Ladybird World Mother

Pee'sd off

2012-01-13T19:05:00.002Z

Christ, have done it again.
Very Nice Man came round to fix the gutter, which had been ripped off during storms of late (causing much grief in night as one heard the bang bang banging of loose guttering about six feet away from head ALL NIGHT LONG).
Anyway.
Very Nice Man arrived with very long ladder and proceeded to go up very long ladder to wrench bastard guttering away from roof and replace with new. Hooray!
I hovered at the bottom of ladder while Very Nice Man shouted a lot from the top of the ladder. Most of which I couldn't hear, as he was face to face with roof, and sound was rather muffled.
Anyway.
Offered him some tea. Called for dog who was sniffing about. Dog came, and neatly cocked his leg and pee'd all over the Very Nice Man's tool box.
Ker-ist.
While Very Nice Man was still speaking I backed into utility room, which was conveniently placed just behind me, grabbed large wad of loo paper also conveniently placed just behind me, and made for the tool box, loo paper hidden behind my back.
Very Nice Man was still talking.
Bent over double quick, wiped back, forward, sideways and a quick flourish to finish, and made for the compost heap with what I hoped was a Nonchalent sort of walk.
Very Nice Man didn't have a clue.
Thought that I really ought to wipe it with proper antibacterial wipes, so went back into house.
But phone rang, I got distracted, and the next thing I knew was the Very Nice Man was at my front door with his tool box.
Bye, he said, cheerily.
Bye! I said back. Not looking at tool box.
Which was decidedly damp.
Oh, for God's sake, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE OWNED UP EITHER.

O Christmas Tree!

2011-12-19T19:23:00.002Z

Oh, God, no.
It's that time of year again.
Yuletide.
When the children assist in the Decorating of the Tree.
Help. Me.
Not that I am Anal by any stretch (sorry) of the imagination, but I DO like my decorations to look sort of Nice.
About this time, up goes the tree, and I grit my teeth and clench buttocks as Children, with squeals of joy, ruin the Bastard Tree in about three minutes.
A cluster of glittery sort of horrors are placed all over it, while endless small (WHY?) bits of tinsel are draped round and round and ROUND it until the green of the tree is totally obliterated, and it resembles a rather unpleasant sort of Naff Lady Costume in Panto.
And the baubles.
Oh, God, don't let me even THINK about the Baubles...
Each January I surruptitiously chuck Nasty Baubles in the bin, and breathe sigh of relief that NEXT year we will have tasteful, modest, rather Chelsea looking decorations on our tree.
And what happens the next December? Eh?
Blasted teachers (am one of them) send home tatty old bits of tinsel and tired felt, wrapped round lavatory rolls, while Proud Child bears this treasure home, and carries it, with great Pomp and Circumstance, to the tree.
And hangs the Horror on it.
I WANT MY TREE BACK.
I want a modest little ensemble of lights and glass and colour. I want people to Oooh and Ahhh as they first take a peek of it. I want to sip champagne, with the fire roaring, the tree twinkling, and friends chatting.
I want, I want, I want....
And so, last night we decorated the tree. And I clenched said buttocks while children bickered over where to put tinsel, lights, baubles and general crap.
When I realised that they actually were Doing It Right.
!!!
!!!
!!!
Really!!!
Middle Son instructed younger two to stand back while he draped lights round and round. Standing back to check they were even.
!!!
Youngest draping tinsel randomly round anywhere, and the others telling him to stop, as they hadn't finished doing the lights yet.
!!!
On finishing the lights, out came the tinsel.
Oh, Ker-ist.
Round the tree the tinsel went, children standing back and looking at their handiwork as they decorated.
!!!
Up went lovely bright red baubles, then gold. Always being checked they were in the right place.
'It's looking good,' commented Middle Son occasionally, to himself.
And it was!!!
The fairy lights twinkled in all the right places, the glass bits danced with light, the shiny bits shone just in the right places, and when the tree was done, and we all stood back, we gave out a unanimous, Ahhhhh.
Because it was beautiful. Truly.
And I felt ashamed of my horrible pre-conceived ideas of how Crap my children were at decorating trees and such.
Because they are rather Superb after all.
And we spent an evening in the company of the most beautiful tree in the world, with the firelight glancing off tinsel and glass, and glinting most satisfactorily through my glass of wine.
Hooray!! Another milestone passed in this Parenting Malarkey.
Chuffed, I am.
Really Chuffed.

Password? What Password?

2011-12-15T19:38:00.005Z

Today I actually wondered what my password was, as I tried to get onto my blog.
I FORGOT it!
For Flip's sake.
I actually Forgot My Password.
This is madness.
I LOVE my blog. Hoover round it regularly, polish all the nick nacks...
Put some nice pictures up.
Invite friends over to look at pitiful worded offerings about Poo.
Laugh at comments.
Cry at comments.
Visit other blogs and offer to do the washing up. (not really, which is WHY blogging is so fabulous)
And there I was, that little flashing thing on the screen hovering over the rectangle space where the password should go, thinking...
What the hell IS it?
My password.
Blank.
Scratched head.
Picked nose.
Drummed fingers on keys.
Asked myself out loud.
And after several moments of painful thought, remembered.
Hooray!
At last!
Typed it in.
And there I was! On my blog again after weeks of absence. Purple person at top of blog with lots of champagne.
God, I thought.
Must change that picture, I look like a loon.
Which, of course, I am.
Looked at all the names down my blog list.
Hovered over them. Very glad to see those familiar names again after my absence.
It's not changed! They're all here!
Rather like coming into room where party is and you know everyone.
Fab.
And so, here is my paltry middle of December offering...
Crap, eh?
But heartfelt crap, so that's OK.
Flipping heck, this is hard work. I had forgotten how I need to check each sentence for being spelt right, and not too long, and not too short. Might have to take up Facebook instead.
NO! NEVER!! Well, actually DO have Facebook account, and occasionally go on it so that I can feel smug about all the other people who go on it incessantly and say things like, 'Am doing my washing.'
???
Right, going to write down my password so that will remember it when I next log in.
And then am going a'visiting. Get your kettles on...milk and a little sugar, please.
See you in a mo'!
xx

Insect Days

2011-10-14T20:26:00.002+01:00

Had the most glorious time today.
It was an Inset day (Insect day) and after asking Youngest where he wanted to go, he announced, without any hesitation at all...
'DFS please.'
Ker-ist.
Had thought that he might like to go swimming/bowling/cinema/beach (please, no, too flipping cold) or maybe a little hot chocolate with a bucket of marshmallows on the top.
Nope.
DFS.
"OK!" I said. Brightly. Tightly.
And we did.
After a mighty nice breakfast at our local deli... BEFORE which Youngest complained long and hard about WHY should we have breakfast somewhere else and WHY didn't we just stay at home and WHY should he go when he didn't want to, etbloodycetera, and AFTER which Youngest said, WHY don't we come again tomorrow, and when I said No, quite firmly, due to the eye watering bill, he said but WHY until I quietened all of that sort of questioning with a Look.
Anyway, and so to DFS we went.
For God's sake.
And, once again, DFS poured its magic over us.
No, really!
We started with the Crap Sofas by the entrance (bright red and rock hard, euurggh, we all said) and moved on to the Floral Section (swirly flowers and shiny hard legs, eurrgghh, we all said) And then we moved on to the Electronic Chairs.
Really!
Awesome stuff.
You press a button and watch as your feet slowly appear from the floor until they are well above you and all you can see is the ceiling. We all sat in various violently coloured Electric Chairs (as Youngest called them) and waved cheerily across the yards of carpet and wandering Pensioners. (I have to watch that, as Pensioner will be me in 9 years)
And we ended up on a vast thing, about 15 feet long, presumably a sofa, but really, you would need a Hangar for that piece of kit...
We all sat in a straight line on this huge slice of Upholstery, when along came a rather keen shop assistant, eyes on stalks, as he probably thought we would buy the bugger.
Nope.
But I said conversationally, nice sofa, how much, and he lit up like a Christmas Tree, and told us everything we never wanted to know about sofas, until our eyes glazed over and we began to swoon with boredom.
And so we left the Boring Man, as Youngest so aptly described him, and rejoined the normal world outside the shop.
It was fun, though, and we might make another trip next Insect Day, weather permitting.

Stop the World, I want to get off.

2011-09-24T19:29:00.003+01:00

I am utterly spent. Nothing left. Exhausted.
And yet...
I keep on going, knowing that I am tired to the bone and need to stop.
I keep on going, clearing, moving things back to where they belong, moving things back to where they belong AGAIN, and then repeating the process, every single day of my domestic life.
Parenting, nurturing, caring. Such a business. Such a knackering, bone-cracking, mindlessly, needlessly EXHAUSTING season of life.
Today I don't like it very much. I want to get off. Please.
But that wretched momentum keeps me pinned in place, unable to escape.
Even if I COULD escape, I wouldn't go. Obviously.
Just because I look spent and tired and fed up, doesn't mean that I should bugger off and let some other poor old dear do it.
We ALL feel like this from time to time.
Only this 'time to time' seems to have stretched right through the Summer Holidays, right up to the present moment, without releasing its grip.
I'll be fine soon. Look back on this period of time with a sense of sympathy for myself. Be glad that it's over.
But for now, it isn't over. It's right here.
And soon I'll have to get off this chair, and the comfort of hammering away at keys on my computer, seeing the words form on the screen, saying just what I am feeling, and where I would rather be. And I'll have to make tea, run baths, cajole, smile, and be a mother.
Don't want to.
Sigh.
This is NOT my usual post, eh?
Sorry, chaps.
I'll write soon about Stuff and Nonsense, giggle while I'm typing, enjoy the way the post is going, look forward to pressing that Publish Post button...
But for now I am Eeyore-like.

"I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!'. The Social Round. Always something going on."

Oh, well, better get on. Tea beckons.
Just one more quote and I'll be off...

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."

2011-09-20T19:02:00.003+01:00

You know when they say that you look like you've been through a hedge backwards?
Well, that was me.
Yesterday.
You see, I actually went through a hedge backwards.
Twice.
Clearly I had to go forward in order to be able to reverse the process and go backwards. I could have quite easily turned around, and gone back through the hedge forwards again. Only I couldn't, you see, as I had to hold my dog by his tail, in order to prevent him running after a man and his two dogs along the lane.
And so, there I was, hair attached in agonisingly painful fashion to rather a lot of brambles, in the MIDDLE of our hedge, and wishing that I had NOT let the dog out just before I had my nice cup of tea, well deserved after SIX hours of very dull ACCOUNTANCY work. For God's sake.
And as I clutched the very end of said dog's tail, I found that my grip was not going to hold.
Dog (Milo)gave an almightly yelp and leapt out from our hedge, into lane, bounding around with two rather cross looking dogs, and an equally cross looking man. Utterly unable to follow, due to thick branches, brambles and nasty looking nettles, I stayed put.
'Ooops!' I said, in conciliatory tones. 'I let go of my dog's tail! Silly old me!'
And I leaned forward, peering through the hedge, trying to catch eye of Cross Man, while tearing brambles off hair, clothes and face. Mad Woman of Borneo-style.
Cross Man, after aghast looks in my direction, started shouting at his dogs, and so I joined in and shouted at mine.
None of them paid the slightest attention, as it was clearly more fun sniffing bottoms and comparing notes.
When all of a sudden, Milo (my dog) came belting through the hedge, tail between his legs, turned around and prepared to go out again.
'Oh, no you don't!' I said, breezily and confidently.
As Milo went straight out onto the lane again.
This jolly little ritual went on for an agonising couple of minutes, while I alternated between yelling and wheedling. Just what Dog Owners Shouldn't Do.
Finally the little bugger (Milo, not the Cross Man) belted back into the hedge again. With an almighty leap in his direction, I grabbed him by the collar, and speaking through the large branch now actually lying across my face said,
'Got him! Thanks so much! Off you go!' sort of stuff, and to my intense relief, Cross Man started off up the lane, dogs trailing behind.
Thank Buggery for that, I thought.
And then realised that I was completely Stuck.
Brambles were pinning me down on every side, and one large branch had me braced against another.
Flipping Wonderful.
And so I Went Through a Hedge Backwards. Slowly, hair tearing out, face scratched, nettles doing their damndest to prickle and sting as much bare skin as they could.
Bastards.
And as I finally prised myself loose, Milo darted forward. Again.
'OH NO YOU UTTER UTTER BUGGER NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!' I yelled, and lurched forward, JUST grabbing his collar and.... yes..... Going Through The Hedge Backwards Again.
Ker-ist.
I dragged my Bad Dog into the house, slammed the door and went to check the damage in the downstairs loo.
Peering into the mirror was a Sight to Behold.
My recently cut hair was combed forward by obliging branches and twigs, giving me the look of a teenage Rock Star, only with mad eyes and nettle stings on cheek and forehead. I had sticks clinging to shoulder, a large leaf of indeterminate origin, hanging from my left ear, and my beautifully clean shirt was blackened and green in equal measures.
In short I was a shocking sight.
And so, sipping my tea a few minutes later, having tidied up a bit, my children looked at me in amazement.
'Mummy, what HAPPENED to you? You look like you've....'
None of them could find a suitable comment.
So I finished it for them.
'...Been through a hedge backwards?'
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Bloody dogs.

Just too cute, eh?

Summer Holidays...

2011-08-09T13:26:00.003+01:00

I forget.
Each Summer holidays I forget how wonderful they are, how sodding HARD they are, how full the days, how LONG some days, how short some others...how blissful some moments (beach, sun, children playing and me reading 'The Help') and how BLOODY AWFUL other moments ( beach, sun, children playing and me freezing my tits off in an icy wind, longing for home and tea)
I forget the highs and the lows, the tumbles and the scrapes, the giggles and the rows. I forget how FULL each moment is when we are all together, eating our breakfast, arguing over the cereal choices (low and v. v. boring) bickering over what to do that day, chuckling at memories of the previous day.
I forget the bliss of lie-ins, as children crawl out of bed early and watch TV or else lie in themselves, and we all emerge, tousle haired at about 9.00, clustering round the kettle as I make tea to take back to bed.
Forget the guitar teacher coming at 5, and realise with horror several hours later, as we amble slowly home from the beach, pink faced and glowing from hours of body surfing.
Forget timetables and lists.
Just being. Day after day after day.
Each year I forget this. And each year I remember, with heart stopping gratitude, that the Summer holidays are here again.
Until the cat is sick over the children's dirty washing, or voices are raised for the 5th time within an hour, over a RABBIT RUN for God's sake, and I wish fervently for September, and the bliss of an empty house, and lists, and timetables.
But for now, I am loving it.
For now, this is, I think, heaven on earth.
(Ker'ist, children all in tears about how to bounce on trampoline. Lunch not made and Husband fed up with ironing each night as I moan how little time there is to do everything. So hard to fit it in between my morning cup of tea, tennis and swim on the beach... )

I'm Still Standing....

2011-07-02T21:24:00.008+01:00

My new Best Friend. In the middle.
My old Best Friend. On the left. Husband.
And WHY didn't I take my camera??
WHY did I just have a crappy old mobile phone to take the PICTURE OF SUCH AN ICON?
Grrr.
And, no, I DON'T have a rather unpleasant stain on my left nipple. It was a VIP sticker, and bloody hard it was to rip off the shirt after we got home, I can tell you. (Gosh, what HUGE bazookas I seem to have. They aren't that big, honestly. It's the light. Ho hum.)
A REALLY fun evening. In Hove Cricket Ground, of all places. Meeting Elt (all his friends call him that, you see, and I AM a friend now that I have met him for at least 3 minutes) and rocking along to his music for almost THREE hours. I didn't know a single word of any of them, but know all the tunes, and so drove everyone mad around me as I 'yelled' all the songs without One Single Accurate Word of the Lyrics.
Awesome.
And then we got home, and the cat was sick.
Oh, well.
It was fun while it lasted.
THANK YOU to my darling Brother-in-law and Sister who donated these wonderful tickets to us... just because.
They ROCK.

Flossing 'eck.

2011-06-14T15:57:00.002+01:00

I bloody hate visiting my Dental Hygienist.
This is because am not Particularly Partial to having painful exploration of mouth, and hearing Tutt Tutt'ing as rubbery fingers make their squeaky way round my molars, forcing my mouth open in position that is, quite frankly, wide enough to fit a small automobile in.
My teeth are, after all, My Teeth.
I think my Hygienist thinks they are Hers.
She almost weeps as she stabs at them with what appears to be an Extremely Sharp Utensil.
'Well, have you Flossed?'
Have I 'eck.
Since my last visit to her six months ago I flossed like Mad Woman for six weeks. Urged my husband to Floss. Friends to Floss. Strangers to Floss.
I was Floss Queen. Smug too. Looking in mouths for signs of Flossing.
'Ah.' I'd think. 'That Person Does Not Floss. Look at those Yellow Bits.'
Well. Time passed. And the flossing phase was over. Each night I'd look at that damned little plastic floss container and feel Floss Guilty. To make up for it I'd swill a bit of Mouth Wash round the old tombstones. Grin maniacally in the mirror. Grimace to show the teeth at the back.
And not Floss.
But now its time to see the Hygienist Again.
Feel like rather Cross and Grumpy Adolescent.
Have dusted the floss container and flossed last night. Sulkily.
And again this morning.
HATE going to my Hygienist.
I go next week.
Bet she Sighs Heavily and asks,
Well, have you Flossed?
Have I 'eck.

Daughters... a mixed blessing?

2011-06-05T18:47:00.007+01:00

Half term was upon us and we had done Bugger All.
'What are we doing today?' would ask Daughter, aged Almost Eleven, twiddling with her hair and looking bored, even though it's only 7.05 am.
'Um.' I'd say. Which is all I seem to say when asked that question.
That question makes me paralysed with Crap Mother Paralysis.
When you can't think of a good answer because you don't want to do ANYTHING today except eat breakfast, drink coffee and read the paper. And then go back to bed.
Had no courses booked.
Had no friends booked.
Had nothing planned, bar visiting family over the first weekend.
And was loving it. Except for Bored Daughter asking what we are doing today, we would have had rather a nice time.
I had thoroughly cleaned the kitchen.
I had thoroughly cleaned the top of my desk, papers not needed any more chucked out, and the rest put carefully away into the right files.
Thrilling!
Except for Bored Daughter.
Who managed to instill panic that am Crap Mother by her tones of quiet resignation that today would be another Boring Day.
Oh, dear.
So. What to do?
Had asked her to ring her friends and arrange a play date.
No friends are around, it seemed.
Had asked her to get her swimming things out, and we would Go Swimming with her brothers.
'But you will hate that,Mummy,' she says.
'No, I won't,' I lied.
She looked miserable AND bored at the same time. Amazing combination.
We decided not to go swimming.
I arranged a riding lesson for her at the end of the week.
'But that's ages away,' she complained, looking irritated, miserable AND bored.
Again, impressed at the mix of emotions.
And so I arranged a little visit to one of my friends, with loads of children.
She hated it.
'They were all much younger than me, Mummy. It was SOOO boring.'
Aside from beating her with a concrete pavement, was flummoxed on what to DO with the girl. Until I realised that maybe, just maybe, she needed a hug.
And so she got one. Arms tight round her, and breathing in her hair type of hug.
And I felt her misery and boredom leaving her, as she hugged me back.
'Sorry, Mummy,' she whispered.
And I kissed the top of her head.
Daughters.
Precious.

And here she is... throwing herself into a lake after a sailing lesson... (NOT booked this half term)

Words Wot I Hate

2011-05-27T19:04:00.001+01:00

Don't like the following words.
I think they should be Banned.
Forthwith.

Moist
Scrotum
Gusset
Cruets
Partial
Toiletries
Serviettes
Leatherette
Kitchenette
Condiments

Not wild about 'nostril'.

Oh, and Chillax. Grrrr.

There. That's better.
Best to get these things off one's chest, I always think.

Yet Another Lavatorial Tale

2011-05-23T18:09:00.001+01:00

It was a blissful momentary thing. It seemed that my work as a Mother was done. Complete.
I had no more need to chastise, clean, order around or shout.
Why?
This morning, was running around as normal, shouting at people (mostly my children) and ordering people (mostly my children) to get lunch boxes, PE kits, coats (bloody cold this morning, eh?) book bags, heads, etc into some semblance of order so that we could get them all to school...
When I smelt it...
A shiny, green, fresh sort of smell, not often found in my house, unless instigated by me...
Namely.
Toilet Duck.
Yes, I smelt it... an aura of Cleanliness and Order, of Shiny Enamelled Lavatories, of Non-Crappy Loo.
One of my children had Actually Used it.
To clean out the loo after Performing.
The window was open, the loo shiny new, and the sweet sweet smell of Toilet Duck flooded the senses. (and the bloody Bowl, must have used half the bottle)
I tell you, my work is over.
The lessons over the last 22 years are finally coming to Fruition.
'Have you Flushed?'
'Is it clean?'
'Can my friends sit down on the seat without Fresh Urine all over their legs?' ('Ewww, Mum, you are DISGUSTING.'
'Not half as much as you PEE'ING with abandon ALL OVER THE WALL.')
But no. Not any more, it seemed.
One of them could handle Toilet Duck. Appropriately.
And this would surely mean that the others would too.
Take me home, James.
My work is done.
And then, this evening. As I sat at the computer, in that peaceful moment after the carnage of tea and washing up and more shouting, was interrupted in my blissful reverie by child crashing their way into the downstairs loo.
Smugly waited while they Went. And smugly waited until they had finished.
Smugly went into loo to inspect Pristine Lavatorial Dwelling.
Oh. Shit.
Literally. Round the bowl and even on small pieces of loo paper on the floor.
An entire tree's worth of lavatory paper piled up, meringue style, almost to the top of the loo. And the stench! Brought tears to the eyes...
STOP. REWIND.
Back to basics.
Work as Bossy Cow of a Mother is to continue...
Sigh....
(Incidently, what the HELL does a DUCK have to do with lavatorial cleanliness???
Why not Toilet Tortoise? Or Lavatory Limpet? Or Bog Bat? Grrrrr)

The Hungry Caterpillar

2011-05-16T18:59:00.002+01:00

Bugger it.
It appears I have reached new depths.
Was taking my two younger children to school this morning. Beautiful May sunshine, albeit rather chilly at 8.45 a.m. Kissed the children, said 'Morning' to anyone within reach, passed the time of day with a friend and talked about nothing much, and was about to walk back home when same friend plucked a small Green Caterpillar from my rather natty new cardigan (another story) and deposited it into my hand. I rather gingerly held it on the end of my index finger, thanked her politely (she paid absolutely no notice, never does) and started off down the road, sticking out my index finger as if playing guns with Youngest.
Not really liking this small Green Caterpillar being on the end of my finger, tried to shake it off. No luck, so flicked the slimey green bugger off into the hedge.
'Eww!' said a passenger of car sloping past (so slowly could hear the news on the radio through the open window)
Ewww?? I thought? Why?
And then realised.
Eww.
They thought I was flicking off a bogie. Snot. Nose Mucus. Greeny. Any other delightful word that describes such an odious function. Flicking it OFF my finger and into the hedge.
In full sight. A Great Big MOVING Green Bogie. (anyone on the other side of the Atlantic? A Booger to you)
Fab.
New depths.
I wanted to shout after the disapproving backside of the car 'Hey YOU! It's not a bogie, it's a CATERPILLAR!' but thought, quite rightly I think, that this would have made me seem even more weird.
And so I'll simply kill my friend and then let things lie for a while.
Or else pluck a caterpillar from HER natty cardigan (not QUITE as natty as mine) and place it just below her nostril. With Superglue.
For God's sake, WHY ME.
Grrrr.

Rude Talk

2011-04-18T20:48:00.001+01:00

I think our neighbours might be a little unsettled by some of our loud Garden Talk recently. I yelled across the garden to Middle Son just yesterday, as he was helping Husband to tie up some raspberry canes,
'I think that they are finally DOING IT!!'
And Middle Son yelled back, 'Who? Who?'
And I yelled back, 'Hang on, can't quite see... aha, it's ROSIE!'
And Middle Son yelled back, 'Hooray, dear old Rosie!'
And all was silence again, except for the recently arrived swallows, chattering and arguing about who should build the nest. Or something.
And a few minutes later, Middle Son yelled back to me, where I was weeding a particularly obstinate bit of rose garden,
'He's at it again! Only this time it's Tilly!'
'Hooray,' I yelled back, 'Did he last any longer this time?'
'Um. ' (yelled, quite hard to do really) 'About 5 seconds.'
'Oh. (also yelled, also quite hard). Good for him.'
And again, another five minutes later, 'He's at it with Honey now!'
'Hooray! Such a good cock!'
You see, we haven't had neighbours for ages. By neighbours I mean the house down the lane, about 500 yards away. Only their garden stretches up to the corner of the lane, on the other side of the road from us. And their children have a trampoline, as I can hear the boing, boing noises of children hurling themselves up and down when I put out the washing. Slightly disconcerting to hear neighbours when you never did before. And significantly disconcerting to know that THEY can hear EVERYTHING as I can hear Every Breath of theirs. Every single WORD is as clear as a bell, as they jump up and down on that trampoline of theirs.
Oh, dear. They will think we are Hardcore Deviants.
What?
YOU think we are Hardcore Deviants?
No, no! I am talking about our new cockerel. Timmy. Red plumage, thick as shit, but goes like a train.

Which is just what we want as CHICKS are longed for. And we all know that No Shag means No Chick.
And so we will continue to call out to each other our observations of Timmy the Cock, because each Act is a possible Chick, and that is MOST Satisfactory.
Although, clearly, not to the neighbours.

Messing About In Balloons

2011-04-14T17:57:00.003+01:00

Great excitment with balloons the other day.
No, not the Banging sort of balloons. I mean the huge ones that soar over the land during the early evening. Attached to large basket. With people in it.
Carried along on the gentle breeze. Soundless, except for the hugely breathy sound of the balloon filling with hot air.
Saw one recently. We were staying in Essex with my parents. On the farm. We had killed yet more time between lunch and tea by doing things like jumping up and down on a huge pile of sand. Tea time was approaching when...
Saw a Balloon! On the horizon. Very low. Our conversation going rather like...
Ooooh, there it is!
Oh, no, it's not!
Ooooh, yes, it is!
Oh, it's disappeared behind the hedge!
Ooooh, it's come back up from behind the hedge!
Sort of thing.
Well, imagine our excitement when the balloon drifted slowly downwards behind the trees... within what seemed like yards.
Quick! we all yelled at each other. Run!
Children leaped on their bikes and tore off down the track. Parents heaved themselves into Landrover and moved off at less hectic speed.
And me? I ran. After the children, down the track.
Reached the field where we thought the balloon might be. Panting somewhat.
Well.
Wasn't. Near.
Was far away across several fields. But definitely on our land.
We all watched.
Balloon was definitely Going Down. Would dip down, lurch up, dip again.
And then, all of a sudden, down it Really Went. The big roundness of the balloon deflated slowly and slid onto its side, looking like a curious sort of whale, floundering around on the field.
Huge excitement. We all shouted at Pa, my father, to drive us NOW to see the landing... what was left of it.
Pa drove us, very slowly, across the fields.
Can't go too fast, he explained. Might get a puncture.
Faster! Faster! we yelled. Desperate to get there and See The Balloon.
After an agonisingly slow journey with an awful lot of, PLEASE GO FASTER, PA! finally arrived at the Scene.
Curious, balloons are. Huge and elegant in the sky, where they belong.
Beached whales on the land. Where they don't.
We sat on the gate of the field and watched all the palaver of undoing ropes and unhitching other bits. Not to mention the several square miles of silk.
When all of a sudden arrived a filthy dirty landrover which hurtled its way along the road. I could have sworn the vehicle itself was furious. The driver was. Goodness me. Out he shot. Yelled obsenities at the man in the balloon.
Things like,
@What the f**??ng hell do you f*??!ing think you're f**??*ng doing with my f*!!?ing animals with that f***ing thing floating in the f*??!ng sky. Kind of words.
And with one more look of loathing he threw himself back in his landrover and drove off.
Stunned, we were. Hoped that Youngest hadn't heard. Judging by stunned look on his face, he had. Would look forward to him repeating that word to me at some later, highly inappropriate moment.
Man in balloon then called over to us,
'Are any of you the farmer of this field?'
Pa, my dad, strolled over to upsidedown balloon and Balloon Man.
Explained that he was actually the father of the farmer, and tut tutted about the state of the field. After the landing.
Balloon Man offered Pa a bottle of whisky.
Pa said, in nice clear tones, that actually he was owed £50 by any balloon that landed on the farm.
Poor old Balloon Man. He didn't stand a chance what with Furious Men in Landrovers (We found out later that he had had his animals severely frightened by Balloon overhead) and Pa, who was insisting, with great courtesy that he paid what he owed.
Balloon Man was a Brick. As they say in Enid Blyton books. Baffingly.
Said he would pay up. Apologised for state of field. Took details of my brother, whose farm it is, and let the children clamber all over the basket of balloon. They had loved the whole drama, getting closer and closer to balloon and basket, trying to listen in on the excitement.
Balloon Man answered all sorts of questions about Balloons.
What happens if you crash?
How do you jump out?
Where do you go to the loo?
Is there food?
Sort of thing.
The basket was Most Strange up close and personal. Sort of hessian looking with neat compartments for everyone to stand up in, so that no one falls on top of anyone else. The children looked rather like knives and forks in an upright knife and fork basket, neatly arranged and in the right place. Rather thought it would be nice to have basket at home in the house to neatly arrange children when desperate for peace and quiet.
As sun sank below the horizon we settled ourselves back into the Landrover and drove home, back across the fields, for tea, chatting madly about rude men in landrovers and balloon baskets. Killed the time nicely before tea.
And so, next time the children see a Balloon, hovering above the sky line, they will be able to say knowingly to each other,
Been in a balloon.
Which won't half impress their friends.
Will save a penny or two as well. They often comment about how much they'd like to go in a balloon. Well, they have now.
Ticked that box.
Marvellous.

My Mother

2011-04-04T10:06:00.002+01:00

My Mother
Well, the best mother in the world, of course.
Why?
Well, because she listens.
And when listening to someone's tale she will say,
'Stop! Wait! Start at the beginning! You parked the car...'
And will then Really Listen. Right to the very end. And beyond.
And you know she's listening because she likes to know all the details. And asks for them.
Which is pure gold.
She cares.
When I am sick, she rings.
'Darling, how ARE you?' she will ask.
And keep asking, until she knows I am OK again.
She goes to see darling Persil, aged 92, who used to baby sit for me when I was little, every single day to check she is fine. Rain or shine.
Takes her out for elevenses, or a little trip to the village shop, recently re-opened, to enormous excitement to our family. We all arrived the morning it opened, swelling the crowds (one other person) and bewildering the shop assistant with exclamations of joy, 'They've got TEA BAGS!' and 'HOORAY! I can see BAKED BEANS!'
Thrilling, though, when the nearest shop is miles away and is Tesco. Yeeurch.
My Mother loves.
And tells us so whenever we need to be told. And when we don't.
She laughs.
Fruity, deep laughs or 'I'm going to be sick, I am laughing so hard' or 'Oh, God, I'll wet my pants' laugh. She has a way of telling a story that gets you giggling way before the punchline. By the time it's reached, you are in agony and are begging her to stop.
She weeps.
Copiously. She gets cross with herself for the tears that get in the way of what she wants to say. And wipes them away. Before weeping again.
She understands.
Always. Knows what's going on in that head of mine. And helps me tease out the muddle. So that I can see straight again.

My Mother.
How I love her.

By the Skin of his Teeth

2011-03-29T14:26:00.000+01:00

Youngest is awfully good at saying he had Done His Teeth.
And not doing them.
Every morning I ask him, EVERY MORNING,
'Have you done your teeth?' as he comes down the stairs to have his collar straightened. It gets stuck under his school jumper. This also happens every morning.
'Yes,' he beams. Every morning.
'Show me,' I say. Every morning.
And Every Blasted Morning he does a Half Bare'ing sort of smile. Showing bits of teeth, but not the full package.
And EVERY CHUFFING MORNING I tell him
'No, you haven't, go and do them again.'
And EVERY CHUFFING MORNING he sulks, and goes up the stairs to do them. Again.
Although he hasn't done them AT ALL.
You would think after almost 7 years of Teeth Cleaning, of which the last 700 mornings he has done it on his own, with me peering into his mouth to check out the missed bits, that he would have Copped On.
Nope.
Oh, well, at least I don't have to check his bottom these days. You know, the 'Have you wiped your bottom?' scenario, when they say they have and you know, you just KNOW that it hasn't been That Successful.
And you check.
And you thank the Heavenly Stars above that you did.
Because it is Carnage.
So checking a mouthful of teeth isn't so bad really. It's at the right end of a person. Can't really go wrong.
Teeth? Or 'Wiped' Bottom?
Absolutely No Contest. Teeth every time. I avoid bottoms at all costs these days. Apart from my own.
Reluctantly.

Hysteria during Revision

2011-03-24T16:57:00.013Z

Am vaguely aware of Middle Son revising for his Geography Exam, as I examine my emails, tea all finished and washing up complete.
'Ecosystem,' he is muttering to himself.
Occasionally he asks me a question, but I am too engrossed in a new email that am not really hearing him.
'Just a minute,' I say.
When suddenly, through my consciousness, I hear him say, quite distinctly. 'Orgasm.'
What the ****?
'Dead orgasm,' he is muttering now.
'Darling,' I say, brightly. 'Don't think you have the right word.'
'Huh?' he grunts.
'ORGASM!' I yell, trying to Get Through fog of incomprehension.
Middle Son's eyes widen like an animal caught in head lights. There is a brief moment of brain ticking.
Then the penny drops.
Helpless giggles begin.
'Don't write that in your exam,' I weep, trying to get the words out.
'Nope!' he whimpers back, holding his stomach.
'Dead orgasms!!' I manage to voice, hoarsely.
'Living orgasms!!' he claws out, with effort, between bouts of laughter.
And so it continues.
Until we have exhausted the orgasm jokes. And then, we settle back into Sensible Revision Time.
With just the odd chuckle or two to relieve the monotony of memorising Food Chains and Herbivores.

Puppy Love

2011-03-16T18:39:00.000Z

'Oh, it's just like having a baby again!!!'
Says Everyone.
About having a puppy.
I laughed.
I did!!
Really!
Because I thought to myself, WHY?
It's a Puppy. Not a Baby.
But. I. Was. Wrong.
A puppy is NOT a dog. A puppy is a wee'ing, poo'ing, whining, biting, taking everything away'ing, BABY.
And not only that, but as I sit next to his cage at night, waiting until he drops off (yes, I do, I really, really do) and thinking to myself that this is JUST like being a mother and waiting for that baby to GO TO SLEEP so that I can finally put my oh, so weary head on my deliciously comfortable pillow and disappear into the haven of unconciousness...well, as I do that, I am KICKING myself for not doing this sooner.
Because I am loving every minute.
Because although Milo is just like a baby in some ways, (wee, poo, feeding) in all other ways he is a delightful, gallumping, sweet natured, DEAR little thing.
And the best thing is that, unlike new mothers, I DON'T have anything pouring out of every orifice that I possess. (not ears, I seem to recall...)
I DON'T have breasts the size of two magnified melons, each one seemingly plugged into a painful and persistent electric shock treatment, just as the baby latches on, yet again, for another agonising feed.
I am NOT stupified by a 48 hour labour, the equivalent of a triathlon. Twice.
My stomach is NOT a quivering and wobbling landscape, trying to escape from Maternity Jeans at every movement.
No. Really! HONESTLY!
On the whole, I am just as I was a week ago, perhaps a little weary from getting up in the middle of the night, to potter outside with Milo, while he wees and does his stuff. And then waiting for him to settle, before I nip upstairs to bed.
But also very happy as we wander down the track behind our house, with Milo in arms until we are off the public footpath and we can finally let him go, and let him gallump and gambol next to the children.
Who LOVE him.
I mean, who COULDN'T!
I mean, LOOK at Milo and Eldest. Ad-or-able. Both of them.

And so, yes, it IS just like having a baby again.
Only without the enormous breasts, sleepless nights and preoccupation with Orifices.
Marvellous!
Mind you, looking forward to a whole night's sleep. Tell me, how does that feel again?
xx

Meet Milo. Small, round and gorgeous.

2011-03-10T11:53:00.003Z

Look who's arrived at our house.
Name of Milo.
Howled throughout the whole of the first night. Thought that would have to return the little blighter.
Slept until 5 am this morning, which was a vast improvement.
Children are totally in love with him. Well, who WOULDN'T be?!
Youngest says things like,
'It's all different now, Mummy. All changed. The cat's food is Not On The Floor anymore.'
And sighs deeply, as if all the weight of the world were on him.
But this IS the biggest change in his life. Huge.
And we are all adjusting to the strangeness of a new member of the family who pees everywhere and bites little holes in our shoes.
But OH! We love him.
Hope you do too.
xx

A Game of Two Halves

2011-03-04T12:41:00.000Z

D'you know what?
I HATE the term Half Brother.
I think that perhaps I am just a Tad Sensitive about the subject, seeing that I have one child by one man, and three children by another. Hence creating this quandry that within my family, there is such a thing as a Half Brother.
My children, the younger ones, always get to the point of asking whether or not their Daddy is the same as Eldest's Daddy.
And each time, I explain, that a long time ago, Eldest's Daddy and I were together and loved each other and had a baby, but that we just couldn't live together as we had never made a commitment to each other. I didn't bother with the rest, and I won't now. Needless to say, there was a Lot More going on, and the best thing for all of us was that Eldest and I made it alone.
And then I tell them about meeting Daddy, and how exciting that was, and how we fell in love (always a snigger at this) and then got married (did you wear a beautiful dress, Mummy?) and then had three more BEAUTIFUL children.
And then they ask what relationship they are to Eldest. And I tell them that he is their brother. Full stop. We don't talk about Half this or Half that. They know that Eldest's Daddy and theirs is two different people, and that they share the same mother.
But that Half word is kept well out of the conversation.
And on occasions they ask if Eldest IS their half brother, and I tell them that officially he is, but how weird it is to have only a half brother. Where's the other half?
And we leave it there.
Because Eldest has enough issues to deal with without feeling he is half of something. Because he is absolutely the whole of something.
And so, when Middle Son was born, I proudly placed into the Times Newspaper, in the Birth's Section, that a boy had been born, 'a little brother to Eldest'.
Eldest was so proud.
SO proud.
We simply don't do anything by halves here.

A Little Tale about Nothing in Particular

2011-03-02T09:24:00.003Z

'Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,' started Youngest, yesterday after tea. Was still struggling with the clearing away of mountains of plates and cutlery, forcing the buggers into the Dishwasher, as I like to fill each and every Available Crevice with plates and cups and saucepans and lids and big spoons that won't fit into that absurd Cutlery thing that's supposed to fit all the Cutlery. But never does.
'WHAT?' said I, somewhat Exasperated, as can't seem to finish a Thought in my Head at the moment, let alone a Simple Task about the Home. 'Can't you see I am already busy? Trying AS USUAL to do too many things at the same time??'
You can see what a marvellous mother I am.
I can see Youngest thinking.
'I can do two things at once,' he announced.
'Really?'
Was a little Doubtful. He is after all Male and six years old.
'Yup,' he said. Confidence oozing out of every pore.
'Tell me what two things you can do at once,' I muttered, from the bowels of the Dish Washer, forcing that last fecking glass in.
Youngest almost Preened with Pride.
'I can make a Poo AND a Wee come out at the same time.'
Oh, Dear.
Could see my giggling mirror image in the dirty reflection of saucepan lid, winking up at me, as I am crouched over my machine like a paratrooper over land.
Heaving myself out, Youngest asked when I would be ready to play with him.
'In a minute!!' I said, in that time honoured way, crashing dishwasher shut and hearing the familiar whirrings and splashings to indicate that the cycle had begun.
'Oh.' he said.
Eeyore-like with Gloom.
There was a Very Long Silence.
And then he said,
'I'll just stand here then and Stare at the Floor.'
Oh, for God's sake. Talk about Martyr. Clearly action was needed and Fast.
'Nearly done! I boomed, in Cheerful Mother mode, when she knows that Playing with Children is Inevitable and there is NO MORE procrastination available.
In desperation I tidied the Fairy Liquid.
I could see Youngest in his droopy pose in the reflection in the window.
Staring at the floor.
Ker-ist.
I pulled myself together.
And took my Youngest into the warmth of the sitting room where we played Racing Demon for half an hour before bath time.
Which is crap with just two people, but Youngest doesn't mind.
It beats staring at the floor.

Awards for Dummies

2011-02-14T13:54:00.003Z

An award!! Hooray!! Look, how POPULAR I am!! See how BEAUTIFUL I am! See how DELUDED I am!!
Oh, dear. Awards do rather go to my head. I must get a grip.
However... better do this properly, which will be a first, as whenever I have got an award in the past, I grab the bugger, shove it up on the blog and completely ignore the rules. Tut tut. Which is just what I have done this time, as have had award for flipping WEEKS.
Anyway.
The rules. And no breaking them, it's VERY BAD FORM.

The rules are:
a) Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award.
b) Share 7 things about yourself.
c) Award 15 recently discovered bloggers.
d) Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award.

And so, THANK YOU, MOTHER HEN!! If you haven't been over to see her, then do so now, you lazy buggers. You'll love the piccy of the hens on her doorstep. AND the biggest blinking pumpkin you have ever seen! No, really, a Pumpkin. Not a euphemsim for anything.

Right, what's next?
Share seven things about myself.
You don't really want to read about seven things about me, I just KNOW.
And anyway, you know it all already.
Suffice it to say that the following should just about tell you everything you need to know... Poo, wee, vomit, bogies, blocked lavatories, huge pants and not a great deal of sex.

That's me.

Right, that's got the dull bit over....now I have to find 15 bloggers new to me. Blimey, I can barely think about fifteen ALTOGETHER.
Rules are rules, though, so I'd better get out there and have a look. This could take some time....

Several days later....

Oh dear. FIFTEEN? What is this, a Jamie Oliver Award or something? FIFTEEN?
I have barely looked at ONE this year.

Several even MORE days later....

Bugger this for a game of marbles...I'm just going to choose ONE. Always was crap at keeping to the rules. It's why I'm so bad at table tennis. And Fish. (anyone else play that DREADFUL game?? when you ask people for cards and they say Fish if they haven't got it and the winner gets loads of cards and the losers get none? No? Not ringing any bells? You lucky, lucky thing. Bad bad game.)

ANYWAY.

Several WEEKS later

I have at flipping LAST found the blog I want to award. It has taken me the best of a month. Really. So here it is. Another Day of Crazy. She makes me laugh, and she makes me cry. Just my sort of blogger. Go and take a look. It will be well worth it.
Oh, ker-ist. Now I have to find the image. Can't wait to get back to a normal old post about pants.

Here it is.

Phew. Now, NO MORE AWARDS as I am a TERRIBLE recipient. xxx
(well, only if I can break the rules just a tad. Just don't tell the Management.)

Neat and Tidy. Not.

2011-01-10T19:01:00.003Z

Yesterday I very Carefully cleaned out a Wooden Box to put things into. Even lined it with paper, and left it, nicely waiting, by the back door.
Thought that I might put the children's boots into it.
Or maybe the dustpan and brush, used every flipping day to remove detritus from kitchen floor.
Or how about all the cat food, nice and tidy?
Fond thoughts of getting some sort of Order back into the house after the madness of Christmas.
Fond thoughts of getting some sort of Order back. Full Stop.
Only, when going to the back door this morning, to put Said Children's Boots into nice clean box, I find the cat, sitting in the box, weeing.
Not just a bit of wee. I can see it slowly puddling around the edges of the box, and starting to trickle towards the cat bowl. The paper inside the box has turned yellow and is starting to stick to the box.
'Terrific,' I say. To no one in particular.
And the Fond Thoughts of getting some sort of Order back into house after the madness of Life in General are forgotten, as I tip cat out, still weeing, and take box to end of garden and hurl at compost heap.
And back into the house I go, to clean up the Wee.
Which, of course, is the story of my life. As you all well know. Wee or Poo. With the occasional detour via Vomit or Blood.
Dammit. I was SO looking forward to that neat box containing something and creating a little bit of Order. Like Other People's Houses.
Back to Plan A.
Chaos.

Mondays. Grrr.

2010-12-13T09:31:00.010Z

Monday morning.
The house looks like an deserted Airport Terminal.
Stuff everywhere, in the wrong place. Post weekend.
The odd sock, dangling, from the bannister.
Bits of Electronic Stuff left around for me to trip over.
Sitting room has an air of Devastation. Curtains still half drawn, cushions scattered and the children's teddy bears sitting expectanctly, on the sofa. Waiting for some Daytime Television perhaps.
Every bedroom is messy, with unmade beds and pants/socks/pyjamas/toothpaste on the floor.
Our two cats tip toe delicately through the scattered outdoor wear by the front door. Left by children as they dashed off to school.
Yet I have a grin on my face and lightness in my step.
Not working today!!
For once, I can drift about the Carnage, picking up the tenth pair of Wellington Boots, slowly replacing the turf, as it were, until the house looks ready for the children to come home again.
I can prepare a lovely fire in the sitting room, ready for a cosy evening.
I can dust and sweep and hoover until the place is sparkling.
I can shop for Delectable Things to eat.
And I can bring my home to order and tranquillity.
But Bollocks to all that.
I'm going to blog a while, make a nice cup of tea and ring a friend.
The house can chuffing well wait.
I am SO enjoying this moment!

Memories are Made of This

2010-12-10T23:11:00.001Z

I made a memory this week. A really good one. Stomach hurting laughter with a friend of FORTY YEARS!!
Can't really beat that in my book.
On Wednesday, with reluctance in my very bones, owing to 'end of term'itis' I traipsed up to London to join a group of 'Old Girl's' (makes us sound like Enid Blyton caricatures) to sing in a Carol Service in Chelsea.
Practised our songs (a rather jolly Benjamin Britton piece that had us quaking with fear at first, but boy, we nailed the bugger and sang it like angels)
Anyway.
That church was so cold that we turned shades of deepest blue right through to dark, attractive purple.
Trying valiantly to stop shivering in the Extreme Old Church Temperatures.
Minus 3 outside.
Minus 3 inside.
And so it was, that during our Free Time between 5 o'clock and 6.30 that my friend and I tipped off to Peter Jones to find Hot Chocolate and Warm Underwear. In that order.
Gratefully shoved Hot Chocolate down our throats, chatting nineteen to the dozen, joined by my sister, who had come to watch us rehearse, wearing a very sensible and enormous Fur Hat. We were all rather envious.
Anyway, drinks done, my Sis departed off out to celebrate her Eldest Boy's birthday, and Henrietta and I made a beeline for the Lingerie Department.
May I just say that I bumped into no less than 7 friends, all having tea in Peter Jones. Couldn't blinking believe it. Lots of numbers exchanged and hugs galore amongst the genteel Tea Drinkers of Chelsea.
Anyway.
Lingerie.
Found, to our delight, a garment named Hide All The Disgusting Flab (or something) which was dangling delectably, all ready for us to Purchase. We grabbed a couple, plus some thermals, and legged it to the changing room.
'Sod it, let's share,' said Henrietta.
So we did, stripping off down to bra and pants, and whipping on our new Flabless Tops.
Bloody hell.
Got stuck.
Well and truly.
Henrietta had to stop putting hers on, to help me squidge myself, red in the face from exertion, into the Impossibly Tight Top.
'Good Grief, there is absolutely No Room for my bosoms,' I gasped.
Couldn't breathe.
Henrietta, by now into hers, was howling with mirth at my figure which now looked as if I had about eight breasts. Bosom was so squashed it had flattened my considerable Boobs into every Nook and Cranny of this Extraordinary Top.
With her help, we managed, between the howls, to rearrange my bosoms into their rightful places.
I turned sideways.
I appeared to be totally flat chested.
Crikey, I said.
But shoved on my White Linen Top, to go with Black Linen Trousers, de rigeur for any choir member.
Ripped off the price label of new purchase, and happened to look at it.
Chuffing Hell. £54.00!!
For a scrap of Python Strength White Lycra.
We looked at each other in disbelief.
Firstly, for the price, and secondly for the fact that we would have to Remove The Sodding Buggers. No way were we spending £54 on THAT.
'Right. You first,' ordered Henrietta.
I obediently took off my White Linen Top and tried to remove the Python Top.
Couldn't get it past my navel.
Stuck.
Completely.
Oh, Christ.
Henrietta had to have a moment to recover, as she was by this time totally beside herself in mirth. (May I just say that she does laugh Quite Loudly. As do I. A little concerned at this point about being overheard by other Matrons of Chelsea.)
But I was so deep in midst of giggle-fits that wouldn't have given a damn if the Queen herself was trying on a Spandex Lycra Bustier in the next cubicle.
I put my arms up in the air, and Henrietta pulled and pulled, with helpful comments like,
'Lean against the wall, and let me yank it off,'
and
'Christ, one of your boobs has got stuck in the hem-line,' sort of thing.
(There were rather a lot of people Lurking as we emerged. I think that perhaps they were an Audience of sorts.)
She got it off. It took several minutes, as we kept having to stop to get our breath back, owing to being completely out of control Laughter Wise.
And then I had to get hers off.
Easier, owing to less in the Bosom Department.
But still quite Tricky when weak with laughter.
All done.
We shoved on our Thermals (bliss) and got dressed all over again.
I think we carried on laughing for about an hour.
No sooner than one of us had stopped, the other started.
And we told everyone back at the Ice Church what we had been up to.
Funnily enough, no one found it particularly funny.
They were all too busy lifting up our shirts and the hem of our trousers to check out the Thermals.
Boy, they were green with envy.
Which went awfully well with Purple with Cold.
Poor bastards.
Us?
We were Just Fine, thanks!

2010-11-30T18:27:00.004Z

Oh, dear. My life has reached depths I hadn't thought possible.
Was cleaning out my Horlicks Jar. Oh, COME ON, we ALL clean out our Horlicks Jar.
Don't we?
Oh.
Bollocks.
Anyway.
Discovered that jar was jam packed with extremely Hard Horlicks. Rock springs to mind. Had a little think about EITHER doing the sensible thing like chucking jar away and buying a new jar, OR breaking up said Rocks of Horlicks into small manageable pieces and putting said pieces into the Magimix, making them into powder,and carefully transporting said powder back into newly cleaned jar.
Well.
I did the clearly Thick Arse thing. With the Magimix.
Armed myself with a 16 lb hammer, a chisel and a screw driver.
Why?
Why not??
And brought them into the kitchen where I placed them carefully on the kitchen table.
Instruments were then used to kick the arse out of the Rock'ard Horlicks, chipping bits of Horlicks off the main block of Horlicks, causing shrapnel to ricochet around the room, war zone style.

<---- Rock of Horlicks

After several minutes of this, there were enough smaller chunks that I could take OUT of the jar and place INTO the Magimix.
Still with me?
Lovely!
Now. I'm not sure if you have ever put chunks of Horlicks into a Magimix before... No? Really? How odd...
But it's rather Noisy.
I actually couldn't hear myself speak.
Because I had a go at speaking just to see if I COULD hear myself.
And decidedly couldn't. Tried shouting REALLY loudly to see if I could hear that.
Nope.
The poor Magimix leapt about like a mad thing, whizzing away at the Horlicks, and I had to stay nearby in case the thing fell off the counter.
At this point there was a knock on the door.
You will understand that I didn't HEAR the knock at the door owing to Said Noise.
So all the person at the door could hear was the sound of a Magimix killing something, and me shouting to see if I could hear myself.
At this point, a third person arrived at the door, in hot pursuit of the former person. They had a little natter at my door, not really liking to interrupt such proceedings when all at once.... QUIET.
Which is when I heard the door bell for the first time.
Trotted off to answer it, and there were two friends, looking somewhat Expectantly Puzzled, if ever there was such a combination.
Come in, come in! I cried. I'm....
And I stopped.
Because Breaking up Horlicks with hammers and chisels might not appeal to everyone.
Indeed, they might just think that I have lost my marbles and have arrived in Happy Farm for Nutters.
Bollocks to it, I thought. And showed them my work.
OK, so it DID look a little messy.
Showers of Horlicks littered every surface. I'd used rather a lot of containers as I kept having to keep the Powdered Horlicks from the Rock Horlicks. It was, quite frankly, a Fiasco.
Needless to say my friends fell about laughing and almost had to hold each other up in mirth.
I kept my end up by laughing heartily too.
Although somewhat Tightly. We don't, after all, like our Efforts to Economise mocked, do we now?
However, I did have a jar of Horlicks that was definitely powder, and I was looking forward to a nice cup of the bloody stuff later, by the fire.
(I thought it might be a good service in the community... to offer to smash up Horlicks for people and charge a small fee.)
There is, however, an 'However....' to the story.
When looking at my jar of Horlicks with some smugness later on that day, on opening the jar to have a good look at the powder (did I tell you I was getting a life for Christmas??) I was somewhat disgruntled to see that the Horlicks had ALREADY STARTED TO HARDEN.
Bastard.
It seems that Horlicks have a brilliant Unique Selling Point.
The bloody stuff only stays powder like till you open the jar.
It then becomes so rock-like that you buy a new one.
Infinitum.
But oh! Not me!
I have my mate the 16lb hammer.
And I will continue to rip the shit out of the Horlicks as and when necessary.
I tell you, there's no flies on me.
Just an awful lot of Horlicks dust.
So attractive.

So this is Christmas

2010-11-17T17:58:00.007Z

NOT.

Yup, the Christmas Countdown has begun. Or actually, for some, it's just finished.
(Grumpy Old Woman knows just what I mean in her post Christmas Bullies.... check it out!) Because for those of us who are just beginning to buy the odd present, seeing as it's only 38 days till Christmas, there are other TOTAL BUGGERS who have done the lot.
Yup.
The bloody Lot.
I only say this because while waiting for children yesterday in the FREEZING cold, tapping our feet, and jumping up and down as the icy wind blew directly from the North Pole, I got into a sort of jumping up and down conversation with a couple of mothers, one of whom HAD DONE ALL HER CHRISTMAS SHOPPING....AND.... wait for this, it's Ugly, really Ugly,
She had Booked A Christmas Delivery Slot for Waitrose.
Gulp.
I mean, really.
It was only the bloody 16th November!!
So what did I do?
Laugh maniacally in her face?
Cry?
Tell her I had done all mine in January?
Nope.
I went back home, and booked a slot for Waitrose.
Only, wait for this... THERE ARE NO SODDING SLOTS LEFT.
Because Blinking Mothers like that have already nicked them.
NICKED THEM.
And because I am not a 'Delivery Pass member' on Ocado, I don't get a slot unless I wait until the beginning of December and sit at my computer until Midnight. Probably.
?????
Oh Very Dear.
And this happens every year, doesn't it. This madness, this crazy GOT TO GET IT ON TIME mentality.
It's only a DAY.
When we eat a lot, and give each other a few pressies. And drink too much cooking sherry, champagne, wine and port. (oh is that just me??)
But Christmas, while clearly quite a lot of work, is NOT Nuclear War, or Flooding or Earthquakes, or a Global Disaster.
It's Christmas.
And incidently, a Birthday at that.
Rather an important Birthday too.
And all our focus is on getting it all done on time, and being Organised and beating other mothers to all the Christmas Delivery Slots.
To hell with all that.
Providing that I remember the bog rolls and Who The Buggery has remembered to pick up the Turkey, it should be rather good fun.
Everyone can get their own sodding presents. I am NOT going to go around the shops, picking up 36 presents, and then telling everyone who is giving what to who.
Yup. Done that. Mad, eh?
Am going to Waft about getting the odd Gift, and take them home and wrap them in rich glossy paper and leave them under the tree. And then joyfully send cards to dear friends.
Sod it. Need to buy tree.
And rich glossy paper.
And cards.
Bloody Christmas.
Bloody Friends.
Bloody Nightmare.

A Game of Two Halves

2010-11-11T13:50:00.005Z

I'm Just A Girl Who Can't Say No

2010-11-09T19:58:00.002Z

Oh, dear.
Keep saying NO to poor Husband.
Things like...
1) 'No, I don't want to drive Daughter to Bloody Rabbit Rescue Centre on a ninety miles trip there and back, in order to fetch the new rabbits we have purchased at Vast Expense from Said Rescue Centre, following on from a Rabbit Expert coming to Inspect our garden to check it is suitable for rabbits when we already have about 158 wild rabbits who think it is perfectly suitable, thank you very much, instead of going to the local Pet Store and buying Said Rabbits for Normal Rabbit Prices like Normal People sodding well do.
And...
2) 'No, I don't want to explain why I am NOT going to shave my legs. I simply cannot be Arsed to get the razor out and de-hair such Man-Hair legs when all I want to do is get into bed and Read My Book.' (We all know that Read My Book means, 'Get-your-hands-off-my-breast/buttock/rude bits-I-am-not-in-the-mood.')
And...
3) 'No, I don't want to answer the phone, just as I put the first mouthful of Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding into my mouth, all mixed up with a little bit of the BEST GRAVY EVER, just because some BUGGER decides to RING AT SUNDAY LUNCHTIME and no, I am NOT NEAREST to the phone. YOU ARE.'
And...
4) 'No, I DON'T WANT to have a glass of wine because I CAN'T DRINK EVEN ONE GLASS without a headache. Do you remember when I said that before? Um... oh yes, YESTERDAY.'
And...
5) 'No, I don't want to Have Sex.
Oh, God. Did I say that out loud?
I seem to have found my Married Voice.
The one that says 'No' a lot.
You know, the one that you use in your head for about a week after being married, and then start saying Out Loud to your new Husband.
Like, instead of, 'Golly! Someone didn't flush!' now you say,
'Oh, for God's sake, who has left a poo the size of a nuclear bomb down the bloody loo?'
Or, in the old days, when you said 'Mmmph,' this is nowadays tranlated as 'Christ, who farted?'
My married voice took a while coming.
It's just that I am one of those irritatingly annoying wives that Don't Say Anything when they are Really Pissed Off.
Only I have started to say things now.
Finally.
Oh, yes!
It's taken nearly fourteen years.
Poor Husband. He really seems quite taken aback. His Can Be Moody, miserable old cow of a wife is now Mrs Shouty.
I must say, it's simply marvellous being up my end.
All Yelling and Cross and Communicative.
But it must be hell at the other.
And so I think I'll tone it down a little.
Say Yes, here and there.
Not be quite so cross when his mother asks herself to stay just when my darling friend will be there at the same time, involving Deeply Complicated things with moving beds, having children in different rooms, and turfing True Friend out onto sofa in sitting room. Which Husband had Not Communicated would be Happening.
And to be Bright and Twinkling when he comes home. Not scowling and hurrumping like Eeyore.
New resolutions. So easy to make, and so damned difficult to maintain.
However, have made good start.
Husband rang not many days ago to say would I like him to bring home some Stiff Drink for Bonfire Night, which was happening later that day.
Yes! I said. Immediately. You see? So Compliant.
Oh. Didn't tell you. Am raging Drinker as well.
Golly. Miserable old Cow AND Alchoholic.
Nice.
Hope we see through to next Wedding Anniversary.

Strike while the Iron is Hot

2010-10-20T10:45:00.006+01:00

Yes, I know. New Scary Picture of self, but was rather fed up with the Summer Scene and gently wafting flowers in old picture, when am back in my furry boots and thermals, while thinking seriously about whether to get out the Furry Hat.
Anyway.
To more Important Topics. Like Husbands.
Because sometimes Husbands can be a right pain in the neck.
No, really!
('snigger')
Was helping Middle Son with homework on Sunday evening. It was rather a dull task, with him finishing off a project about the Second World War, and me getting bossy about Fonts and Layout and Polishing It Up. Middle Son wanted to print the bugger out and go and watch X Factor. I wanted Posh Fonts, Smart Layout and Polishing It Up. As you do.
After quite a lot of Sulking and stuff, Middle Son was doing things with Fonts and Layout and Polishing It Up, when all the Bastard Lights went off in the house and we were plunged into darkness.
Out of this blackness came Husband's voice.
'Oh.' he said.
I said some Choice Words which contained the word Iron and Sodding and You Silly Bugger.
This was because Husband had decided to do some ironing and always fills up the water bit to the very top which means he blows the electricity Every Bloody Time He Irons. Almost. Am very slightly Exaggerating here but needs must and all that.
Anyway.
(It might be said at this point that am very lucky to have Husband to do ANY flipping ironing at all, and I would say, also at this point, that I agree. It's just then when one has been helping Middle Son with his chuffing homework ALL DAY and the electricity goes out JUST as it's almost done, removing the work that has been recently added, it is a Little Vexing.)
Anyway.
After some moments of fiddling around inside ink black cupboard trying to locate the one switch out of about 120, to get the electricity on again, and having GOT the electriciy on, and having seen that not ALL the work had been deleted in the process, Middle Son said to Husband,
'Daddy, WHY are you doing the ironing when you KNOW I am on the computer?'
Husband says, really quite Huffily,
'Well, if I didn't do it, it wouldn't get done.'
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
???????????????
**************ck.
Well.
Talk about Strops.
Big Stomping Strop.
Mega.
Me.
I did.
I went into a Major Top Quality Female Stratopheric Stroppy Strop.
Because while we KNOW that what he said was probably completely true, THAT IS NOT THE POINT. The point is that I must keep up the pretence of doing the ironing every day. Never must it be said that the ironing gets done ONLY because if it wasn't, no-one would have anything to wear. (Husband only steps in when pile reaches catastrophic heights.)
But this is not how it is in my head, OK? In my head, I iron every day. Snowy white napiery. Sheets. Shirts. Piles and piles of the sodding stuff.
So I stropped.
Marvellous, it was.
It stopped everyone in their tracks.
Even the cats.
I left the computer and Middle Son, and headed for the kettle. Which I put on. Very Loudly and with lots of Crashing.
Then I Laid the Table.
Smash, Crash, Bang. Nothing broken, you understand. Just Noise. Lovely, lovely Noise.
Then I fed the cats.
Boy, did I punish that tin. Crashed it down on the sink and threw the food sort of at the bowl. The cats didn't mind.
Then what? Oh, yes. I put the jam on the table. Well, sort of threw it and threw it again when it landed on its side. Picked it up and SLAMMED it down.
By now, a small, intent audience of four were watching. Husband, a little alarmed. Children, wondering what on earth Mum could be in such a strop about.
Middle Son sort of mentioned Ironing to them, but they were none the wiser.
At this point,Husband approached, and asked in milky, sweet tones, would I like some help.
I think I snarled at him. Showed all my teeth. Hissed with all the Spit I could muster that I Did Not Need Any Help At All, Thank You Very Much. Type of thing.
He backed off and sort of got on with Other Things in the kitchen.
Looking around nervously as things got moved about with some Vigour.
I continued my Strop with renewed Force.
Although was getting a little tired. Strops can be knackering, eh, girls?
Anyway.
Tea was finally made.
Scones! Jam! Pot of tea! Lovely!
And a boot faced, snarly old hag of a mother, scowling round the table at her nervous family.
Well.
At some point after my second sip of good hot tea, felt a little bit of a giggle coming on.
Looked Askance at Husband. Just as he was looking at me, in the same sort of way.
Snorted out some tea.
Wiped the worst of it off the freshly baked scones.
Sort of smiled at each other.
'Am really sorry,' said Husband.
'Yes, but you MEANT IT,' said I, regaining a tiny momentum of Strop again.
'But am really sorry,' said Husband.
'Yes, but you really MEANT it,' said I, regaining a little bit more Strop.
'Oh, MUMMY, Daddy has said he is SORRY and that means it's OVER,' quotes Youngest, in world-weary tones. The quote is from his Mother. Who is so wise about other people's arguments and such a child over her own.
'But...' I start. And stop.
'Am really cross still,' I mutter from side of mouth.
'Know you are,' mutters Husband from the side of his.
And we share a cheesy smile.
Ironing.
It's the cause of such Disharmony. It really should be Banned.
Trouble is, Husband would then do it, and then SEE how bad I'll look.
Oh, buggery bollocks.
He'll just have to do it like the guy below.
Might even enjoy himself in the meantime.

If It's Friday It Must Be Croydon

2010-10-05T18:59:00.002+01:00

Don't you hate it when someone says, 'Could you just....?'
I don't like 'Could you just...?'.
The 'Just', so innocent and sweet between the 'Could' and the 'You', says it all.
It won't be Just. It will be Very Extremely Unjust.
Mark my words.
And so, when Eldest rings up to say, 'Could you just...?' I very nearly said No.
But as his Mother it seemed a tad churlish, so said Yes.
And that was why I found myself in the Armpit of Croydon, a good fifty miles from where we live, on an extremely Rainy Day, which said Son had announced was the Best Place to Meet.
Hah!
After half an hour of phone calls of
'Where are You?'
'Well, I am driving to Croydon. Where are YOU?'
'I am on a train to Croydon.'
'Where is your train?'
'In London.'
'Yes, but where?'
'Not sure...' sort of thing, was beginning to get a little Irritated.
And so, when I found out through a text, read illegally as I waited at traffic lights, that I was to meet Eldest at East Croydon Station, was not Terribly Amused.
Because there is no such flipping place as East Croydon. There is a train station. Oh, yes, one of those. But when you look up East Croydon in the A-Z, is it bloody there?
NO!
There's North Croydon, and South Croydon and even an obliging West Croydon. But no mention of an East Croydon, which was the only Buggering Croydon I wanted to go to.
Conundrum:
Get out of car and ask someone... Where is East Croydon station?
Or... Continue on driving, hitting the steering wheel in frustration and shouting very loudly, I HATE CROYDON.
Simples.
The latter.
Of course.
And so, continued to drive around Croydon, yelling spasmodically to Self until the next text.
'Where r u?'
Found this text a tricky one to answer as had no bloody idea of where I was, or where I was going.
Anyway.
Ground-breaking moment as I spied 'East Croydon Station' on a sign post.
Hooray!
Yippee!
Hastened towards it and finally, after several tense minutes of one-way systems going the wrong bloody way, found my way in East Croydon Station.
Parked.
Texted in triumphant tones 'AM HERE AT STATION. Where r u?'
Phone call back,
'Oh, I walked off down a road. Can you come and get me?'
If only I could have had a large Axe. Because I might have used it at this point.
'Where did you go?' I asked between gritted teeth.
'Not sure... the road is called.... Nope, can't quite see.'
We spoke for a few minutes. By 'spoke' I mean that I shrieked, and he answered in monosyllables.
He said a few helpful things like,
'Well, the road is black and it's a bit holey.'
Bloody brilliant.
Then he said, 'Oh, there is a tram.'
At this point slammed down the phone and drove off down the road, checking it for holes and trams, and muttering all the while that I would never EVER do him a favour EVER AGAIN.
When, behold, saw a Tram. And a hole in the road. OMG. And Eldest.
Waved and yelled and shouted out of the window. He saw me, and waved and shouted something, just as I disappeared into a One Way Gaping Hole of a Bastard Tunnel, that swallowed me and spewed me out the other end, a good half a mile away from Eldest.
Swearing some of the more Colourful Language I have learned as a mother, I performed a rather clever, if highly illegal, U Turn, and went back down the Underpass.
No Eldest. Searched the bloody road and holes and trams. Gone.
Text from him a minute later.
'Come back. Where r u goin?'
Bugger me. Where was I going????? MOI?
Bloody MAD was where I was going. Performed another teeth-chattering U Turn and searched the streets again. No Flipping Eldest.
Then, at last minute, saw him, open-mouthed and yelling, as I Once Again Disappeared into the Underpass.
Was now becoming Rather Flippant at breaking all the rules of the Highway Code, and for a third time in less than 5 minutes, screeched round to go back the other way.
Missed him.
Again.
By this time was getting to know Croydon rather well, and so had no problem at all in turning around and going back, for the fourth Blinking time.
Missed again.
How I loathed that Tunnel. Those bright twinkly lights seemed to be winking at me in some awful conspiracy.
After my fifth illegal driving manouevre, I pottered along at about ten miles an hour, causing some Irritation behind me, which I paid not even the slightest attention to, and saw, with some relief, a road that veered off the Bastard One I had been on for the last ten minutes.
And there was Eldest!
Hooray!
The Joy!
The Total Prat!
Slowed down, he got in and we sped off.
Was he pleased to see me? Did he thank me for my lengthy and somewhat Stressful detour? Did he smile gratefully?
Nope.
'Bloody hell, Mum, Didn't you SEE me? What sort of an idiot would go past so many times?'
'This sort of idiot,' said I. Quite Curtly. 'And what sort of idiot gets into his mother's car after she has driven for Quite a Long time around Sodding Croydon, and says, What sort of Bloody Idiot would go past so many times?'
He had the grace to look a little Sheepish.
And kept bloody quiet on our journey to Ikea, to get stuff for his new house in Oxford.
And kept quiet as we went round the endless aisles of Ikea, even when we went the completely wrong way, and ended up at the beginning. Like you do.
And then began to go really quiet as we went back to his house to collect his stuff and go on to Oxford.
So I touched his forehead and he was burning hot.
Ill. Fever. Bright red in the face and weak as a kitten.
So.
I brought him home, and made him Better.
Good food, plenty of water, plenty of sleep and Vitamin C.
He's better now and gone back to Oxford. Taken by me, in the pouring rain on the M25 on Friday.
'Could you just drive me back to Oxford?' he'd asked, with that Please Mum look.
'Course I will,' said I. 'But could YOU just....' and I listed a dictionary of requests.
Which he did.
Because while I love doing things for him, I love it when he does them back.
I will steer very clear of Croydon. I didn't really Enjoy the sights much.
And next time Eldest asks, Could you just... I will make double sure that it doesn't involve underpasses in Croydon, one way systems, highly illegal driving, or trams.
Grrrrrr.

Two Years On and Counting

2010-09-29T19:14:00.001+01:00

It's my BLOG BIRTHDAY!! Yes, I know, I know. Have just bored the bollocks off you with my 'I am 50 and going to enjoy EVERY MINUTE of my life, etc etc, snore, blah, blah...'
But...
It really is two blinking years. On October 1st. Two years of knowing that ANYTHING on the silly/funny/weird/nonsensical/strange/curious/mad/heart-warming scale can be used IMMEDIATELY, put into words, and kept fresh as a daisy on this blog of mine. And I look back sometimes to see those memories and am hugely thankful, because I just KNOW that so much of what I have written would have been forgotten.
I do feel sorry for you sometimes, dear lovely readers. Another tale of Poo or Vomit can't mix well with that nice cup of coffee you're sipping at, in a peaceful sort of way. At the CyberMummy conference I went to this summer, I attended a little seminar on how to get more readers onto your blog.
Hah!! More readers? I think I need to think of ways to have LESS. Poor POOR folk having to wrestle with lavatories and huge turds. Vomit in handbags. I mean, it's just not NICE. The very kind lady at the conference talked about Key Words and Links and such. I decided there and then to have none of that nonsense. I just want my Blog Mates (and you REALLY ARE!)to come along and read my Bollocks, and then I'll come along and read Yours. If you see what I mean.
So.
Thanks for tolerating such drivel and actually encouraging more of the same.
You mad, mad people.
Hugs. x

Youngest the new Alan Sugar?

2010-09-10T19:00:00.001+01:00

Youngest doesn't seem to have the Brightest of Ideas concerning Commerce.
After lots of chat over breakfast about how to make Loadsa Cash, he had a Thought.
'I've an idea for how to make money,' he said, snuggled on my knee after breakfast.
'How?' I asked, with quite Low Expectations, really.
'Well, you buy loads of Playstations 2.'
'Yes...' we all said, getting quite impressed so far.
'And you smash them all up...'
'Yes...' we went, a little Less Certain now.
'And then you mend them and sell them on Ebay!' he finished with Gusto.
And was suitably crushed when we all howled with laughter for ten minutes.

Poor Youngest

2010-09-04T22:04:00.005+01:00

There is always a programme about 9/11 this time of year. The sheer sound of the programme has me sweating and panicky.
Was watching one this evening, not wanting to at all, but drawn inevitably to the bloody awfulness of it, and the dreadful knowledge of what is about to happen.
Youngest came into the room. I kept it on, thinking that he would not get it. That he would wander out again. He did neither. At that point in the programme it was all dust and people running about. Nothing to worry his little mind. Or so I thought. After a few minutes, five at the most, I turned the telly off and announced that it was bath time.
Youngest looked downcast.
'What's up?' I asked him.
'Mummy, why did you have to watch that thing?' he asked, tears starting in his eyes.
'What thing?' I was a little puzzled as to which programme, as it hadn't been long since we had turned X-Factor firmly Off.
'THAT thing,' he replied, looking hard at the telly. 'With those people. Now you have made my feelings bad.'
Oh, the poor mite.
'Come over here for a cuddle,' I cajoled, and budged up for him to cuddle up close.
'What bad feeling?'
'I don't know,' he answered.
We went through a few Bad Feelings, and came up trumps with Scared.
Oh, God.
The very last thing I want to create in my darling children is anxiety and fear.
But that bloody programme did the job and instilled that insipid and fearful thing. That Mummy can't make the bad people go away. That awful things happen and we can't stop them.
And he's only six.
What an idiot I was to think that he wouldn't Get It. Of COURSE he will. He gets just about everything else.
Will be ultra diligent now, and watch stuff that he will be utterly safe with. It's a long time being a grown up. And such a short time to be a child.
God love him.

Please, God. Is it the End of the Holidays yet?

2010-09-02T18:03:00.005+01:00

Have Crawled my way through to the end of the Summer Holidays.
I look a complete Fright. Hair on end. Don't even MENTION where.
Eyes hollowed out, clothes old and worn, sense of humour long gone.
Added to which I have just celebrated my 50th birthday.
For God's sake.
I'm not fifty!
I am merely seventeen with a few lines and sags here and there. And those wretched hairs in places they just Shouldn't Be.
I lay awake on the night before my birthday, fretting about leaving the haven that was my 40's. The comfort that there was That Big Number which I hadn't yet reached. The knowing that the Saga Age of tweed and cheap weekday pub meals was some way off yet.
But then I woke up, and found that I WAS one of those.
Bugger it.
Husband leaned over when he saw that I was awake.
'Happy birthday!' he said. And gave me the first kiss of the next half century.
Which was nice, and felt quite like it had when I was 49.
So. Fifty. Ker-ist.
I'm not going to get into the Saga Holidays and the Meal Deals at the pub. Or Tweed. (Hate Tweed. Would rather wear Nothing.)
I'm still going to wear the occasional short skirt. I will still behave a little badly at the odd party by dancing till I drop and shouting out the words to 'High Ho Silver Lining'.
I won't be such a bloody Wuss about growing older.
And I will remember that now that I am FIFTY I can be a right old Bossy Cow.
Just like that woman on 'Ladette to Lady'.
You know, the one with all the teeth.
Who says 'Sluttish' quite a lot.
(She actually looks like a caricature of herself. Which is quite an achievement. The only other person to do that was Barbara Cartland. One of the best laughs you could get when she was on telly was to turn up the colour. Brilliant!)
Anyway, I am off to Pot some Roses, or whatever else you do when you are FIFTY.
And better find some reading glasses. And slippers. Oh, and a nice Pac-a-mac.
Oh, sod all of that. Am going to watch the Simpsons with the children and then bounce on the trampoline for a bit.
Have at least ten years to grow up before I am sixty.
So that's OK.

All Laid On for us

2010-08-03T16:32:00.000+01:00

Last night Husband phoned to say he was going to be home late. He sounded tired on the phone. We brought the conversation to an end and into Uber Wife Mode I went, whipping the house back into some semblance of order and briskly yelling at the children to do things. Somewhat randomly, but with some degree of success.
Youngest, caught up in the swing of it all, asked what he could do.
'Lay the table, please!' I asked, a little absently. Thinking to self that it was the easiest thing for a six year old to do. On his own. While I hurled food around and tried to make it look Master Cheffy.
Fifteen minutes later, happened to look at table. Youngest had been scurrying around, looking busy. Carrying things to table. Moving things off it.
And then I looked again. Because this is what he had done.

Two plates, very close together, a tomato on each one, the candle right next to us, everything in neat and tidy lines. Flowers picked from the garden. A water jug placed in line with everything else. Full to Brim. Candles sticks. Empty but so what. Heaven. Just looked and looked at it.
'D'you like it, Mummy?' asked Youngest. Looking a little anxious regarding my unusual Quietness.
'Love it, love it!' I said. And scooped him up in a great big hug.

When Husband got home he was shown the Table by a proud Youngest. Husband Ooh'ed and Ah'ed... Youngest looked pink with pleasure. He told Husband at great length how and why and what he had done. And Husband listened hard, well, he did after I kicked his ankle quite hard when it was clear he WASN'T listening. And when we finally got to eat supper, we kept the plates as they were and sat Very Close to each other. (Mind you, did move the candle as a little too close to right breast for comfort)
Until Husband nudged his elbow into my face one too many times, knocking lightly grilled salmon neatly down my bra, from whence I found I was unable to see it, as had gone down and under, if you see what I mean, and had to resort to trying to pick bits out and eat them. Nice.
Moved chairs to sensible distance then and talked about Nonsense till bedtime.
Thank you, Youngest. x

Millie...RIP

2010-07-30T11:21:00.003+01:00

Yesterday has to go down in the annals of our history as a Truly Shit Day.
Millie, Daughter's beloved rabbit, escaped from the chicken run, where she resided with 4 chickens and 2 chicks, to explore the wilds of West Sussex. Or the Big Field, next to our garden.
She never came back, and all we could find was a small clump of the softest white fur, near the boundary of our garden.
So unbearably sad for my little girl, who wailed and cried and HURT all of yesterday, and on into the night. And is still hurting today. Her little eyes are red, and I keep spying her sloping off to have a quiet weep on her own.
Just awful.
But that's not the worst.
The worst is that it's my fault.
You see, I left the gate open to the chicken run.
I was responsible.
And it kills me that I have hurt my darling daughter by my carelessness.
The 'quick, quick' mentality that has become my life, because there just isn't enough time.
Bollocks.
There is ALWAYS enough time.
I just didn't spend it properly
And the consequences are horrid.
No happy ending to this post. I feel bleak and sad and bloody stupid.
In the meantime, Daughter needs lots of cuddles and time.
And I am trying hard to do that.
And ensuring that NEVER again do I sacrifice being careful for being hasty.
To hell with Crap Mother World.
Bring on Totally Crap Mother World.

God bless, Millie. I'm SO SORRY.

There's something in my Compost. Sod it, can you think of a catchier title??

2010-07-26T11:20:00.001+01:00

Made a nice cup of tea last Friday morning. Scooped tea bag out of steaming cup and hurled it into compost bin, which lurks damply in the cupboard under the sink. I know it is the compost bin because it helpfully says COMPOST BIN on the side.
Anyway.
As I shut cupboard door, could have sworn that I saw something Move in the Compost Bin. Opened door wide again and peered into compost bin.
Buggering Bollocks.
Something WAS moving. Under the tea bag.
Well.
First things first.
Opened mouth wide, and turned throat inside out in Blood Curdling Scream. At top of voice. Through the open window, between Screams, I could hear the sound of Children Playing in the school opposite our house, on the other side of the lane.
It stands to reason that if I could hear them, then they could hear me.
Oops.
Closed mouth and stopped screaming. Began to laugh hard instead. Actually had to clap hands over mouth to stop the hysteria.
Peered in compost again.
Yup.
Something Definitely Alive and Moving.
Mouse?
Rat?
Insects Galore?
None of the above.
Instead I spy a Hamster.
Daughter's Hamster.
Blinking up at me in decidedly unhappy fashion.
What in hell's name was the hamster doing in my compost bin, when it was supposed to be in its cage, asleep?
Poor little mite had the teabag on its head and was not looking Best Pleased with life. Considering the tea bag was Hot. And Steaming.
Lifted Sandy (hamster, not tea bag) out of compost and gently removed tea drops from head and placed said Hamster back in cage where it should have sodding well been anyway.
And wondered how on EARTH it got out, crossed the room without being eaten by two cats, (and trodden on by three gullumping children) opened the cupboard door, climbed UP AND OVER AND INTO the compost bin, and then.... GONE TO SLEEP?????
Words fail me.
Suffice it to say that I did enjoy that cup of tea.
And made bloody sure that the door of Said Cage was kept firmly shut.
At least the poor little blighter didn't get Mouldy Jam on her head.
Or the entire contents of the Cafetiere.
Or looked like this one. On this head. Now that WOULD have been bad.

The End of the Road. Again.

2010-07-21T22:27:00.002+01:00

Another year over. Twelve little people all ready to go to Big School.
We sang songs this morning to the proud parents and gave out Certificates to show that they had 'graduated' from Pre-school. Presents were given. Thanks were expressed to those who deserved them. (pretty well everyone, really) A Teddy Bear's Picnic held to mark the end of term. Everyone on their picnic blankets out in our garden.
And then we all hugged good bye and wished those little people well as they trod the familiar path to the gate for the last time.
Oh, dear.
It gets me each and every year.
It might not be when the first child walks out of those gates but somewhere along the line, a mother will say goodbye, a little choked by the enormity of her child not being at Pre-school anymore, and I will be Off. Tears will well, mouth will wobble, and throat will constrict with the effort to stop blubbing.
It happened today. The very last child to go. Mother came to give me a hug and I could see that she was struggling, trying to hold back the tears. Her three children have all been with us for the last six years. Ever since we opened the pre-school. We hugged. And I was lost. Tears that had been threatening all morning finally came and I had to wave goodbye to Mother and Child with great big fat tear-drops dripping off my face, while twisting face into the biggest smile I could muster. Not the greatest look in the world.
THEN I had to walk back through the playground, where all the big children were playing, pretending that I was hugely interested in my keys. All the way back to our building.
It is SUCH a big deal, being with these pre-school children each day, and seeing them grow and learn and develop. Such a big deal to help settle the rage over a toy car, hug a sad little boy who misses his mum, read to two little girls who are exhausted from running about outside.
There are countless moments each day when I can REALLY make a difference to someone else. Each and every day. Likewise to all of the Staff. I look around our warm and sunny room, and I see them actively making a difference All Day Long. Astounding!
And when I don't go in, when I am working from home doing all the dull administration, or finally getting down to some sodding hoovering, when I finally DO get to go in, the welcome is loud, warm and loving. Hugs and cuddles demanded from all and sundry. (Mind you, the Staff hold back. Obviously.)
Can you IMAGINE that happening in an office?!
Some days us Staff feel so tired that we don't think we can be of any use to anyone. But as soon as that door opens and in come those expectant little faces, clutching beloved blankets, toys and books, all thoughts of tiredness disappear and we become utterly involved in the lives of these small people. And all the love we give them comes back ten fold. Hundred fold.
I am glad the holidays are here. To recharge some batteries and spend some lengthy time with my beloved family. But I shall miss the banter, the chat and the closeness of pre-school.
I am indeed priveleged to work in such a place. And to actually be responsible for co-running it, is something I am hugely proud of. To know that a difference is being made, because of us, because of our work, is Amazing. Not everyone can say that. But we can say it. Lucky, lucky us.
Now. Time for the holidays.
Late breakfasts. Late lunch. Late suppers.
Forgetting to book children onto tennis courses.
Forgetting to book children onto Any Courses.
God, am Crap Mother. Think will have blog called Crap Mother World.
Will fill it with tales of Rubbish Mothering and bollocks all Organisation on the Home Front.
Who will be my first follower?
You will?! How marvellous! This way then, if you please! -> -> -> -> ->

xxxx

Practice makes Perfect

2010-07-19T08:11:00.002+01:00

Daughter was practising her flute this morning, crack sparrow.
'Mummy?' asks Youngest, munching on his cornflakes, 'Is Daughter playing that song backwards?'
Doesn't bode well for the Grade 2 exam soon.

It's All Cisterns Go!

2010-07-07T18:39:00.001+01:00

Today I scrubbed out a Students' Bog.
Shudder.
I did. I really did.
I peered into that dark, putrid place that was the Lavatory, shrugged on my Mantel of Courage (marigolds) and got to work.
Nice.
Now, I have cleaned lots of things in my life.
Bums. Noses. Fridges. Baths. Loos. Clothes. Ovens. Houses. The Toaster. (don't ask)
But Never, EVER, have I hucked out the loathsome depths of a Students' House Toilet Bowl.
Bugger me, it was horrible.
Grim. I don't think I could see any of the enamel.
And into that Watery Hell Hole I had to stick my Marigolded Arms and Scrub.
Scrape away at the sides. Brush frantically round the Bend.
I even... (are you still here? how lovely!) cleaned the wall of hand prints where the dear little male students clearly Leaned Heavily when having a Pee.
So Dear! So Appealing!
And then?
Nice cup of tea and a biscuit?
Sod that for a game of marbles.
No. Then I cleaned out the Other One.
Yes. Two of the Bastards.
Why?
What, apart from being Pathetic Fool who lets Eldest Son walk all over her Pinafore'd Frame?
Well, yes. Obviously. Derr.
But ALSO 'actually' because Eldest Son is moving out of his Student House and off to London for a couple of months before returning to Oxford in September. And so I offer(!) to Help.
Ker-ist.
Admittedly, Eldest Son went up and down two flights of stairs all morning, heaving more and more Stuff out to the car and looking increasingly hot and shiny with each journey. I began to be quite Thankful that all I had to do was rid Toilet Bowls of Torrid Filth and then flush Said Filth away.
But, Oh! Blogger Mates, I made those loos Sparkle. The enamel started to show through the grime! It was White!! And when I finally put in the Toilet Duck and Flushed. The Joy! The Achievement! The Relief! The Exclamation Marks!
Had to show Eldest Son, who was most impressed.
Refrained from sticking his head down it and flushing, but managed to convey, without using four letter words, that I Never Ever was going to do that again.
'Really?' he asked, looking quite surprised.
'Really.' I said. Firmly.
'Perhaps you might like to come and clean out my Pants Drawer?' I asked him in all seriousness.
'Mum!' he answered. ' That's gross.'
No, dear heart. 'Gross' is a Student Toilet Bowl.
My pants drawer is the Bloody Garden of Eden.
And with that, I closed the clean, wiped down door, swiped across the recently Freshened Lock and took the liberty of Going in the newly cleaned Toilet Bowl.
And very nice it was too.

Cybermummy

2010-07-04T21:01:00.003+01:00

Cybermuumy was the most extraordinary day. Don't get me wrong. I LOVED it. But there was that non-stop feeling of having to be Engaged in Lively Talk and looking like you're having a Great Time. And that was hard work.
HOWEVER I was amazed, over and over again how Bloody Lovely everyone was!! Really, truly. People, everyone, were like-minded, kind-hearted, interesting, and interested people, all meeting up for a common cause. Namely, to meet all those bloggers that we come across day by day. And to talk about blogging! How bloody marvellous. (Without those Non Bloggers who look at us Weirdly when we speak of such things. We all know one, eh?!)
'What did you DO all day?' my children all asked when I got home.
'Talked,' I answered, through a rather nice home-made scone covered in raspberry jam.
'Yes, but what then?' they persisted.
'Talked some more,' I said, throwing back a cup of tea.
'Sounds really Boring,' said Youngest.
'Wasn't boring,'I told him. 'You see, I made some friends. No, I Met some friends, I knew them already, but now I know what they look like.'
'Oh,' said Youngest. Not having a Clue what I was talking about.
Two years ago I wouldn't have a clue what I was talking about either. Two years ago I didn't know what a Blog was. I had no idea that friendship could emerge from writing about the mundane, daft, and heart-rending things that happen day by day. I didn't know that people would drop by and leave comments that would hearten and sustain me through a dark day. Or make me roar with uncontained laughter. Or make me smile right down to my toes. I would have been totally gobsmacked to hear that Blogging could actually produce some real, Top, Friends.
But it has.
And so, tonight, as I thump away at these familiar keys, it is Different.
Seeing you all round the room, all chatting and giggling and enjoying each other's company, made blogging make complete and total sense.
We may write in isolation, but we Connect.
Connection is at the heart of Blogging.
Yesterday was proof of that.
Hooray for Blogging.
Really, truly, hooray. xxx

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

2010-06-25T20:23:00.001+01:00

Ker-ist.
Life is full on at the moment.
I don't think I have sat down today. Or been to the loo. Must have. But can't remember. My poor bladder.
Each hour is chockablock with Things I Need To Do Right Now.
So I do those.
And then there are the things I needed to do Yesterday.
So I do those.
Then the things that I REALLY needed to do last month. So I do those.
Then the things that I REALLY SHOULD HAVE done last year. So bugger those.
And then there are the things I need to do Right Now but can't be bloody arsed.
And then a friend rings.
And I feel guilty as it's about a year since I last rang them.
And then I remember all those friends I haven't rung for about a decade.
And feel worse.
Then I remember that I haven't rung my sister, or brothers, or sister in laws or brother in laws. Or nephews, or nieces. Or godsons. Or goddaughters.
And then I feel REALLY guilty. And then...?
And then I remember all the things I have forgotten to do.
And then I forget all the things I remembered to do.
And then...?
I give up.
And Blog.
And then I realise I have been a bloody useless Blogger as haven't visited, commented or just hopped about from blog to blog enough. Have Neglected the Blogosphere. Attempt occasionally to land, still running, on a blog or two, and leave breathy comment before buggering off again.
Guilt too in Blogland.
Bum it.
Guilt everywhere.
Oh, well. Forgive me for not visiting. Forgive me if I did and left comment about Swedish Hostess Trolleys by mistake. Brain not attached to rest of body at the moment. Is miracle that have got this far in post.
Uh-oh, children demanding bed-time kisses.
Better go.
But WILL be back to normal, just as soon as I can.
In the meantime, I hope I get to see some of you at Cybermummy on 3rd July.
London City Mum, we shall paint the town red! Yippee!! Hooray!! Whoopideedoodah!!
Or have a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake.
Kisses all.
I'll be back.
xxx

In-ger-land!!

2010-06-24T18:51:00.003+01:00

Not sure whether to be glad or not that England is through to the next round. It's such bloody hard work watching that I would almost prefer to be eating my own toenails. In fact WAS eating own toenails.
Youngest asked, in the final five minutes of the England/Slovenia match,
'Mummy, can I say the 'F' word, please?'
His nerves, it would seem, were somewhat tattered.
I told him kindly that he couldn't say the 'F' word but he COULD say Bum, if he felt the need.
He did.
The utter relief of winning was mixed with the awful and real dread regarding the next match. Will we win? Can we? Might we? Really? Oh, god.
Remember those heady Tim Henman days? When we would cheerfully curl up on our sofas
and watch Tim playing his little white socks off.
He might win! we would all exclaim, 'He really, really might win!'
Then, just as we had given voice to that thought, he would start losing. Big Time. And then, just as we had resigned ourself to losing the sodding match, the bugger would go and win. Total Nightmare.
And so it is with England.
Yo-yo'ing between utter elation and downright misery.
Which is Not Good for the nerves.
I need to prepare myself for Sunday.
I will give myself permission to say the 'F' word. Only this time it's F**k. No mucking about with anything less.
I might EVEN say something Ruder.
On the other hand I may be Pleasantly Surprised by an Easy Victory, and then have to endure the next round.
Ker-ist.
I tell you, you just Can't Win.
Let's hope England bloody can.

What Could It Be?

2010-06-16T17:37:00.000+01:00

Youngest woke me up this morning with a hiss.
And prodded me hard.
'What do you want?' I asked, somewhat reasonably, I felt.
Considering the Rude Awakening.
'There is Something In My Bed and it Isn't Good,' he whispered.
Oh, Kerist, I thought. What in hell's name could THAT be.
I racked my sleepy brain for possible answers.
'Wee?' I asked, wearily, rubbing an eye awake.
He shook his head.
I rattled off the various bodily waste that a 'Not Good Thing' might be.
'Poo? Snot? Skin? Sweat?'
'Nope,' he replied to each in turn, getting noticeably more worried as the list went on. And on.
And finally, 'Mummy, it REALLY is Not A Good Thing.'
Said with great urgency and some degree of panic.
I cranked myself up onto one elbow and looked at him blearily.
'Is it something Dead?' I asked with some resignation. That would be 'Not Good'.
'Nope.'
Having exhausted the potential horrors of what it might be, I decided that the only thing was to look for myself.
We entered the dark of his room, and I swished back the curtains. Blinking in the light, and screwing up my short sighted eyes, we looked together at the bed.
A Great Big Pile of Red Gloop wobbled shinily on the whiteness of his sheet.
'What the Bloody Hell is that?' I asked, in an Unedited type of way.
'That is The Not Good Thing in my bed,' answered Youngest, with his Clear Six Year Old Sightedness.
I poked it.
Yup.
Gloop.
Straight out of a new toy recently acquired on his birthday. A hideous toy with an eye that you can squeeze right out of Said Toy's head.
Nice.
Without another word we stripped the bed together, slung the oozing toy into the bin, and walked down the stairs towards the Kettle (for my much needed first cup of tea) and the Washing Machine.
'Sorry, Mummy,' said Youngest, as we pushed the gloopy sheet into the machine and switched it on.
'Don't worry about it,' said I, breezily. 'At least it wasn't Poo.'
And with that bright thought shining in our minds, we had breakfast.

PS. I am very aware of a Tag. Lurking. That I haven't done. Tags frighten me as am Total Crap at them.
But there is one Afoot, as it were, and I will drag it to the light of day just as soon as I have a moment to catch breath...

Summer Lovin'

2010-05-31T23:12:00.002+01:00

Summer is here!
Heaven.
We've had breakfast and lunch outside. Twice.
The lawn mower is mended and has done wonderful work with the first Cut of the season. And the second. And the third. Bloody grass.
Oh, and the rabbit is shagging the chickens.
All is fine with our world.
Back to the rabbit? Really?
Well, put quite simply, the rabbit thinks it's a chicken. And shags them. OK?
Or else, puts its fluffy little face right into the chicken's bottom and sniffs. Honestly. It's enough to put you off your cornflakes.
Should explain that rabbit lives with chickens in great harmony. Except for the bottom sniffing.
Rosie, the chicken, is rather Bored with the whole rigmarole, and tends to trot off sideways, rather like a dressage horse. Snatching at the odd insect on the ground. Pretending that a rabbit is NOT sniffing her bottom.
The vet once said to me, regarding Millie, the rabbit, that if she ever displayed behaviour of a sexual nature, she might need to be Done. As in, Bits Off.
I decided, in that moment, not to mention the chicken shagging, as it seemed a little more sexual than he might have meant. Millie might have been carted off to a Bunny Farm and slammed into a Sexual Offenders Section.
Couldn't put her through that. So Millie stays As She Was Made and the chickens have to suffer the occasional Sniffing or Worse.
Daughter and Youngest get Uncontrollable Giggles when Millie gets frisky. And we all run towards the chicken run and shout a lot.
Poor old Millie. Perhaps I should get her bits off. But am damned if am going to vet to pay a fortune for a rabbit NOT to sniff a chicken's bottom. Or Worse.
So will continue to interrupt Millie in her courtships and encourage her to be a little more Ladylike.
In the meantime, am waiting for her next frisky moment to capture it for ever on film.
Watch this space.

Stepford Wife Moment

2010-05-20T15:19:00.000+01:00

I have been the most wonderful wife! Let me tell you all about it as it really doesn't happen that often.
Well.
It was about 8 o'clock the other night and I was preparing supper. Old fish with left over vegetables hurled in oven.
When Husband rang. Poor love sounded totally Knackered.
'Just leaving now,' he croaked, barely able to form a sentence in his tiredness.
'Back about 9.00.'
We exchanged very brief Pleasantries before I replaced the phone.
And back I walked into my kitchen, hearing the sounds of children fighting and bath water definitely being splashed with some force.
Thoughtfully I opened the oven.
Yeurrch. Disgusting. And no Husband to eat it for an hour. Steps needed to be made to assist the poor man in his tiredness.
And, quite suddenly, just like that, there was Me. The Perfect Wife!
Never before had I felt quite so purposeful! Powerful, even! Yippee!
Up I went to the carnage of the bathroom. I clapped my hands for silence. That didn't work, so I yelled hard instead. That worked a treat and within moments all was quiet.
Another few minutes on and all children were bathed, pyjamed (?) and ready for bed. Teeth gleaming white, hair brushed, Fifties style, and everyone calling out Goodnight! just like the bloody Waltons.
Wafted down to the kitchen, put on my apron (!) chucked out First Disgusting Supper to the chickens and Prepared the Alternative Supper, a simple but delicious concoction.
Lit a fire in the sitting room as it was so Effing cold.
Polished (!) our gorgeous antique table in the sitting room and tore outside to get some flowers to put on it. Plumped up cushions, checked for Cat Crap, as you do, and raced upstairs to brush my own hair.
Down I came, supper gently cooking, fire blazing, sitting room warm and cosy, and children in bed.
(go on, aren't you DAMNED impressed?)
In came Husband, bent in half with exhaustion.
Did I kiss him home?
Yes, I did.
Did I ask him how he was in gentle concerned tones?
Yes, I did.
Did I take his coat and ask him if he wanted a drink?
Yes, I did.
Did his eyes light up when he saw the fire?
Yes, they did.
Did he turn to me and give me a grateful hug and tell me what a star I was?
Yes, he did.
AM I NOT THE MOST AMAZING WIFE?
Shame about the next evening. Shit supper, shouty children and bugger all patience.
But, Oh! It was damned good while it lasted.

Anyone for Tennis

2010-05-04T10:54:00.001+01:00

I am my Husband's biggest fan. Honestly.
But when it comes to Tennis Gear, I may become a tad disloyal.
We were down in Devon this weekend. Staying with Mother In Law.
Mother in Law had kindly asked me to play tennis with her friends on Bank Holiday Monday.
I kindly refrained. Preferring my nice soft bed and a lengthy breakfast to getting out at high speed to play tennis with some nifty eighty year olds. Who are far better than me.
I have enough humiliation in my life. Who needs more?
So Husband Volunteered.
'I'll play,' he said, somewhat grandly, over his pre-supper whisky and soda.
'Have you any tennis gear?' I asked him. Knowing he didn't. But using that Wifely Concern to back the poor sod into a corner.
'Yup,' he said breezily. 'Got some in a cupboard somewhere.'
My brows furrowed as I conjured up pictures of Green Flash Tennis Shoes, all the rage in 1975, and Fred Perry shorts. Tight enough to damage the balls. As it were.
Well.
The morning came. Breakfast was leisurely enough for me. But Husband had to forgo his second coffee to dash upstairs to Kit Himself Up for the tennis game.
MIL and I poured ourselves another cup of coffee and complained about the children for a few minutes. (One of MIL's favourite topics. Say no more)
When down the stairs came the sound of Husband, two steps at a time. Jaunty.
MIL and I turned round to see what he was wearing
Oh My Lord.
Ouch.
Husband was sporting what on first sight appeared to be Underpants. White. Tight.
MIL and I spat out coffee in an agonised and Prolonged fit of Hysteria.
Husband stood there, waiting for us to finish laughing. He does that a lot.
When the first bout had died down, I looked more closely.
Ker-ist.
Tight Fred Perry shorts were teamed with a pair of brown socks, and BROWN SUEDE SHOES!
OMG. Hysteria won again. And I entered Bout 2 of silent, painful laughter. Tears formed. Stomach hurt. And the wheezing began in earnest. (I wheeze like an old man when I laugh that hard)
MIL was having similar problems on the other side of the table. Her shouts of laughter punctuated my wheezing, so that Husband looked from one of us to the other in a parody of the game he was about to play.
Oh dear.
The children playing outside and sensing the fun, pressed their noses against the window, and mouthed, 'What is Daddy wearing?' Their eyes wide. Astonishment written across each dear face.
I couldn't answer. It was impossible to speak any words at all. My mouth was welded open, showing all my dentistry, and I tried in vain to fight the hysteria.
Husband gave up and went to find his tennis racket.
'Is. It. Wooden?' I asked, forcing out the words. Paralysed again by such wit.
Husband wasn't finding any of this very funny any more.
Which made it all the more funny. Of course.
Out he went, and we could see his legs, every inch of them from his groin down to the brown socks.
We gave up. And howled.
The last thing Husband saw as he went were the gaping mouths of his wife and mother through the windows, slapping the table in mirth.
Poor man.
And can you imagine the Eyes of those women as he emerged from his car at the tennis club? Can you?! Can you?!
If only I could have been a fly on the wall.

I think he thought he looked like this...

Only he looked more like this... in white. Oh, dear, I'm off again...

Ahhhh!

2010-04-28T19:13:00.001+01:00

Talk about sweet.
Youngest was walking home the other day. He had been playing on the cricket field, as we do every fine day after school. Youngest and his best friend were the only ones left after a while, and they had played over by the hedge on the far side of the field for ages, seemingly perfectly happy to be mucking about doing Not Much.
Meanwhile I had been nattering away with best friend's mother. Realising the time, we called the boys over and all set off for home, Youngest and I sauntering back down the road to our house. The others getting into their car.
And as we walked away, Youngest calls back to his mate,
'Bye then! Love you!' Just like I say to him every morning as he goes into school.
'Bye!' comes the call back.
He notices me looking at him Askance, trying hard to keep a straight face.
'What?' he asks, somewhat impatient. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'
And he scuffs the ground with his shoe.
I stuff my laughter right back into my mouth.
And ruffle his hair and smile.
Because he is so right.
We SHOULD tell our friends we love them.
It's just that he is so SMALL to be so wise.

And here he is.

Bottoms up!

2010-04-18T20:54:00.002+01:00

Unbelievably frightful programme on telly tonight as we had our rather late tea after mucking about in the garden all day.
Called Embarrassing Bodies.
Right.
So the clue IS in the name, but we didn't know, OK?
'This looks rather fun,' said I, munching a scone dripping with raspberry jam.
And so we watched it, on our tiny kitchen telly, the five of us.
Suddenly, across my consciousness, came the word, Weak Bladder.
'Crikey,' I said, 'I thought that lady said Weak Bladder.'
'That lady DID say Weak Bladder,' said Husband, crunching his way through a ginger biscuit.
We all chewed contentedly for a few seconds. When, all of a sudden, the Lady whipped off her knickers and was showing the Entire World her Bare Arse.
We all, as one, spat out the contents of our mouths.
And screamed. Howled with horror. And then started to laugh in earnest.
Could not contain ourselves.
More Bottoms were shown. Full on bottoms. Youngest's eyes were out on stalks.
Could not get strength in legs to get up and turn off the Carnage.
Huge Breasts came out. A Rectum.
We were Beside Ourselves.
'Ker'ist,' gasped I, 'Think I will have Weak Bladder in a moment.'
And at last the Torment was over and we were able to turn over to The Weather Lady. Never have we been so glad to see anyone, Ever, before.
We wiped our streaming eyes, poured more tea and settled ourselves down.
'Glad we didn't see a Man,' said Youngest, conversationally, 'Or we would have had to look at his Willy.'
Spat out remaining tea and gave up to Hysteria.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

2010-04-13T16:47:00.001+01:00

Buried another hen on Sunday.
The Burial was not quite as Respectful as the last one owing to Certain Distractions.
As the day turned to dusk, and Husband and I were clearing detritus of gardening from Said Garden, Husband turned to me and said,
'Shall we bury the chicken?'
As you do.
'What chicken?' I asked, looking over to the chicken run, where our four remaining Girls were having their last moments of pecking about before bed. There didn't appear to be a dead one.
Husband reminded me that Dead Chicken was in garage.
'Christ,' I said, remembering. 'She's been dead for about two months.' There had been No Time to bury her when she died, owing to Too Much To Do Syndrome. So I had shoved her into a box and put her in garage. As you do.
'Precisely,' said Husband, in that precise way of his. 'So maybe we should bury her today.'
And so we did.
While Husband was digging a hole near where the potatoes will be sowed next weekend, I busied myself fetching the cardboard box, inside which was Peggy, who had Pegged it at least eight weeks ago.
Rather gingerly, I opened the box, to see that the old girl was looking largely the same, only a tad smellier. And dead, of course.
Spent the next five minutes knocking up a passable cross for the grave (all our pets require such attention) and lugged box and cross over to Husband, where the hole was ready.
Unfortunately, Husband had started an extremely Smoky Fire next to potential Grave.
Thick, yellow smoke swirled about, right where the hole was.
Coughing and spluttering, we hurled poor old Peggy into the hole and staggered back out of the range of smoke.
'Should we get the children?' I asked Husband.
'Naaaaah,' he said, 'Let's just get on with it and then we can have tea.'
'Okeydoke,' said I.
'Shall I say some prayers?' asked Husband.
'Go on, then,' I said, and we held hands and Husband spoke these words.
'Thank you, God, for Peggy, who has probably been in heaven for quite some time now, owing to the fact that my wife has left her to rot in the garage for several weeks.'
We exchanged a Married Look.
He continued.
'Thank you for all her eggs.....' At this point the smoke became so thick and pungent that we couldn't actually see each other, and therefore had to move back some distance, to get into some fresh air.
After some coughing Husband continued once again.
At this point the wind had whipped up a treat and was enveloping us in Hollywood Type Billowing smoke.
Barely able to make out each other's nostril hair, let alone the grave, had to abandon Funeral Arrangements and go inside to make a cup of tea.
And so we did, after hurling earth on top of dear old Peggy, shoving the cross in over the grave, and taking a last look at our newly sown veggie patch. And, for very clear practical reasons, moving the Dish washer from the middle of the lawn, where it had been put after a clear out of one of the sheds. Which made us swear in quite a Rude Sort of Way.
And as I made our cups of tea, I took a look out across the garden to where our Peggy was buried.
And hoped that she didn't mind the Shambles that was her funeral.
R.I.P. old girl.
And thanks for all those eggs.

We have no picture of Peggy, so here's a picture of Another Brown Hen, sort of like Peggy, with Dilly, one of our Silkies, and Milly, the rabbit. Who, incidently, thinks herself to be a chicken. Welcome to my world.

A Little Note to Lost Followers

2010-04-07T18:51:00.001+01:00

Dear Followers who have decided to Scarper this week,

I am aware that I tend towards the Lavatorial side of life. And that I have probably passed the Decency Boundary by describing the passing of a thread through my child's bottom. And the pulling out of Said Thread from Said Bottom. From one end to the other. Not a story for the weak hearted.
But you see, I was just so PLEASED to reach 130 followers. Tickled pink I was.
And then, just as I got used to the dizzy heights of 131 followers, it was snatched from me, like a sweetie from a child's hand.
But.
I mean.
When all is said and done (quite literally, I think, on my blog)... does it matter that you have to read Said Blog with a stiff drink, a sick bag and a good healthy dose of Humour?
It does? Oh, dear. What if I supply the Sick Bags? No?
Righty Ho.
Well.
AM very sorry to have offended you and all that. Hope you come by soon when I write incredibly clever stuff about the General Election. Or what to do with cardboard boxes when they are wet.

Dear Followers who have decided to Stay.

Good on you!
What lovely people you must be to stick around through such Horrendously Visual Stuff and STILL remain cheerful. I salute you all!
Now, as you are all still here, and not recoiling TOO much from Over Descriptive Passages, as it were, will make Huge Effort to write posts that are Thoughtful, Informative and Incisive.
But would you mind awfully if I started that sort of thing next year? Just a few more posts to squeeze out, as it were, about the usual sort of stuff. But will then Turn Over A New Leaf.
I promise.
Well.
Unless something comes up. Or Plops down. Or something.
In the meantime, how kind you are to follow such a load of Nonsense.
I Really, Truly appreciate it.
Thank you!

Messing about on Mountains

2010-04-03T15:42:00.000+01:00

We have just had our First Ever skiing holiday en famille.
A holiday we have been saving up for, for what seems like a life time. The children had thought about how to make some dosh, and then sold leeks, flowers, raspberries, and all sorts, at the end of the drive.
Kind locals had bought vast amounts of Complete Rubbish to fund our holiday which was frightfully kind of them. Might have to buy them a drink to make up for it.
The children managed to make about £200 by selling this Stuff. How brilliant is that. Every penny was counted and put into a jar. Which slowly filled up over the summer.
We arranged a savings account. That built up slowly over the months. And filled with the pennies from the Selling At The Gate. And Husband decided that we would use some money he had invested ages ago.
'Because you can't take it with you,' he said, over a large whisky, in front of the fire.
The children got quite sick with excitement as the weeks passed, counting down the days. I became more and more thrilled with the idea that I could show my darling husband and children the skiing venue of my childhood. Lech. In Austria.
It even SOUNDS idyllic, doesn't it.
Well, it is.
And so I took them there, finally, on 21st March.
Flying into the magnificence of Innsbruck, the plane ducking and diving round the considerable mountains, and finally coming to rest on the tarmac. My children gazing out of the tiny windows, seeing the Alps, heavy with snow, for the first time.
We piled onto the coach, with our considerable extended family, my sister and one of her sons, my brother and sister in law, and four of their children. And us. (My parents were staying there too, and had arrived a day or two earlier.)
And then we were nearly there.
I went quiet, looking down the road ahead of us, knowing that at any moment I would see the twinkling lights of Lech as we turned that final corner.
And then we did. And there was Lech. Just the same. A cosy cluster of houses nestled in the most beautiful valley in the world.
Can you imagine the fun I had showing my family the village, the ski slopes, my favourite places for lunch, the church, the school, the people.
IMAGINE how wonderful to ski down the Rufikopf, the loveliest mountain of all, and to look back at the crocodile of children and adults, my family, skiing together. Youngest steaming down like a train. Daughter and Middle Son bent like real skiiers, zooming down like pros. And the white of the snow and the blue of the sky dazzling us all.
And then at lunch. A long table of happy and tired family, chatting and giggling together. Huge glasses of beer and wine, juice and water. Plates filled with hearty, delicious food. The sun beating down. Mountains rearing up on each side, white as white. The sky the deepest blue. And me. Smiles from ear to ear. Happy as bloody Larry, whoever the hell he was.
Quietly and stealthily, Lech worked its magic on all my family. They started to remember the names of mountains and lifts and people. They spoke german when asking for their drinks and food. They swaggered up the main street with their skis slung over their shoulders, just like any hardened skier. They tumbled down the 1.5 km long toboggan run, beside themselves with giggles, all the way down.
They bloody loved it.
Youngest cried as we left. The others were quiet as we made our way back up the windy road out of Lech on that final day.
And Husband, who had never really wanted to come in the first place, turned his sun and windburned face to me, eyes shining, and said, 'We'll come back, I promise.'
I so, so look forward to it.

Just when you reach the bottom...

2010-03-17T10:18:00.001Z

For those of you with a tender disposition, then turn away at once. This is Not For You.
For those of you with steely internal organs and iron like constitutions, put on your Blog Safety Belts and listen up.
Wiping Youngest's bottom yesterday.
Like you do.
Found what looked like a smallish sort of long thing coming out of his bottom.
No. Not worms.
So pulled it. Gently.
And out it came, more and more and more. Thin, cotton like strand of navy blue. On and on and on. Started to get the giggles.
'What's the matter,' asked Youngest, from his position between his own legs.
'Um,' I said between bouts of laughter. 'Have got something out of your bottom.'
Youngest starts to get the giggles too.
'What is it?' he asks.
'Don't know,' I splurt, eyes watering so hard I can't see what I am doing.
And I continue to pull thread out of bottom.
(Are you still here? Need a sit down? No? Marvellous!)
Finally it comes to an end. Rather disappointingly. Hold it up in front of Youngest. We stare at it spellbound.
It is at least three feet long, dark navy thread.
'How in God's name did that get in there,' I ask.
Youngest too confounded to answer.
We carefully hold it over the loo, and watch it drop into the bowl.
Later the mystery is solved.
Youngest gets out of bath and is wrapped in huge navy towel. And starts to nibble at it.
'AHA!!!' I shout. 'NO BITING!'
And Youngest beams up at me, thrilled that the mystery is solved.
Honestly, this was SO not in the Parents' Manual.

Oooops.

2010-03-15T18:58:00.000Z

Most satisfactory.
When a Guest you are Not Particularly Partial to, and would rather them Not Be In The House, owing to their continual drip drip of Judgemental Phrases, uses the Parazone Wipes instead of Loo Paper.
And tells you.
Most satisfactory.

Times Up

2010-03-05T18:23:00.001Z

I could Kill Time.
Oh, hang on, isn't that what we do when we don't like the time we're in?
Certainly used to when the children were tiny and walks took HOURS AND HOURS of Very Slow Walking, followed by walking BACK to where we already had been, to look closely at a piece of Mud. Or when we would drop stones into the stream and watch the splash. And do it again. And again.
But it killed the time between Breakfast and Elevenses. So that was good.
Killing Time.
What a terrible thing to do.
And yet I have killed more time than you've had Hot Dinners. Truly. I am an Artiste Supreme in the sport of Tuer Le Temps. (That's 'Killing Time' in French! Google translator is enormous fun, you can waste HOURS on it).
Bloomin' time.
Give me some time and I used to slaughter it. Blast the poor bastard to death. Bang. Time gone.
And in those long, long days of babyhood, when each hour seemed like a day, killing time seemed like a terribly good idea.
What I didn't know was that it would become a habit.
And I continued to kill time like it was a rather unpleasant insect to be dealt with. Squashed. Finished with.
Day over. Bed. Brilliant.
Until now.
Now is Different.
Time is running away with me like a horse without a rider. And a wasp stuck to its arse. No sooner have I had my breakfast and cleaned my teeth than it's time for bed. I just about have enough hours to feed everyone, and get to Tesco. Then BANG! Time for the next day.
Time has decided to RIP through my days. Never slowing. Treating each moment like a race.
Just when I needed time to slow. Just when I wanted to savour each moment, try something new, go somewhere different. Just when I thought how nice it was to stand and stare. Just when I grew up.
Time decides to GALLOP.
I could Kill time.
But I won't. I'll savour it. If the bugger will stand still for long enough for me to grab it and hold it fast.
Hah! As if.

Entertainment or Torture?

2010-03-01T21:22:00.000Z

We have a frightfully jolly evening here in our village. Once a year.
In the Village Hall.
Everyone arrives. Has a drink. Tables for eight are spread out around the room.
Gradually everyone settles down around their table and the Entertainment Begins.
Yup.
Entertainment.
The first year Husband and I arrived here, we ambled up the road to the Village Hall, having been invited to this Annual Delight. We were under the mistaken idea that there would be Food, Drink, and the chance to Mingle a little with the people we were going to live amongst.
Wrong.
Arrived a Tad Late.
Sat down at table with Total Strangers.
And watched, in Befuddled and Horrified Fashion, the Entertainment.
Old men with Harmonicas would get up and fiddle about singing something.
Ancient women would recite Poetry. For Quite a Long Time.
Keen Guitarists would Dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum for Prolonged Moments.
Once, a girl sang, in quite a different key from her Accompanist, a song of love and loss. We laughed Silently and Agonisingly the whole way through.
Never Again, we thought.
Well.
I don't think we've missed one. There is something strangely Compelling about Local Entertainment. It's just so bad that it's a Must in the social calendar of the year.
But this year it was different.
Husband and I had been Roped In to creating some Entertainment ourselves.
We had thrown together some Husband and Wife material, his and hers stuff, which we thought hilarious. Which was worrying. As it probably was a load of Bollocks. But, what the hell, it was surely better than Harmonicas.
Oh. My. God.
Nearly didn't do it. Nearly baled out, last minute fashion, owing to nerves and lack of bottle.
However, thought What The Hell again and got on with it.
So, with thumping heart and racing pulse, entered the Village Hall.
We were third in Programme.
Had to sit, with stomach churning, all the way through the Cold Meats and Salad Fare, followed by Apple Pie and Cream. Threw back a couple of drinks.
Watched Act 1. Two ancient ladies recite Poems.
Act 2. Man with Harmonica. Sang quite a few songs. Almost nodded off.
Then us.
Gulp.
Dragged our chairs over to where we were Performing.
Husband calm and cheerful.
Me a lump of Nerves and Jitters.
And began.
Well.
Everyone laughed! Guffawed! (May I just say that we WANTED them to laugh... we WERE being amusing, honestly)
Sometimes we had to stop altogether to wait for the laughter to calm down.
They LOVED us.
And I really began to enjoy it.
Sitting there with Husband, saying the words we had practised over and over again, seeing the sea of faces roaring with laughter. Seeing Husband's face, enjoying himself hugely. Grin from ear to ear.
Heaven.
We finished. The applause was prolonged and genuine.
Husband and I had smiles to match.
We gave our last bow and went to sit down.
Hooray. That was done then.
However.
Had to sit through eight more Pieces of Entertainment.
Man with lots of pieces of paper, who read from his pieces of paper. For Ages. Lost one of his bits of paper and had to search, forage even, for it, amongst his considerable wear.
People with stiff faces from trying not to Yawn.
Someone got up to recite some Poetry. Spoke at length about a bicycle. Not sure why.
And then it was time for the Community Singing.
Ker'ist. I thought my smile would actually damage the muscles in my face, the ache was so acute.
Finally, at twenty nine minutes past eleven the Entertainment came to a slow and shuddering end.
The Relief! The Joy!
Husband and I made our way down the hall to the door.
'Lovely act!' someone said.
'You were brilliant!' said another.
'God, you were funny!' said yet another.
We smiled at them and made our Modest Exit. Basking in glory.
Out we went into the cool night air.
Man with pieces of paper was standing there. The one who foraged through his clothes trying to find Page Fourteen of his Amusing Anecdotes.
'Lovely act!' someone said to him.
'You were brilliant!' said another.
'God, you were funny!' said yet another.
Oh.
Right.
Perhaps we'll leave Britain's Got Talent for other acts then.
Quietly, though, I think we did Rather Well. And I know for sure, that both Husband and I loved it.
We'll have another go next year. Maybe with a Harmonica?
See you then!

Out To Dinner

2010-02-22T22:11:00.000Z

Went out to supper on Saturday night. Drove down the lane, up another one, and there we were. Pouring with rain. So the sight of champagne and a roaring fire did much to cheer us.
Drinks and chat before supper. When my mobile rang.
Dammit. Probably a child Wanting Something.
Sure enough, Youngest was breathing heavily down the phone.
Mummy, he whispered. Hoarsely.
I put on my bright Mummy voice. Raised it up a notch or two.
Hello darling, I twinkled. Guests watching, curious.
Youngest continued to breathe very heavily, while whispering something of Great Urgency. Which I couldn't understand. I hoped, with every fibre of my being, that he didn't want his bottom wiped. That would be dull. But not past all possibilities, that I would have to stomp back down the road, wipe said bottom, and return to party.
Husband will huff and puff. But cannot expect babysitter, or Middle Son, or Daughter, or God forbid, Youngest himself, to do neat job of it. As it were.
Found out that his bottom was perfectly clean. Thank God.
Worked out, with some difficulty, owing to the Whispering, that he was on his way to bed.
Prayers, Mummy, he hissed. Whispering very spittily down the phone.
What??? I asked. Still baffled.
This was repeated at some length, with increasing desperation. And then finally,
Prrrayyeerrrrrrrrrrs, Mummmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeee, he breathed. In a tortured sort of way.
Got it. Suddenly. As you do.
You want to say your prayers with me on the phone? I asked. Trying hard not to smile fondly, or let smile show in my voice.
Yes.
Came the answer.
Right, I said. Moving to a place in the house where guests would not find it odd to see me reciting the Our Father to a book case.
And we began.
Youngest very quietly saying Amen at the end of each prayer, but not joining in, in case the babysitter thought him rather odd. Or something.
Found myself praying, on Youngest's behalf, for a safe lodging and a holy rest, and thanking Him for a lovely day, And a lovely lunch, added Youngest, quite crossly, as if I had deliberately left it out.
Finished. Checking over my shoulder that no one could hear this somewhat eccentric exchange.
Told Youngest I loved him. Told him to go upstairs to bed.
Asked him to get Daughter on the phone.
On she came... and agreed to kiss Youngest goodnight and tuck him in.
As it seemed he needed it that night.
And back I went to the champagne and Canapes.
Husband raised questioning eyebrow.
No need to wipe bottoms tonight, I said, gaily.
Hooray! he said.
And so we returned to our Grown Up World.
Bliss.

Bugger All

2010-02-20T18:27:00.000Z

For the first time in 154 posts, have come to a complete and total Blank.
Nothing to post about.
And yet Everything to post about.
Snow. Death. Christmas. Birthdays. More fecking snow. Parties. Chickens (don't ask). Stuff.
More Stuff.
Busy.
So much.
But Brain will not engage with hands or key board, and as a result have Nothing To Write.
Dreadful.
Appalling.
Am Blogger, for Gordon Bennet's sake. We NEVER run out of words. Do we.
We do?
Well, where do I find them again?
Want to write Frrrrightfully Amusing piece, or Clever but oh, so subtle Observation. Want to press that Publish Button and get the thrill as it says 'Your Post Published Successfully!' That dear little Exclamation Mark at the end. So encouraging!
But it is not to be. Will have to wait until a Post Thought comes along. You know, when you just KNOW that what is happening right now is a Cracker of a Post.
That tingle of recognition as one sees Potential Post Material.
Keep have blinding ideas of Postal Nature during sex or in middle of night or in the car. Swear that I will remember. And forget.
So.
For the hell of it will press Publish Post button in a minute or two.
And post this Bollocks.
Because otherwise will forget how to use keyboard.
Sweet blog will tell me that I have Published Successfully.
But I will know that I haven't.
In the meantime I apologise for writing about Absolutely Nothing.
Oh, sod it, let's press that button.

Mixing up the Blog with Real Life

2010-02-16T19:04:00.003Z

Oh, dear.
It seems that my Blog World and Real World have got mixed up rather.
Causing some Internal Family Eruptions. As it were.
Was slowly simmering a post in my head about Husband and his Morning Routines the other day. Like us Bloggers do.
You see, Husband likes to do the same thing as he gets up each morning.
Slams his hand down on the beep beeping alarm clock. With some force. Occasionally knocks it to the ground and has to find the damned thing. Groans a bit. Whips back the bedclothes, which quite often slap my somewhat sleepy face, and stands up.
There then follows a noisy and prolonged Scratching of his bottom.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Pause. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Pause. This continues for some time. The scratching sounds strangely hollow, as if there was nothing in his buttocks but cavernous depths. But on closer inspection, I can quite clearly see his pert bottom accepting its morning Attentions.
After this he slumps over to his chest of drawers, and slides out a drawer or two. Then does it again, because he obviously hasn't found what he wanted to find. Pants? Socks? Shirt? This is where they live, but as more than seven or eight drawers are pulled open and then shut (quite noisily really) he must be looking for something else. Or the same thing over and over.
And over.
When this Petite Purgatoire is over, he tries to find the door. As far as I know, it's been in the same place for a very long time. But each morning he fumbles around to see where it is. Presumably because it might have moved in the night. On finding it, he yanks it open, because it has a little stiffness around the hinges, and goes out.
Sometimes I manage a PPPPPPWWWWP sound like a kiss. The only problem is that if he hears this he will come back in and ask all sorts of questions about how I slept and how I am, with instructions to have a lovely day. All punctuated with a kiss.
However.
I don't WANT to wake up yet and have spent the last few minutes desperately trying to STAY ASLEEP. A difficult task under the noisy and prolonged circumstances.
So tend to be a little uncommunicative. Like Silent. But with a sleepy smile which is trying to say GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE.
Nicely.
Mornings are so Not My Time.

Anyway, later that evening, after my thoughts about the above post, was at a dinner party. The general conversation was of being woken in the night. Etc. So it made total sense to me to tell people about Husband scratching his bottom when he got up.
When Realised that had meandered from Blog World into Real World.
Realised too late that CANNOT tell people face to face about bottom scratching. It's kind of a Blog Thing. You know, when you are sitting at the keyboard, thinking, 'What to post today? Aha! I know! Husband scratching his bottom!'
It makes sense to you. It makes sense to me. But boy, oh, boy, it makes bugger all sense to anyone Out There.
People at dinner party were totally Stunned into hysterical and prolonged laughter. Husband pink in the face and saying things like, 'I can't BELIEVE you just told everyone that,' and, more bizarrely, 'I don't scratch my bottom, I scratch my balls.'
This caused more hysteria. One guest had to mop her eyes dry.
Oh, dear.
Think Blogging might have more to answer for than I had thought. Had no idea that my conversational nature would lead me down such dangerous paths at dinner parties.
Husband still mutters about How Could I.
So.
I must remember to Think Before Speaking when out and about.
Must Sellotape Mouth Shut at next dinner party.
And will make clear boundaries between Blog and Life.
Because it Simply Won't Do to get that muddled up again.

Extras - Ricky Gervais Style

2010-02-11T14:38:00.003Z

Well.
I have Another Tale to regale you with.
Draw up, fasten your seat belts, and make sure you have a nice cup of tea with you. You may be some time.
So.
Saturday.
Actually, let's go back to Friday.
Friday.
Was seated here at my computer.
Actually, no. Let's go back to sometime before Christmas.
Was seated here at my computer.
Actually, no. Let's go back to the Eighties. Just for a mo.
Was seated here at my computer.
NO! I wasn't! Wasn't here. Didn't possess a computer. Or mobile phone. Just a huge bright red phone in the kitchen which rang so loudly that we'd all drop what we were holding. Boyfriend at the time had huge grey carthorse of a computer with mouse. Mouse! I thought that was funny. And rather eccentric. Would never catch on. Another fad.
Wrong!
Anyway.
Back in the Eighties I always wanted to be a Film or Television Extra. Thought it might be Rather Fun. Pointless. But fun. Fancy meeting all those famous actors! Fancy being on a film set! Fancy!
Anyway.
Before Christmas, just a mere twenty five years later, decided that NOW was the time to be an Extra.
So scanned the Internet for likely solutions to this yen of mine.
And found solution.
Kindly internet site said I could be an Extra!
Super!
Just had to jot down a few details, and Tra-la! I was an Extra!
Trouble was, I hadn't a film or TV series to go and be an Extra in. Which was a bit of a drawback.
Right. Now we can fast forward to Friday.
Still here? Really? Marvellous!
Well. Was sitting here at my computer. Checking emails. When,
LO! There was an email inviting me to get my arse up to London for 7.30 am on Saturday morning. To be part of a shoot for a Pilot for new comedy series for Channel 4.
7.30 ON A SATUDAY MORNING???? ARE THESE PEOPLE MAD????
Well.
Up I went on Saturday morning. Up at 4.30 am. On the train at 5.30. Exhausted looking people asleep with their mouths open. Drunks who hadn't yet been to bed.
Was seated in Reception Area of offices somewhere in the armpits of Kentish Town at 7.29am.
With 6 other extras.
Slightly Stunned at Why the Hell I was There in the first place.
Bit Worried about what I would be asked to do.
And bloody Starving Hungry.
Well.
The 6 other Extras turned out to be Nice.
One had obviously 'Donalotta-Extra-Work'. The rest evidently hadn't. We had to listen to Mr Donalot for an Awfully Long Time as he regaled us with tales of Extra Funny Stories. He found them tremendously amusing and laughed loud and long. With piercing eye contact with one of us, who would be forced to laugh long and loud too.
We began to avoid his face altogether. The alternative was too exhausting.
Every time the rest of us had a talk about something else, he brought the subject back to himself with such skill that I began to enjoy taking the conversation somewhere Far Away to see how he would bring it back. Magic.
Anyway.
After Some Time of waiting, Ricky Gervais style, cups of filthy tea and hard chairs, we were led into the Shoot.
Lights, cameras and rather dishevelled people littered the place.
Watched the dishevelled people walking around doing things like moving chairs and reading clip boards. Watched them really hard. Realised that some of them had Bugger All to do so were pretending to do things.
Finally we were given instructions.
Mine was to Walk Up The Room.
Wow.
So I did.
Many, many times. Up, back. Up, back. Up, back.
The Action seemed to be going on at the near end of the room.
I was to be at the Very Far End of the room.
Righty Ho.
And, when I managed a look at the TV monitors showing what we were doing, I couldn't help noticing that I would Possibly be seen for about 0.36 of a second. Just my bottom. Nothing else. Clothed, of course. Nothing Untoward.
Not a great deal to show for such a colossal effort at being in bloody London SO CHUFFING EARLY ON A SATURDAY MORNING.
Anyway.
It was very funny stuff. Apparently. So damned funny that the actors kept corpsing and having to start all over again.
At first this was Mighty Amusing and we all had a bit of a giggle.
Nonchalant sort of giggles. (It is Very Important in the Playground of Acting that you look Nonchalant)
But after a while (several hours of 'While') it got to be Rather Irritating.
And it was with some relief when we were all Released from the torture and allowed to go home.
No one said Thank you! in bright and grateful tones for us slogging in miles.
No one offered us large fat cheques.
No one even said goodbye.
And so I left, lugging my suitcase with Alternative Costumes (not used) heading home under a grey and unfriendly sky.
Arrived home for lunch. Bright blue skies. Children thrilled to see me. Husband laden under a pile of washing he was putting on the line. Waving cheerily through my pants and bra.
Lunch cooking.
Cats asleep in the sun.
How glad I was to be home.
Shrugged off my Costume (smart casual) and put on my home clothes (old, tattered) and went to pour some drinks for us all. Massive gin and tonics for me and Husband. Lemonade for the children.
And sat with my family, minus Eldest, clinking our glasses together and telling them all about Being An Extra.
And decided that there is Very Little Point being an Extra in pretend life, when real life at home requires such a Starring Role.

In Which Youngest Knows His Stuff

2010-02-08T17:34:00.002Z

Middle Son asked me in the car today,
'Mum, what is the best time of year to go skiing?'
We all had a good think about it. Good question and all that.
'Um,' I said, in a thoughtful sort of way, while I Perused the Answer.
Youngest piped up.
Chest puffed up with Knowledge and Wisdom.
'I know,' he said, with a winning sort of a smile.
We all looked at him expectantly.
'Winter,' he said.
Knowingly.
Got to hand it to the boy.
He knows his Onions.

Youngest Does It Again

2010-02-04T22:28:00.001Z

Youngest's prayer tonight. As much as I can remember. (Note how important tellies are to my boy)

Dear God,
Thank you for a lovely day. Thank you for the cakes.
Thank you for all our friends and my family.
Please give poor people more things. And give the people in Haiti more things. Can they have things that they REALLY need like tellies and food? And make it so we have less so that they can have some more.
Amen.

Wow. He's only five.
Rock on, Youngest.

We did something! We did something for Haiti.

2010-02-02T10:17:00.002Z

Remember my post about Haiti?
And not knowing what to do about it?
Well, in the light of that feeling really not going away, however much money I was donating, or however much I was sending up prayers for them, felt the need to do More. But how?
Well.
A friend bumped into me at Brownies last week. Holding SHEAVES of paper and looking Harrassed.
'You OK?' I asked her.
Kind of glad I asked. Because she told me she was organising a Sponsored Swim for Haiti, and would I like to bring my children along, as it was to raise money for the children of Haiti, raised by children of West Sussex!
''Course we will,' I said, and took the Sheaves of paper from her, in the shape of sponsored forms and leaflets and what have you.
Talked to my children about it. Explained to them that they were going to put some food on someone's table, in Haiti, by what they were about to do. Even get a new table to put the food on. Make a difference.
In short, we found ourselves, my three younger children and I, in the local swimming pool last Saturday. Lots of excited children shivering in their swimming costumes and goggles, waiting for the Off.
Little ones went first. Encouraged at each side (they did widths) by older children, some counting the widths and the rest just yelling and hollering, to help those Tinies go a little faster, or just get to the other side.
I was Astounded.
Youngest, with about eight others, pounded from one side of the pool to the other, over and over and over and over. 55 widths, he did! They all did AMAZINGLY. And the pride on the older childrens faces was fabulous to see. Even if they had no idea of who it was they were cheering for.
My heart was full. We were doing something. And it was good.
Daughter went next. Lengths this time. Same process. People at each end. Calling out and encouraging and Driving them all on. Up and down and up and down they went. Daughter did 23 lengths. Massive. Hugely proud of her.
Next went Middle Son. With all the older children. Up and down and up and down they went. Faster and faster. Us all yelling from the sides.
Middle Son did 28 lengths. How good is that!
It was extraordinary watching these children. Everyone pushed themselves. Everyone tried their very best. For Haiti. There was no Ego here. Just love.
And home we came, knackered. Starving. Youngest looking pale and exhausted.
I asked him if he had enjoyed himself.
'Not really,' he said. 'But we put some food on someone's table, didn't we Mummy.'
We sure did, Youngest. We sure did.

Young At Heart

2010-01-29T18:26:00.020Z

Simply have to share this one with you. Today I had a lovely comment from Midlife Jobhunter who said that she was going to show my post to her mother. Which she did. Her mother Old? Who? Me? then Hugely Kindly put a link on her post back to mine. Still with me?
Marvellous!
Anyway, while I was over at her place, as it were, was looking down through her older posts, which are fab, by the way, and came to one about a group of old people, called Young at Heart, who sing.
My God.
These people Rock! They are pretty well all over 80 years old. They sing in public and people LOVE them. I absolutely INSIST that you take a look at one of their songs.
A little intro is needed here.
Recently, a fair amount of people I know, or know of, have died. And it rattles one's cage somewhat.
Firstly, it's damned sad. And secondly, it's damned frightening. People of my age. Younger. So sad and so sudden.
And then older people. Leaving behind a darling wife or husband. Children. Family. Friends.
Well.
What with being nearly fifty (August, shall I have a Blog Party?!) and what with all these people dying, have felt pretty shook up.
Until today.
Until I saw this.
The man singing this is on oxygen. His friend had died the day before, the one he was going to sing this particular song with.
Please listen to it.
No longer do I need to be scared of dying, or death. All that bollocks that we have to go through simply because we are what we are. Mortal.
Simply not going to get my knickers in a knot anymore.
Because the human spirit is Extraordinary. Blinding. Glorious.
Look at that old man. Isn't he just the the Best?

Comment t'allez Vous?

2010-01-27T16:20:00.004Z

Was reading a post about followers and comments the other day. About how we need to write our posts for ourselves and not for the followers or the comments.
Hah! As if.
I mean, I agree.
As you all know, I never count comments or followers. I just open up my blog and write my post.
Not.
Decidedly Not.
Oh, no. I count the damned comments on the most recent post. Sigh if there's not many. Smile if there's lots. See that followers is still stuck on 119. What's bloody wrong with 120? Get irritated with self for bloomin' well caring. Because, really, WHO CARES?
Loadsa people, apparently.
Following this post I had read, about comments and followers, were HUNDREDS of comments! Really long ones, not the sort when people go
'Yeh! ;)' or
'Great!' or
'Love your blog!' type of comments. You know, those ones when you want to leave a comment but can't really be arsed to write much.
No, these were Essays. And I'm talking 2000 words essays. On and on and on. Was rather ashamed of my mere ten-line comment. Thought I should go back and add another 70 or so.
It seems that comments and followers, and the lack of, really get up people's noses. Sometimes it seems to be more important than the actual writing of posts.
And that is plain Silly.
I started up this blog to record one year of my life. Now it has stretched to fifteen months. I LOVE to read back the earliest posts and remember what was going on. All the posts about my children are treasure to me. To actually record things your offspring have said and done... How brilliant is that! All put away neatly for me take out and look at in the years to come. Priceless.
And so it seems a silly and faintly ridiculous thing, to care about the number of followers and comments.
I have just spent a few minutes looking back over my posts. Things about sheep and chickens, smelly fridges, Nativity Plays, singing, children, husbands underneath fridges. It was LOVELY to remember all those things.
Good to smile about the Wedgie Incident outside school, and the policeman stopping me on the way to the Dump. Fun to read about Youngest and his Thug Incident.
Nice to see that I had a go at being a Loose Woman.
(no links for these... who uses links anyway??)
Thoroughly enjoyed my trip just a little way down Memory Lane and Reminiscent Road.
It was fun and didn't cost a penny. How about that?!
THAT is why I blog.
THAT is why I love to do this mad posting lark.
THAT is why I comment. To show other bloggers that I hear what they say.

As if I did it for the comments!
Honestly.

(Troy, I will watching you and your comments!)

Yes, I know it's a link... but you must do this one. Scroll down a bit when you get there. You'll see what I mean...

When Mum turned into a Monster

2010-01-23T18:09:00.012Z

Crikey, I am grumpy today. My children are the receptacles of my crossness, which makes me feel even worse.
We went shopping this morning, all of us, and every step was an ordeal.
'KEEP UP!' I would enunciate, in truculent tones, to each child that lagged behind.
And, 'Stop tripping me up!'
'For God's Sake, stop PUSHING!' was my Mantra.
And what made it worse was that the children sort of Put Up with me. You could see the resignation on their faces.
Mum's in One of her Moods, they seemed to Radar to each other. Which was Really Annoying.
However much I tried to be grown up and mature and Noble, I couldn't.
Husband was also on the Moody Wife Look Out.
'OK, darling?' he would offer, from time to time. A kind and sympathetic smile on his face. That I wanted to Punch. Hard.
I noticed another mother during one particularly stressful moment in large shop.
'Warren, IF YOU DON'T BELT UP YOU WON'T GET NO SWEETS EVER,' she shrilled.
'Golly,' I thought. 'Bit harsh on the little lad.' Turning a blind eye to my Curt Comments of five minutes previously, when had Hissed Hissily to children that 'if you don't be quiet I shall SHOUT SO LOUD YOUR EARS WILL FALL OFF.'
Double standards, I think.
So now we are home. I am blogging, having had a nice walk, alone, to gather my thoughts and reflect on what an Utter Cow I can be. Was perfectly nice during walk. Felt more and more generous and forgiving each step I took. But then there was no one with me to share the benefit. This is my problem, I have decided. I am frightfully nice when on my own. And stroppy cow when in company. Bit of a conundrum.
So.
Am determined to be Nice Mother.
Will go into sitting room, where there is a lovely fire and Be With My Family.
I won't shout at anyone.
I won't be cross when someone jumps on my back and I can hear the bones breaking.
I won't be irritated that cushions, recently cleaned, are all over the floor.
I won't be annoyed that only me stokes up the fire.
I won't be cross that Husband keeps asking if I am Still Cross.
I will be Sweetness and Light. Hope and Joy. Kindness and comfort.
Until the next time.
Oh, to be the Perfect Mother.
I wish.
Right. Off I go.
Wish me luck.
This mothering lark is tough on a girl, you know.

Haiti

2010-01-21T11:03:00.006Z

Haiti sits on my mind most of the time. I can feel the pain from the thousands of miles that separate them and Me.
Them in their desolation.
Me in my warm, safe, cosy home. Surrounded by the family I am bringing up, and the husband I love. The friends who come for supper. The school across the road where the teachers love my children and tell me of their little triumphs Every Day.
Surrounded by normality.
Haiti must crave for Normal.
Instead they have unimaginable sadness and loss. Sandwiched between the joy of finding a child, a mother, a friend.
It's so big, this sadness, that I don't know quite where to put it. How to wear it. What to do. I can send money. I can pray. I can sit here amongst all my belongings and think of all those millions who have Nothing. Absolutely Nothing.
Or I can get on and keep thanking God for all the blessings he showers on me.
Doesn't feel enough, I have to say.
I am looking out of my window now. A cat is sitting on the drive. My cat. Sitting neatly and watching the garden. Birds are visiting the bird feeder, wary of the cat. The post man has just been. Washing is in the washing machine and is churning away comfortingly next door. The chickens are fed. Children are at school, except Middle Son, who is on the sofa in the sitting room, nursing a poorly tummy and headache. Husband is at work. He will ring at lunchtime as he always does.
Normal.
How blessed is Normal.
There is no neat and tidy concluding thought in this post. Because I can't think what could Conclude such a tragedy.
All I can say is I will carry on thinking about Haiti. Praying. And thanking all of those people who are There and Helping. How wonderful they are. Truly good.
I owe them. I really, truly do.

Fighting Tooth And Nail

2010-01-14T18:06:00.002Z

Today Youngest lost his first tooth.
This is a significant day.
No longer will any child of mine lose a first tooth.
I am now Officially Past all that.
Weird.
Youngest was particularly proud of himself.
'I didn't swallow it, Mummy,' he said.
Agonising watching him tell everyone at school on arrival.
Prising his mouth open wide with his fingers, he told the story to a less than Rapt Audience.
Children all World Weary with Tooth Loss.
'I've lost 8,' said one little girl, showing us her mouth of gaps and teeth of all sorts and sizes.
'My daddy likes to pull mine out,' said another with a Sigh.
'I've got 2 wobbly teeth Right Now,' said Another.
Youngest looked on, still with hand opening mouth for all to see.
You could see the Deflation.
Agony.
'Well,' said I, in Joyce Grenfell Brightness, 'Youngest has just lost his Very First Tooth! Well done, Youngest!' And clapped. Hard.
There was a luke warm applause amongst the hardened Year 2's as they took coats and hats off.
Youngest gave up and sidled off to tell his teacher.
Forewarned and all, I also told her in my bright Mummy tones our Wonderful News.
She, bless her heart, picked up on the Significance of the Day, and gave Youngest the Due Attention so lacking from his previous encounter by the Coat Hooks.
And I left, hearing him tell her that he hadn't swallowed it. She was Suitably Impressed.
Sometimes you just have to Fight to get your child Heard.
In a little Sort of Way.
Bless.

In Which Youngest is Very Brave

2010-01-11T15:57:00.001Z

Took Youngest to A & E recently. School rang to say he had hole in his head after falling on a table.
Poor little mite.
Off we went, with Youngest in Unexpected High Spirits Considering and chatting nineteen to the dozen all the way. Me muttering about food shopping and having no time to wipe my bottom (sorry, more lavatorial stuff). In between concerned questions about whether or not Youngest could see properly and did he have a headache.
Youngest hugely brave. Glue poured over hole and all sealed up. Howling with pain. His head pushed firmly into my shoulder where it stayed until he realised the torture was over.
Nurse gave him a teddy which I thought most kind. We called him Sam and Youngest cuddled him tight through his torrential tears.
Came home.
Youngest, needing a little cuddle before bed time, told me how brave he had been.
'I was brave. I didn't cry, Mummy.'
I said, as I have said a million times, 'Brave isn't NOT crying, brave is doing it anyway even when you ARE crying.
'Well,' he said, 'I REALLY wasn't crying. My eyes were just leaking so that water came down my face.'
Oh, I said. In an understanding sort of way.
And hugged him close.
I reckon he was Damned Brave.
Despite the leakages.

Is it Snowing?

2010-01-07T07:53:00.005Z

Good Grief.
I know it's winter and all. And I know it gets cold. And I know that sometimes it snows. Which means I had better wrap up warm and stay inside until the weather gets a Tad more Friendly Like.
I know not to go out in my car while it is Icy as my car might skid and I might go into a ditch. Which would not be nice at all.
And so I stay here with my children and we wrap up warm and go outside to make snowmen and then come back in to drink hot chocolate and watch DVDs. And don't venture out in the car as the roads are ridiculously dangerous.
Kind of obvious, really.
Nope.
Not Obvious at all, it seems.
The BBC News Team have told us ALL DAY that it is Very Cold Indeed.
They have kindly informed us that it is Snowing. Heavily.
They have also instructed us to stay at home and not risk going out in the car.
They urged us in wise tones to wrap up warm.
I KNOW! I WAS DOING THAT ANYWAY! WHAT ARE YOU TELLING ME FOR!
And then they tell us again. And again. And again. And again. And again.
And
Again.
Again.
Any other news?
Nope.
Oh, Gordon Brown and something or other with Geoff Hoon, but couldn't hear about it for all the talk about Snow. And staying in. Extreme weather conditions. Freezing. Ice. Brrrr.
Every channel on the telly is full of Wintry Pictures.
Cars covered in white.
Stranded on the M20.
DANGER! DANGER! ALERT!
Well.
Forgive me for being a Tad Obvious here.
But it's Winter Time. It Snows and gets Awfully Cold and Icy.
Doesn't it?
Why on earth are people going out in this? Apart from those who Absolutely Have To, WHY DO PEOPLE DO IT??
We were told so clearly Not To Go Out by those kind BBC people.
And what do people do?
Go out.
'Well, I've been in my car for 12 hours.' said one woman. 'Stuck here on the A3, it's been a long night.'
Right.
What a Wally.
Just stay at home, you Daft Dylans! Then those poor emergency people can do some real work, rather than heaving endless cars out of icy ditches.
And we can all watch the news channels.
Except there wouldn't be any news as everyone would be at home.
At least we would get to hear a bit more about Geoff Hoon. That is, if we wanted to. Which we don't.
Happy Winter, everyone!
Oh, and keep warm. It's terribly cold, you know, and there is lots of snow about.
Oh, you knew already? Clever old you!

2010-01-04T18:30:00.003Z

Christmas this year was a sad one. Not our sadness. Someone else's. Someone I don't know particularly well, but who I see on a regular basis when she picks up her child from the school where my children go.
Her husband died. Very suddenly, just before Christmas. His heart.
In his forties. Young, kind, chatty, funny, loving and There.
And then he wasn't.
We are all in shock. Such sadness for his wife and child. How DO you start the rest of your life without the person you have chosen to be with for ever?
And how does a little boy get over Daddy never being there again?
It is quite simply unbearable.
I am reluctant to write more as this is their sadness and it feels a little uncomfortable writing about it in any detail.

Send up a prayer for them. Keep them in your thoughts.
Thank you.
xxxx

The Most Important Thing

2009-12-20T20:36:00.002Z

Today was a Tad Nippy.
Told Youngest to put something warm on before going outside.
'Because the most important thing,' I said, gravely, 'The most important thing is to keep warm.'
Husband nodded wisely over his cup of coffee.
Youngest disappeared out of the room to find his coat.
'Actually,' he said, coming back into the room. 'Being warm is not the most important thing.'
'Oh?' I asked, somewhat Testily. 'What is the most important thing then?'
'Well,' said Youngest. Thinking hard. And then he finds the words.
'Loveness,' he announced. 'Loveness is the most important thing.'
And he smiled his Glowing Wide Sparkling smile.
'And then keeping warm,' he added, before disappearing out of the front door.
What can I add?
Nothing. He said it all.

Some Like It Hot

2009-12-14T17:48:00.001Z

Children had sausage rolls for their tea tonight.
Heated them up in the oven.
Placed them lovingly on plates with mashed potatoes and vegetables. To make up for the fact I was giving my children food Out Of A Packet.
Lit the Advent Candles.
Filled their glasses with water.
Checked the brownies baking in the oven.
Did a couple more Unbelievably Good Mother things.
Youngest checked out his plate.
'Don't really like hot sausage rolls, Mummy,' he announced.
'Oh,' said I, with Some Sarcasm, 'Well, unless I put them in the freezer, they will just have to stay hot.'
And I carried on with my washing up. A Woman's Work is Never Done. Etc.
Turned round to see that Youngest had eaten half his sausage rolls.
Didn't say anything. Just did a quiet YES in my head. As you do.
As I turned back to the washing up, could see Youngest in the reflection of the window. Nipping across the room and doing something.
Involving sausage rolls.
And the freezer.
Carried on watching.
Observed Youngest opening Freezer and taking out a handful of mini sausage rolls and returning to his seat.
And eating with Great Relish.
Well.
You have to acknowledge the Logic of the boy.
Don't like Hot.
Put it somewhere Cold.
Leave.
Take out and Eat.
SO WHY DIDN'T HE TELL ME BEFORE I MADE THEM BLOODY HOT?

Fly Like An Eagle

2009-12-08T18:51:00.006Z

OK. So what would YOU do? You're sitting on the loo. Busy. Half way through you hear the distinct and unpleasant sound of Buzzing. From Beneath. Sort of Vibrating in the bowl. Under Your Bottom. The buzzing seems to Eminate from a cross and possibly quite damp fly.

Do you:

1) Ignore it. It will go away.
2) Look between legs and hope that it will go away.
3) Worry about where might Fly might go if pushed to Shove, as it were.
4) Get up and remove Fly, thereby interrupting the Flow.
5) Lift one buttock to see if fly will fly out from space between buttock and loo seat.

Well.
I did Number 4.
Should have done Number 1. WHY didn't I do Number 1? Or Number 2,3,or 5?
Not a Wise Move.
Having Empathy for large Buzzy bluebottle flies under bottom is verging on the Ridiculous. No, not Verging.
IS RIDICULOUS.
Next time will forget the Saving Wildlife thing and do what is best for me and my Flow.
I put the brakes on so hard, as it were, that have probably pulled muscle in Pelvic Floor. Distorted Entire Area.
However.
99% success. If you see what I mean. Which is damned good considering four children. Natural births. And all that Malarkey.
But wait!
Have saved the fly!
The little bastard flew out, after a little coaxing with wads of loo paper and a spot of Persuasion with the Loo Brush, and was last seen heading out of the window.
Problem is that it is most likely to be the same bloody fly I tried to Wallop this morning as it hovered above the butter on kitchen table.
Honestly.
You just can't win.

Mystery Solved!

2009-12-03T17:19:00.002Z

Awful smell in our kitchen the other day. Hot Sewage type odour. Inexplicable. Sniffed everywhere and cleaned each and every surface. Twice.
Husband came home and sniffed too. We pulled out panels from under cupboards to see if Cat has crapped under there. Hadn't.
Balanced precariously on top of kitchen counter, stretching up and craning neck against ceiling to see if Cat has crapped ceremoniously up there. Hadn't.
Cleared out each and every cupboard. Drawer. Book case.
No crap anywhere.
And today Roy, Middle Son's guitar teacher came.
Passing the time of day, as you do, when I opened fridge and Out Came Smell.
'There it is!' I yelled excitedly. 'Here, Roy, smell the fridge!'
He obligingly stuck his nose in there and inhaled deeply.
'Cheese,' he said.
'Dammit,' I said, somewhat despairingly. 'Not poo then?'
Give him his due, he didn't look at all phased at this query. He probably knows me well enough to realise that there is More To The Story.
In some despair I stuck my nose between the fridge and the cupboard next to it. A tiny crack about one centimetre wide.
'Oh My God That Is The Smell!!!!' The excitement. Roy kindly put his nose there too and recoiled in Disgust.
It was Truly Disgusting. Wafting out gently from between fridge and cupboard.
'Must be something dead down there.' I said. 'Cup of tea?'
Roy, looking a little weak at the thought of dead things lurking, nodded.
I bustled him and Middle Son out of kitchen and off they went for the lesson.
Husband came home not long after Roy had gone.
'Smell Mystery Solved!' I told him. Jubilantly.
And shoved him and his nose in the Crack. As it were.
He breathed in deeply.
'Yup,' he said, turning an ivy green. 'Definitely there. Will sort that this weekend.'
Now, bearing in mind that it was only Tuesday was not particularly thrilled by the suggestion.
'Let's do it now!' I said.
'Let's not!' said Husband.
'No, let's!' I said.
And so it Began.
Carefully pulled out fridge.
'Think we should empty it, actually,' said Husband, being a tad Male and Bossy.
'Nonsense!' said I. 'Let's just get bloody on with it,' being a tad Female and Bossy.
Carefully eased out the fridge. Which is one of those weird ones that looks like a door, but isn't. Because behind the door, stuck to the back of it, is a Fridge.
Nice to look at when in kitchen.
But Hell to take out to investigate Smells.
Anyway.
On pulling out fridge One More Fraction, there came from within Bowels of Fridge an almighty CRASH as Something Fell Down In It.
'Oh, dear,' I said. A little Perturbed.
At this point, the entire Fridge decided to fall on Husband.
Who landed on floor, holding fridge up with Left Foot and Determination.
I yelled. Loudly. Grabbing Fridge with right hand and left foot.
Thought about giggling but was too busy getting Enormous Beast of a Fridge off Husband, now lying with Green Tomato Chutney running down his leg and what looked like Raspberry Jam and Red Currant Jelly in his shoe.
Hysterics rising fast, yelled at Husband to get up and push.
From a Lying Down Position, Husband managed to cram Fridge back in from one side, while I heaved and pushed on the other.
Fridge slid back with satisfying clunk.
Husband got up.
Not a Pretty Sight.
Cream, chutney, wine, milk, jam, jelly and apple crumble were in a Glorious Muddle all over his leg, the floor and the entire front of the fridge.
'Um.' I said. Helpfully.
'Should have emptied it.'
Husband gave me one of those Looks.
Not a Long, Lingering, Hot Honeymoon Look.
No.
Just a Short One. Devoid of Affection.
Anyway.
We then proceeded to take Every Last Item out of Fridge, cleaned the Bastard out, pulled it out again, this time with no Disastrous Consequences.
And Found The Origin of Smell.
Hooray!
Won't go into the rather Dull Details.
(Has anyone got this far in the post? You have? Well done!!)
Suffice it to say, took rather a Long Time to clear it all away.
Cleaned every surface. Again.
Husband had rather dull time on Internet looking up How to rid your Fridge of Smells. Which apparently 576,956 other people had also looked up.
Cleaned and cleaned.
And after about an hour or so, the kitchen looked sort of how it had looked about an hour or so before.
So that was good then!
Now.
Must remember to Listen to Husband's Suggestions.
Would save an awful lot of trouble.
And mess.
And time.
Trouble is, wouldn't be half so much fun.
I mean, what on earth would I blog about?! ;)

Time Out

2009-12-01T10:11:00.000Z

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

2009-11-25T18:58:00.004Z

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.

2009-11-23T14:35:00.000Z

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

2009-11-13T18:18:00.009Z

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

2009-11-12T18:29:00.009Z

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

2009-11-05T13:58:00.004Z
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

2009-11-02T14:17:00.003Z
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?

2009-10-22T13:07:00.002+01:00
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

2009-10-19T12:53:00.004+01:00
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.

2009-10-14T20:54:00.002+01:00
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.

Trying to Remember Not to Forget

2009-10-12T17:22:00.002+01:00
Have Simply Awful Dread that I am going to forget something.
As a result need to have Note to Self which is backed up with Handy Reminder in Diary.
Accompanied by note on kitchen cupboard.
Oh, and another little reminder by the phone.
And by my bed.
And in the car.
And in handy little techno jobby in my phone, called, inspiringly, Reminders.
Do Not Like that awful lurch.
You know, the one when you realise you have forgotton the Smoked Salmon for 250 people. And someone is asking you in Bright Expectant Voice, Where is the Smoked Salmon for 250 people?
Not good either, when you have forgotton the bread to go Under the Smoked Salmon. For 250 people. Not Good. Not Good At All.
Don't really want to do That again.
So.
I remind myself continually.
With my Handy Reminders.
What makes me Really Cross, though, is that while I can NEVER forget how awful it was to forget the smoked salmon for 250 people, or indeed the bread to go Under the Smoked Salmon for 250 people, I CAN forget just about Everything Else.

Maddening.
Just Maddening.

Colours of Day

2009-10-09T12:08:00.003+01:00
Had to go and get some paint for a little cupboard we are painting.
Crikey, it was difficult.
Thought I would waft into shop, ask for blue paint and waft out again. Job done.
Nope.
'Blue you want?' asked the man.
'Yes, please,' I said.
'Right you are,' he said. And showed me a Book of Blues.
?
Book? Of Blues?
I flicked through the Book.
Hundreds of the Bastard Blues. Some were admittedly quite Grey, and some were positively Night Like, but they were all arguably Blue.
Hells Teeth. This could be tricky.
'What you paintin'?' he asked. Trying to be Very Helpful, I am sure, but I was getting quite Hoppity by now, as wanted the Blue Paint Now. Did not want to look in Book for paint.
'Wedgewood Blue,' I said, with sudden Inspiration. Now the man would know exactly what I wanted.
'Oh, right. Look in this bit then.' And he pointed to bit of book. Looked in that bit. Blow me down, if there weren't a Hundred Wedgewood'ish Blues.
Called Lost Lake.
Blue Babe.
First Dawn.
Azure Fusion.
Sort of Bollocks.

Gave up. Bought Blue Babe.
Painted Cupboard.
Job done.
Then thought up a few bloomin' names myself. For the hell of it. See if you can tell what colour they are...
Oh. And do feel free to add to them.

Knicker Grey
Toe Nail Yellow
Goose Shit Green
Gorilla Arse Red

And another selection...

Very Black
Very White
Quite Blue
Sort of Yellow

There. Deserve to be in a Paint Book, I think. Will call it, 'Paint What Does What It Says On The Tin.'
Honestly.
I'm still seeing red about it.

Neanderthal Woman

2009-10-07T09:39:00.001+01:00
It is Simply Not Fair.
Husband goes around with hairy armpits.
Hairy legs. Arms. Chest. Face.
Me?
Yup.
Same.
(I am Exaggerating just a Tad here. But, worryingly, only a Little.)
Have Tennis lessons every Wednesday now. Lovely!
But.
Dammit.
Have tennis skirt. This means.... summer legs Even in the Winter. Ker-ist.
So, what to do?
I can rip them out, shave 'em off, or use laser beams. However, therein lies the Problem. The darned old stuff Grows Back. Again.
And Again.
And Again.
Isn't this telling me something?
Like... it's supposed to be there?
Let's see, I have been shaving these legs of mine for over 30 years. Apart from that time in 1993 when I didn't have a boyfriend for two blissful years.
Hurray! I thought. No waxing! No shaving! I can sprout like an Afghan Hound. Weave plaits. As it were.
Heaven! Spent two whole winters with legs like Highland Cow. Marvellous, it was. Even had Hairy Toes.
Then, got Boyfriend.
Removed Each and Every Single Follicle from body. A Painful Purge.
Maintained Strict Epilation each week/day/month according to Hair Growth Speed.
Trimmed and plucked and tweezed and shaved and ripped.
For Pity's Sake.
Six months later was Dumped by Boyfriend.
Apparently he felt that it Wasn't Going Anywhere.
Oh.
Within three days was like New Forest Growth. Everywhere.
Stubble Galore. Would have had Beard if could.
Then got another boyfriend.
Frenzied Epilation.
Dumped.
Excessive Hair Growth Followed.
A Definite Pattern here, methinks.
Am now Married with Husband who really doesn't care less about hairy legs or armpits. Seems to notice when hair is Removed. But no complaints about not being able to find me through the Forestry that surrounds the more Intimate Places.
Well, he knows the way by now, doesn't he? No need for sign posts yet.
Anyway.
I think I have a Plan.
Which is.
To wear Even More Clothes.
Huge, voluminous, fleecy, tracky bottoms.
.
Will Steer Clear of tights. Unless legs are Hair Free, the long bits come through, don't they, girls? Maddening. Not Attractive, when sitting with legs neatly together and Hairy Growths are seen Lurking under the Beige Tan of your Panty Hose Hold Ups.
Will simply wear socks up to the Armpits.
Until next Spring.
When the Neanderthal Man Things that are my legs will once more be Epilated.

Simples!
So Marvellous to get these things sorted.

An Unexpectedly Good Time

2009-10-05T18:04:00.008+01:00

Had enormous fun with Middle Son today.
No School. Inset Day.
So.
Off we went to buy televisions.
Yup. More than one.
Husband blew one up while watching TV in bed the other night.
And the kitchen one had a picture like a blurry mist of grey this morning.
Actually, it had no picture to speak of. Or look at.
Thought to self. Time for New Tellies.
So.
We went. Middle Son and I.
Off to Huge Shop with Strip Lighting and Vast Floors filled with Electrical Goods.
Wandered down to the far end to look at the Tellies.
Wanted the smallest ones.
Obviously.
With Abandon, we bought two. Sleek, silver, and as thin as... well, Jolly Thin.
And light! Thought perhaps that we were buying Cardboard Box. With nothing in it.
Kind man insisted that there was a telly. In each Box.
So.
In celebration we went next door into Unspeakably Ghastly Sofa Shop.
Middle Son was longing to 'Look at them, Mummy.'
Right.
So we did.
Only we didn't just Look at them.
We lay.
We reclined.
We relaxed.
We were asked a hundred times if we wanted anything In Particular.
'Just a cup of tea with one sugar, please!' I would answer in happy tones.
Middle Son thought I was Most Amusing.
We laughed until we cried on one particular sofa. It had, confusingly, buttons to press. Odd, really. Thought you just sort of sat about on sofas. But no!
These buttons could make us both Immediately Horizontal. And then, Immediately Vertical.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Fab.
Pressed that button loads. Just as funny each time.
Finally dried our faces on our sleeves and left.
Talk about Free Entertainment. Marvellous!
We'd thoroughly recommend it.
Just make sure you don't look Directly at the Bright Orange Leatherette Sofa. It hurts.
Worth it, though, for all the Fun!

A Sad Day

2009-10-03T18:20:00.007+01:00
A Very Sad thing happened yesterday.
Katie, our big brown clucking Dear Old Thing of a hen, was put to sleep.
Saw her out in our hen garden, looking all fluffed up and sorry for herself. Picked her up to check her out and she felt hot, and her tummy seemed huge.
With laden heart took her to vet.
In a box.
(Which said on the side... McChicken Nuggets.
Whoops.)
Vet had a quick look at her and told me without fuss or preamble that he thought it was kinder to put her down straight away.
Now.
Somehow it is fine to have a weep when you take in your dog or your cat, or even your child's rabbit. But taking a chicken to the vet is just ever so Slightly Silly. And I was damned if I was going to cry. Which I wanted to do. A Lot.
Especially while he did the deed to darling Katie.
Keeping my mouth tightly wedged together so that I wouldn't do a Big Girly Weep, I held Katie while he put a needle into the tiniest vein under her wing.
Kept the tears at bay while I watched her flail about in my hands, held firmly against her poor sore side. Watched her talons stretch out, over and over, while the strange spasms seemed to go on and on.
Managed to wash my hands briskly while asking the vet if I could take Katie home to bury her.
'Course you can,' he said. So kindly. Busying himself with needles and paraphernalia.
Paid.
Left.
Placed Katie and her McNuggets Box by my side as I drove her home for the last time.
And Sobbed. Loudly. Wept. Snotty, racking sobs all the way home.
Bathing Youngest later on, I knelt down by the bath. Asked him gently and tenderly how he was about Katie.
'Oh, fine,' he said. 'It's only a chicken, Mummy.'
And washed between his toes.
Oh.
But.
She wasn't to me.
And so.
Today we buried her.
In the McNuggets Box.
Appropriately.
Husband, Me, Middle Son, Daughter and Youngest.
'Are Farder,' we all said.
The other chickens watched and scratched about as we did so. Toby the cat came and had a look. Wee'd in a hole nearby, as you do at funerals.
Milly the rabbit peered through the fence.
Chewing like a Cowboy.
And in the midst of all the earth heaped up ready to put back into the Burial Hole, we found a Bright Sparkly Crystal. Huge. Just there. I picked it up and cleaned it on my jersey. And passed it to Tearful Daughter.
'Look,' I said. 'A Jewel!'
And it sparkled like her eyes.
And Cheered us all.

Here she is. Our Katie.
One Big Brown egg every day.
And a cluck as comforting as Warm Socks in winter.
Bless you, old girl.

One Year of Blogging is finally UP!

2009-10-01T17:31:00.005+01:00
TA DAR!!!
One year, folks.
One year of me hitting these keys.
One year of me desperately trying to remember something that happened yesterday that was REALLY REALLY funny. To post. Like you do.
One year of Husband glumly noting that I am 'Blogging again.'
One year of children glumly noting that I am 'Blogging again.'
One year of surfing around other people's lives; reading, laughing, giggling, crying over them in turn.
One year of Blogging.
One year of friends asking me, 'Do you still have your Blog?'
Like it was Vaginal Warts.

Said I'd stop at a year.
That would be Plenty, I'd thought, back in Those Days.
Nope.
How can I possibly stop when there is even more to say now?
So.
Look Out.
More stories of Dubious Content will be forthcoming.
Storing up those memories for me to look at when these Children of Mine grow up and Away.

Brilliant. Blogging is.

Youngest and the Lord's Prayer

2009-09-28T18:52:00.006+01:00
Youngest's version of the Lord's Prayer.
Said with eyes Tightly Shut and hands together.
Just before he goes to sleep.
At his request.
Always.

Are Farder,
Who are Tin Hevvin
Hallo be die mane.
Die King Domcome!
Die Will Bedunne!
On urf as it is in Hen.
Give Usiffday our dairy bread
And for give usustespresses.
As we give doze tespes genstus.
For dine is Dekinden.
De pa and de glor.
Eefor ever an' ever.
Amen

Hope God is listening.
Because Youngest means Every Word.
Bless.

Comment Tart

2009-09-26T20:13:00.005+01:00
Right. You are all obviously Psychic.
After the last couple of posts, got rather Fed Up with the lack of comments.
Thought that I might give up this malarkey.
Decided that was spending Far Too Much Time on the computer and not enough doing House Work.
So.
Decided to Stop Blogging.
But, for the hell of it, posted about the Naughty Grass.
Gloomily watched No Comments coming in.
Turned the computer off and Gardened. House worked. Did Wifely things and Motherly things and even went to a Fete.
I think that you all knew. You must have done.
Because when I turned on the computer today I had lots of lovely comments.
Hooray!
Love Blogging!
Must write another post!
What fun!
Quick!
What post shall I publish today!
Yippee!
Isn't blogging the Best!
Well.
You can see that am Very Shallow Person indeed.
Hopelessly needy and such a sucker for a Comment.
Nearly my first year of blogging is up. You would think I would be a Mature Blogger by now and Simply Not Care about Comments and Followers.
But Am Not.
Mature.
Am Comment Tart.
Am Follower Flirt.
Blogger Bait.
Right. Better go and do some more Wifely and Motherly things.
Sigh.
Life doesn't half get in the way, eh?!
xx

Fetch the Naughty Chair!

2009-09-24T18:09:00.001+01:00
It seems that Super Nanny has really got to Husband.
Her and her Naughty Step.
At weekend Youngest was a Tad Naughty with Husband getting really rather Cross.
Youngest was issued with Warnings but continued, somewhat unwisely, with the Naughtiness.
Warnings,therefore, were all used up.
Now, what would Super Nanny do?
Yup. You said it. Go to the Naughty Step...! and all that jazz.
Husband followed her lead.
'Go to the Naughty Step!' Husband roars at Youngest. We all looked round for a Step. There wasn't one.
He re-thinks Situation.
'Go to the Naughty Grass!' he yells, with some Force.
We all looked around for some grass.
It was bloody Everywhere.
We were in a Field. A Grassy Sort of Field. Grass Galore, as it were. As far as the eyes could see.
Youngest couldn't make it to the Naughty Grass.
Two reasons.
One was he wasn't sure which bit he was supposed to sit on, it being rather a Large Area.
And two.
He was laughing too hard.
Middle Son, Daughter and I all hard pressed Not To Giggle.
Husband remained Not Amused.

Which made it all the funnier.
Poor Man.
The joys of Family Life.

In Which We Make A New Friend

2009-09-21T21:11:00.006+01:00
Met a very nice mother today. Freshly moved from London. Needs to meet some local people.
Five of us met at J's house for Coffee. Like Grown ups.
We were all on our Best Behaviour. Had lovely coffee and Carrot Cake. (The best mixture in the world, those two. A marriage made in Cake Heaven.)
Anyway.
Made polite conversation, told her about butchers and garages and shops and such.
Exchanged numbers.
All Very Nice.
Rounded off morning by all getting into our cars.
'Good Grief, woman, what's in your car?' my friend J. asked me. Looking in some astonishment through the back window. Large pieces of my garden appeared to be loaded in the back, and on the seats. Grass, old bits of bike, and trampoline parts all crammed into small space.
'Just going to the dump,' I said, airily.
Our New Friend nodded wisely.
'Yes,' she said, 'There's nothing like a good dump.'
For a moment we all stared, open mouthed. And then, together as one, laughed our Socks Off. Bellowed. For a minute or two.
Before attempting to contain ourselves and Go Home.
Humour.
The Fast Track to Friendship.
You just Can't Beat It.

The Last Straw

2009-09-19T19:33:00.004+01:00
Youngest comes racing up the stairs for his bath this evening.
'Mummy!' he pants, as he bursts into the bathroom, 'You know the cat?'
I tell him briskly that I know the cat Very Well Indeed.
'Well, I fink I put my finger in his bottom.'
Dropped shower head into bath and whipped round to face him.
'WHY!?' I ask. Not Unreasonably.
'Oh' he says, in Relaxed Fashion, 'By mistake, I fink.'
And sticks the same finger up his nose.
Oh, God.
I miss the Glamour.

A Post Script
Mystery solved. Youngest informs us at breakfast this morning that he had tried to remove Debris from Cat Bottom.
Others Horrified.
'Yeeuurrcchh. You put your finger in his bottom?!' Roars of Laughter and Disgust.
In equal measure.
Husband and I pour another coffee.
Welcome to the Nut House.

Spellings for Beginners

2009-09-18T20:56:00.003+01:00
Youngest enormously proud of his spelling achievements this week.
Actually has a List of Spellings to learn. Like a Big Boy.
Last one on the list is, inexplicably, SHAMPOO.
So.
He learns it.
Off by heart.
At breakfast this morning we Test Him on his Spellings
Like a Big Boy.
'How do you spell SHAMPOO?' we ask.
'SHER-AAA-MER-PER-O-O,' he says with a Pink Look of Pride.
'Hooray!' we all call out, and clap, loudly.
Daughter claps too.
'Right,' she says briskly, 'Now spell CONDITIONER.'
Youngest Visibly Deflates.
'Oh, alright then,' says Daughter, brightly, 'Try ANTIDISESTABLISHMENTARIANISM.'
Poor Youngest. Crushed, he was.
Aren't Siblings just the best?
Not.

The Joys of Sex. Not.

2009-09-16T19:14:00.013+01:00
Following on from the 'Choosing Desire' post of yesterday, thought I would share with you a little Snapshot of our life of Passion. With No Locks. And Children.
Anyway.
Was once, in a frisky and long distance past, having a Nice Time, as it were, with Husband, when in came child. Husband was most definitely at the Wrong End.
'What are you doing?' asked Child.
Husband says, in rather muffled tones, as he emerges from bed clothes.
'Oh, I am just checking Mummy's label on her pyjamas.'
Yeah.
Right.
I wasn't wearing any.
'Thank you, darling,' I said, brightly to Husband. 'Is it still there?'
'Yes!' he answered, equally Bright. 'Still there!'
'Oh, Goody!' said I.
Pink cheeked, we were.
My toes still Curl Right Up and Over when I think of it.