Ten Green Bottles

Tiny Question.
Why do Recycling Bottle Depots have Very Small Holes to put Said Bottles and Tins through?
Eh?
Wouldn't you think that it might be a Tad Easier to put said bottles through Large Hole? As it were? Fitting more in at time?
Or is there a Higher Purpose... like making you feel Guilty about the sheer amount of bottles you might be slugging back each week? Because the noise of Shattering Glass as each bottle plunges down past Rubbery Mouth of Recycling Container fills me with mounting guilt. Even when shoving in tomato ketchup bottles.
Went this week with 31 glass bottles. Not All Alcoholic. Actually.
Plus 47 plastic milk bottles and 17 cat food cans.
Took a Very Long Time.
Lift bottle, shove through. Tinkle!
Lift, shove, Tinkle.
Lift, shove, Tinkle.
Lift, shove, Tinkle.
Lift, shove, Tinkle.
Then Cans.
Lift, shove, Pling. (or something onomatopoeic. You work it out)
And on and on...
Smiling breezily at other people, smiling breezily back at me. I have Surreptitious Look at their bottles.
Gin. Whisky. Wine. One had an Awful Lot of Beer.
Why, I thought, as the 26th bottle squeezed painfully through Very Small Hole, don't they have Very Big Holes. Then you can put lots in Very Quickly. And a Little Bit Lower Down would be nice. What do they think we are? Seven Feet?
Calculated while Heaving Bottles through Small Holes, that will be lifting arm ninety five times. About 5 seconds for each bottle. Equals 475 seconds. Equals 7.9166 minutes. Equals Waste of Time.
Then badly wanted Anal Wipes (like this) to wipe Hands clean of Old Booze Aroma, stale milk, and Old Cat Food.
And then would Much Appreciate a Bin-like Receptacle for remaining reeking cardboard boxes and plastic bags, as every single person on emptying their Cardboard Box or Bag has looked automatically for Bin. Which is Never There. Because it's on the other side of the Car Park/Recycling Depot/Town/County.
How about we could do this differently?
Design a Recycling Bottle Container?
My Recycling Depot Utopia would be...
You get to put your bottles on top of Helta Skelta and watch all 31 bottles whizz down and land with a Satisfying Crunch at the bottom. There. Done. They all disappear into big black hole.
Milk bottles and Cat Food Cans are despatched in Similar Fashion, only they are assisted by jets of water.
Great, eh?
Won't Ever Happen, though. Will it?
It's Huge Stinky Containers with holes the size of a Chicken's Arse for us.
Good luck next time you go.
Just remember your Anal Wipes.

My Friend, Persil

My darling friend, aged 90, is in hospital, having suffered two heart attacks on Tuesday night. I call her Persil. Her real name, incomprehensible to me aged 2, was whittled down to Persil. And Persil she has been ever since. I met her when I was three months old. Quite simply, she has always Been There. And I love her Hugely.
Now she is lying in the hospital bed, tubes galore, a little anxious, and rather wanting her own bed.
Persil has a wonderful daughter, three grandsons, and an array of great-grand children. They all feel like family.
Persil used to come and clean our house for us when I was little, right the way up to the time I had my Eldest. Flour to the armpits, she would make Apple Pies, and Treacle Puddings. Twinkly eyed. Kind. Steady as a rock.
My mother relied on her. My mother had chronic anaemia for years, rendering her exhausted on occasion and needing help with the house. Persil cleaned, cooked and looked after me if needed. My older brothers and sister had gone to boarding school by the time I was 5. Persil helped make those potentially lonely days good ones. Sometimes I would stay at her house, a little bungalow in the village. Her husband, Boy (yup, couldn't say his name either!) would take me for walks, play football and cricket with me (until he was hit in the chest by a cricket ball one Sunday afternoon match in village and damaged his heart for good) and generally ensure I had a good time. I can remember these wonderful toffees he would buy me. In blue shiny paper.
I loved them both.
Then, one day, Boy died. Apparently he woke in the night, turned to Persil and said, 'I'm going to look after you. Don't worry.' By morning he was dead.
I will never forget darling Persil, sitting in her chair the next day. Seeing Boy's chair empty. I couldn't bear it for her. Yet she coped. The years have passed and she has filled it with her gentle ways.
And now... while she lies there I keep remembering so much. I feel about 5 again. Memories of quiet, happy days. Once while I was staying with her when my parents were away, we went to my house to feed the chickens and cats. When we had finished I asked if we could go home now.
That's how I felt about Persil. She was Home.
She remembers little things about me. Apparently I used to say when I couldn't reach something...'Persil, I can't stand hard enough.' And would tell people to 'Be a Nice Time' if they were off out.
She has a vast array of floral dresses... each one sort of the same. I am always asking her, 'Is that a new dress?' It never Ever is!
If you read this, send up a prayer for my friend.
You'd love her.
All 4' 11" of her.
I do.

Bra and Pants

Feedjit sometimes gets me Chuckling.
You see, there are these folk who arrive on feedjit having used Google Search Engine.
And land up on my Blog. Unintentionally, as it were.
Let's see...
Kalmar, Kamar Lan arrived from google.com searching for 'Loins'.
Why? Is this Normal? Exactly?
Anyway, they had to read some stuff and nonsense about inference skills. That must have been Fascinating. For a Pervert. They stayed for 20 minutes. Interesting.
And poor Bendigo, Victoria, searching frantically through google.com for 'Decorating a 21st Birthday Cake', arrived on this.
A Grim Tale of Leg Depilation. Horrifying.
There have been instances of innocent Cyber Adventurists landing on Ladybird World Mother and having to endure the dubious delights of
Naked Statues...and this sorry morsel,, the latter being a jolly little tale all about evacuating Enormous Poo from lavatory. Cringe.
And, my deepest apologies to Nykarleby, West Finland who while looking for dear little articles on Cocky Bastards got Severely Confused by tales of Debauchery and Death..
My favourite, however, has to be Riyadh, Ar Riyad, poor lamb, who wanted, quite clearly, to be enlightened over the question of Penis Envy. They were forced to make emergency landing on Comment Envy'... my somewhat wry denial to actually Reading Comments. Not a Penis in sight. As it were. Riyadh stayed for precisely 18 seconds. And Left.
Looking forward to putting up this latest post... was thinking about calling it Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll... and waiting for Feedjit to come up trumps.
But am not.
Calling it 'Bra and Pants.'
That should to the Trick.
Shhh. Here comes Hellevoetslius Zuid - Holland!
Here we go!

Time to Leg It.

Massive Dilemma Time.
You know.
The one where you Start To Get Legs Ready For Summer. Or just leave them for a few more weeks. Stubbly. White. Frightening.
Tricky.
Lucky Husband.
'Oh, look! It's a lovely day. Think I will wear shorts.'
Puts shorts on.
Goes out.
And Me.
'Oh, Look! It's a lovely day. Think I will wear shorts.'
But First...
Take off trousers and peer at legs.
Hairy.
Shave them? Not bad, only neither Husband or I are all that keen on the Sand Paper Effect after a day or so.
Wax? Surely we are the only Species in the entire world that Voluntarily Elects to Rip Hairs Out By Root?
Total Madness.
(Brazilians. Pah! Landing Strips belong in Airports. OK?)
So. Hair removal cream it is.
Lock bathroom while applying cream or children will see Unpleasant Things. Such as half woman, half polar bear.
Put cream all over legs.
Stand in bath. Realise have forgotton clock. Have dilemma'ette, wondering if can creep out of bathroom to bedroom to get clock, dripping cream on new carpets. Or wait in bath, guessing time elapsed, with potential skin loss due to over exposure to cream.
Take latter option. Count in head to 300.
Scrape away at cream with strange shaped plastic scrapey thing. Gradually fill bath with grotesque looking hairy cream. Forget to clean bath. Husband finds it later and stares at it in fascinated horror.
Leave bathroom and go to bedroom.
Legs now hairless.
Find pair of shorts and put them on. Look in mirror. Legs appear to be luminous. On closer inspection realise that they are so white they look green.
Decide to put on Fake Tan.
Exfoliate, it says. Have already removed several layers of skin through the hair removal cream, surely?
Bollocks to that. Speed is the essence. Look at the lovely day! Got to get out! Quick!
Find fake tan. Last year's.
Shrug and open.
Squeeze cream all over leg and rub in. There.
Still mint green, but will change slowly over the day. Marvellous!
Find shirt. Nice one with two little straps over shoulders.
Oh.
Lift arms slowly. Peer at Armpits.
Damn. Not Good. Gorilla Type.
Go back to bathroom and find razor. Strip to the waist and stand at sink. Make Big Mess of Shorts whilst Hurling Water at Armpits.
Swill some shaving foam round the area. Didn't need Quite So Much really. Meringues appear to be Growing in Armpit.
Use Razor with Vigour.
Better! Lift armpits again. Gorilla Style now gone.
Replace shirt. Change shorts as got soaking while doing armpits.
Go back into bedroom.
Look at self in mirror.
There! Looking good!
Let's Go! Tennis! Picnic! Barbecue!
What's that?
It's starting to rain?
Bloody Hell.


So.
What can one do?
Grow hair on legs to Extreme Length and become Rather Alternative?
Go through Hell of Hair Removal each day?
Have Sex Change?
God only knows.
Meanwhile will quietly put back on Winter Jeans. Boots.
And have smug look of woman with Legs Ready for Summer.
Oh, blast and botheration.
Now I have to do my Feet.
And Bikini Line.

Humph.
It's Hell being a Woman.

Embarrassing moment at Bath Time

Once upon a time had a Very Embarrassing Moment.
I Left The Phone Off The Hook During Children's Bath Time.
Oops.
I can hear the Collective Intake of Breath.
The phone was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, supposedly Not On.
'Get your clothes off and for god's sake, stop fiddling with your willy...was one stern command.
'Take off your pants and get in the bath, was another.
'Who has farted?'
'Stop bloody splashing.'
'Take your pants off your head. No, it is Not Funny.'
There then followed a Long and Protracted Bath time chat. With conversations like the following..
Hurry up! Come on! Have you cleaned your bottom?
Have you cleaned your willy?
No, stop waggling it about. It's not funny. No, it isn't. No. Stop.
Take your finger out of your nose. Why? Because it's horrible seeing it up there.
Stop farting in the bath. Who is farting in the bath?
Who needs a poo?
Type of stuff.
Put phone back on receiver once bathtime was over. Phone rang almost immediately. My Friend T was on the end. In tears. So I thought.
You OK I asked anxiously.
Yes, she said, inbetween sniffs and giggles.
What's up? I asked, now a little concerned.
Have...heard... sniff... giggle... everything you have said... Bathtime... poo... willies... she went off in gales of laughter.
You what...? Light dawned. Oh, Christ.
The phone.
But how... did you ring? Trying to clear up this mystery.
Yes, she said. Your darling daughter answered but left conversation, as young tend to do, mid way. In bathroom.
Right. said I. So you heard Everything.
Yup, she stated somewhat Trimphantly. And you know what, my friend. I am So Glad You Do It Too.
Do What, exactly? I asked tentatively.
Oh, she said. Giggling a little again. You know. Shout.
We then had the most wonderful 5 minutes of realising that we both are Perfectly Ghastly to our children on occasion.
And we finished our brief talk with me feeling amazing. My darling friend had heard me being less than perfect, in fact a right old moody cow, and she liked me more for it! And there was me trying to be Better than I really am all the time.
Marvellous moment it was.
Anyway.
Then shouted at children to get their pyjamas on and stop Arsing About.
And who had wee'ed on the loo seat.
And Why Do You Never Put The Towels Back On The Towel Rail?
Some Things never change.
Friendship, for one.
Thanks, T! X

Counting... 1,2,3...

Now you all know I never count. Comments, that is.
Or Followers.
But I seem to have a problem. My counter on Followers has quite clearly Got Stuck.
On 52.
Now. 52 is a very nice number. One of my favourite numbers, in fact.
Or at least it was my favourite number.
But even Favourite Numbers tend to Pall after weeks of not going up. Or, God Forbid, going down. (Once Lost a Follower... devastating)
So. Without Begging or anything, I would like to have more Followers. Like 53. Or 54. Even 52 and a half. No reason or anything. Not that I will even check. Much. If at all. Only sort of noticed the 52 thing because look every day in a sort of Eeyore sort of way. And notice, in an Eeyore sort of a way, that it is Still at 52.
What do you think?
Do you think I have got a Bit Dull? You know, jolly little posts about Wifely Things might start to get a tiny bit dull after the 37th one. Or do you reckon they are all laughing so hard that they have to go and change their pants and then forget to press that follower button? Or they are so distracted by the brilliant comments made by everyone that they Bugger Off to another blog without a By Your Leave?
(Sssshhhh. People might be listening and I don't want them to realise that I care a Monkey's Arse about my followers.)
No, no, of course I Care About My Followers. I love each and every one. I just have to appear to have Extreme Nonchalence about How Many. Otherwise I become a Desperate Blogger. And that Simply Must Not Happen.
What?
You think I am Desperate Already?
Shit.
In that case will write an Airy Little Piece on Amusing Thing That Happened Today.
It's Boring?
Surely not.
Perhaps a Heartfelt Number on Children Growing Up?
Done it?
Oh, dear.
Ok, how about a Joyful Acclamation on Nature's Miraculous Healing Powers?
It's Bollocks?
Bugger it.
Well, in that case will have to rely heavily on writing more Total Toss with lots of Capital Letters and Swear Words.
Crikey.
This Blogging Malarkey is hard work.
52 indeed.
Think will take up New Hobby which doesn't have Followers.
But where would be the fun in that?
So, back to Square One.
Two, three, four....

Never Again

We went to the Hell that is Drive In Fast Food the other day. I finally caved in after Much Harrassment from Youngest.
Just a Few Stipulations, I said. No burgers. No fizzy drinks. Eat carrots in car on way. Eat apple on the way back. Go for walk afterwards.
Anyway.
Middle son was playing Basket Ball so went with Daughter and Youngest.
Pushed our way through the big door and into that familiar frying smell.
It was Heaving.
No tables free. People crammed everywhere with lots and lots and lots of children.
Quite Noisy Ones Really.
A gloomy line waiting for their turn to order.
Heart sinking we approached the counter. Someone who was twelve appeared to be in charge.
'Yep?' he asked. Wearing a paper hat. What is this, Christmas?
I gave him our order.
Children's food arrived in Box.
Why?
Do you ever give your child breakfast in a Box? Lunch? Supper? Do you go sidling up to your husband or wife and say,
'Hey darling, do you fancy a box of lunch?'
No?
No.
This is because Normal People eat off Plates.
However, here in MacLand, we have Boxes.
Twelve Year Old hurled in chips, nuggets, toy and some wipe thing that smelled of Toxic Citrus Mix.
Took our Boxes and go and wander round MacHell until we spy filthy table in corner with people leaving. We sit down when they go. I fuss round, getting rid of detritus and wiping down table with Ever So Handy Wipes that I keep in my bag. Anal. But useful. (Anal as in Anal Retentive... not as in Anal Use)(Oh, god, why is it that by explaining it becomes all Rather Unpleasant?)
Anyway.
I peer into Boxes. Nestled in the bottom are grey bags of chips, another bag with Nuggets and a bottle of Orange Juice. And the Toy.
(Nuggets? Who thought that name up? Don't they know its Childspeak for Poo?)
Anyway.
We all start taking things out of boxes and opening impossibly difficult bottles of juice. We have a jolly little chat about when Daughter was sick last time we came. (On floor next to place where you order.)
Youngest weeps because his toy is not the same as Daughter's. Daughter hands hers over without a word and Youngest stops crying. Tears are still on his lashes as he gazes at new toy.
I look about.
Everyone is Just Eating. Intent on their burgers or chips. Taking Enormous Bites and then chewing with huge bulging cheeks. Chew, chew, chew. Bite. Chew, chew, chew. And Staring. At Wall. Or Floor. Or inside their Burger.
No one is talking. Or chatting. Or laughing.
Quite frankly, they are all having a Shit Time. So am I.
I am interrupted in my reverie by family on next door table.
Mother has Laid the Table. Seriously. With cloth. They have neat Tupperware boxes full of carrot, apple, grapes and oranges. Father is trying to persuade Son, aged 2,to have some Organic Yoghurt. Mother and Father are stuffing their faces with burgers, chips, fizzy drinks and MacFatBastardIceCream.
Have to stare as am Staggered by the Scene.
Youngest looked over at them too. Mouth full of chips.
Can I have one of their grapes? he asked.
Why? I asked.
Don't really want this, he said. It's a bit boring and a bit yucky.
This is from the boy who has pleaded and pleaded with his Mother to go to 'Donalds.
No, you can't. Eat your nuggets, I say, in MacMother Mode.
Can I have his? asks Daughter. And can we come back here tomorrow?
And this from the daughter who didn't want to come because it made her sick. Literally.
No, we can't, I say. Eat your chips.


Motto.
Eat at home.
Off Plates.

Liar Liar Pants on Fi-ar

Would you say that Parents are Liars?
Big Porky Pie Liars?
Or is it just Me?
Oh, yes, I always help my children clean their teeth, I say, blithely, to the visiting Hygienist to our pre-school.
No, I don't.
Yes, I think a varied and healthy diet is essential. I never give my children Crap.
Yes, I do.
No, I never feel murderously angry with my children.
Yes, I do.
Yes, I change the beds each week.
No, I don't.
No, I never wish my children lived abroad.
Yes, I do.
I hoover our house at least once a week.
No, I don't.
Come on, you lot, I say cheerfully to my brood as we walk across the road to school.
No one knows that I just yelled Fucking Bloody Bollocks to them all and threw one of their shoes at the cat. I look like a perfect mother, really. Everyone smiles at me and says good morning. I return the greeting and smile widely at them all.
I kiss my children. See them into the door. Chat to the other mothers. Cringe when I think that my four year old will probably go into school and say Fucking Bloody Bollocks to the teacher when he can't find his shoes.
No, I never swear in front of my children.
Yes, I do.
I try to be cheerful at all times.
Crap.
I find a calm nature works best with my children.
Total Toss.

Each morning I get up and it's a New Day.
I really do try to be a good mother. My children love me and I love them.
Most of the time it's OK. Sometimes it's lovely.
Occasionally it's a load of Bollocks.
But finally, after many years of mothering I have come to the conclusion that I am doing a good job. The children might be subjected to a bit of yelling on occasion and a smattering of quite rude words when a Tad Stressed. They are used to a mother in tears when watching a TV programme. They have become accustomed to a Brief but Volatile Session when mother is driving and there is a Pillock at Loose. They have seen me lie through my teeth when the vicar asks have I remembered the fairy cakes on Sunday. (But Mummy... they start. And Stop. Bless Their Little Hearts) (We then Buy Cakes in mad rush)
They have this strange and intimate knowledge of me... and in that knowledge there is this sense that I am OK and that I will keep them safe, even though I might be a Tad Narky at times.
Quite frankly, Thank God For That.
Wouldn't it be awful if they got all Judgemental and Huffy.
Wanted to live somewhere else. Loathed us all.

Oh, Silly Me.
That's what teenagers do!

Something About Nothing

Remember the weekend before last? When we thought Spring had sprung? Only it hadn't...
Daughter and Middle Son had choir practice on that Sunday evening. We all biked along the road to where the practice was. Evening had that Spring Busyness in the air... the odd bird yelling its little head off in the trees above our heads. Still light at 5pm.
We said goodbye to the singers, and headed off back down the road. Me, Husband and Youngest.
Kicked a football round in the field. Came back home and piled up lots of leaves and Stuff to make a bonfire.
Husband then walked back along the road to get children from choir.
Youngest and I locked up the chickens, got some more bits for the bonfire, and then went and waited for Daddy and the others to bicycle home.
Getting a bit dark by now. We sat behind our picket fence, waiting.
Look! A bat! I whispered to Youngest.
Ooooh. he said.
LOOK, MUMMY, A BAT! he yelled.
Sshhhhhh. I said.
Saw some ducks. Some geese. All flying overhead in the red sky.
Looked over at Youngest. Dear little face watching the road.
Where are they? he would ask, from time to time.
Coming, I would say.
And they did.
In the now murky light we could see figures on the road ahead. First came Middle Son. Zooming past.
Pssssst, we said.
He came, grinning, over to us and flopped down. Understanding totally what we were doing.
Along came Daughter. Whizzed past.
Psssst, we said.
She came. Why are you hiding?
We're waiting for Daddy. said Youngest.
We all sat there, bottoms becoming damp from the grass.
The odd car would come past, head lights shining right through the fence. Really quite dark by now, although sky was still pink.
We sat and giggled and whispered. Toby, our cat, came and sat on my knee. Purred very loudly. We watched the bats, listened to the sounds of evening.
Shhhh. Daddy's coming!
Felt that familiar thrill of fight or flight of childhood. Hiding and waiting. Daddy's footsteps getting nearer and nearer.
Overwhelming giggles all round.
Youngest suddenly shouted out,
B-O-G-I-E-S!
We all yelled with laughter. Daddy totally unperturbed by noise or bogies.
Picked ourselves up and wiped ourselves down.
Walked together round the house to the bonfire.
Lit it.
Watched it and the faces of all the children, lit up in the bright flames.
Watched my husband helping Daughter to use the rake.
Watched Middle Son show Youngest how to scrumple up the paper first and then throw on bonfire.
Watched the rabbit watching the fire through the wire of the chicken fence.

Bloody lucky really.
I love my family.