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..!
Tuesday 30 October 2012
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..?
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