London Calling

I used to spend majority of my life in London in my twenties.  I would head up to work on the 7.42, go straight out for dinner after work and spend most of my nights whiling the time away in some cocktail bar or other.  I would roll home, (occasionally via Bedford), for a few hours sleep before repeating the process.

The thought of commuting now makes my blood run rather chilly and I am definitely out of touch with the London 'scene'.

Yesterday however, I found myself London bound for Lynsey-Lou's belated 40th celebration.  My Uni girls are some of the most glamorous of my friends (no offence meant to anybody else!).  I therefore togged myself up in the compulsory LBD and high heels and headed off.  I'm not self-conscious by nature but being dolled up to the nines at 3pm at St. Albans station, I did feel a little out of place.  The fast train was changed from platform 1 to platform 3 and back again which meant my feet hurt before I'd even got out of the Shire.  No matter, tis the price one pays for glamour.  I comforted myself with the thought that Clare wore her 5 inch Louboutins to work without complaining every day so I could therefore manage one day of blisters.  Clare told me when I arrived, limping, to the hotel, that apparently nobody in London actually wears their high heels to travel around in and that I should've teamed my frock with a pair of trainers for the tube.  I'm so officially outmoded these days.  I also hadn't accounted for the wind tunnels you get in the tube which gave me a little bit of a Marilyn Monroe situation with my short floaty dress.  It did bother me that both my old muckers immediately asked if I was wearing underwear during this occurrence.  How badly behaved was I at Uni?  I have absolutely no idea as the three years have just amalgamated into one long alcoholic-fug.

Somehow, with a four-year-old and a three-month-old baby, Clare still has her finger firmly on the pulse of where are THE places one has to be seen in London.  As the weather was so nice, we ended up on the terrace of 'Aqua', overlooking Regent Street. We did what we normally do on a night out and the four of us put £20 each into a kitty. We then decided we would drink the cheapest bottle of champagne...which was £72 on the menu.  When we ordered it (at the bar, after a 10 minute wait), we were charged £81.56. Apparently there was a £9.56 service charge for us hanging around at the bar to be served...  It was the shortest-lived kitty that immediately went into negative equity.  Owch.

We were therefore truly over-excited when we got to the next bar and the champagne was 'cheap' at £55 a bottle.  Woo-hoo!  Clare was saying that she didn't even think about the prices of things these days as she was so used to London living.  I was thinking that I had no idea how I used to afford to drink in town every night of the week.  Although it was in the days before kids sucked you dry of every last penny. ;-)

Lynsey had bought me an early birthday present for my oh-so-important 37th birthday next week.  I was lacking in present for her belated 40th however.  We probably could have glossed over the fact if I then hadn't left her kind present and card in the bar when I left!  Yikes!  How ungrateful can you get?  When I texted to confess she said she would buy me champagne next year and then I could enjoy it and neck it before I left.  She definitely knows the way to my heart.

Hanging on the Telephone

My phone is broken.  The nice man in the phone shop said that it wasn't me dropping it into a pint of water, pissed, but that it was a software fail that would have happened anyway.  I think he might have just been being nice.

I don't use my phone very much to speak to people.  Shelley answers the phone to me with the line: "Who's died?"  I've told her that she really needs to stop doing that as she is going to feel awful when I phone one day and give an affirmative answer.  Sam refuses to believe that I don't talk on the phone and so phones me for an hour or so three times a week anyway.  I've stopped hanging up on her so I obviously am less phone-phobic than I used to be.  She'll give up smoking soon enough and then will have to go cold turkey on the phone calls as talking on the phone makes her smoke, or smoking makes her talk on the phone; one of those I'm sure. ;-)

I'm trying to figure out while I feel like I'm missing a limb as I don't have my phone for four days?  I may not speak very much but I'm an avid texter and since finally succumbing to a smart phone I like always having my email and Facebook to hand too.  I met some friends at the station last night and I was the first one there (no surprise).  When Hanh arrived and I told her my phone was broken she said "but what have you been doing then?"

I kept reminding my friends not to lose me last night as we exited a very busy Leicester Square station as sans phone I would never find them again.  It occurred to me that I spent many a busy day and night as a teenager in London with no phone and I survived and didn't lose people. My soon-to-be Deputy Head commented dryly that if I did get lost last night I would sit and scream at the top of my voice until I was found again.  It's good that my future employers view me as such a professional...

As I'm writing this, I'm waiting for my husband to arrive home from the 1.30pm football match.  It's probably a good job that I don't have my phone on me at this point.  I'm not feeling abusive as yet but I may well be within a couple of hours.  I'm still looking forward to the first time I meet his boss after he messaged me telling me that he had Stuart's phone a few months ago - in reply to a message in which I had called Stuart a cunt for being so late.  First impressions are so important...

So don't call me, I'll call you.  Except I won't.  Well, not for a few days anyway.  Maybe not even after that.  At least you can rest easy at the moment knowing it's not that I don't want to speak to you.  I'd love to.  Just can't. x

'Everyone has his day and some days last longer than others.' Winston Churchill

I went to see my Nana a couple of days ago.  Whilst we were chatting, it came out that she thought I still had a cleaner and I told her that I didn't anymore and I did my cleaning myself.  Cue Nana grabbing my hands and saying: "Darling, I'm so proud of you."

Really?  Each to their own but I reckon I'm achieving quite a lot at the moment academically and career-wise, yet, her delight in me is that I don't let someone else clean my bogs.

It got me thinking about the things you see as the best in other people, and of course, no shock to anyone, what did different people think was most fabulous about me?  Zak, I reckon would say the best thing about me was my cooking.  However, Zak would say the best thing about most people were what they cooked for him, unless any of those people were holding an Ipad...

Anything could come out of Sebi's mouth if he was asked the same question.  He might say something heartwarming like "being my Mummy", although he could equally say that my strongest quality was being good at Guess Who? so he is not necessarily to be trusted.  We were talking earlier about our appearance and I was saying that we looked alike.  Apparently not, according to my Mini-Me.  He says that I have a bigger nose, more rings through my ears and am not as nice-looking as he is.  Irritatingly, he is right on all counts.

I think I look for the humour in other people.  All the people I am closest to are blindingly hilarious.  I cannot imagine life with laughter in it, I try to ensure I'm laughing every hour, not every day.  I was talking to Sam the other day about how I loved being on my own in the house if the kids are ever away and she asked if I laughed out loud at my own jokes whilst alone.  Of course I bloody do!

We had a Mums' night in last night and as are my favourite kind of evenings we were trying to shock each other with our most controversial stories.  I won, hands down, of course.  Poor Stu innocently tried to make conversation at the school gate this morning but apparently one of the Mums couldn't quite look him in the face...

Luckily, I don't share those sorts of stories with Nana.  She is going strong and getting healthier at 100.  Mum, Dad and I had a sobering discussion the other day about the oldest person in the world who has just turned 116.  I'm not putting it past her.  If both my parents are still alive when she turns 116, they will be 90.  I think I may need to emigrate with that number of seriously aged relatives on my hands.  Dad won't be much trouble though.  He wants to be put in Tara's Retreat which is an old people's home in Sandridge and wheeled to and from the pub every day.  That I can manage I reckon.  Particularly if he keeps me in champagne for a few more years before then.

Happy Days

I just asked Sebi, whilst he was in the bath, if he had had a good day today?  I was relatively confident as it had included lunch at Granny's, two hours of stage school, dinner in a curry house and sunshine - what's not to like?

"Of course Mummy", he replied, "every day is a good day."

I suppose it is when you are four.  When do we lose that?  Maybe teenage angst stops the continuous flow of happy day into happy day or perhaps it hits as an adult when the weight of responsibility bears down.

Having said that, I am sure that much of it is a state of mind.  I came out of Trestle feeling slightly flat for the first time today since I have started the course.  I wasn't particularly hungover (!) and it was nothing to do with the quality of the material, which was, as ever, excellent.  I just didn't feel that I had excelled today or performed to the best of my ability, which doesn't sit comfortably with me.

I spoke to Sam and to Stu within half an hour of leaving and their replies were pretty much identical.  Something along the lines of: "it isn't like you not to think you're amazing." S'true I'm afraid.  I'm nothing if not an egotistical bastard.  In fact, by the end of the conversation with Sam when she asked me if I was going off to mope, I said, "what about?"

I tend to come up smelling of roses, (although today the aroma is definitely more sweat and curry).  It got me thinking about the attitude of those closest to me.  I don't tend to surround myself with miserable motherfuckers.  Life's too short.  I know that some people have been dealt a harsher hand than others and everyone has their off days, but my nearest and dearest tend to find their glasses half full rather than half empty, (metaphorically people, not just with wine!).

Having said all that, Stu has a cold this weekend and the fact that he is having to single-parent through this 'illness' is not sitting prettily with him.  Poor Stu.

I'd like to think that at 40 both of our boys will still be optimists.  It is an invaluable skill to nurture.  On that note, I'm going to bounce back into University tomorrow and be utterly fabulous and I am sure, distinctly annoying.

Poor Stu

Being married to me is hard.  I've heard it from the horse's mouth, plus from the mouths of all my closest friends, plus I realise it myself.  The only person who is completely oblivious to it and thinks that Stu is the luckiest man on the planet is my dear Mum.  (Her opinion is not to be trusted however as she still clasps her hands together with joy at how clever I am when I order my food in a restaurant.....in English...!)

I'm normally intolerant of my husband on a daily basis.  However, having not really seen him for a few days due to him working away, me working late and him going out on the piss; I'm having a rare moment of rose-coloured-glow about my marriage.

I wasn't convinced at first.  I wasn't used to a bloke asking me for a fiver on our first proper date to ensure he had enough cash for dinner so he "didn't have to put it on his card".  He received the first of a lifetime of long, withering looks that had him reaching for his visa rather than stuffing the last poppadum in his mouth.  He received the second of such looks later in the week when he invited me over for coffee at 11pm, only to 'discover' he didn't have a kettle.  Hmmmm.

We are so different in so many ways, but in the most dangerous ways, we are peas in a pod.  We are both hardcore drinkers and don't know how to say 'no' to things.  Bad combination.  It is probably the only wedding where neither the bride, nor the groom, remember saying 'hello' to any of their evening wedding guests.  We had a row as I flashed my boobs and stomped off to bed but then had to return to get Stu to get me out of my dress as I couldn't undo it.  Classy.  My Dad had organised breakfast for our entire families and the wedding party the next morning but we were so hungover, we tried to miss it.  We eventually were frogmarched down to a relatively frosty reception, only for Stu to vomit sporadically in the loos.  He coped with this wedding-hangover by chilling out a bit on the boozing.  I drank non-stop for the next 24 hours until I arrived, absolutely fucking fucked in the Seychelles to start our honeymoon.  Stu woke for breakfast in business class as we were landing to find me with my arms around the rest of the cabin, champagne in hand, declaring myself 'best-friends forever' with every man and his dog.

It is a shame that such an intrinsically tight-fisted bastard ended up with a wife with champagne tastes, literally, just champagne, always.  Stu is so much more generous these days, which is very, very lucky.  We get on so much better because he really nearly almost seems to enjoy buying champers for me to drink in front of him now whilst letting him have a sniff of the cork.

On a serious note; he is absolutely my rock.   He made me realise that my first ever 'heart-attack' at 35 was probably, more likely, just indigestion.  He suffered a huge number of long and terrible flights with me before I was cured (Hallelujah! ;-))  Stu coped with the painful flight to New Zealand with me by eating everything that first class offered him.  He didn't realise that eating 15 satay as the first course of seven was not compulsory.  I was unable to offer guidance as I had taken a load of valium and then drunk the plane dry of Dom Perignon.

Good job we had kids, otherwise I think we would probably be dead by now.  Stu is painfully and brutally honest though, sometimes at the most inopportune moments.  I put out quite soon I thought after a long and traumatic first birth.  I nestled post-coitally into my husband to check that all had been as expected.  Only to receive the response: "bit bigger, but still alright."  Really?!

The Dean, during the sermon at our wedding, suggested the key to marriage was being able to look over the fence at the attractive next-door neighbour but realise that doing anything other than looking over that fence could ruin everything.  Stu and I have probably both had a quick nosey over a fence or two at some point in the last eight years but have decided that the comedy grass in our own garden is most definitely greener. x

All or Nothing

I'm thankfully coming to the end of one of the booziest weeks of my life, and that is saying something.  I'm probably the only person on the planet who is looking forward to Monday with running and no alcohol.  Of course, I could always start that today but it's the weekend which makes it illegal.

I've had an amazing week.  No kids for three days was blissful.  On Tuesday I headed to the pub at 2pm with no further plan and funnily enough it worked a treat.  Not being tied to mealtimes and bathtimes for a few days feels like a holiday!

It is funny how easily I slip into being a lazy cow.  In the 'normal' day-to-day routine every second is accounted for.  This week however, when I had nobody to look after, it was as if I'd gone on strike.  I couldn't be bothered to butter the bread for a sandwich at lunchtime, I had to build up for about half an hour to wipe down some table mats as I had friends coming for dinner and as for wiping a smear of grease from the hob; well, I was in a right mood about that waste of my time!  My house is filthy, there is a pile of washing to put away and the fridge has only just been filled with something other than booze for the first time this week.  Come Monday, I know that the ever-efficient boot-camp will start running again on a military timetable but for these last couple of days, even though the kids are now back, my slovenly ways seem to continue.

Sam and I went to the pub last night spontaneously at 8.30pm in our wellies with spotty heads and dirty hair respectively.  I was only just beginning to find my way out of yesterday's hangover when the idea struck and before you could say "anyone for a bottle and a half of Pinot and ten halves of lager" we were ensconced in a cosy watering-hole. Fortunately, as we were so late going out there was no danger of severe drunkenness. How on earth then did I end up staggering through the door at 1.45am this morning? Jeebus.  Today is therefore following the same pattern as yesterday, and the day before that, etc. etc.  At least this morning there was bacon.

Maybe one school holiday I will actually use to recharge my batteries and have some decent, non-alcohol-induced sleep and return to work fresh-faced and enthusiastic?  No, I don't think so either.  At least I can view the sober nights and early mornings of term-time as a welcome rest instead!

These are the Days of Their Lives

I have just spent the last few hours stinkingly hungover in a packed cinema full of popcorn-chewing children; by personal choice.

I lust after the old hangover days.  Shelley and I spending the entire day horizontal in our pyjamas in our flat, inventing straws that would mean that we didn't even have to lift our head to drink our pints of squash but instead would be able to remain completely motionless at all times.

Things are different these days, obvs.  Although having said that, since we've convinced Sebi in the last month that it is actually possible for him to leave his bed without either of us arriving in his room to cajole him out of it, life it definitely better of a weekend morning, particularly for Poor Stu.  I was vaguely aware of one of them arriving in our room this morning at some point to suggest that it might be time for one of their parents to arise and give them breakfast.  I put my left foot underneath Stuart's bottom in a convincing manner until I was aware that the bottom had vanished and I could take hostage of the entire Super-Kingsize Bed, (rather that just the 80% I was holding up until that point).

Long gone are the days of actually having to engage with a child pre 9.30am.  Hallelujah! I reckon Zak may be able to take charge of breakfast soon too, although my dear husband isn't a slave to sleep in the same way that I am.

Apparently I was drunk last night.  I KNOW!  Can you believe it?  Of course you can.  The interesting fact that was raised by my husband this evening was that I was actually visibly drunker than him for most of the evening.  This is relatively unusual and worthy of a mention in his book as he was therefore able to pull me on my behaviour today which he enjoyed greatly.  I did nothing of note.  No bodily parts were out, abusive emails were sent or homeless people or animals adopted.  All good.  We were out with comparatively 'new' friends however, and Stuart said I was in my prime of showing off to a new audience. Every other word was disgusting and I trotted out my three most hilarious stories at top volume, pausing with the utmost certainty at the points for appreciative laughter.  Sad cow.  Sad, yet totally fucking hilarious, cow.

Anyway, 'The Lego Movie' was exactly what was needed this afternoon.  I didn't have to think/interact/concentrate or parent for two hours.  Then stuffed my fat face with pizza immediately after in Prezzo.  Happy days.  I just love half-term.  Particularly I love it from tomorrow when the chiddlers are racing up the motorway to spend most of it in Redditch whilst Stu and I drink champagne and eat out every night.  Smug?  Rather.