I'm placing a total embargo on Christmas talk until at least the middle of November. And not just for my benefit - it's to try and stop all of my friends sinking into deep depression once the festivities are all over. But in the meantime, if anyone knows where I can buy a cat resistant tree..?
Sunday 30 September 2012
I wonder...
Today, while in B&Q buying a set of paint pads, I suddenly thought about how human ears are the only part of the body aside from hair and nails) that carry on growing through adulthood and through your twilight years. But simultaneously, some people shrink in height as they get older. So, does this mean that - if combined with the average life expectancy increasing - in a centuries time there will be some sprightly but shrunken 150 year olds shambling around like pixies with ears the size of dinner plates?
Over the years there have been so many unanswered questions that have kept me awake at night and kept me pondering during the day. My head is full of odd thoughts, here are just a few...
Why is your funny bone so called? You hit that bugger, the last thing you want to do is laugh because the buzzing feeling makes you feel queasy. Why is a papercut more painful than a huge wound? Do hairdressers/dentists/doctors/podiatrists etc do their own? And why does my dentist have bad breath? Why do hospital gowns fasten at the back - is it deemed more acceptable to flash your bum at nurses than it is your frontal bits? What is the point of decaff tea and coffee? Why do I order a large Big Mac meal (other fast food outlets are available) with a diet Coke? Why does cucumber make me windy when it's 99.9% water? Why does it always rain for the brief period I am out of the house for the school run? Why is it not possible for me to have just one drink? And why do hangovers last for 3 days when you get to over 30? Why do Michael Winner/Ainsley Harriott/Melanie Sykes/Peter Andre get on my norks so much? Why do my kids insist they don't need the toilet but the second we sit down to eat or leave the house, one will urgently need a poo? Why do I even bother tidying up? At what age should I stop shopping in Topshop and wearing cartoon t-shirts? A bird is 20m up in the air and has the choice of several gardens to poop in, so why does it always land on one of my nearly-dry bedsheets?
Answers on a postcard please. I'm off to measure my ears!
Thursday 27 September 2012
Forgive me Father (and Mother), for I have sinned.
The Daughter is going through a bit of a phase of fibbing and taking things (sweets mainly, poor deprived little bean that she is). Nothing serious, and I know it's all perfectly normal. But I take a lot of stock in the truth, having been told a million lies by some people I've been unfortunate enough to meet along life's winding roads, so I am trying to teach her the value of honesty. Of course, I'm merely human and have fallen foul of my principles on occasion (mainly while I was an impressionable youngster) and am seizing this opportunity to unburden my conscience.
Many lies are borne out of fear - of embarrassment, of getting into trouble, of having your pocket money stopped to pay for a replacement glass coffee table... Yes Mum. When I said I'd tripped over the cat and fallen onto the glass topped coffee table, I actually sat on it whilst drunk and broke it. And yes, I know I was lucky not to rip my bumcheeks to shreds. Sorry.
I'm also sorry for smoking out of my bedroom window and using a glass to keep my fag-ends in behind the curtain. And for throwing the glass onto the flat roof of the kitchen in a panic when I thought I was going to get caught. And for having to climb out of my window, onto the flat roof and picking up all the fag butts when there was no-one in the house.
I'm sorry for stealing a pound, buying some microwave popcorn and Smash Hits, and storing it in the outside toilet. (Not actually IN the outside toilet, that would have rendered both rather unuseable). Similarly, I'm sorry for stealing a Caramac from the newsagents, and smuggling it out in the sleeve of my coat. That was the extent of my light-fingeredness, so please don't have me down as nowt but a common feef.
I'm sorry for using my friend Jessica as an excuse for being out all night at a 'barbecue' when I was actually downtown drinking, or at house parties (also drinking). And I apologise for saying I had food poisoning from said 'barbecues' when I was, in fact, talking to God on the big white telephone courtesy of a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.
I'm sorry to my friends older brother, for drawing a tiny smiley face on the corner of his GCSE English homework while I was in their dining room getting changed after an afternoon in the paddling pool. I am also sorry to another friends younger brother, for making him dress in girls clothes and walk down to the shops. And for spraying his mums perfume all of the clothes in his wardrobe. Although his sister must share some of the blame - you know who you are!
So you see, I'm not perfect. The gold plating on my halo is worn in patches. Some of it I can blame on being led astray, but some was just purely me growing up and learning as I went. But after this baring of my soul, my conscience is clear. So when the Daughter next tells me some fancy tale about someone at school having dolphins in their garden pond, or spirits some chocolate limes out of my handbag, I'll try to stop my imagination running away me, thinking she'll end up in Borstal or on some programme about professional tea-leafs, with camera's following her round as she proudly steals 30 handtowels from BHS. I promise to try and remember the misdemeanours of my formative years and go easy on her. Or, I might just keep my chocolate limes in the car and put some locks on the kitchen cupboards..
Many lies are borne out of fear - of embarrassment, of getting into trouble, of having your pocket money stopped to pay for a replacement glass coffee table... Yes Mum. When I said I'd tripped over the cat and fallen onto the glass topped coffee table, I actually sat on it whilst drunk and broke it. And yes, I know I was lucky not to rip my bumcheeks to shreds. Sorry.
I'm also sorry for smoking out of my bedroom window and using a glass to keep my fag-ends in behind the curtain. And for throwing the glass onto the flat roof of the kitchen in a panic when I thought I was going to get caught. And for having to climb out of my window, onto the flat roof and picking up all the fag butts when there was no-one in the house.
I'm sorry for stealing a pound, buying some microwave popcorn and Smash Hits, and storing it in the outside toilet. (Not actually IN the outside toilet, that would have rendered both rather unuseable). Similarly, I'm sorry for stealing a Caramac from the newsagents, and smuggling it out in the sleeve of my coat. That was the extent of my light-fingeredness, so please don't have me down as nowt but a common feef.
I'm sorry for using my friend Jessica as an excuse for being out all night at a 'barbecue' when I was actually downtown drinking, or at house parties (also drinking). And I apologise for saying I had food poisoning from said 'barbecues' when I was, in fact, talking to God on the big white telephone courtesy of a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.
I'm sorry to my friends older brother, for drawing a tiny smiley face on the corner of his GCSE English homework while I was in their dining room getting changed after an afternoon in the paddling pool. I am also sorry to another friends younger brother, for making him dress in girls clothes and walk down to the shops. And for spraying his mums perfume all of the clothes in his wardrobe. Although his sister must share some of the blame - you know who you are!
So you see, I'm not perfect. The gold plating on my halo is worn in patches. Some of it I can blame on being led astray, but some was just purely me growing up and learning as I went. But after this baring of my soul, my conscience is clear. So when the Daughter next tells me some fancy tale about someone at school having dolphins in their garden pond, or spirits some chocolate limes out of my handbag, I'll try to stop my imagination running away me, thinking she'll end up in Borstal or on some programme about professional tea-leafs, with camera's following her round as she proudly steals 30 handtowels from BHS. I promise to try and remember the misdemeanours of my formative years and go easy on her. Or, I might just keep my chocolate limes in the car and put some locks on the kitchen cupboards..
Thursday 20 September 2012
I predict a riot
I hate my phone. Well, that's not strictly true as it has an awesome camera and a Where's Wally? background which I love. What I DO hate is the mess I get into when I text someone. The invention known as 'predictive text' is meant to be a real boon to communication, but my clever little phone goes one step further. It remembers previous messages you've typed out, and if your message looks similar to a previous one my phone inserts what it thinks you're going to say. Which in some cases is pure genius. But in other cases, it's downright bizarre and makes me look like I have a kind of written tourettes. For example, when talking to a friend about a problem she was having, I managed to send her the message 'Not good fingers :( Hope you get it sorted'. Unless I thoroughly proof-read all of my texts before I send them, I'm likely to send a perfectly sensible message with the word 'bum' or 'cheese' randomly inserted in the middle of them. Maybe my phone knows this, and has a really evil sense of humour. It preys upon my quick fingered haste with it's minefield of possible embarrassing errors.
And not only that, but it also tries to trip me up with it's habit of replacing my frequent swearwords with innocent alternatives. I don't swear in front of the kids, so expletives in texts is kind of a release. It doesn't have the same effect, however, when I send The Husband a message saying "Some mustard's just cut me up in Asda's carpark, I gave the arsenal a right mouthful" or "I was out when that tucking delivery came for suck's sake!". Life was so much simpler when I had to tap out everything letter by letter. It might have taken an age, but at least the margin of error was slim. I might just get rid of my fancy handset and go retro with a Nokia 3310 off Ebay. Bigger it.
And not only that, but it also tries to trip me up with it's habit of replacing my frequent swearwords with innocent alternatives. I don't swear in front of the kids, so expletives in texts is kind of a release. It doesn't have the same effect, however, when I send The Husband a message saying "Some mustard's just cut me up in Asda's carpark, I gave the arsenal a right mouthful" or "I was out when that tucking delivery came for suck's sake!". Life was so much simpler when I had to tap out everything letter by letter. It might have taken an age, but at least the margin of error was slim. I might just get rid of my fancy handset and go retro with a Nokia 3310 off Ebay. Bigger it.
Thursday 13 September 2012
Lookielikies
Apparently there's a face I pull (although it has to be noted that I can never do this face on demand, it's usually an accident when I'm drunk) and I suddenly become Denise Van Outen. There's also, according to The Husband, one that IS Robert DeNiro. And between a 30-something blonde and a 69 year old man (some may say ruggedly handsome, but with a face a bit like a scrotum), I know which likeness I find the most flattering! When my hair was short, I used to get called Dido all the time. When it was long, I was Whigfield. So, apart from the DeNiro thing, all of my apparent lookalikes are acceptable. But I saw something today, a likeness of such magnitude that made me gasp. And, I'll be perfectly honest, it's not even remotely flattering to either parties. But hey ho - nobody said life was fair! For those who aren't au fait with kids tv, there is a presenter on CBeebies called Andy Day who has his own prgramme called Andy's Wild Adventures. Here he is....
...Fatima Whitbread! Aaagh! Look at them, they're positively interchangeable!
And now I've started, I can't stop. Take a look at these little gems...
Nicolas Cage?...
...a nice fella, very good at what he does. But with an unfortunate and uncanny resemblance to....
And now I've started, I can't stop. Take a look at these little gems...
Nicolas Cage?...
Or Juan Sheet from the 'Plenty' ads?...
Janice from the Muppets?...
or Donatella Versace?...
And my own personal favourite! Paul Daniels?...
Or Gollum?...
I shouldn't mock really, it's cruel of me. Especially considering that, in a few years, I could well end up looking like Robert DeNiro. Things could be worse though; I could be married to Gollum. Sorry, sorry, I mean Paul Daniels.
Monday 10 September 2012
I shouldn't laugh, but..
It makes The Daughter absolutely furious when you laugh at her; you are literally putting your life in your hands sometimes. She has a great sense of humour most of the time, so long as she's not the one that's being giggled at. The problem is though, she so frequently does and says things, most often completely unwittingly, that crack us up. Today was school photo day and I managed to get her in school looking as presentable as I possibly could, having lint-rollered the fluff and cat hair off her cardigan and made her promise not to fanny about with her hair. We had the pre-picture pep talk, in which I told her to imagine she'd just seen something funny or that daddy had tickled her. Because she seems to be so aware of her face when she has her photo taken, that she ends up grimacing and closing her eyes. When she came out of school she told me that she'd got the picture in her bag and seemed confident that it was a good one. With some trepidation, I pulled out the proof and burst out laughing. Wrong move, Mummy. "What?!" she shouted, "Let me see!". It truly is one of the worst pictures we have of her, her mouth is so tighly pursed and her face carrying an expression that can only be described as though she's just caught whiff of a fart. I told her it was fine, and quickly changed the subject, but the mood had been set for the journey home as she trudged alongside me chuntering. Until we got about halfway and she was walking along whilst looking backwards, engrossed in what the people behind were doing. And she fell spectacularly over a tuft of grass and hurtled towards the floor. Now, the actual fall itself wasn't what made me laugh - I'm not a total cow! - it was what she did afterwards that had my shoulders bobbing with mirth as I tried not to make her even more furious. As she was wailing and clutching her knee (she landed on grass so I think it was more the embarrassment than the pain), I tried to give her a hug and give her knee the magic rub, but she shoved me off and cried "For goodness sake, there's nothing WRONG with me!". So I bit my lip and said "Ok, I'll leave you be then" and started on my way. But instead of following she stood in the middle of the pavement wailing "Dooooon't leeeeeeeeeave meeeeeeee!". I spent the rest of the way pretending to look at people's gardens so I could look away and laugh.
People falling over in general is funny. Apart from old people, as breaking a hip is pretty serious. But other than that, someone tripping up a kerb and doing the 'Did anyone see?' glance is fair game. In fact, they've made a successful tv programme out of it! You can get £250 for making the nation LOL with your footage of someone elses misfortune. Everyone's a winner!
I must have a strange and cruel streak because I find stuff like that absolutely hilarious. When the nursery took me to one side and told me that The Boychild had been calling everyone an idiot, bad mummy laughed, before I realised that it was apparently a serious matter. On the way to collect him today I was walking behind a trendy type wearing chino shorts and deck shoes. Deck shoes, seriously. And everytime he put his foot on the floor he made a *squeak-trump* noise. Two minutes of *squeak-trump-squeak-trump* and I had to hang back and pretend I was on the phone because I was in stitches.
So beware, good people of the Midlands. Because I'm thinking of taking a video camera out with me from now on. The next time you leave the house with toothpaste all your face, or leave a public loo with ribbons of toilet roll stuck to your shoe, or slip on some ice - there'll be £250 in it for me and a laugh for the nation!
People falling over in general is funny. Apart from old people, as breaking a hip is pretty serious. But other than that, someone tripping up a kerb and doing the 'Did anyone see?' glance is fair game. In fact, they've made a successful tv programme out of it! You can get £250 for making the nation LOL with your footage of someone elses misfortune. Everyone's a winner!
I must have a strange and cruel streak because I find stuff like that absolutely hilarious. When the nursery took me to one side and told me that The Boychild had been calling everyone an idiot, bad mummy laughed, before I realised that it was apparently a serious matter. On the way to collect him today I was walking behind a trendy type wearing chino shorts and deck shoes. Deck shoes, seriously. And everytime he put his foot on the floor he made a *squeak-trump* noise. Two minutes of *squeak-trump-squeak-trump* and I had to hang back and pretend I was on the phone because I was in stitches.
So beware, good people of the Midlands. Because I'm thinking of taking a video camera out with me from now on. The next time you leave the house with toothpaste all your face, or leave a public loo with ribbons of toilet roll stuck to your shoe, or slip on some ice - there'll be £250 in it for me and a laugh for the nation!
Thursday 6 September 2012
Social etiquette
If you ask me, the rise of modern technology has a lot to answer for. And yes, I know I sound like your nan when I say that. But I'm willing to bet that, if studies were done, they would find a direct correlation between the increase in use of social media and time-saving technology, and a general moral decline. Things that were once considered bad manners or socially unacceptable are now part and parcel of daily life. Take Facebook for example. As my FaceFriends will know, I'm partial to a post or two *winkyface*. But in what Universe was it ever considered ok to repeatedly air your filthy laundry in public? Before the likes of Facebook and Twitter, did people ever used to go out into the street and shout "GRRR! My husband is a massive knobjockey!"? And when their neighbours came out and said "Everything ok?", would they have remained silent for half an hour for dramatic effect and then said "Yeah, fine thanks"? No, of course not. But on Facebook - absolutely fine. And pre-social networking sites, how on earth did people manage to communicate to their friends and family what they were having for breakfast, lunch and dinner on any given day? Now, I'm sure this is of great interest to some, but I personally couldn't give a rats ass knowing whose gotten up at 6am to put fish fingers in the slow cooker.
Bluetooth headsets are a real case in point, and something which actually enrage me. In a car, I concede that yes, they are necessary if you need to be constantly available for work. But it is NOT, I repeat NOT necessary for a fat middle aged man whose wife has sent him to Asda for bread, to be wearing his around the store. I very nearly strode up to someone today and said "Nobody is ever going to ring you! You look like a Class A knobber - take it off!". When people shout into them, oblivious to the world around them, I find it almost as rude as people tiptapping on their phones when they should be doing something else. Like packing their bags at the supermarket checkout and hurrying the frick up.
And Twitter, which is probably all the proof anyone needs that the distance and anonymity social media provides has made the uglier side of peoples characters emerge. Who would dare to run up to Gary Barlow in his local Co-Op and tell him he's a terrible husband for performing at the Olympics ceremony when he should have been at home grieving for his stillborn daughter? Precisely. But you get all sorts of weirdo's who think they can hide behind a fake name and a computer screen, and abuse total strangers.
With the exception of Bluetooth headsets, I'm not totally against of all the things I've just spent ten minutes chuntering about. Facebook has led me to friends I never would have met but for a comment on a status of a mutual friend. And Twitter - well, how amazing is it to read what celebrities, film stars and musicians are doing right at this moment? It's like having famous friends. And of course, they both satisfy our overwhelming nosiness and allow us to live our lives vicariously. We've all got people on our friends lists who seem to have either the most fascinating, or the most miserable of lives; people who make us feel wholly inadequate, and those who make us feel bloody lucky! So while you'll never see me talking loudly into a ridiculous headset any time soon, neither will you see me give up my celebrity stalking, my Twattering (or whatever they call it) or my FaceBooking. Oh, and if anyone's interested - we had carbonara pasta bake for tea *winky face*!
Bluetooth headsets are a real case in point, and something which actually enrage me. In a car, I concede that yes, they are necessary if you need to be constantly available for work. But it is NOT, I repeat NOT necessary for a fat middle aged man whose wife has sent him to Asda for bread, to be wearing his around the store. I very nearly strode up to someone today and said "Nobody is ever going to ring you! You look like a Class A knobber - take it off!". When people shout into them, oblivious to the world around them, I find it almost as rude as people tiptapping on their phones when they should be doing something else. Like packing their bags at the supermarket checkout and hurrying the frick up.
And Twitter, which is probably all the proof anyone needs that the distance and anonymity social media provides has made the uglier side of peoples characters emerge. Who would dare to run up to Gary Barlow in his local Co-Op and tell him he's a terrible husband for performing at the Olympics ceremony when he should have been at home grieving for his stillborn daughter? Precisely. But you get all sorts of weirdo's who think they can hide behind a fake name and a computer screen, and abuse total strangers.
With the exception of Bluetooth headsets, I'm not totally against of all the things I've just spent ten minutes chuntering about. Facebook has led me to friends I never would have met but for a comment on a status of a mutual friend. And Twitter - well, how amazing is it to read what celebrities, film stars and musicians are doing right at this moment? It's like having famous friends. And of course, they both satisfy our overwhelming nosiness and allow us to live our lives vicariously. We've all got people on our friends lists who seem to have either the most fascinating, or the most miserable of lives; people who make us feel wholly inadequate, and those who make us feel bloody lucky! So while you'll never see me talking loudly into a ridiculous headset any time soon, neither will you see me give up my celebrity stalking, my Twattering (or whatever they call it) or my FaceBooking. Oh, and if anyone's interested - we had carbonara pasta bake for tea *winky face*!
Sunday 2 September 2012
When I grow up..
Ok, so I'm halfway through being halfway to seventy, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I have an English degree, which has had the grand sum of Zero help towards any of the jobs I've done since University; knowing how Victorian female writers represented women characters in their novels did nothing to aid me when talking customers through balance transfers and being able to recognise Iambic pentameter was chuff all help when composing responses to customer's complaints about their half-yearly sewerage bill. Unless of course I fancied writing them a little poem, which probably wouldn't have gone down all that well with OFWAT.
Don't get me wrong, I've done the career thing - it's not like I've just bummed about bouncing from one job to the next. I had a managerial position for years, and while I did enjoy the challenge at times, it was also a huge, stressful headache. People management is rather like being a nursery nurse; telling people off, telling them when they've done something well and cleaning up other people's crap. I've also done the more 'menial' type work, which actually was more enjoyable than the grown-up jobs. I spent a year in an animal rescue centre, and if it hadn't have been for several of my colleagues thinking I was up my own arse and wondering what an ex-manager was doing cleaning cat trays (I happened to like it! Well, not like it, but you know what I mean..), I would have absolutely loved that job.
So now, I'm doing the 'Mum' thing while The Childbeasts are young. For some people the words 'Stay at home mum' go in their ears as 'gormless idiot who does nothing but washing and watching Jeremy Kyle'. In a years time, however, both of them will be at school and Mummy will have some time on her hands. And what to do, what to do? I did intend to start studying towards a degree in Midwifery, but then I risk getting broody again and, after the horror of the last six weeks I would rather pull my toenails out than have to face the school holidays with 3 kids!
It was all so much clearer when I was younger. I wanted to work as a stable-hand in the My Little Pony grooming parlour first of all. Then I had designs on being an Orthodontist. i didn't really know what an orthodontist did, but it sounded really impressive. Now I can actually think of little else worse than sticking my face down near manky gobs, picking off plaque and scraping tongues. But what could I be? I'd love to be a writer - but a decent one, not just peddling out the same old romantic pap and cringeworthy dialogue. Or a stand up comedian maybe, a female and Northern version of Micky Flanagan. Surely I can't be the only grown up who doesn't know what they want to be when they're a grown up? I wonder if there are any vanacies going at the My Little Pony grooming parlour these days...?
Don't get me wrong, I've done the career thing - it's not like I've just bummed about bouncing from one job to the next. I had a managerial position for years, and while I did enjoy the challenge at times, it was also a huge, stressful headache. People management is rather like being a nursery nurse; telling people off, telling them when they've done something well and cleaning up other people's crap. I've also done the more 'menial' type work, which actually was more enjoyable than the grown-up jobs. I spent a year in an animal rescue centre, and if it hadn't have been for several of my colleagues thinking I was up my own arse and wondering what an ex-manager was doing cleaning cat trays (I happened to like it! Well, not like it, but you know what I mean..), I would have absolutely loved that job.
So now, I'm doing the 'Mum' thing while The Childbeasts are young. For some people the words 'Stay at home mum' go in their ears as 'gormless idiot who does nothing but washing and watching Jeremy Kyle'. In a years time, however, both of them will be at school and Mummy will have some time on her hands. And what to do, what to do? I did intend to start studying towards a degree in Midwifery, but then I risk getting broody again and, after the horror of the last six weeks I would rather pull my toenails out than have to face the school holidays with 3 kids!
It was all so much clearer when I was younger. I wanted to work as a stable-hand in the My Little Pony grooming parlour first of all. Then I had designs on being an Orthodontist. i didn't really know what an orthodontist did, but it sounded really impressive. Now I can actually think of little else worse than sticking my face down near manky gobs, picking off plaque and scraping tongues. But what could I be? I'd love to be a writer - but a decent one, not just peddling out the same old romantic pap and cringeworthy dialogue. Or a stand up comedian maybe, a female and Northern version of Micky Flanagan. Surely I can't be the only grown up who doesn't know what they want to be when they're a grown up? I wonder if there are any vanacies going at the My Little Pony grooming parlour these days...?
Thursday 30 August 2012
Selling your soul
This week I have mostly been pulling my teeth out with my bare hands. Also known as listing stuff on Ebay. Dear Lord I hate doing that! I put it off until I have a clothes mountain that would make Oxfam weep, and such a time as I have 24 hours free to sit in front of the computer giving multiple pairs of skinny jeans the hard-sell. The world of Ebay is a strange one. Sometimes you can sit and watch, whooping, as some random secondhand item you're selling gets bid twice what you originally pay for it, and hotdang that's when you could drop everything and marry the blessed site. And yet other times, a pair of jeans that cost you £45 go to some jammy bugger for 99p, and you just know they're sitting behind their laptop cackling like a witch and rubbing their hands in glee. Which is why, as I'm wrapping their item up for posting, I'm cursing them and sending vibes that my beloved jeans won't even go past their knees. Of course, when the jeans are on the other leg (to mix your metaphors) and I'm the new owner of a designer jumper for the grand sum of £1.20, do I feel an ounce of sympathy for the poor soul who is willing me to get trapped in a sleeve and starve to death? Of course I don't!
The whole Ebay experience can be on a par with gambling. Seriously. The timing is everything; never put an item on so the auction finishes on a Friday or Saturday night. Even Monday evenings are risky, as people get too wrapped up in the soaps and forget they were watching your tshirt. And don't list an item for 10 days, that's just silly. Even 7 days and you lose the excitement of the countdown. That last 24 hours, when the item end time goes red! Ooh, sends a shiver down my spine that does. The thrill of having 14 people watching your Next flares, and pressing F5 every five seconds to see if anyone else has bid is a buzz like no other. *REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*BID DAMMIT!*REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*
The pleasure of having made a few quid from selling stuff you always intended on wearing but never did, however, is soon gone when you get your invoice from Ebay for the items you listed, and realise you've made about £3 profit. In fact, next time I think I'll donate my clothes mountain to the charidee shop and go and buy a scratchcard on the way home!
The whole Ebay experience can be on a par with gambling. Seriously. The timing is everything; never put an item on so the auction finishes on a Friday or Saturday night. Even Monday evenings are risky, as people get too wrapped up in the soaps and forget they were watching your tshirt. And don't list an item for 10 days, that's just silly. Even 7 days and you lose the excitement of the countdown. That last 24 hours, when the item end time goes red! Ooh, sends a shiver down my spine that does. The thrill of having 14 people watching your Next flares, and pressing F5 every five seconds to see if anyone else has bid is a buzz like no other. *REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*BID DAMMIT!*REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*
The pleasure of having made a few quid from selling stuff you always intended on wearing but never did, however, is soon gone when you get your invoice from Ebay for the items you listed, and realise you've made about £3 profit. In fact, next time I think I'll donate my clothes mountain to the charidee shop and go and buy a scratchcard on the way home!
Monday 27 August 2012
Inflation..and some!
I took The Daughter to my best friends house this weekend; a 3 hour and 2 dvd car journey away. Aside from her not sleeping or doing as she was told, it was a good weekend. We went to a kite festival on the Saturday, and steered her away from the giant airborne sperm and cervix (I mean, really. Who buys a sperm and cervix kite?). And on Sunday we went to visit Peppa Pig World at Paulton's Park in Hampshire. For those not in the know, Peppa is an animated talking (and precocious) infant aged pig. She speaks like she's got a problem with her adenoids, is a bossy little madam, and has a little brother, George, who cries all the time. Her Daddy is a know-all, her Mummy works from home, and there are various other animal characters who make regular appearances including a rabbit who works at a museum, in a supermarket, at the recycling centre, drives a bus, flies a helicopter and works as a dental nurse. Inside the theme park is an area devoted to Peppa Pig, with themed rides and landmarks (landmarks? is that the word I'm looking for?) like Peppa's House and Daddy Pig's Campervan. The only reason we went there was to see the Peppa bit, but was she interested? Was she buggery. She was much more interested in the huge terrifying rollercoasters like Cobra and Magma which, unfortunately, were the ones that had 9 hour queues. As we stood with aching legs and a vaguely full bladder in the 30 minute queue for The Cobra, I amused myself by looking at the arms of the woman in front. She had the plushest, hairiest arms I've ever seen, like an Alpaca or a Mohair goat. While we were queueing, the thought seriously crossed my mind that I could surreuptitiously trim her and sell her hair.
To be quite honest, the extra money made from my black-market-arm-hair enterprise would have come in really handy after the amount I spent at that place. Fifty quid to get in, nearly twenty quid on lunch, a fiver on win-a-teddy fairground stalls. Although, we did win a massive 'Hangry Bird' (as The Daughter calls them. To me, 'Hangry' is how I get when I have low blood sugar levels), a toy penguin, a 'Rabbid' toy and a cuddly starfish. I was awesome! The Fairground Gods were smiling down on me as I got that ball in the red cup!
I always used to feel a bit short changed when I went to theme parks as a kid, swallowing back the pangs of jealousy for the people eating their over priced burger and chips as we sat and ate our home-made sandwiches and party rings. Similarly when I went to the cinema. My first cinematic experience was watching 'BMX Bandits' with an orange cup-drink and a 10p mix. But now? Well, it's not a night out unless you've spent £7.50 on a ticket, an extra fiver on 3d glasses, a fiver on a bucket of popcorn that costs about 6p to make and a bag of Revels with a 3000% mark up. Now I'm a grown up and the one PAYING for the days out and the cinema trips, I can more than see why my mum would rather have packed up some cheese butties and crisps than spend a small fortune on insanely overpriced chips. I'm dreading the time when I have to take both kids out instead of just one; if I start saving now I might just have enough for lunch at Alton Towers. Assuming I can get a Wonga.com loan for the entrance tickets!
To be quite honest, the extra money made from my black-market-arm-hair enterprise would have come in really handy after the amount I spent at that place. Fifty quid to get in, nearly twenty quid on lunch, a fiver on win-a-teddy fairground stalls. Although, we did win a massive 'Hangry Bird' (as The Daughter calls them. To me, 'Hangry' is how I get when I have low blood sugar levels), a toy penguin, a 'Rabbid' toy and a cuddly starfish. I was awesome! The Fairground Gods were smiling down on me as I got that ball in the red cup!
I always used to feel a bit short changed when I went to theme parks as a kid, swallowing back the pangs of jealousy for the people eating their over priced burger and chips as we sat and ate our home-made sandwiches and party rings. Similarly when I went to the cinema. My first cinematic experience was watching 'BMX Bandits' with an orange cup-drink and a 10p mix. But now? Well, it's not a night out unless you've spent £7.50 on a ticket, an extra fiver on 3d glasses, a fiver on a bucket of popcorn that costs about 6p to make and a bag of Revels with a 3000% mark up. Now I'm a grown up and the one PAYING for the days out and the cinema trips, I can more than see why my mum would rather have packed up some cheese butties and crisps than spend a small fortune on insanely overpriced chips. I'm dreading the time when I have to take both kids out instead of just one; if I start saving now I might just have enough for lunch at Alton Towers. Assuming I can get a Wonga.com loan for the entrance tickets!
Sunday 19 August 2012
Green fingers
I am, by my own admission, the World's worst gardener. In fact, it's much worse than that. I'm a plant killer, destroying everything I touch and I should be made to sign the POR (the Plant Offenders Register) for life. I long to have a garden to be proud of; swathes of blooms welcoming people as they walk up the drive, colourful borders and hanging baskets that would make Titchmarsh weep. I look at my neighbours gardens and feel a pang of envy that they can keep things alive, where I am almost guaranteed to kill potplants within a week - a rare talent, you must admit. There are some things I'm fantastic at cultivating - clover, dandelions, and brambles are my speciality. Certain parts of the garden resemble a meadow, and a small part of the front garden is just impenetrable undergrowth ("I leave it like that for the wildlife!" I tell myself).
We have plants in our kitchen that are here by the skin of their teeth - alive only because they have learnt to survive by sucking up all of the moisture from the steam from pasta cooking in the saucepan. When the kitchen window is open you can almost hear them shouting "Nooooooo! We need that!" as the steam escapes. If you should happen to visit Chez Bob and find us with an abundance of potted pansies and nasturtiums, it is all a big ruse. I am clueless as to how much water is too much - am I drowning the poor buggers unknowingly? And so, despite my best efforts, they all soon leave for the great floral graveyard (the brown bin) and off I go to B&Q to replace them. And this happens probably monthly over the course of the summer. And here's the killer - a while back I was keen on training as a florist! Brilliant. You can just imagine young Jane on her wedding day, walking down the aisle with a bunch of wilted brown lilies from 'Bobs' Blooms'.
A thought has just occurred to me - all of the Pets At Home fish I've had died, but the carrier bag full from my neighbour are still going strong (obviously they're not still in the carrier bag!). And all of the plants from B&Q I've bought have died, so....maybe it's not my fault after all! Maybe I just need to get carrier bags full of flowers from my neighbours and I'll be winning competitions in no time! I'll get my name off the Plant Offenders Register, you'll see...
We have plants in our kitchen that are here by the skin of their teeth - alive only because they have learnt to survive by sucking up all of the moisture from the steam from pasta cooking in the saucepan. When the kitchen window is open you can almost hear them shouting "Nooooooo! We need that!" as the steam escapes. If you should happen to visit Chez Bob and find us with an abundance of potted pansies and nasturtiums, it is all a big ruse. I am clueless as to how much water is too much - am I drowning the poor buggers unknowingly? And so, despite my best efforts, they all soon leave for the great floral graveyard (the brown bin) and off I go to B&Q to replace them. And this happens probably monthly over the course of the summer. And here's the killer - a while back I was keen on training as a florist! Brilliant. You can just imagine young Jane on her wedding day, walking down the aisle with a bunch of wilted brown lilies from 'Bobs' Blooms'.
A thought has just occurred to me - all of the Pets At Home fish I've had died, but the carrier bag full from my neighbour are still going strong (obviously they're not still in the carrier bag!). And all of the plants from B&Q I've bought have died, so....maybe it's not my fault after all! Maybe I just need to get carrier bags full of flowers from my neighbours and I'll be winning competitions in no time! I'll get my name off the Plant Offenders Register, you'll see...
Wednesday 15 August 2012
Modern mysteries
Forget crop circles, alien abductions, the Bermuda triangle, UFO sightings, bleeding Virgin Mary statues and fairies. My head is whirling with a million unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries of my own. It's not the Loch Ness monster that keeps me awake at nights, it's a multitude of minutae, a myriad worries, a tempest of trivia! This is by no means an exhaustive list, please feel free to add your own - or even better, give me answers to mine!
- Why can flies find their way into the house through a crack in a housebrick, yet when you leave all the windows and doors wide open, the dozy articles are completely unable to locate their exit? Even flapping at them with a magazine in the direction of an open door doesn't help.
- Why are children deaf to anything you ask them to do, but can hear the opening of the fridge/cupboard door from 10 miles away?
- Why won't Imogen Thomas / The Kardashian's / The GoCompare advert man / all Big brother housemates (past and present) just shut up and go away?
- Speaking of The Kardashian's, why have they all got (some quite obviously made up) first names beginning with K?
- Why is it that when you've spent half an hour putting suncream on, getting your lounger, radio and book together, the sun goes in?
- And why is it that if there are clouds in the sky, they ALWAYS go in front of the sun?
- Why are hoop earrings physically impossible to fasten?
- Why do you always want a bag of chips after going swimming?
- Why is it, when you have to wear shorts or a skirt, do you either cut yourself shaving, or have a huge bruise on your leg?
- Why do fish from pet shops die with about two hours, but when your neighbour gives you a Morrisons carrier bag full of them, the bleeders just will not die?
- What is paranoia called when you know you're right to be paranoid?
- How do they know that blondes have more fun? Has there ever been a survey?
- Why does Barry Scott from the Cillit bang adverts always shout?
- Why am I the only one in this house bothered about cleaning?
- Why do I still have people as friends on Facebook when they clearly don't like me, and I'm not bothered?
- Why does cucumber give me the raging burps when it's 99.9% water?
- At what age is it deemed inappropriate to wear a bikini? Ditto mini skirts?
- What's the difference between Diet Coke and Coke Zero?
- Is it ever acceptable to gaffer tape your kids mouths up and shut them in a cupboard? Even if they're really getting on your nerves and it's only for ten minutes?
- Guinea pigs are just big rats, so why can you teach rats to do tricks but guinea pigs are literally the thickest animals in existence?
- How many animals is it acceptable to bring home before your husband threatens you with divorce?
Monday 13 August 2012
I wish I was..
Sometimes it's pretty crap being a grown up. If you were to stop and actually think about all the responsibilities you have, all the drains you have on your finances and time and sanity it would probably be enough to make a lot of people cry like a baby. I'm included in that statement by the way. And when you're a parent, it's even worse; you have to think about someone else ALL of the time, never stop worrying about their safety and get sick of the sound of your own voice repeating "Be careful/no, don't do that/stop wiping your nose on the curtain!". Even when you just have pets instead of children (I say 'just', but having a household with a scarily high pets to people ratio, I can tell you it's hard work), you still have extra costs, worries of what to do with the little buggers when you go on holiday because they haven't evolved enough to be able to open a can, concerns over them breaking their legs and having to sell your house to pay the vets bills, and a ton of extra cleaning. But what, I wonder, would my life be like if I was someone or something else? I know it's not good to wish your life away, because then you never appreciate the good things that you do have, but what if....?
If I was a child... I could watch all of the thousands of toy adverts they put on the kids channels saying "I want that for Christmas!" to everything, and live with the eternal optimism and belief that - if you don't smack your brother round the head too often - Santa will bring it. I could march up to the parents of my friends, and without an ounce of shame, invite myself to their house for tea. I could gawp obviously at fat people, people with pink hair, people with giant warts, and use my 'Toddler Tourettes' in a loud voice to point out their 'differences'. I could use 'I'm tired' as a covers-all excuse for behaving like a ratbag. I could talk constantly about boobs, bums, willies and poo as though they were the most hilarous things in the entire world. I could have a piggy bank full of coppers and think I was rich. I could throw a huge tantrum every time I didn't get my own way, shame the crap out my parents and lap up all the tuts and glares from old people and it would be ok. I could decide one day that I'm only going to eat raw carrots and toast. I could trump, pick my nose and have my hand down my pants to my hearts content. Although, I know plenty of adults who do that too!
If I was a cat... I could take a crap anywhere I like. I could shamelessly waft around peoples legs when I wanted feeding or a fuss, and then ignore them after I'd got it. I could catch frogs and then sit back and watch as Mummy tries to chase it out of the garden, whilst shrieking because frogs frighten the bejesus out of her. I could fall asleep on the trampoline in the sunshine for ten hours, come in and have some food, and then go back to sleep again. I could wait until the owners are about to go to bed, and then start my mad half-hour, doing the wall of death around the lounge. I could go to sleep next to them on the bed, purring that loudly that they have to go and find earplugs.
But then, if I wasn't a grown up I couldn't drink, or drive (not at the same time I hasten to add), couldn't stay up til whatever time I wanted watching rubbish tv, couldn't spend hours mooching around town or go and people watch at the gym. And as I'm never going to be a child again, or a cat, I guess being a grown up will just have to do. Although, just for shits and giggles I might go out and sleep on the trampoline for ten hours and start giggling everytime somebody says the word 'bum'...just because I can!
If I was a child... I could watch all of the thousands of toy adverts they put on the kids channels saying "I want that for Christmas!" to everything, and live with the eternal optimism and belief that - if you don't smack your brother round the head too often - Santa will bring it. I could march up to the parents of my friends, and without an ounce of shame, invite myself to their house for tea. I could gawp obviously at fat people, people with pink hair, people with giant warts, and use my 'Toddler Tourettes' in a loud voice to point out their 'differences'. I could use 'I'm tired' as a covers-all excuse for behaving like a ratbag. I could talk constantly about boobs, bums, willies and poo as though they were the most hilarous things in the entire world. I could have a piggy bank full of coppers and think I was rich. I could throw a huge tantrum every time I didn't get my own way, shame the crap out my parents and lap up all the tuts and glares from old people and it would be ok. I could decide one day that I'm only going to eat raw carrots and toast. I could trump, pick my nose and have my hand down my pants to my hearts content. Although, I know plenty of adults who do that too!
If I was a cat... I could take a crap anywhere I like. I could shamelessly waft around peoples legs when I wanted feeding or a fuss, and then ignore them after I'd got it. I could catch frogs and then sit back and watch as Mummy tries to chase it out of the garden, whilst shrieking because frogs frighten the bejesus out of her. I could fall asleep on the trampoline in the sunshine for ten hours, come in and have some food, and then go back to sleep again. I could wait until the owners are about to go to bed, and then start my mad half-hour, doing the wall of death around the lounge. I could go to sleep next to them on the bed, purring that loudly that they have to go and find earplugs.
But then, if I wasn't a grown up I couldn't drink, or drive (not at the same time I hasten to add), couldn't stay up til whatever time I wanted watching rubbish tv, couldn't spend hours mooching around town or go and people watch at the gym. And as I'm never going to be a child again, or a cat, I guess being a grown up will just have to do. Although, just for shits and giggles I might go out and sleep on the trampoline for ten hours and start giggling everytime somebody says the word 'bum'...just because I can!
Thursday 9 August 2012
It's not what it looks like!
After being mightily cheesed off for the first few hours of today having been awoken by the milkman and his stupid electric hairdryer on wheels at 4.30am, and then kept awake by the cock down the road, I have mostly been spending my day relaxing in the sunshine and thinking about Pareidolia. As you do. Pareidolia is, according to the wisdom of Wiki, a "psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant.". The Daughter does it all the time - "That cloud looks like boobies!" or "My half eaten sandwich looks like a bum!". A perfect example is the backdrop to my blog - a photo of the spud I found that looks like a heart. 'Why have you been thinking about this Bobs?' I hear you ask. And I shall tell you. For the past 5 years, my daily hair/face wash has been dominated by a knot in the pine on our bathroom door. At first it proper freaked me out and I could see how all of those people who've seen Jesus' face on a slice of toast and Elvis in a damp patch in the bathroom must have felt. To see it from my perspective, you need to tip your head upside down as though you're washing your hair. Well, go on then!
See! A face! To me it looks a bit like Morph - that plasticene character, or at night time when the light isn't so good it looks like Pete Postlethwaite. Cognitive psychologists will tell us that humans are pre-programmed to see human faces in things even when we're babies, which makes sense. And by a further stretch of the imagination you can see why people with religious faith - especially in the good ol' USofA - so often see the Virgin Mary in taco shells. I can't say I've ever seen the face of Our Lord in a crumpet, or Mother Theresa in one of the Boychild's dirty nappies. But I have seen a romantic potato, and this - what do you think this says about me?
If any of you tells me you don't see a carrot with a willy, I'll show you a liar! You perverts. If anyone can top that, I would love to know. Until then, I'm off to raid the salad drawer for radishes that look like nipples..
Monday 6 August 2012
In all seriousness..
I can't pretend my kids don't drive me mad at times. This last week with The Daughter has been exhausting; she's acted like a five year old teenager and has reduced me to tears of frustration more than once. At the swimming baths today both her and The Boychild stood in the changing rooms reaching up to grab at my chest and were gleefully shouting "Boobies! Boobies!" for all to hear. That was after The Boychild had pooed in his swim nappy (for those not in the know, swim nappies are not really meant for a full-sized turd) and spent the entire time shrieking in terror. I'm not a perfect mother, nor do I claim to have a happy family 100% of the time. Families have rough patches, just like any relationship, but it's about hanging in there and gritting your teeth when you feel like you're banging your head against a brick wall. I read something today that puts all of the tantrums and trials into perspective; that Gary and Dawn Barlow's baby was stillborn a few days ago. I've not escaped loss myself, having lost my sister at a young age and having had several miscarriages, but to spend nine months carrying a child and all that that entails - as soon as you find out there is life inside you, you can't help but shape your whole future around it - and then to have it snatched away? Well, it's unimaginable. So when your little cherubs are driving you to the brink, take a step back and remember that every minute with them is precious; even the times that make you furious are proof of how much you love them.
Thursday 2 August 2012
It's in the genes
I openly admit to being a bit strange. Not all the time, and not in a scary way; perhaps The Husband would disagree when I'm glossing the bannisters at midnight, but I like to think of my oddities as endearing little quirks. Take my thing about seeds for example. Ever since I can remember I've had a thing about pips in food. Maybe it's another Old Wives thing about seeds growing in your tummy and having an apple tree or strawberry plant sprouting in your guts, I don't know. But anything with seeds and pips, no matter how small, freaks me out. Burgers with sesame seed buns, strawberries, grapes - all a no go area. Tonight I was tucking into a huge slice of fresh watermelon - which I adore - but had to abandon it because I got overwhelmed by how may teeny tiny seeds there were and had spent about an hour whittling them out with my fingernails. And then there's my sleeping 'ways'. I have to wear something, even if it's as hot as an oven. Similarly I have to have one leg inside the duvet, as a preventative measure against things getting me. Don't ask me what things, because I'm not entirely sure, but having your whole body on top of the quilt is just asking for trouble. Don't say I didn't warn you. I also wear just one earplug - in the ear that just happens to be facing upwards as I nod off. Quite a sight for eyes, me at bedtime - 'jama'd up with one leg on top of the quilt and one earplug in. Control yourself gents!
The Husband is strange too, and is the first to admit it. He too has to sleep with the sheets pulled up to his eyes in case a spider crawls into any available orifice. He has to have a bowl of mandarins every evening, even if he's full, and exactly the same lunch everyday. Although sometimes I buy him different sandwich meat, just to throw a bit of danger into the mix. And don't even get me started on the silly things he says - "Is it dangerous to put chicken in toasted sandwiches?" being the latest example. So, it comes as no suprise that The Childbeasts are strange also. And I'm not quite sure how much of it is just the normal strangeness that afflicts the majority of children, and how much of it is down to having odd parents. If we were normal, would we still have a daughter who can cry at will? Would she still have to have the same breakfast everyday (that is TOTALLY The Husband's fault) and have to say "Love you, na-night, see you in the morning" about 50 times before we're allowed to go downstairs? And would The Boychild still be a tiny bit obsessed with cats bums or shake like a shitting dog at the mere sound of the Rag and Bone man? Actually, I've just read all that back and the poor little buggers never stood a chance!
The Husband is strange too, and is the first to admit it. He too has to sleep with the sheets pulled up to his eyes in case a spider crawls into any available orifice. He has to have a bowl of mandarins every evening, even if he's full, and exactly the same lunch everyday. Although sometimes I buy him different sandwich meat, just to throw a bit of danger into the mix. And don't even get me started on the silly things he says - "Is it dangerous to put chicken in toasted sandwiches?" being the latest example. So, it comes as no suprise that The Childbeasts are strange also. And I'm not quite sure how much of it is just the normal strangeness that afflicts the majority of children, and how much of it is down to having odd parents. If we were normal, would we still have a daughter who can cry at will? Would she still have to have the same breakfast everyday (that is TOTALLY The Husband's fault) and have to say "Love you, na-night, see you in the morning" about 50 times before we're allowed to go downstairs? And would The Boychild still be a tiny bit obsessed with cats bums or shake like a shitting dog at the mere sound of the Rag and Bone man? Actually, I've just read all that back and the poor little buggers never stood a chance!
Sunday 29 July 2012
Dodging bullets
I was in the gym this morning, when Beyonce's song 'Best thing you never had' came on. Usually we're subjected to some completely unmotivating slow-ass stuff like Richard Marx and Wings which normally has me nodding off mid jog, so this was somewhat of an improvement. Anyway, there's a line in it which sounds suspiciously like "..You showed your ass and I saw the real you", which surely can't be right? Because not only are they appalling lyrics, but what on earth could have been so bad about his ass that acted as such a repellant?! Boils? Scales? Did he wear a nappy? I shudder to think. Got me thinking though; there can't be many people on the planet who haven't completely dodged a bullet when it's come to previous romances. One of my exes used to hollow out a baguette and fill it with beef and tomato Pot Noodle for his lunch, one wouldn't have known the truth if it walked up to him wearing a sandwich board and flashing deely-boppers and punched him in the kisser and another never wore shoes. Ever.I mean - I know we've all got our faults, but can you seriously imagining marrying someone like that?
I'm in the process of writing a book, and admittedly finding the characters relationships side of things tricky. In most chick-lit stories, the male character is usually flawed in some way (a bit of a womaniser or a commitment phobe or a mummy's boy) but at the end of book realises the error of his ways and is perfect for whichever female sap has been waiting patiently for him for the entire length of the story. But real life and real people aren't like that. Most men don't become incurable romantics with the love of a good woman, or have an epiphany and stop acting like a horny teenager. Nope. They usually just carry on into middle age still forgetting when their anniversary/wife's birthday is, still have the same bad habits of forgetting to flush the loo and eating like a cement mixer, still have that gormless expression on their face when they're concentrating and - if you're really unlucky - still trying it on with any female enough to look at them sideways. So, my dilemna is thus; do I break with convention and go with real life? Have characters who get on each others norks, who row in Asda over where to park (she wants to park next to the store, he wants to park in the furthest possible space) which checkout has the shortest queue and who both wear pyjama's that have seen better days. Or do I stick with the rules and have main protagonists who shag like they have horny goatweed sprinkled on every meal and who are achingly beautiful/trendy/rich with names like Celestial Starr and Mitchum Lovelace? Answers on a postcard please! Actually, I'm kind of keen of Mitchum Lovelace...
I'm in the process of writing a book, and admittedly finding the characters relationships side of things tricky. In most chick-lit stories, the male character is usually flawed in some way (a bit of a womaniser or a commitment phobe or a mummy's boy) but at the end of book realises the error of his ways and is perfect for whichever female sap has been waiting patiently for him for the entire length of the story. But real life and real people aren't like that. Most men don't become incurable romantics with the love of a good woman, or have an epiphany and stop acting like a horny teenager. Nope. They usually just carry on into middle age still forgetting when their anniversary/wife's birthday is, still have the same bad habits of forgetting to flush the loo and eating like a cement mixer, still have that gormless expression on their face when they're concentrating and - if you're really unlucky - still trying it on with any female enough to look at them sideways. So, my dilemna is thus; do I break with convention and go with real life? Have characters who get on each others norks, who row in Asda over where to park (she wants to park next to the store, he wants to park in the furthest possible space) which checkout has the shortest queue and who both wear pyjama's that have seen better days. Or do I stick with the rules and have main protagonists who shag like they have horny goatweed sprinkled on every meal and who are achingly beautiful/trendy/rich with names like Celestial Starr and Mitchum Lovelace? Answers on a postcard please! Actually, I'm kind of keen of Mitchum Lovelace...
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