No, I'm not talking about Stuart. I'm talking about the imaginary, scary bogeymonster who I'm sure is going to spend the next couple of nights tormenting me.
My name is Nikki. I am 35 and I'm scared of the dark. Well, technically not scared of the dark as such, but not a big fan of being the only adult in the house between the hours of 11pm and 6am. I know, I know, how embarrassing and how totally irrational.
I do a good line in irrational however and am relatively phobic. I used to have to down a litre of spirits (whatever time of day or night it was) before getting on a plane and would then be really drunk and hysterical for the entire flight. I luckily had some very tolerant friends who would still go on holiday with me through my teens and my twenties (and some not so tolerant Best Friends Shelley Clegg/Williams who would find the whole thing hilarious!). My parents however, said they were never, ever getting on a plane with me again after we returned from a rather traumatic flight from New Zealand where I managed to drink first-class dry of Dom Perignon and overdosed on valium; so I decided that it might be time to do something about it. BA run a marvellous 'Fear of Flying' course which involves spending a Saturday at a hotel full of pilots in Heathrow :-) and then flying around in circles with the aforementioned pilots until you are cured. Genius. Best £300 I ever spent.
I don't think that there is a professional body organising 'Fear of the Bogeyman' courses, more's the pity. I know it is illogical and ridiculous. When the aforementioned Shelley and I shared a flat, we were both as rubbish as each other. If one of us was away for a night the other one would spend a petrified night cowering under the duvet and greet the returning one with everlasting love, gratitude and heavily bagged eyes the next day. Why on earth we thought one other pissed blonde bird in the flat would be any more use against a burglar/axe-murderer/bogeyman in the middle of the night I don't know, but, when we were both there, we slept blissfully and deeply.
So, this brings me back to my current state of affairs. My husband has gone away for a big gay weekend to Brighton with our best man. Good luck to them. Stu certainly is owed a good few lie-ins and deserves a blow-out. Blow-OUT I said you filthy minded lot. I am not adverse to my own company (course not - I'm fucking hilarious), and as I write I'm revelling in not sharing neither the remote control or the champagne. However, I know come three am I will be stalking imaginary burglars/axe-murderers/bogeymen around my landing.
Maybe blogging will be somehow act in a cathartic way and make me man-up a little. I'm definitely harder than I used to be, you don't see me running to my parents' this weekend like I used to, do you? That obviously has nothing whatever to do with the fact they are currently in Greece.....
Friday, 21 September 2012
Thursday, 20 September 2012
900 Minutes
I am entering a new era of my life today. For the first time in over five years I am going to have 15 hours, or 900 minutes to myself each week whilst Sebi is at nursery. Amazing.
I'm not the woman I used to be however. A few years ago, fifteen precious hours to myself over a lunchtime period would most definitely have been mainly spent in the pub. I'm ashamed to say that I can't handle lunchtime drinking anymore. I'm pleased that I hit my twenties as hard as I did because I've become a bit of a pussy in my thirties.
So, what am I going to do with all of this free time. Well once you have done the nursery drop off and school pick up, cleaned the house and done a couple of runs, I don't reckon there will be that much time left. I intend to go out to lunch once a week. This was my main reason for choosing afternoon nursery. My poor child was cheerfully sleeping for two hours over lunchtime until I cut it out for him a few weeks ago to prepare him for going to nursery in his nap time instead so that Mummy could do some lunching. MOTY.
My dear Mother has also decided that at the ripe old age of 72 she should really start using the internet and that I am the person to teach her. This is a poisoned chalice, believe me. She is probably the most intelligent woman I know but is a total techno-phobe. When I was pregnant with Sebastian, Dad bought her a mobile so that I could contact her to drop off Zak to her if I suddenly went into labour. As the mobile remained turned off in her glove box for a couple of months it was a good job I was able to drive Zak to her house myself when the time came. A few weeks later she broke down and decided to use it to phone my Dad but when she turned it on it wasn't charged up so she had to walk home anyway. Bring on the ICT lessons.
Seb is very concerned about my welfare without him around. "Mummy be lonely", he says, looking terribly worried. I'm sure that he thinks that he is the one that looks after me rather than the other way around. Maybe some of the time, after a heavy night, he is right. There was a morning this week when he suggested we should go and lie on my bed and watch some CBeebies until "Mummy feel better".
I don't want to peak too soon. With my 90 minutes of freedom today I think I will just revel in using the loo on my own and perhaps decadently have a bath in the middle of the day, just because I can.
I'm not the woman I used to be however. A few years ago, fifteen precious hours to myself over a lunchtime period would most definitely have been mainly spent in the pub. I'm ashamed to say that I can't handle lunchtime drinking anymore. I'm pleased that I hit my twenties as hard as I did because I've become a bit of a pussy in my thirties.
So, what am I going to do with all of this free time. Well once you have done the nursery drop off and school pick up, cleaned the house and done a couple of runs, I don't reckon there will be that much time left. I intend to go out to lunch once a week. This was my main reason for choosing afternoon nursery. My poor child was cheerfully sleeping for two hours over lunchtime until I cut it out for him a few weeks ago to prepare him for going to nursery in his nap time instead so that Mummy could do some lunching. MOTY.
My dear Mother has also decided that at the ripe old age of 72 she should really start using the internet and that I am the person to teach her. This is a poisoned chalice, believe me. She is probably the most intelligent woman I know but is a total techno-phobe. When I was pregnant with Sebastian, Dad bought her a mobile so that I could contact her to drop off Zak to her if I suddenly went into labour. As the mobile remained turned off in her glove box for a couple of months it was a good job I was able to drive Zak to her house myself when the time came. A few weeks later she broke down and decided to use it to phone my Dad but when she turned it on it wasn't charged up so she had to walk home anyway. Bring on the ICT lessons.
Seb is very concerned about my welfare without him around. "Mummy be lonely", he says, looking terribly worried. I'm sure that he thinks that he is the one that looks after me rather than the other way around. Maybe some of the time, after a heavy night, he is right. There was a morning this week when he suggested we should go and lie on my bed and watch some CBeebies until "Mummy feel better".
I don't want to peak too soon. With my 90 minutes of freedom today I think I will just revel in using the loo on my own and perhaps decadently have a bath in the middle of the day, just because I can.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Nursery Nightmares
Sebi is starting nursery next week, supposedly. His current stance is that he is "not going". I didn't take this too seriously when we first started talking about it but he is a stubborn little mule (no idea where he gets it from) and as time ticks on I'm beginning to think that we may have a problem.
The nursery teachers came over for their home visit last Friday. At least this time around I knew that this was normal procedure, when Zak started nursery I was assuming I had found my way onto some sort of list for parents that needed watching a little more closely than others (guilty conscience?) Anyway, the lovely teachers arrived with their box of toys and their folder full of glossy pictures of children having a lovely time. Down we sat and they asked Sebi if he was looking forward to starting nursery. "No thank you", said my polite, yet definite youngest. How we all nervously laughed. Half an hour later they had played with Seb, engaged him and he had definitely warmed to them both. As they left they said that they were looking forward to seeing him in a couple of weeks and as he shut the door he said, audibly, "No THANK you, I said I not coming".
Seb is going to go into politics I think. His latest angle on this dilemma popped up soon after this visitation. "Mummy", says he, "Can I stay home with Mummy if I do the washing?" Clever little chap. He has obviously noticed me sinking under the piles of washing since we arrived back from holiday last week and thought he would hit me where I am most vulnerable. I mean, technically he doesn't have to be in any sort of schooling as yet, so I might take back to the table that if he throws in the hoovering and polishing we may well have a deal.
We tried his nursery uniform on this morning to see if that would enthuse him. Big mistake, huge. Huge is exactly what his brother was when he went to nursery as the barely-used tops in our cupboard are size 5/6. Obviously he is not going to get new tops that actually fit him when there is perfectly good wear left in these. However, I could see exactly what was going through his poor little head as he stood swamped in what might as well of been a dress: not only is the silly cow making me go somewhere I don't want to but she is already lining me up for a year of ridicule due to my daft costume. Brilliant.
The nursery teachers were not impressed when I told them that I still help Seb go to the toilet. I assumed this was quite normal as he is only just three but they looked at me very sternly and made noises about signing forms from the SENCO and so I thought we'd better hit toilet boot camp for these last couple of weeks. We're now pretty competent at pulling pants and shorts up and down (yes, both of us) but we have hit a brick wall over the 'standing up wee wee'. Apparently, the fact that I don't have a willy is not a good enough reason for me to go to the toilet in a different fashion to my little shadow. It is a conversation I don't want to get much more deeply into, for obvious reasons, but we are getting nowhere fast. I think I'm going to rely on Seb's bladder of steel to get him through the three hours of nursery without him having to go.
All in all, much as I'm looking forward to my 15 hours a week of freedom (first time in five years - bring it on), I'm getting the feeling that it maybe be a bit of a bumpy ride for the first few weeks. I wonder if the nursery teachers will support my envisaged idea of first day drop off which I imagine may be Seb tucked under my arm like a rugby ball, quickly dumped in the classroom and me legging it? Possibly not. If I wasn't on a list before, I'm pretty sure I will be then.
The nursery teachers came over for their home visit last Friday. At least this time around I knew that this was normal procedure, when Zak started nursery I was assuming I had found my way onto some sort of list for parents that needed watching a little more closely than others (guilty conscience?) Anyway, the lovely teachers arrived with their box of toys and their folder full of glossy pictures of children having a lovely time. Down we sat and they asked Sebi if he was looking forward to starting nursery. "No thank you", said my polite, yet definite youngest. How we all nervously laughed. Half an hour later they had played with Seb, engaged him and he had definitely warmed to them both. As they left they said that they were looking forward to seeing him in a couple of weeks and as he shut the door he said, audibly, "No THANK you, I said I not coming".
Seb is going to go into politics I think. His latest angle on this dilemma popped up soon after this visitation. "Mummy", says he, "Can I stay home with Mummy if I do the washing?" Clever little chap. He has obviously noticed me sinking under the piles of washing since we arrived back from holiday last week and thought he would hit me where I am most vulnerable. I mean, technically he doesn't have to be in any sort of schooling as yet, so I might take back to the table that if he throws in the hoovering and polishing we may well have a deal.
We tried his nursery uniform on this morning to see if that would enthuse him. Big mistake, huge. Huge is exactly what his brother was when he went to nursery as the barely-used tops in our cupboard are size 5/6. Obviously he is not going to get new tops that actually fit him when there is perfectly good wear left in these. However, I could see exactly what was going through his poor little head as he stood swamped in what might as well of been a dress: not only is the silly cow making me go somewhere I don't want to but she is already lining me up for a year of ridicule due to my daft costume. Brilliant.
The nursery teachers were not impressed when I told them that I still help Seb go to the toilet. I assumed this was quite normal as he is only just three but they looked at me very sternly and made noises about signing forms from the SENCO and so I thought we'd better hit toilet boot camp for these last couple of weeks. We're now pretty competent at pulling pants and shorts up and down (yes, both of us) but we have hit a brick wall over the 'standing up wee wee'. Apparently, the fact that I don't have a willy is not a good enough reason for me to go to the toilet in a different fashion to my little shadow. It is a conversation I don't want to get much more deeply into, for obvious reasons, but we are getting nowhere fast. I think I'm going to rely on Seb's bladder of steel to get him through the three hours of nursery without him having to go.
All in all, much as I'm looking forward to my 15 hours a week of freedom (first time in five years - bring it on), I'm getting the feeling that it maybe be a bit of a bumpy ride for the first few weeks. I wonder if the nursery teachers will support my envisaged idea of first day drop off which I imagine may be Seb tucked under my arm like a rugby ball, quickly dumped in the classroom and me legging it? Possibly not. If I wasn't on a list before, I'm pretty sure I will be then.
Friday, 7 September 2012
Fur Coat and No Knickers
No, I'm not talking about myself for once, but Raymond Blanc's Brasserie in St Albans. Six of us road-tested it last night for the lovely Kate's birthday.
It looks fantastic inside and out and they have banished any memories of Harry Smith's by the decor and the layout. The food was great but I feel the staff training is more than a little bit lacking. We had a lovely, smiley waitress who didn't really have a fucking clue about anything. When you are paying quite expensive prices for food and booze you don't expect to have a waitress who brings a bottle of wine over saying "I've never opened a bottle of wine before". Seriously. Jan and Emski were luckily on hand to instruct her in the finer working points of her corkscrew before the Manager saw her and gave her a bollocking. When I was smiling encouragingly at her as we asked her to explain the puddings she said "Do you really want to know what the puddings are or are you just taking the Mickey?" Oh dear God. As we paid the bill I said to her "It's a really good job that you're pretty," and she took it as a compliment. Bless.
The great and the good of St Albans have obviously decided that this is the latest place to be seen and it was packed out with generally well-dressed expensive looking couples. Ralph took exception to the gentleman at the table next to us who had his collar standing up and the men at our table followed suit for a few minutes. Personally, I had more of an issue with the fact that he was doing a crossword under the table. You're not in your fucking kitchen mate!
Anyway, we had a great champagne-filled evening. I'm beginning to come to the conclusion though that these celebrity chef haunts can do one out of my life and, out of choice, I will be eating in Freddie's for as long as he will continue to let me.
It looks fantastic inside and out and they have banished any memories of Harry Smith's by the decor and the layout. The food was great but I feel the staff training is more than a little bit lacking. We had a lovely, smiley waitress who didn't really have a fucking clue about anything. When you are paying quite expensive prices for food and booze you don't expect to have a waitress who brings a bottle of wine over saying "I've never opened a bottle of wine before". Seriously. Jan and Emski were luckily on hand to instruct her in the finer working points of her corkscrew before the Manager saw her and gave her a bollocking. When I was smiling encouragingly at her as we asked her to explain the puddings she said "Do you really want to know what the puddings are or are you just taking the Mickey?" Oh dear God. As we paid the bill I said to her "It's a really good job that you're pretty," and she took it as a compliment. Bless.
The great and the good of St Albans have obviously decided that this is the latest place to be seen and it was packed out with generally well-dressed expensive looking couples. Ralph took exception to the gentleman at the table next to us who had his collar standing up and the men at our table followed suit for a few minutes. Personally, I had more of an issue with the fact that he was doing a crossword under the table. You're not in your fucking kitchen mate!
Anyway, we had a great champagne-filled evening. I'm beginning to come to the conclusion though that these celebrity chef haunts can do one out of my life and, out of choice, I will be eating in Freddie's for as long as he will continue to let me.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
A Grecian Adventure
I have just returned from a wonderful two weeks in Lefkas and am fat, brown and happy after lazing around in the sun eating deep fried cheese on a daily basis.
We holidayed in the most amazingly child-friendly set of 12 villas where everyone had a young family and it was perfect for us. I'm normally quite stand-offish on holiday, (I've got enough friends remember), but in a place that small it is impossible not to make friends with the other families. Although, unsurprisingly there were the odd one or two who got up my nose. One woman had told four other sets of people around the pool at the top of her voice within the first hour of us being there that she "ran her own business" because "it just wasn't challenging enough working for someone else". She was also reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey', don't get me started again.
Man Utd were playing on the first night of our holiday and I couldn't cope with Stu mooning around looking like a kicked puppy so I selflessly sent him off to the bar whilst I sat on my terrace imbibing Greek wine and reading a decent book. I popped over (it's about 5 metres - don't judge me) to tell him that I was going to bed and found him sitting in the middle of a long line of non-English speaking Greeks all perfectly bonding over the match. Footie is indeed the most universal of languages.
We had the most fabulous neighbours. Our villa was semi-detached and our terrace was adjoined to Diana and Jamie. They were quite a bit older than us but didn't really look or act it. My most horrific hangover of the holiday was when they were on our terrace until 1am drinking until Stu threw them out. Jamie is writing a book and I took great pleasure in tearing it apart and trying to disprove every point he was making. That takes a good few bottles of wine....
I also made friends with a policewoman. When I texted Shelley about this she replied immediately that this was a very bad idea and I should stop talking to her, or stop drinking, or preferably both. Obviously I completely ignored this good advice and in fact invited her (policewoman, not Shell) to dine with us that night. We took them to a restaurant and they were following our car as they didn't know where they were going and I got lost and ended up making them do a U turn in the middle of a busy street in the main town. Ooops. Then there is the dilemma of how much you drink when you are driving and out in a foreign country with the police. I decided to match her husband drink for drink as surely she wouldn't arrest him, would she? I realised I had definitely drunk too much when I told her that this was what I was doing and started fashioning handcuffs out of straws. I'm such a knob-end.
Our toilet in the villa downstairs didn't work properly at first and we kept having to get someone out to fix it. It just happened that when it stopped working it was me that had just used it but that was a complete coincidence. I fell asleep later that day on the sunbed and woke myself up snoring. When I asked my silly husband if I had been snoring for ages, he said that I had and he had left me because it was so hilarious. He then said he was going to stick a sign next to me saying "And she did a poo that blocked the loo!" but thought that might have been a step too far. Romance definitely still exists in our marriage.
Kids Club rocked my world. Monday - Friday for three and half whole hours we were without the little angels. We worked out we could do shopping, swim, sunbathe, shag and a shandy in that time - perfect. I realised that if I indulged my husband in some afternoon delight daily I could then get my preferred room-sharing combination: early risers Zak and Stu together and lazy sods Mummy and Sebi getting up about an hour or so later. Happy families.
There were too many wasps on Lefkas for my liking. I tended to chuck myself in the pool whenever I was suitably dressed, much to the delight of my fellow holidaymakers. Somebody introduced me to the joys of Citronella candles and I bought a load from the mini-market and would not be seen without one at mealtimes. I think I looked slightly like a monk parading to dinner holding a lit candle; albeit a monk in a too short dress showing a non-religious amount of cleavage.
I reckon we might well be returning there next year. Even the airport was civilised. You checked in, then popped across the road to drink wine in a taverna at the end of the runway and when you heard the incoming flight land you toddled back over and got on it. I bloody love Greece.
We holidayed in the most amazingly child-friendly set of 12 villas where everyone had a young family and it was perfect for us. I'm normally quite stand-offish on holiday, (I've got enough friends remember), but in a place that small it is impossible not to make friends with the other families. Although, unsurprisingly there were the odd one or two who got up my nose. One woman had told four other sets of people around the pool at the top of her voice within the first hour of us being there that she "ran her own business" because "it just wasn't challenging enough working for someone else". She was also reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey', don't get me started again.
Man Utd were playing on the first night of our holiday and I couldn't cope with Stu mooning around looking like a kicked puppy so I selflessly sent him off to the bar whilst I sat on my terrace imbibing Greek wine and reading a decent book. I popped over (it's about 5 metres - don't judge me) to tell him that I was going to bed and found him sitting in the middle of a long line of non-English speaking Greeks all perfectly bonding over the match. Footie is indeed the most universal of languages.
We had the most fabulous neighbours. Our villa was semi-detached and our terrace was adjoined to Diana and Jamie. They were quite a bit older than us but didn't really look or act it. My most horrific hangover of the holiday was when they were on our terrace until 1am drinking until Stu threw them out. Jamie is writing a book and I took great pleasure in tearing it apart and trying to disprove every point he was making. That takes a good few bottles of wine....
I also made friends with a policewoman. When I texted Shelley about this she replied immediately that this was a very bad idea and I should stop talking to her, or stop drinking, or preferably both. Obviously I completely ignored this good advice and in fact invited her (policewoman, not Shell) to dine with us that night. We took them to a restaurant and they were following our car as they didn't know where they were going and I got lost and ended up making them do a U turn in the middle of a busy street in the main town. Ooops. Then there is the dilemma of how much you drink when you are driving and out in a foreign country with the police. I decided to match her husband drink for drink as surely she wouldn't arrest him, would she? I realised I had definitely drunk too much when I told her that this was what I was doing and started fashioning handcuffs out of straws. I'm such a knob-end.
Our toilet in the villa downstairs didn't work properly at first and we kept having to get someone out to fix it. It just happened that when it stopped working it was me that had just used it but that was a complete coincidence. I fell asleep later that day on the sunbed and woke myself up snoring. When I asked my silly husband if I had been snoring for ages, he said that I had and he had left me because it was so hilarious. He then said he was going to stick a sign next to me saying "And she did a poo that blocked the loo!" but thought that might have been a step too far. Romance definitely still exists in our marriage.
Kids Club rocked my world. Monday - Friday for three and half whole hours we were without the little angels. We worked out we could do shopping, swim, sunbathe, shag and a shandy in that time - perfect. I realised that if I indulged my husband in some afternoon delight daily I could then get my preferred room-sharing combination: early risers Zak and Stu together and lazy sods Mummy and Sebi getting up about an hour or so later. Happy families.
There were too many wasps on Lefkas for my liking. I tended to chuck myself in the pool whenever I was suitably dressed, much to the delight of my fellow holidaymakers. Somebody introduced me to the joys of Citronella candles and I bought a load from the mini-market and would not be seen without one at mealtimes. I think I looked slightly like a monk parading to dinner holding a lit candle; albeit a monk in a too short dress showing a non-religious amount of cleavage.
I reckon we might well be returning there next year. Even the airport was civilised. You checked in, then popped across the road to drink wine in a taverna at the end of the runway and when you heard the incoming flight land you toddled back over and got on it. I bloody love Greece.
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