The Only Way to Essex

Summer holidays are hard work.  Any Mum who tells you otherwise is a big fat liar.  (I realise as I write this that it is actually only Day 3 of the summer hols and my parents had the kids for the majority of Day 1.......)  Zak is a very different kid to Sebi.  During term time Seb and I can quite happily potter around the house all day if need be and as long as he gets his hour of Thomas, (ok, two hours of Thomas, why does everyone lie about child-TV watching time - judge away) ,at lunchtime he is a happy chap.  Zak is an action-packed whirlwind who needs activity followed by activity with a lot of feeding and watering in between.  Therefore there is no hope of a nothing day, ever, in the summer holidays it is go, go, go!

I decided at the beginning of the week that we were going to go to the coast for the day today.  The boys were absolutely beside themselves with excitement yesterday and we dutifully went out and bought a cool box, then we went back out and bought the ice blocks to go in them (how was I to know that a cool box wasn't just naturally cool inside?).  You may note from all this that I was a little unprepared for this adventure. I don't normally do picnics you see because of the wasp-factor but I think that all the rain this summer has drowned the evil black and yellow buggers in their nests so I was willing to change my ways for one season only.

I then didn't sleep well last night, partly due to the heat and partly due to some very exciting news I received yesterday which I can't tell you about because it's a secret.  I'm dreadful at keeping secrets (never trust me with anything) so please don't ask me again because I will definitely blab.

So I woke up this morning being less than enthusiastic about trekking to the beach. There was no backing out now however and all was well until we hit the bottle neck that leads towards the Essex coast.  Apparently lots of other people had thought that visiting the beach on the hottest day of the year so far was a  good idea too.  Apparently lots of other people had thought they would wait until rush hour was over and aim to get there about 11 too.  It took us an hour to travel the last five miles - HIDEOUS.  The boys were great, considering, but Zak did tell Sebi "It's not really Mummy's fault" whilst giving the back of my neck daggers - the child has mastered sarcasm too young.

We had a lovely day.  Although, 'day' is probably a bit of an exaggeration.  By the time we had got there and back, parked, done a few nudey rudey changes on the street (the boys, not me) and done a few toilet stops, I reckon we had about two and a half hours on the beach.  Oh and to the stupid cow who shot me a filthy look as my sand-ridden blanket dared to brush past her beautifully (fake) tanned forearm as I tried to manage two small boys weeing in a tiny toilet cubicle - fuck right off.  I used to look just like you ten years ago and you will look as harassed and sweaty as me in ten years time by which time I will have come out the other side (ish) and be drinking champagne on Costa del Essex watching my teenage boys hide their hard ons as they walk past bikini-clad ladies on the beach.  Let's see if Zak announces as proudly that his willy is full of sand then....

Book Club for the Soul

The first rule of Book Club is: You do not talk about Book Club.  The second rule of Book Club is: You do not talk about Book Club.  I only found this out after about our third meeting when Aly and Sam fessed up to the fact that they totally lied to their colleagues about what they were doing that night.  They felt that Book Club may have a stigma attached to it.  I think that these days they've realised that either (a) Book Club is actually quite cool or (b) we're all so old and past it that non-cool activities are pretty irrelevant.

The third rule of Book Club is: even though we all make some sort of pretence about it being a democratic club, we all know that it is really Nikki's Book Club and Nikki doesn't cope well without an element of control over the proceedings.  Out of the two books that are chosen every meeting, one of them has always been chosen by me.  I like to ensure that a certain quality of literature is adhered to in at least one of the books each session; this isn't just any old book club you know.

I have uncontrollable feelings of rage about 'The Fifty Shades of Grey" trilogy.  I think it is embarrassing, not least the umbrella title of 'Mummy Porn' that it has been given.  Putting 'Mummy' before 'Porn' I don't think is a particularly winning combination.  If you want to go and read porn, read porn; watch porn, but for fuck's sake don't try and dress it up as literature.  Every woman and her whippet seems to have jumped on this bandwagon and is reading this shite.  Most people I have spoken to have admitted it is shite and the reviews are dreadful.  A stupid writer targetting stupid people.  I knew that at least two of the members of Book Club had read at least one of these books and I was damned if it was going to enter our discussions last night.  A view I made quite loudly and clearly when it looked as if it might.

So, we continued (after the food, wine and gossiping) to talk about some real books.  We always meet in a pub and last night I had chosen (getting the gist of it now?) to meet in one of my Dad's locals as I knew it would be quiet enough and the food is big, tasty and reasonable.  Obviously my Dad got wind of this though and couldn't resist popping in to have a nose.  He reckoned we were faking it as there was more booze on the table than books.  When I went to see him and his mate at the bar, his mate, on finding out that it was book club said "my daughter's obsessed with a book at the moment, it's called.....", yep, of course if was.  This gave the barmaid the wrong end of the stick and she now believed we were all meeting up to specifically discuss Christian Grey and all his attributes!  I'd fought so hard to keep the kudos of Book Club and the next thing I know she is shouting across the pub "Oooh, I love it too, don't tell me how it ends".  Jesus.

You'd think it couldn't get any worse from there but as we tried to continue with decorum I could see "Ruby" going through the intricate details of 'Fifty Shades of Grey' with my dear Papa.  Needless to say he didn't linger for long after that.  Another paternal interruption and a quick gag about cable ties and the barmaid and he was gone, generously leaving his tab open at the bar for us to abuse at will.  Unfortunately everyone else bar me was driving so I think he's going to be a bit disgusted at his tab being sullied with lemonade and soda water.

If you can't beat 'em join 'em?  No fucking way.  Hopefully by the time of the next meet this pathetic phenomenon will have died the painful death it deserves.  Anyway, the fourth rule of Book Club is: We do NOT discuss 'Fifty Shades of Shite'.

 

Running for my life!

I am not a natural runner.  I'm not, in fact, a natural sportswoman.  My PE career at school was distinctly un-glittering and I managed five years of gym lessons where the only thing I managed to achieve was a forward roll.  Hockey lessons, I spent in goal with a couple of other like-minded individuals where we figured out if we just stood shoulder-to-shoulder there was some hope that the ball wouldn't go past us.

Therefore, it surprised me as much as everyone else when last year I entered Race for Life.  It was in July so I decided that May would be a sensible time to start my training.  I had a theory that I should just run as far as I could and then beat that every time.  My supportive BFF Samantha said she would start the training with me, so early one evening in May we dressed up as if we were runners and set off from her house.  We ran to the end of her road and around the corner and then I stopped, (nearly died) and told her that was it, I was done.  We walked back to her house and her husband was really concerned that one of us was injured as we had been out for all of about four minutes.  I think they both thought I was a little odd as I bundled back into my car and did not hold out much hope for me running 5k in eight weeks time.  Sam said she wouldn't even have bothered getting changed if she knew that was all we were doing!

So, I slogged on, and it was a slog.  I still don't like running.  I get a sense of achievement when I've done it but during the actual process I hate every last sodding step.  I had a few offers from people who wanted to come running with me but I nearly always said no.  I don't want to talk, any spare breath I have whilst I'm running is used for expletives and I'm not a happy exercise companion.  I did begin to notice however that after a few months of this torture, my body was beginning to become a teeny-tiny bit less flobbedy.  Amazing.  I can still eat like a horse and drink like a fish but I no longer look like such a heifer!  The only trap is that I know now I can never stop.  The fear of flabbiness will keep me dragging myself around the streets of Marshalswick twice a week for as long as I can.  If you happen to pass me whilst I'm out running, please don't toot, wave, or even smile; you won't get anything pleasant in return, believe me.

Last year I wouldn't let anyone come and watch me doing Race for Life, not even Stu!  I still hadn't managed to run anywhere near 5k in my foolproof training plan.  My friend Julie, who is nowadays quite a runner, kindly said she would go slowly round with me but I was still convinced that I wouldn't manage it.  I did however and it was an amazing experience, really emotional!  This year I ran it alone but let Stu support me from the sidelines and knocked 7 minutes off my time.  I'm now sitting revelling in the post-exercise endorphins and toying with the idea of signing up to the Herts 10k in October.  Knowing my limits has never been a strong point of mine in any part of my life so maybe I should have a glass of wine and think it through for a little while longer.  Would be silly to get silly about running now, wouldn't it......

Fine Dining (and a little bit of Wine-ing)

You may wish to add 'going out to dinner' to the list of things you don't want to do with me after reading this post...

I'm an enthusiastic diner-out and try to eat out about once a week if I can.  This has been aided by the discovery of a Gourmet Society Card that gives you various discounts at a number of different restaurants.  I purchased this card with my Tesco points, which I gained with wine and I take great satisfaction in thinking that my excessive drinking is funding my eating out (and more excessive drinking); what a lovely cycle of overindulgence.

Anyway, last night I was dining out with my BFF Shelley and two ladies that we met when we were doing a Marketing Diploma in Watford about ten years ago.  This was three hours hard graft every Tuesday and Thursday evening; time I will never get back.  Shell and I (we shared a flat at the time) snuck in cans of G&T which made it slightly less arduous but compared to our normal evening routines of naked star-jumping across Stanmore Hill in front of double-decker buses, asking for sugar from the pub next door wearing negligee and shaving hairy men in our lounge, it was still pretty tame.

So, we met up at a restaurant in St Albans called Asia, which has now apparently changed its name to Maya, (and which Shelley has always thought was called Fusion), for a food and drink fest with 25% off the bill at the end.  Julia said it was time she sorted her life out and was getting a Brazilian, by which she meant a Brazilian cleaner, but the man at the next table nearly choked on his chapati when I confessed I thought she was tidying her bush, rather than her house.

We had drunk a bottle of Pinot and were about to put in our order when the waiter came over and told us than instead of the advertised 25% off our bill we would be receiving one free main course!  Sorry what?!  I sent him away whilst we held a council of war and we agreed, (although ever-so-slightly bulldozed by me), that we would leave and go somewhere else if he would not honour the 25%.  When he returned, I told him that we were going to leave and would not be paying for our drinks or prawn crackers if we didn't receive our 25% discount.  He told me in no uncertain terms that this was unacceptable and so I suggested (drunk too much and showing off for the crowd by now) that he called the police, at which point he vanished into the kitchen.  Shite.  My comrades were supportive but looked a little as if they would quite like to be somewhere else by now tucking into a nice dinner.......without me.......  The man returned and told us we could have 25% this time but never again.

Julia was convinced that they were now going to wee in our food but I comforted her by telling her they would probably only wee in my food as I was the troublemaker.  Sure enough, when my starter arrived there was a teeny tiny black hair on my plate accompanying the fishcakes which I removed and convinced myself was an eyelash.  Julia thought it was either feline or pubic and spent a good long time examining it and Shelley and Linda tried to ignore us, and it, completely and get the last possible scraps of enjoyment out of their food.

At that point the women we had practically run over when battling for a parking space outside earlier started audibly farting in a menacing fashion (must have been the pubes in their food) so we decided to cut our losses and leave. A fun evening but not exactly uneventful.  I wonder if cosmic forces were at work punishing me for breaking no-alcohol-Tuesday?

Slugs and Snails and Puppy-Dogs' Tails

There are things about being a Mum of boys that only Mums with boys will understand. They are a unique breed, boys, and a bit of a foreign species sometimes to their female carers.

My first child, Zak, was 'Isabella' until my 20 week scan decided that that would not be a particularly strong start for him in life.  I was teaching full-time at that point and I swept through my Head of Department's lesson shouting "Isabella's a boy!" much to the bemusement of Year 12.  I was convinced the second time around that I was definitely having a girl as I had a whole host of pregnancy symptoms that I hadn't had with Zak, but again, at the 20 week scan, I was told that there was most definitely a willy.  The radiographer looked a little terrified at the pregnant woman cursing on the bed and the male-sperm-dominated husband cowering in the corner.  I feel bad even typing this - I wouldn't swap my boys for anything now.  However, I do sometimes wonder who is going to look after me, or talk to me even, in my dotage.  "Boys love their Mums", I've heard more time than I'd care to mention.  Very true I'm sure, but boys grow into men and men are really quite useless.  I'm working hard on my boys' future wives behalf at the moment to ensure they won't have to live with men that pee on the floor/leave toilet seats up/leave pants in inappropriate places - I hope they will repay me by ensuring my boys come and see me once in a while :-)

Boys need a daily airing otherwise all hell breaks loose.  Stu and I have frequently been the only parents in the park on the most ungodly days shivering through half an hour of play just so that the witching hour before tea-time isn't quite as horrific as it otherwise would be.  We have to stop and gaze in wonder at any number of snails and slugs on the way to school, marvelling at their slimeyness and the general mank coming out of their bums.  The boys can laugh uncontrollably for at least ten minutes if anyone says "pants" or "bottom"; hilarious, no really.  Then of course there was the infamous moment that my Facebook friends will remember when Zak asked during a Sunday lunch for twelve people, "Is that a poo on your plate Grandad?".


This morning, I was having a little chat with Sebi about a boy he hadn't got on very well with at pre-school last week.  I was telling him that if the boy wasn't very nice he should just play with somebody else and tell the teachers.  "Or you could kick him really hard on the bottom" said Zak.  I wonder which piece of advice would have stuck with Seb?


I think though that deep down my desire for a girl was unfounded.  I'm rubbish at plaiting hair, can't do a cartwheel to save my life and I'm not much of a shopper.  Maybe things are best the way they are and I'll be so addled on gin in my retirement home that I won't notice how often I'm visited, or not.