Everything in moderation

Life is a little less dull than last time I posted.  The situation is not quite as dire as first thought.  I decided to canvass a third opinion on the lack of booze situation as I was becomingly rapidly very, very grumpy.  We get on very well my GP and I and were able to have a candid conversation.  He immediately told me that I would be fine with some 'sensible drinking'.  I told him that I was not, never had been, and never will be a sensible drinker.  I needed to cut to the chase and find out if there was actually any danger of death with the odd binge drinking night.  He assured me that the occasional slip off the wagon was fine.

I reinterpreted this in my own way.  I'm still quite nervous of these drugs so I have figured out if I drink within the recommended government guidelines for a week still but just narrow that down over two days instead of seven, I will probably remain with an un-pate-like liver and still have Friday and Saturday nights worth looking forward to.  I am therefore totally tee total Sunday to Thursday and am allowing myself a bottle of fizz on Friday and Saturday nights.  Win win.

I'm still refusing to drink any alcohol that is not champagne however.  It is important to retain standards and also not waste any units.  Unfortunately the cheapest bottle of champagne in the restaurant last night however was a £55 bottle of Veuve.  My husband took this with quite good grace however.  Doctor's orders and all.  Well, nearly.

A sunny Sunday BBQ with the Morgans was less of a sober challenge than I thought.  The key to me not drinking is to not chill anything worth drinking.  I was not coveting their lagers at all and even remarked to Samantha on our sun loungers that I was managing to have quite a fun day sober.  Some people would have taken that as a bit of an insult; not my mucker however.  She said she wasn't that surprised that I was having a good time it was just that I had never bothered trying it before!  It's true.  It would have never crossed my mind to not drink at a social occasion.  Maybe after this year is up I will be one of those irritating middle-aged women who looks at you like you are a piece of dog poo if you try and refill their glass.  Hmmm, maybe not.

I'm not as thin as I should be if alcohol is full of calories and I've cut mine down by at least half...ish...and the rest...  I've had a hamstring injury for a couple of months now that has kept me from running and I've noticed that my normal regime of shoving everything I fancy food or drink wise in my mouth whenever I want it then running around the block a couple of times a week has come unstuck and I've turned into a bit of a lard arse.  I have never dieted in my life and have only been weighed when I was preggers and forced on the scales but I am currently doing the nearest thing I ever will do to a diet until I can run again. I call it the eat-like-a-health-freak-Monday-to-Thursday-and-then-shove-everything-you-can-see-down-your-throat-Friday-to-Sunday.  Catchy eh?  Look out for the cook book and DVD coming soon.  It does seem to be working a bit although the everything in moderation outlook has never really worked for me.  I've just had to eat all of these from my lovely Year 11s:

...so that they are not there tomorrow to ruin my healthy start to the week.  The hilarious part of it is that whilst I was troughing through them I was preparing my 'overnight-oats' brekkie for the morning.  Right then, how many hours is it until Friday night...? ;-)

Nil (or not much) by Mouth

There is no point beating about the bush, let's get straight to the point - I have to give up the demon drink for a year.

Well, not exactly give up, but, drink within 'the government's recommended guidelines', which is basically as bad.

My evil-eyeball-eating-itself disease seems to be resistant to every type of eyedrop known to man so instead we need to suppress my immune system with some kind of chemotherapy instead (it's not cancerous however).  It's a clinical trial, I have no fear of things like this, but the two things that it can't cope with are (a) alcohol and (b) sunshine. Seriously, talk about fucking up your summer!

It is going to be very good for me I'm sure.  2-3 units a night, rather than 2 bottles on a weekend night cannot help but reap benefits but the downside is I'm obviously going to be sober.  Sober on nights out, sober out for dinner, sober at the pub, sober after a shit day at work, sober at birthdays, sober at Christmas, sober at celebrations, sober at Sunday lunch, sober with my Dad, sober with my husband, sober with my bezzie, sober when my kids are pissing me off, sober on a Friday night, sober on a Saturday night, sober on weekends away, sober at the two summer balls I'm attending, sober on holiday (and sitting in the shade for the love of God!) - mainly quite sober!

Now, I'm not for one cotton-pickin minute insinuating that I only ever have fun when I am drinking, because that would make me a fully bonafide alcoholic, but, I have never actually tried the fun sober stuff.  I am never the designated driver and tend to be the life and soul of the party always with some champagne in my belly.

Ahhhhh, champagne.  My one true love.  This makes me especially sad.  Therefore I have decided to invest in this:

24 x individual bottles of champagne that I can keep in the fridge to ensure that I can have my 2-3 units a night, cold and fizzy.  I knew that these were invented for a reason.

It's bollocks but I appreciate that it is also karma.  If there is anyone in the world that probably needed a reality check on alcohol, it is me.  Maybe I will come out of this year a reformed character and irritate the masses with my newly emphatic evangelism on the benefits of sobriety and the evils of the demon drink.  Hmmmm, maybe not.  I think it is more likely that I sulk my way through the year, grumpily accepting only the invitations that I have to and avoiding most other social situations.  Basically spending the year as if I was pregnant but without the cute alcohol-soaked baby at the end of it.

I may become a bore on this blog, I warn you now.  I need to get my kicks from somewhere.  If you are not a proper dirty drinker like me then none of what I've said so far will be resonating with you.  If you are on my wave length then you will be feeling my pain, reaching for your favourite tipple and just having a little check that your eyeball looks as it should, thanking your lucky stars and raising a glass to my sobriety.

I think I will be probably making it 50.5 weeks instead of the required 52 so that I can celebrate my 40th in style next April.  As Samantha sympathetically pointed out to me a couple of days ago though; there is not much point spending the money I was going to on my 40th, as after a year off the booze I will definitely be the cheapest date in the room.  I could possibly be passed out on the floor by 7.30pm, but, if I am, I am sure that I will be asleep and very, very happy!

Cheers :-/ x

Happy Easter!

What a weekend!  Friday saw Kate and I heading up to London early doors to attend a pop-up Moët Academy.  Neither of us knew what to expect, but I was going as it obviously involved champagne drinking, and she was going as she likes champagne, has a sense of adventure, a healthy budget and a kind habit of indulging my folly.  We were greeted with a glass of water which was not what I was expecting but after a 360 degree tour of the virtual vineyard for 45 minutes, the serious business of tasting began.  They first gave us Prosecco so that we could all spit it into our branded Moët buckets in disgust...  I surprised myself by not being the biggest champagne snob in there.  Other people took it really properly seriously.  I was just trying to guzzle as many free bubbles as possible before being kicked out.  With the help of a winning smile and a wink at the barman I think Kate and I possibly banked more than our fair share...  We glided giggling down in the lift as we were thrown out, hoping to find the loos on the way and wishing au revoir to our fellow connoisseurs; only to take a wrong turn and have to go back in the lift to the toilet as we had done a drunken loop and had to drift past the same people once again, feeling just a little less sophistimacated...  Fortunately as we left the building I was immediately propositioned by a tramp.  I didn't want to take up his kind offer for a drink but I think he had correctly sussed out the alcoholic capability of his proposed drinking partner if perhaps not quite the class...  Cue Kate and Nikki heading to Bubbledogs for hot dogs and more champagne.

Saturday I hopped on a train and joined my husband in Redditch for Lindsey's 40th.  Stu was picking me up at the station but I stomped straight past him as I was so convinced that he wouldn't bother getting out of the car to come and meet me - who says romance is dead after nearly ten years of marriage?!  He bought me lunch, then I reluctantly shelled out for dinner but then turned up cashless to the party, which of course was cash only.  My darling husband used to be a right tight-wad when I met him but has morphed into generosity itself, (well nearly). Grumping away he was that I didn't have the readies, until he found out it was £4.65 for a pint and a glass of wine.  Got to love a social club in the Midlands!  Suddenly I was no longer the devil incarnate and for possibly the only time in my life was a bit of a cheap date.

Good job, as today I reversed at speed into a brand new Audi.  Well done me.  I left a note on the window that said: 'Hello, I'm Nikki.  I crashed into your car; sorry.' and my phone number. What else is there to say?  A very nice, understanding gentleman left a voicemail for me whilst I was watching 'Zootropolis' at the cinema and I rang him back playing the helpless, dumb blonde (yes - it was acting, of course), and we had a very civilised and St Albans conversation about how my insurance was going to go up and never, ever come down again but ho, ho, ho as long as nobody was hurt and yes of course it could happen to ANYONE, so all was okay.  The patronising subtext was of course, 'stupid f-ing women drivers' but hey, we rode it out.  I now need to deal with the fortnight of ribbing from my husband and father of course...

Three and a half day week coming up followed by tenth wedding anniversary celebrations in Cornwall, a birthday and then two weeks off.  Not too shabby.  This Monday is showing Mondays what they should be like (car crash excepted).  Roll on tomorrow and my form's 'ISIS assembly'.  We are treading the thin and controversial line to get a powerful message across. What could possibly go wrong with an ethnically diverse, dramatically challenged, 'interesting' Year 7 form led by a possibly slightly hungover, dangerous reverser of a form tutor?  I'll let you know... ;-)  

Super Saturdays

I had 11 hours sleep last night.  It was utter bliss.  I awoke briefly at 9.30am as Stu left the bed and Zak entered it.  I soon ejected Zak when I realised that he can't jump on an IPad game without kicking his legs.  I guess it is like when I put the brake on whilst sitting in the passenger seat of Stu's car; intrinsic.  Zak left and I dozed for a few minutes and then Sebi took his place.  This was more restful and I carried on sleeping until 10.50.  Lazy-arse-happy-Mumma.

An hour after I had breakfasted, we went out for lunch.  That is when you know it is going to be a good Saturday.  We headed into town to a fantastic burger restaurant called 'Relish'.  Parking in St. Albans can be hellish on a Saturday so when I spied a street space very near to the restaurant I yelled and Stu duly pulled into it.  The kids and I started sauntering towards 'Relish' whilst Stu went to get a ticket.  Two minutes later however, my husband was stropping about in a mood about the ridiculous parking charge and told me I should have let him park in the car park instead.  The sun was shining, I was determined to have a nice family Saturday, so I told him he was very welcome to move the car into the car park in order to save a few pennies if it was going to make him any happier. Unbelievably, he moved the car into the car park only to find out it would cost him 30p more so moved it back out onto the street again.  I said nothing as 15 minutes later we walked to the restaurant.  Nothing.  Not a thing.  I did laugh in his face a bit however...

We decided after lunch we would park near my Nana's nursing home and Stu could take the boys to the park whilst I went to see her for a little while.  Zak legged it into the park far ahead of everyone and launched himself at a swing in ecstasy.  As he jumped on, he hadn't realised that someone before him had rolled the swing up and as he landed it unrolled leaving him hanging upside down.

'DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDD!' he cried, but managed to hang upside down bat-like until Stu caught up.

I spent an interesting half an hour or so with Nana where the conversation wandered from reality to fantasy and back again.  When Dad spoke to her later she told him that she had had a lovely afternoon with Mary (my sister)...

I'm currently snuggled on the sofa with my biggest boy and a glass of champagne watching 'The Voice' and having our normal Saturday night discussion about the Transgender performer.  Zak being delightfully innocent, me being incredibly politically correct and Stu snorting from the end of the sofa.  Happy Saturday Night everyone!

Mamma Mia

Mothering Sunday is just coming into its own.  Stu has gone off to watch the footie, my parents have left, the boys are on the IPads and I have just opened my motherly bottle of champagne.  Bliss.

The boys were under strict instructions this morning that the way to make Mummy have a really wonderful start to Mother's Day was to not arrive in to see me before they were invited.  Good job as a 'civilised' few drinks and a dog walk last night turned into the normal Nikki-Sam carnage...

Once I had translated Zak's card this morning from: 'Smelly, not all Mothers are like you' to 'Sadly, not all Mothers are like you', we began getting on a little better.  I'm still not convinced that my original guess wasn't right.  It would have been a fair point first thing this morning too.

We had a delicious lunch at The Plough with the four of us, plus Granny and Grandad, plus a large amount of both Beaumont and Samuel Ryder students and parents.  One of the members of staff there is a parent and took the time to thank me for increasing her daughter's confidence at school.  Really lovely until she finished with the information that her daughter had asked her to find out how many glasses of wine Mrs Ward drinks with her Sunday lunch.  Not as many as she would like to under the beady eyes of students.  I remember our poor Geography teacher at STAGS being spotted once coming out of Budgens clutching a bottle of gin by a member of Year 11.  It's now the only thing she is remembered for.  I am so screwed.

Our lunch took quite a long time to arrive today as they were extraordinarily busy in there. The boys were 'STARVING' so Dad saved the day with some well timed packets of crisps. When they had finished Sebi asked how long the food would be and I said five minutes and told him to count to 300.  Which of course he did. When he was at about 265 he was eyeing me suspiciously and my parents enquired what my Plan B was if the food didn't arrive in exactly 35 seconds time.  How many packets of crisps have you got up your sleeve Grandad?

Zak had to shoot off to cricket straight after lunch so Mum, Dad, Sebi and I went home for coffee.  Grandad gave Sebi a pound and Sebi said that he now had £52.76 in his money box.  Grandad refused to take his word for it and counted it all out with Sebi sitting next to him asking me what on earth he was doing as he had told him exactly how much was in there and so he was wasting his time.  Grandad was far too overexcited to find that in fact there was only £52.74 in there and to prove Sebi wrong.  Until that is he got up to go and found he was sitting on two pence.  The look Sebi shot him was a six year old equivalent of sticking two fingers up I think...

I presented Mum with her bouquet as she left and the boys looked bemused.  'She can't drink that' quipped Zak.  You really can tell whose children they are can't you.

Happy Mother's Day lovely people!  Cheers!

Bah Humbug!

Today was a shitty day.  I'm meant to be in Norwich tonight with my dear mate Lyns, putting the world to rights and drinking champagne.  I'm not there, although there may be a glass of fizz on the go rather soon I reckon.

My weird 'eyeball eating itself' disease decided to make a reappearance last night which meant I spent another Saturday sitting in eye hospital in Stevenage today.  I did what I was told last time which was to go through A&E and get a referral to the eye unit.  A&E was a sight for sore eyes this morning, (sorry, couldn't resist), as it had been their Christmas party the night before.  They were on go-slow already before the bloke in front of me started kicking off about nothing in particular and I began to worry at 11.40 that I wouldn't get into the eye place before it shut at 12.  I did, only to be told that they were full and they wouldn't see me today and I should come back on Monday.  I very politely told the receptionist that they really would see me if he could just get a message to them with the name of my problem.  Huffing and puffing he reluctantly went round to the doctor and came back with a right cob on saying that 'luckily' I could wait and be seen.

I have managed to wear contact lenses for three days in the last four months and today I was told that I was back to square one and one three different sorts of eyedrops every hour for eternity; well, six more weeks.  I think the time may have come to possibly stop my contact lenses by post order as we have racks and racks of the things in our bathroom now.  As I am unable to drive in the dark and was not going to get to Norwich in the light my lovely weekend plans went down the toilet.

Whilst all this was going on, Stu and the boys were off Christmas tree shopping.  I joked to my Dad that I was quite glad to be in hospital if Stu was having to handle the boys plus Christmas tree plus his first go at getting it standing up straight in the stand.  Unfortunately, when I returned home it was still leaning against the front door in its netting.  Stu and I have thus far avoided any marital Christmas tree erecting disputes by a wonderful invention I found called 'tree-in-a-box'.  It pops out of its box, fully lit and decorated onto a stand in ten seconds flat.  The boys began to be a bit miffed that they couldn't actually hang anything on it though so last year I caved into it being tree-in-a-box's last stand.

I admit that I wasn't in the best mood when I returned home this afternoon.  Stu had no chance; it was never going to end well.  He took charge of tree-lifting and I made myself chief stand-screwer.  Within two minutes it was standing straight and stable in the lounge. Happy days.

'The feet are wonky', muttered my foolish husband.

'Who gives a crap; the tree is upright', replied his mutinous wife.

Taking his life in his lands, the poor, unfortunate man began unscrewing the screwed in and up-until-this-point, stable, tree.  He received a tirade of verbal abuse for the following ten minutes that he screwed, unscrewed, lifted, replaced, screwed, unscrewed, etc., etc. and yep, you've guessed it, the tree would no longer stand upright, or in fact stand in any way at all. Zak removed Sebi from the room at this point as he thought it was best for him not to be around his parents at this particular time...  To cut a long, painful and potentially divorce-inducing story short, Mummy ended up attaching the tree to the ceiling, Daddy legged it to the pub and the Angel Gabriel decided that Christmas was not worth the hassle and tried to top herself by flinging herself from the top of the tree.  Ho, ho, fucking, ho.

The kids are happy.  The tree is, as of 17.59, still standing.  I intend to drink enough champagne that my blurred vision soon becomes normal.  Man Utd. surely have some hope of beating BOURNEMOUTH at least, so I would imagine that peace and tranquility Chez Ward will soon be restored.  Could just do without the ghost of tree-in-the-box past, gloating quite so much from the attic. ;-)

Little Shop of Terrified...

I am taking a large deep breath this evening.  I have just finished my short but really rather lovely run of the school production of 'Little Shop of Horrors'.  I must admit that there have been times over the last few months where I have considered feeding myself to a giant man-eating venus flytrap but, forever the cliche, it was alright on the night in the end.

The problem with being in a department of one, plus auditioning for a show when you don't know any of the kids, and trying to squish rehearsals into a crazily short time frame; means that a newly appointed and inexperienced Head of Drama could end up rocking quietly in a darkened room wondering what on earth she has possibly let herself into.  Of course that didn't happen at any point.  Definitely not.

Fortunately, I have discovered, once again, that I am mostly surrounded by good-natured, patient, talented and resourceful individuals that aided me in a pulling a successful musical out of my bum against the odds.

My partner in crime, the Head of Music; the very talented Miss Sarah Dearn, was a gift from before I obviously managed to piss off the God of Performing Arts.  There was no competition, no bitchiness, many a hashtag and an awful lot of laughs.  Amazing when you don't know each other at all.  I'm assuming the fact she is now leaving the building is nothing to do with me arriving therefore... #coincidence  Neither of us are precious about our roles.  Quite often, Sarah would end up regrouping a tableaux whilst I was banging out the same tune on the piano for the ten millionth time.  It was a beautiful thing; although as we were finishing each other's sentences in Sainsbury's yesterday afternoon, we both agreed that maybe the time had come to part temporarily.

In a fit of panic at the beginning of October, I realised that directing, plus fulfilling all of the technical requirements single-handedly could potentially either (a) kill me; (b) make me very quickly become a single-mother or (c) mean that my children would have to send postcards to my school in order to be able to connect with their mother.  As if by magic, an unsuspecting and eager new Head of RE floated into my hemisphere and mentioned casually that he had taught some Drama at his old school and would be interested in attending a few rehearsals.  Like a predator sniffing out my prey, I casually enquired if he had had any involvement in the technical aspects of any of his previous productions. Would you believe it - he had only a keen interest in Theatrical Lighting and Sound.  Before he had a chance to say 'I was only being polite', I had cemented his name in the programme as 'Technical Director', handed him a poisoned chalice and made him responsible for the techy minions.  Job done.

I was inspired by this success and deciding that I had nothing to lose I penned an email to the entire staff asking enthusiastically if anyone was harbouring a secret desire to be a wardrobe or props mistress, set designer, hair stylist, make up artist or front of house manager.  It's amazing how an official-sounding arty title, a few well chosen words of encouragement and some kisses at the end of an email can manipulate poor, unsuspecting, kind-hearted and overworked teachers into giving up more of their time to the greater good.  I was flying high - I had the support of an incredible team and nothing could possibly go wrong!  Not unless of course, the lead performer dropped out two and a half weeks pre the opening night, but of course, that would never happen!

That happened.

Year 8 saved the day.  The 12/13 year old boy who was playing Mushnik stepped forward into the lead, and another 12/13 year old boy who wasn't involved at all, stepped in to take over his role.  The entire cast pulled together to support them and they all worked crazily for the last two weeks to make it happen.

On my knees, I was ready for the inset long weekend last weekend and celebrating with a few well-earned vinos last Thursday night.  The text arrived at about 11pm to say that Sebi had started vomiting.  My weekend of lunching at Auberge-du-Lac, dinner parties and an entire Christmas shopping day in John Lewis swiftly became a weekend of rubber gloves and carpet scrubbing, greasy hair and l'eau du sick instead.  All doable, as long as nobody else became ill.

There were various miscommunications with less favourite people during the Tech Run and Dress on Tuesday/Wednesday that I would love to detail but can't without risking being fired.  I think that I possibly managed to successfully communicated my displeasure however.  My own children at this point were catching the odd glimpse of somebody they used to call 'Mummy' first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  I nearly allowed one of my form to stick a post-it to my forehead to remind me about Sebi having to wear a costume to school one day in the week but in the end I thought it could be a little conspicuous until the end of the day, so I left it to Zak to sort it out at home.  Stu started puking Tuesday night and was banished to the spare room with orders not to use any towels or utensils without seriously sterilising them afterwards and under no circumstances to mix with either his children or his wife without the use of a surgical mask.

I realised on Wednesday that the show had taken over my life completely, when my work trousers burst during a lesson due to less exercise and more lard than usual; beautiful.  Fortunately, I started puking at about 10pm Wednesday so would fit into them again by Thursday.  Shame that Thursday was the first day of only two days of the show that had nearly killed me to produce and now I was possibly too ill to see.  I pulled my diseased and broken body into work on Thursday morning after three hours sleep.  I'm no martyr but I am a realist.  A new Head of Drama that phones in 'sick' on the morning of a show would forever, (in my eyes too, I admit it!), be labelled as a flaky knob who was unable to cope with the pressure.  No.  Way.  Fortunately by about 4pm I was better and able to eat a banana that got me through the first night.  It was amazing.  I was complete.  I had worried and worried about taking this job for months and whether I had done the right thing or not, and finally it had all come together and was absolutely worth it.  I came home, flying so high, and then my wonderful Nanny handed in her notice...

My Mum has this theory that not everything can go right at the same time.  She always said to me that in your twenties you can have two out of the three following things being great but not all three: flat, boyfriend, job.  She was right at that stage of my life and I transfer that to now.  Mum, Wife, Job.  Two out of three can be successful at a time but obviously not all together!

I picked up and carried on for Friday's production, putting this current problem out of my mind and convincing myself I would deal with it at the weekend.  (Damn it - I guess that is now then...)  My wonderful Technical Tom began to puke two hours before the show started but also soldiered on through.  Stu and Sam were there last night as Stu's Christmas party was Friday.  My wonderful parents picked the boys up from school, fed them and brought them to watch last night.  Obviously Dad wasn't going to stay - so not his bag, so I reserved three front row seats for Mum, Zak and Sebi.  I stuck my boss on the end next to Sebi as he has kids of his own and would cope, plus he was in and out sorting out front of house shizzle.  Unfortunately a more and very important Deputy came in and sat next to Sebi instead.  Now, Sebi is a delightful child but he also does a good line in death stares which unfortunately he has got from his mother.  Zoe and I were sitting in the row behind watching in trepidation to see his reaction.  He opened the dialogue with a light accidental kick to her thigh, for which she apologised, to which he gave a death stare.  Oh God.  He warmed up a little when she asked if he would hold his hand if it got scary.  By the time he had had a coughing fit and she had confiscated my bottle of water to sort him out, they were serious bezzies. 

Darling Daddy obviously had a fit of remorse/pride pre pick up and decided to arrive 30 minutes early to catch some of it.  He therefore sweet-talked my boss into slipping in and letting him through the back door so that he didn't disturb the show.  There's always one, isn't there...

Job done.  Now sleep and re-integrate myself into my poor family.  

Don't feed the plants. x