What the Dickens?

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

I'm Not Dead Yet

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

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

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

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

Even Wee on my upper leg.
Yum.

Trying to Remember Not to Forget

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

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

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

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

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!

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.