Time Out

Crikey.
I thought, mistakenly, that when my children were all at school, that I would have more Time.
Hah!
I reckoned that I would be able to catch up on all those things that I hadn't been able to do for years. You know. Wipe bottom without audience. Finish a cup of tea. Finish a sentence. Eat.
Have light hearted cups of coffee with medley of friends, all with shiny hair and nice clothes.
Go shopping. Alone.
Um.
Well.
Let's see.
By the time I have cleared house of all Crap from day before and it is back to looking like it did the day before that, it is time to Do Something.
Doing Something is my favourite pastime.
But I never get to Do it because I have to do Other Bastard Things First before I can Do the Something that I Want To Do.
And when I finally reach that Mecca, that Mountain Peak of Possibility, when I can Actually Do Something for Myself... what happens?
Don't know what to do.
Sad.
Totally Sad.
I start thinking things like should I actually clean out that drawer, the one with all the Chuffing Bits in it that Family dump there on daily basis. The drawer that is so full that I can hear distinct Sounds of Breakage when drawer is forced Shut.
Or Re-organise Daughter's Knickers Drawer.
Quite Dull things.
How often do I go out and Do Something that has absolutely no purpose other than pleasing myself?
Um.
Don't do that, really.
So. Will plant a seed inside my head to have a go at doing this Exciting Thing, even if is has No Point At All and is a Complete Waste of Time. If it floats my boat and makes me laugh, giggle, gasp or gape, I'll do it.
And perhaps then I won't get so damned Tetchy about doing all the other Bollocks that life throws in my direction.
Right. Must just clean out the lavatories before I... hey, wait!
Nope! Not today! Today the loos can fester and grow bacteria the size of large furry mice!
Because I'm going out.
Have Not A Clue what I will do.
Might ride a horse.
Climb a hill.
Go to beach and sniff the Ozone.
Eat. Alone. With Book. Heaven.
Choices, choices.
See you later!

In Bed With My Husband

Oh Dear Lord.
Bed and Husband.
Nightmare.
No, no, no, no! Not in That Way!
Honestly.
One Track Minds. The lot of you.
No, the problem is that am getting a Bit Fed Up with the Snoring.
It's really getting Rather Loud.
It seems Husband has three methods of snoring.
First there is the Whistly One. The entrance to Husband's nostrils appears to be partially blocked, leaving a very small hole for the air to get through. This results in a high pitched whistle through Said Nostrils. Quite Annoying Really, especially when he puts his nose very-close-indeed-to-my-ear. While asleep.
Following this is the Throat Scraper. Somehow the dear man manages to get the two sides of his throat to meet companionably in the middle and have a Scrape. Together. Again and again. Scraaaaaaapppppppppe. Pause. Scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape.
Etc.
And finally there is the Nose Rattler. Something happens to the Entrance at back of Nose. It Constricts. Or Contracts. Or Something. Nose appears to Vibrate. On watching more closely, notice his mouth also resonates. Unbelievable Noise.
Tend to Hit Husband quite severely over the head.
That works and is most satisfactory. For a while.
Until he starts again.
So, soon it will be bedtime. Better get ready.
Right.
Cotton wool to place in ears.
Check.
Large pillow to place over my head.
Check.
Large and pointed wooden implement to hit Husband with.
Check.
Book to read when it all goes horribly wrong and I can't get to sleep.
Check.
Another book to read when it all goes horribly wrong and I've finished the first book and need something else to read.
Check.
Thermos of something nice and warm to drink when it goes horribly wrong and I've finished both books and need something else to do to distract me from snoring.
Check.
Vast vat of whisky to drink when it all goes horribly wrong and have read the books and drank all the contents of thermos and need something else to distract me from the throat scraping.
Therapy.
Check.

That should do it for now.
Time for Bed!
Night Night. x


(PS May I just say that it isn't actually my bed time yet. Just in case you were wondering. I mean, why on earth would I take to my bed at eight minutes past seven? I would very much like it to be bed-time but have to bath several children first, feed a Husband and do a small mountain of ironing. Simple tasks about the home, as they say. But will be looking forward to bed around the 10.30 pm mark... so think of me as I climb those stairs... armed with my weapons of mass destruction... anything to get some sleep, eh.)

It's That Time Of Year Again.

Long chats about the Christmas Play in our house recently.
'Hooray!' said Youngest the other morning, skipping into school. 'I don't fink I have to be a dancing tree!'
'Hooray!' I said, encouragingly.
'Well,' said Middle Son, 'Don't get too excited. 'You get Crap Parts until Year 6.'
'Sure do,' says Daughter. 'I've always had Rubbish parts.'
And off they went.
At end of school that day, out came Youngest.
'It's Not Good, Mummy,' he said sadly.
Head down.
'What's not good, darling?' I asked with great concern.
Had he hurt himself?
Was someone bullying him?
Had he lost something precious?
Up raced Daughter.
'Hi, Mummy! Guess what, Youngest is a Conker in the play.' And with her devastating news she danced off down the playground for her flute lesson.
A Conker.
Right.
'Wow, a conker!' I said with enormous Enthusiasm.
He hung his head again.
'Nope.'
'Not a conker?'
'No.' He gazed up at me. Huge eyes.
'I am an Acorn.'
Oh.
Right.
Hollywood, here we come.

Things that go Thump on the Petrol Forecourt

Bloody hate Insurance Companies.
A Lorry very thoroughly reversed, at high speed, into my Golf last week.
Had stopped at Petrol Station for some water. For the car. Not me.
At the time of Impact wasn't in car. Was staring into the boot of the car, trying to work out what I could clean my hands on, having twisted off Filthy Water Cap in front of car.
The choice was not good.
Youngest's clean trousers, or Pristine White Shirt about to go to charity shop.
Had decided on bit of rather unpleasant carpet lurking around in boot when suddenly heard Almighty Crash.
My car.
Thumped into by Vast Lorry.
Reversing.
On emerging from boot and Quandry about dirty hands, was astonished to see Huge Lorry disappearing out of petrol station at High Speed.
Was naturally somewhat Cross. So legged it after Said Lorry and shouted some really rather rude words at the driver. Who stopped.
Uh, oh, I thought. Road Rage and all that.
Man opened the door of lorry cab and asked me politely what the matter was.
Stuttering and Red with Rage (road?? not sure, more like Concrete Forecourt of Petrol Station Rage) I told him what had happened.
Words like Sodding, Bloody, and even, yes, even the F word were used. I hang my head in shame.
Kind driver leaped out and inspected damage. Which was quite a lot really.
Bashed in lights and bits of car. Suspicious looking liquid making its way merrily across the concrete.
'Oh,' he said. 'Sorry.'
Some time later, having exchanged numbers, details and all that sort of what not, limped home in poor little car, feeling Considerable Irritation at all the extra work this was going to mean.
Well.
Extra work?
EXTRA WORK???
Have spent HOURS AND HOURS telling people on the phone what happened. Why. When. How. Who. What. Whither. Etc. (Also told Family, friends, people in shop, people in hairdresser, people queuing in post office, school run friends and man who came to sweep the chimney)
FINALLY car was taken to garage. Done. Sorted.
Nope.
Not.
Nada.
Non.
No.
Car remained in garage for a few days. On holiday? Short break? Bargain vacation?
Nope.
Just doing Nothing.
Rang Garage. Rang Insurance Company.
Rang Garage. Rang Insurance Company.
Rang Garage. Rang Insurance Company.
Rang Garage. Rang Insurance Company.
Talked to lots of different people and told them all exactly the same thing. Four times.
Was told that car would 'receive an estimate in the next 24 hours.' That I couldn't have a courtesy car as car wasn't actually 'Being Repaired Yet'.
Right.
Finally Flipped.
On being told that car would be in garage for another seven to ten days... told nice lady at end of phone to Please Find Your Supervisor as I am Most Displeased with the Service I was Most Decidedly Not Getting.
'Sure,' said Lady, quite Curtly I thought, while I listened to yet more Calming Down Those Bastard Customers Music.
You know, tinkly sort of Soothing Sounds. Which are Really Irritating.
Well.
Supervisor came on and Soothed. For a while.
In a Supervisory sort of way. After several minutes of Inane Soothing said goodbye.
When got Phone Call.
The other Insurance Company, called Zurich, rang to give me the very welcome news that Said Lorry admitted to being at fault and would Give us the Lolly. As it were.
Marvellous.
And then they said... would you like a Courtesy Car? (Courteously)
Yes! I said.
When! they asked.
Monday! I said.
Sure! they said.
Thanks! I said.
No problem! they said.
Bye! I said.
Bye! they said.
Well. You could have knocked me down with a feather. And within ten minutes another kind man had rang, from a Car Hire Company, to say my car would be with me on Monday morning.
Done.
Honestly.
Love other people's Insurance Companies!
Have decided that will create Superb Music Listening CD especially for my Insurance Company. To listen to when they need to ring Me.
Will say hello to them. And then will politely ask them to Hold, and then switch on Mind Numbingly Dull Tune. Which they will have to listen to while I make a cup of tea and go to the Lavatory.
Will then return, apologise for the wait, and make them hold Just Once More while I de-flea the cat.
That should do it.
Oh, and will then say that I can't do it. Whatever it is that they want me to do.
And hang up.

Can then sell CD on Itunes and make a fortune.
Call it The Waiting Game.
Anyone want one?

Awards R Us

I really am a lazy scum bag.
Have received these lovely awards from Alix at Casa Hice , Working Mum on the Verge and London City Mum. Have dragged them all home, (the awards, not the poor sods that gave them to me in the first place) dusted them down, and put them proudly in my Saved As Picture place, somewhere in the Bowels of my photo pile.
And left them. Poor little things. Gathering cosmic dust.
Now it's time to Do Something About Them.
So I must gird my loins and Pass Them On.
One of requires seven things about myself. That you don't know.
But you all know EVERYTHING.
How long I wee for.
How I exfoliate.
How I shout at my children and pretend that I don't.
Where I go, what I do, how I do it.
What in tarnation can I add that you don't already have deep and abiding knowledge of?
And, honestly, do you care?
Why don't I skip all that and just get to the good bit. You know, when I pass the awards on and say lovely things. Agreed?
Yes?
Phew.
Right then.
The first award I am going to send on to .....
Oh, and before I do that, you need to know this stuff about the Zombie Chicken Award.
Am somewhat worried about these Bastard Zombie Chicken Dudes. Raving packs and all.
Oh, well, we must suffer for our art.
"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all."

So. Award for Zombie Chicken Award goes to...
geraldgee GG, as I call him, is a star, very funny, an amazing artist and a bloody good commenter!
Neas Nuttiness What can I say... this woman makes me laugh out loud. AND she makes me feel better. Thanks, NN!
Strawberry Jam Anne Anne is a darling. Her comments are always warm and utterly understanding of the post. Thanks, Anne!
Tatersmama Tatersmama's comments are just wonderful... they almost take off there is so much animation in them! I always smile when I see one from her.
Thanks, you four, for making me chuckle, giggle and laugh. Mwah.
And your blogs rock. Of course.

Now. Onto the Kreative Blog award...
This goes to
London City Mum
Granny on the Web
My life lived my way

Why? Well. London City Mum makes me laugh. A lot. Her stories of city work and home life are wonderful. Granny's jokes put a smile on my face whenever I visit her blog. I then try to repeat them and get into an awful muddle. And Jeff? Awesome. That's what he is. Makes me laugh. Cry. Think. The lot really.

Now, the last award. The One Lovely Blog Award.
This goes to...
Tattie Weasle whose blog I just love visiting. As soon as she posts, I'm there!
And to my lovely blogger friend Troy who has been visiting me right from the start, and who makes me laugh and leaves comments JUST SO it looks like I am more popular than I am.
And finally to my lovely friend Robynn's Ravings. Robynn's comments always look as I imagine she sounds... full of EXCLAMATION MARKS AND CAPITAL LETTERS!!
As for all the rest of you darlings who come by my blog and say such lovely things. Thank you ALL.
You all rock.
There. Done.
Not a Lazy Scum Bag anymore.
Phew. x

PS HAVE REALLY TRIED HARD WITH ALL THE LINKS AND THEY WORKED IN MY DRAFT BUT HAVE GONE FUNNY AS I PUBLISHED. I REALLY HATE COMPUTERS. xx

On Imposing Discipline

It is, I have discovered, quite impossible to Impose Discipline while sitting on the Lavatory. Weeing.
Whilst 'going' this morning noted that Youngest was singing really quite loudly in his room, which would wake up Daughter. Who would be in Foul Mood as she does not like being woken up.
So cleared throat, and called out in what I hoped were Stern Tones.
Singing continued. Louder.
Wriggled bottom on lavatory and shifted feet so as to get more in the Authoratitive Position, and shouted out in a Whispery sort of fashion. Instructing Youngest to Be Quiet Immediately.
The cat, sitting by the basin in the bathroom, got up and left.
Youngest paid no attention at all. And Daughter emerged from room and went downstairs, seemingly unaffected by the singing in the first place.
Sat gloomily on loo, contemplating total lack of control (not bladder, just discipline).
It is Utterly Guaranteed that children will Misbehave when I am Going. Just when they know that I can't physically roar into the room and put an end to whatever nonsense is taking place, they let rip with a totally unsuitable game of Throw the Sofa About, or Let's Run Screaming Through the House. The plaintive calls of their mother from the bowels (pardon the pun) of the downstairs loo has Absolutely No Effect whatsoever.
Alternatively, one of them will be Horribly Hurt and scream the very house down, just at a Peak Moment. As it were. There is a moment of blind panic. Wipe my bottom? Leave it and run to child, with trousers round ankles? Pull up trousers and wipe later? What to do? What THE HELL to do?
So.
In future will restrict mothering skills to when am not attached to lavatory bowl.
Will not mind that Bladder is Bursting. If necessary will use bucket under a very long coat.
Simples.
Mothering. It makes you devious, you know.
And insane.
But you knew that already, eh?

Climbing Everest

I bloody hate washing.
It is, I swear, an organic matter, growing faster than a hedge of leylandii, over which I will never, ever, win.
No matter how much I tend to it, and clear, wash, dry, iron, and put it away, there is always EVEN MORE.
But today I have played a Really Fun Game. To eleviate the Monotony, as it were.
I have counted how much of our latest washing pile belongs to me.
Here is the list.
Three pair of pants. (knickers to those who say knickers. Pants to the rest of you)
Three pair of socks.
Two t-shirts.
One pair of jeans.
Not too bad really, after nearly five days away. Had managed a wash half way through week.
Now. Husband's.
Ready?
Eleven shirts.
Twelve pairs of boxer shorts.
Eight pairs of socks.
Five pairs of trousers.
A woolly jumper.
One large roll neck shirt.
Nine handkerchiefs.
(Yes, handkerchiefs. Large spotted things that he blows his nose on, over and over.)
And did I mention the children's clothes?
Imagine Everest. Pants and shirts and trousers and jumpers and socks and pyjamas and the odd coat. Piled high. Sod the Himalayas. Ranulph Fiennes should just come here to West Sussex and climb my chuffing Washing Pile. We could get News Night to cover it.
(By the way, did you know that Ranulph Fiennes' real name is Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wickham-Fiennes! What a fab name. I want one like that...)
Anyway.
Washing that lot will take an Age.
Think of me. Welded to that horrible iron thing, flattening the equivalent of several acres of clothes.
Should just get Steam Roller and be done with it. Put all the bastard clothes on the floor and drive all over them.
Much more Fun.
But No. Must keep Up the Standards. Will Fold, surreptitiously, all the clothes that can be folded without anyone noticing. And put them away quickly into drawers. And will then iron the tops of anything that can just be ironed on the top, without anyone noticing. And will then be seen to be ironing all the rest Extremely Well. So that I look like Model Housewife, when am in fact a Slut.
See you when I'm done!

What the Dickens?

It doesn't get much Chuffing Worse.
Found something small and nasty looking in Youngest's bed.
Didn't have a colour or anything so was Quite Difficult to work out its Origins.
Picked offending thing up. Delicately, between finger and thumb. The size of a sultana. Or something.
Sniffed it. Held it up to the light.
Not a Poo. Definitely not.
Looked at it again. Had it held right to end of nose in efforts to see the damned thing.
Smelled it again.
Nothing.
Peered closely.
What the Bloody Hell was this Thing in child's bed that looked Organic, like it may once have been Alive?
Light switched on in head. Finally.
It's a Bogey.
Old. Crusty. Nasty.
Threw it in horror onto floor. Watched it bounce across the floor before coming to final resting place under chest of drawers.
Yeurch.
Reminded me of time I had picked up pair of Middle Son's pants when he was about three. Clean ones. Sweet little blue pants. Put them against my nose and tenderly breathed in the smell of clean, Persil-like 'outdoor hanging on the line' scent.
Wasn't.
Clean.
Were Day old Pants.
Overpowering scent of Wee. Clung to nose for hours afterwards.
Will. Never. Ever. Sniff. Pants. Again.
And I'll add picking up old Bogeys to that.
It's a glamorous life I live.

I'm Not Dead Yet

On Friday was away the whole day.
Arrived home at 7.00pm.
In time to bath Youngest.
Wrapping him in towel afterwards I cuddled him tight and Made Much, as they say.
'Well,' he began, importantly. Enjoying the cuddle and the warmth.
Little face enveloped in huge soft blue towel. And then he said it.
'I FORT you wasn't dead! I just knew it!' he announced proudly. And Baffingly.
'You knew that I wasn't dead?' I repeated, a little Unnerved by the dialogue we were getting into.
Face creased into huge smile.
'Yes! I fort, Mummy is Not Dead.'
And he wriggled a little closer.

What on Earth goes through these little minds of theirs?
Was once again in awe of how much we are needed and loved. And how much I need just to Be There.
Hugged that little body tight. Helped him on with his pyjamas. Oversaw the Teeth Brushing. Tucked him in and read, for the Hundreth Time, 'Where's that Bastard Wally.' (Not real title. But bloody well should be. Sneaky little sod can't be found and bedtime reading takes BLOODY AGES. Much nicer to read a lovely book which we both enjoy. But No. So it's Wally. Again.)
Said 'Are Farder'together.
Kissed him Goodnight.
His eyes kept shutting with tiredness.
But he still kept the conversation going in order that I might stay a little longer.
As I tiptoed out I prayed hard that Youngest's awful worry, lurking at the back of his mind, doesn't happen for a long time yet.
And down the stairs I went to cuddle Middle Son and Daughter.
Just in case they thought I was dead. Or something.
They didn't.
'OK, Mum?' they ask. Not taking eyes away from screen of telly.
'Yup, thanks,' I answer, dropping kisses on heads before settling down in comfy chair. Opposite lovely fire crackling away.
And I watch the telly. And my children.
And I give thanks.
Lucky old me.

Meet Mrs Jeckyll. Or Mrs Hyde. Take Your Pick.

Meet Jeckyll. Oh, and Hyde.
Because that's Me. Both of the bastards.
For Example.
Me: (roaring) Who the hell has wee'd on the seat and why the bloody hell is there a cushion in the downstairs loo? I now have wee all over my legs and I think there's some on the cushion. Yippidybloodydoodah.
Children: (meekly) Wasn't meeeeee. (chorus)
Me: Well, it wasn't me, because I tend to sit down and wee NEATLY and not DOWN THE SIDES AND ON THE SEAT or on any cushions, which for some EXTRAORDINARY REASON are on the floor of the Downstairs Loo when they SHOULD BE WHERE THEY BELONG.... ON THE BLOODY SOFA.'
Am really shouting Quite Loudly at this point.
Door rings.
I go to door.
It is Total Stranger. Smiling. Slightly strained smile. Has heard me shouting about wee. Oh, crap.
I crank my face into a smile. Nail it firmly into place.
HIYA! I say, cheerily. Looking twinkly and jolly.
Total Sea Change.
Children come to door and watch the exchange in interest.
Stranger: Oh, hello, could you tell me where I can find Church Lane?
Me: Yes! Of Course! Let me show you!
Am speaking with loads of Exclamation Marks and smiley Facial Expressions.
Over Compensating for all the shouting. Convincing this poor woman that I am, really, an Awfully Nice Person.
I show her where Church Lane is, with wild gestures of arms and girly sort of directions, like, Just after the Apple Tree, and Just before you get to the Big Hole in the road.
Total Stranger leaves, to friendly waves, and 'Say goodbye's' from me to children.
Close door.
Notice cushion in downstairs loo.
Open mouth to shout orders to children about leaving cushions in loos and wet loo seats. But refrain.
And ask one of them to Remove the Cushion and Wipe the Seat.
Which they do. After some grumbling and Why-Should-I-It's-Always-Me type thing.
And I go to kettle and perform the gentle and calming act of making a cup of tea.
Before thinking to self what Total Arse I can be. So nice to strangers to whom I owe nothing. And so bloody horrible to my wonderful children. To whom I owe Everything.

Even Wee on my upper leg.
Yum.