Summer Lovin'

Summer holidays are odd.  As a teacher you spend the ENTIRE year hanging out for this six week break and then it seems to be over in a flash.  I almost take the fun out of the summer holidays but being obsessed by the fact I should be enjoying every single little minute of them.  I counsel myself as we go through, after a week by saying, 'well, I've still got five weeks to go' - FIVE WEEKS!  Halfway through I'm equally as buoyant, and then we get to now; two weeks to go, and you realise that you are nearer the end than the beginning.  I comfort myself at the point by saying it is basically like starting an Easter or Christmas break now and look at all the time I've had already.  Next weekend I'll be convincing myself it is like the start of a half term and all the while I have a slightly suppressed, unusual sensation that when work starts again, I might quite like it.  (Oops - I've said it aloud now.)

We really are making the most of these holidays but I think I got a little bit overexcited and may have packed too much in.  Our suitcases were unpacked last weekend from France and repacked for Suffolk with a day at Warner Bros. Studios squeezed in the middle. We're back today from Suffolk and although a lovely time was had; the constant high of excitement from the kids resulted in slightly less-than-perfect behaviour between 4am and 5.15am this morning.  (I should have stuck to my resolute guns about not letting them share a room!)  We are all officially knackered.  I wonder if this is full-time-working-mother-guilt rearing her ugly head again?  Everybody says to me that teaching is so perfect when you have small kids because you can really re-group in the holidays.  It's true!  I have spent so much quality time with my lovelies in the last four weeks that I've completely remembered why I decided to work full time! ;-)  I'm kidding.  Sort of.

Yet still I can't seem to stop: Wicked tomorrow, Gullivers on Monday, Whipsnade on Tuesday - so much to do and it is imperative that we must all have fun at all times.  In fact, all you end up with is spoilt brats that moan when they have to fill an hour or two of their own time at home with a house and garden full of toys.  'But I'M BORED...' laments Zachary when I have dared to remove an IPad away from his trance-like gaze.

The added problem is that the no alcohol in the week situation really doesn't seem to apply to school holidays.  I'm a miserable bastard during term time so school holidays is when I get to do a huge amount of socialising.  Dinner on a Monday night?  Sure, why not?  Wine tasting on a Wednesday?  Brilliant - bring it on.  The only problem is that if you remember correctly my alcohol intake is meant to be vaguely limited at the moment and I'm currently trying to schedule in my next blood test when I will have had at least 48 hours off the sauce.  September 6th it is then!

I also reckon that I have spent approximately ten hundred million pounds in the last four weeks having so much fun.  I feel a few days of £1.50 morning cinema tickets (because who wants to eat popcorn at 10am?!) and laps of the park on scooters coming on to ensure there is enough money left in the bank to pickle my liver in cheap champers before it is head down again until half term.  Happy holidays everyone!  :-)

Half Term High Jinks

I do love a half-term.  The week started beautifully with a visit from my lovely work colleague Sophie, who is currently on maternity leave.  She has three little girls that I instructed my boys to look after.  Zak asked me their names just before they came.

'Mia is the oldest, then Orla and then... *Big fat pause* ...the baby.'  

Not to be put off by my lack of attention to detail Zak pursued this with:

'I'm sure she didn't just call her 'baby'.'

No Zak, no she didn't but Mummy has forgotten the poor child's name, okay?!  I responded with:

'I think it is something Greek, Cassandra?  No, that's not it.  Oh well never mind, I'm sure we'll find out over the course of the morning.'

Sophie hadn't even got through the door before Zak yelled from the top of the stairs:

'Mummy can't remember what you called your baby.'  Great.  Welcome.  (It's Juno by the way which is most definitely more Roman than Greek.)

That afternoon we took a trip to the cinema for them to watch 'Angry Birds the Movie' and for me to have a little nap.  This is definitely the onset of old age but ticked all boxes.  The kids were entertained, we were out of the house allowing Stu to work without chaos around him and I was indulging in my favourite past time.  Well my favourite past time when there aren't any open bottles of champers around anyway.

Wednesday I had to go to Chelsea for my eye appointment.  (All good news - meds are working - I'm back in contacts.)  I decided to combine this with a day out with the boys and booked lunch after at our favourite restaurant, Heddon Street Kitchen.  Zak was disappointed that my Professor didn't have crazy white hair and that he wasn't mad, but he warmed to him after he let them look at the back of my eyeball.  I wasn't quite as keen on them 'helping' when the Professor said to Sebi: 'Don't drop that will you?  It's worth 6 and a half grand.'  Maybe he was mad after all...

Having refused to go to the loo at the hospital, Sebi started clutching his willy at Sloane Square tube station, which I'm sure is not the done thing at all in that neck of the woods. The furious willy grabbing and hopping from one foot to another became rather frantic by Oxford Circus so I decided we needed an urgent pit stop before we got to the restaurant. Like an Oasis I saw a public pay-as-you-go portaloo on Regent Street.  I was just scrabbling for my 50p (50P4APEE!!) when I was approached by a friendly local drunk who told me I didn't need that and let me in with his key...  (Who gave him the key...?!)  I was hurriedly grateful and went in and Seb plonked himself on the toilet.  I (STUPIDLY) left Zak in charge of the electronic door and he pressed the button to shut and lock it and then pressed every other button so soon it opened again; permanently.  Apparently Sebi was not as yet finished so was now sitting in his glory in the middle of Regent Street.  I was busy bollocking Zak when my new tramp friend came back to tell me we needed to exit as the thing was about to self-disinfect.  Cue Sebi: 'But I TOLD you, I HAVEN'T FINISHED'. I'll gloss over the next few unpleasant minutes and 15 minutes later we were ensconced in the restaurant, obviously via another toilet en route.

The ice cream bar in this restaurant has to be seen to be believed.  One small scoop of ice cream in a bowl with ten thousand jars of sprinkles and sweets for the kids to help themselves to.  I think I got to Zak each time before he put a serving spoon full of sweets straight into his gob but I'm not completely sure.  Safe to say you couldn't see any ice cream on their plates by the time they had finished loading.  Two deliriously happy, sugar high boys charged around Hamley's and then their distinctly-less-wealthy-than-the-start-of-the-day Mother decided it was time to head home.

On the second traumatic tube journey of the day, Zak decided he was about to puke within about 20 seconds.  I'm normally a big fan of anti terror measures on the tube but I really could have done with a bin that afternoon.  There was no way in the world he was puking into my Ted Baker handbag (it's all about the lining!) so he managed to hold it in.  I think he was just a bit hot and full of sweets but was still a distinctly odd colour by the time we got on the train home.  'Air' started escaping from the other end to ease his sore tummy and even with me subtly opening windows we managed to clear a whole French family and their suitcases from our carriage.  I think I've now learnt how to say 'disgusting smelly English boys' in French now, should I ever happen to need it...

I had an amazing PT session with my friend Elena in the park yesterday.  She obviously chose the bandstand to do it in so that we were literally centre stage.  All of our boys took great delight in swinging high enough so they could see me over the hedge and hurl abuse at my efforts.

'YOU...*swing*...LOOK...*swing*...LIKE...*swing*...A...*swing*...DOG' sang my eldest. Personally I haven't met a dog that can plank with its feet in stirrups but I obviously need to get out more.

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!