Monday 24 June 2013

Life is a rollercoaster

Last week I took one of my service users to Alton Towers for a day trip. It was a brilliant day out, with good weather and, thanks to a special red wristband we got on every ride without having to queue - a day out made all the better by not having to queue for an hour and a half at a time with the sweaty general public. The last time I went there was about 5 years ago with a friend. My overwhelming memory of that day was said friend and I putting on our cheap Primark ponchos to go on the 'Congo River Rapids' (yes, I know half the fun is getting soaked but I didn't want to walk round all day with a soggy rear!), and when she leant forward to hold on to the handrail her poncho split open down the back. I laughed so hard I nearly weed and tears trickled down my poncho. Prior to that I went with The Husband; we ran straight for 'Nemesis before it got busy, went on four times on the trot and spent the rest of the day feeling sick. I didn't want to take any chances so this time I went fully prepared and chewed a few of the travel sickness tablets I'd bought for The Boychild aka 'Car-sick Kid'.

It worked; despite going on all of the big rides at least once, the contents of my stomach remained in situ. Which is more than can be said for the poor chap with the delicate constitution we saw getting off 'Nemesis'. He flew past us, his face as grey as his jumper and lost his lunch to the floor. One of the ride attendants went straight into Jobsworth mode and repeatedly screamed "MIND THE SICK!! MIIIIIND THE SIIIIIIIIICK!" whilst flamboyantly ushering other ride-goers around the vomit puddle. He must have been properly hardcore though as we saw him 5 minutes later - still grey - queuing up for 'Air'! Hat's off to you fella, hat's off.

What I had forgotten about being at a theme park all day is that special kind of knackeredness you get from repeatedly having your adrenalin levels fly up and down like a jack in the box. By lunchtime I was so exhausted I was getting too weak to brace myself on the rides and just allowed myself to be flung about like a ragdoll. My throat was ravaged by all the screaming I'd done in the morning and could now only emit small croaks of fear. We saved Alton Towers newest ride, 'The Smiler', until last. Probably a good idea as it left me so traumatised that if we'd gone on it first, I'd have had to go for a lie down. It has 14 loops, although it feels like a hundred. After about an hour of being subjected to medieval torture techniques we came to a halt and I sagged with relief. Until I looked to my right and saw a huge sign saying 'Halfway there..'. And nearly cried. I'm sure whoever called it 'The Smiler' did so with a smirk of irony because I certainly wasn't smiling when I disembarked. I was too busy swearing and wondering if I was bleeding from my eyes and ears.

No theme park trip is complete without frittering away a weeks wages in the gift shop on the way out and I spent with the abandon of a woman glad to have survived the previous 6 hours. I slept like a baby that night, and realised one thing - that if I have to take travel sickness pills beforehand and if I'm left feeling like I've completed a marathon at the end of the day - I'm probably getting a bit too old for it all. Maybe it's time to hand the thrill-seeking baton over to The Daughter, and look for more sedate ways of having fun. Who am I trying to kid? I'll still be rollercoastering when I'm 75! And The Daughter? Well, she can either come on too...or hold my dentures for me!

Tuesday 11 June 2013

Flying the nest

My baby boy, the youngest Childbeast, will be 4 next week. With this realisation comes a whole avalanche of emotions; most based around the fact that in a few short months my little lad will be starting school. My mini-man, who has a blanket with a lions head on it called Noonie in bed with him, who gets his head stuck in the sleeve of his t-shirt and panics, who still battles with the urge to poke a finger in the cats bottoms, will be joining the big boys and girls on his journey through the education system. I'm scared mainly; that he'll get upset because he won't get to 'schzum' cars all day, that his constant demands of "Watch this!" to the teacher will result in a telling off and then tears, that when he comes out of the tiny school toilets with his trousers round his ankles and his trinklements poking over the top of his 'Fireman Sam' pants, his exclamation of "Me peen's sticking out!"  won't elicit the laughter he has come to expect.

The Daughter was more than ready to start school and I had no concerns about how she would settle in. But The Boy is so different in so many ways. I'm to attend a meeting with his new teacher, in which I have to answer questions about his abilities, skills, personality etc, with the aim of them knowing what sort of level he is at. I remember with The Daughter I was asked whether she could eat with a knife and fork, if she could dress/undress herself, could she write her name, count up to 20, what her interests were and so on. I have to prepare the Reception class teachers for a boy who would happily eat all his meals with his fingers, even beans - like a monkey picking peanuts out of poo. He can dress himself, if they're happy with him wearing his clothes backwards and inside out (rather like a tiny member of Kriss Kross - remember them?). And his interests are schzumming cars and showing you his bum, things I hope he will grow out of before he needs to start compiling his CV.

For selfish reasons too, I don't want him to grow up. He's (probably) the last of my babies, and still a real sweetie. He's affectionate, and innocent, and as soon as they start school the eye-rolling, attitude and answering back starts. I want to keep him as my little dude forever; to have him sit on my knee and suck his thumb when he's tired. But I know he has to grow up, just as I know I have to let him. And if in time I start to get broody and my womb starts to skip a beat at the sight of newborn babies, I'll just let The Husband know that it's time for another....cat!!



Tuesday 4 June 2013

Hell hath no fury

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', 'The female of the species is more deadlier than the male', 'Dispute not with her; she is lunatic'. See, even Shakespeare knew it - women are evil. Not all women, granted; there may be a certain few who manage to go about their daily lives in a calm, level-headed manner without the compulsion to gossip, bitch or moan. I refer predominantly to nuns, although I suspect this has less to do with religion and more to do with the fact that they don't have to co-habit with men leaving the toilet seat up.

I am a woman myself of course, and therefore allowed to label the majority of the sisterhood as half-crazed hormonal harridans. Men, however, are not able to do this without being labelled as misogynistic gits. As a female, you learn from an early age that we should be sliding somewhere along a spectrum ranging from complicated and emotional, to furious and downright mental. Not that I'm saying we're entirely to blame for our, erm, 'ways'. There are of course certain times in a woman's life that we become slaves to our biology and hormones control us like puppets on strings. For at least one week a month I am magically transformed into a spotty, angry, migraine-addled maniac with an insatiable appetite for pork scratchings and Haribo. And I recall at least one occasion during pregnancy where I broke down sobbing in the baking aisle at Asda because they'd not got any Aunt Bessie's batter mix.

All of the above was entirely beyond my control. Indeed, while men may claim we hide behind our hormones, they can be used as perfectly valid excuses (sorry, REASONS) as to why we act so irrationally at times. In fact, insanity as a result of PMS has been used in murder defences; you might want to remember that fella's, next time you get smart mouthed about 'that time of the month'.

One thing I'll never understand about women (and I'm included in this by the way) is how we act towards one another. Having worked in several different environments over the years, I can say without any hesitation that women are AWFUL to work with. And while we have our good points as friends, you don't want to make an enemy of a woman. No sirree. We're fiercely jealous - of anyone better looking/thinner/curvier/longer-haired/cleverer/younger/more qualified/funnier/more popular than us. But do we use this jealousy to drive us to improve our own situation or appearance? Do we chuff. We badmouth and bitch about each other, as though the more moaning we do, the better we'll feel about ourselves. When you're talking about celebrities, this does actually work. Who here has sat ripping the proverbial out of Cheryl Cole's voice whilst the voice in the back of your head is hissing "damn that cow with her big doe-eyes and tiny waist!"?? Yes, you can put your hands down now ladies. But when we're talking about real life, and the people we actually have to talk to or work with, this is where things get difficult. No-one likes to be on the receiving end of gossip or nastiness, or the subject of bitching.

Life would be so much simpler if we were all men. Men are simple creatures who are easy to fathom and, more importantly, want an easy life. You know where you are with men (in a bedroom smelling of farts and in a bathroom with the seat up mainly). Being a woman isn't so bad though, and I do admit to enjoying a good old bitchfest over a glass of plonk - especially when I can blame it on my hormones. Just a quick warning though - if you see me with pork scratchings and Haribos - run for the hills!