My children are currently on their way to Redditch to spend happy few days with my in-laws. They were meant to be going tomorrow morning but Stu's Mum suggested we brought it forward to today because of the impending storm and who am I to argue?
She is welcome to them. There is something about the thought of imminent separation from my boys that makes me immediately less tolerant, (and I'm not very tolerant at the best of times), and in a lovely, maternal, pink and fluffy way, absolutely desperate to get rid of them as soon as possible. We were making them do circuits out the front on their bike and scooter earlier trying to wear them out a little bit so they weren't completely as high as kites when Margaret received them. Sebi managed to pull his trousers and pants down one-handed, whilst scooting on one leg and waggle his willy to the slightly shocked looking more elderly members of the close. If I wasn't so mortified I may have been quite impressed with his skills. Naked exhibitionism is obviously another warped personality trait I have handed to down to my youngest; at least I know he will have grown out of it in approximately 29 years or so. Oh God.
When I asked Zak what he wanted to do yesterday and gave him various options: zoo, park, play area etc, he said quite definitely, "pub please". Tempting as it was, we thought that at 10am on a Saturday morning it would have been pushing it somewhat, even by mine and Stu's standards. We compromised with Sunday lunch at the pub today with my parents. I had a little chat with the boys in the car on the way there about appropriate topics for lunchtime conversation with grandparents as they had mainly been discussing how much it would hurt to be shot somewhere in the body when you didn't die immediately but just poured out lots of blood until you got weaker and weaker and then died slowly. Lovely little chaps aren't they? Zak just spent the entire lunch drawing bombs, blood and dying soldiers instead. That's fine. It's art innit.
So I intend on spending the next few days in one of the following three states (a) drunk (b) asleep (c) stuffing my face. Possibly a combination of two of them at any one time is more likely. Dog with two dicks.
Sunday, 27 October 2013
Saturday, 19 October 2013
MAgic
I'm pretty convinced that my blog posts will become less frequent from now on as I started my MA today and have just found out about the 12000 words I need to write this year and the 20000 I will be writing next year. Wow.
My opening line of, "Did anyone else sign up to this pissed?", this morning went down a treat with my fellow academic students, as you can well imagine. I think I forget sometimes that other people might take me more seriously than I intend to be taken. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a flying fuck actually do I?
It was so good being back as the learner again instead of the teacher. I was so excited and bouncing around like an irritating over-sized puppy from the word go. There is something 'special' (and take that in whichever way you want) about a bunch of mature drama students. It is impossible to introduce yourself without jazz hands and within ten minutes of the course every single person in the room is going to be one of your best friends for life, even the ones you don't like. As I said, special.
I got a bit over-excited in our first still image and whilst clambering on to a guy's thigh to express my physicality of 'joy' I ended up kicking him in the bollocks. Oops. Would've been OK if I hadn't slammed a door in his face an hour later. I bet his blog post tonight isn't describing me as one of his new bezzies.
One of the third year students that I met today, (and boy were we in awe of them), I had examined for in last year's GCSE practical. Luckily she was happy with the marks she'd been awarded. That could've been a nasty, nasty situation if I was the newbie student and she was the old hand and she hated me to the core. The world of Drama teaching is dangerously small sometimes.
I loved it. Every single sweaty-footed-poncy-step of the wonderful day. I got so carried away with 'playing' that I found myself looking at a bloke going over and getting out a notebook and wondering what he was doing. Then I remembered. This wasn't a jolly, no matter how sugar-coated it is. I need to be able to write intelligently about this one day soon. I'm guessing this blog can't be submitted towards it? Probably not.
My family survived without me today. I consciously did not comment on the fact that I was told excitedly that they had eaten gingerbread men AND biscuits AND lollipops through the course of the day. Similarly, the butter smears on the table mats/crumbs on the carpet/toys all over the house didn't matter. It killed me to shut the fuck up for once, (although technically I'm voicing the whinge now to a wider audience), but I think my long-suffering-husband deserves a lot of credit tonight for holding the fort and letting me freely indulge my passion.
Zak found it hilarious when I was talking about 'Ken' and he discovered that was Mummy's teacher. "But Mummy, YOU are the teacher", he patiently explained to me. It must be difficult for him having a mother that struggles to understand the basic concepts of her life.
A bottle of fizz tonight to celebrate the first day (really, any fucking excuse), then back on it for six hours tomorrow. The people who are travelling for three hours there and back to get here each day must love the fact that I come from down the road and am still managing to have a half-decent weekend by drinking and rolling out of bed at 9am. Not that I've mentioned it at all as you can well imagine. Not much.
My opening line of, "Did anyone else sign up to this pissed?", this morning went down a treat with my fellow academic students, as you can well imagine. I think I forget sometimes that other people might take me more seriously than I intend to be taken. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a flying fuck actually do I?
It was so good being back as the learner again instead of the teacher. I was so excited and bouncing around like an irritating over-sized puppy from the word go. There is something 'special' (and take that in whichever way you want) about a bunch of mature drama students. It is impossible to introduce yourself without jazz hands and within ten minutes of the course every single person in the room is going to be one of your best friends for life, even the ones you don't like. As I said, special.
I got a bit over-excited in our first still image and whilst clambering on to a guy's thigh to express my physicality of 'joy' I ended up kicking him in the bollocks. Oops. Would've been OK if I hadn't slammed a door in his face an hour later. I bet his blog post tonight isn't describing me as one of his new bezzies.
One of the third year students that I met today, (and boy were we in awe of them), I had examined for in last year's GCSE practical. Luckily she was happy with the marks she'd been awarded. That could've been a nasty, nasty situation if I was the newbie student and she was the old hand and she hated me to the core. The world of Drama teaching is dangerously small sometimes.
I loved it. Every single sweaty-footed-poncy-step of the wonderful day. I got so carried away with 'playing' that I found myself looking at a bloke going over and getting out a notebook and wondering what he was doing. Then I remembered. This wasn't a jolly, no matter how sugar-coated it is. I need to be able to write intelligently about this one day soon. I'm guessing this blog can't be submitted towards it? Probably not.
My family survived without me today. I consciously did not comment on the fact that I was told excitedly that they had eaten gingerbread men AND biscuits AND lollipops through the course of the day. Similarly, the butter smears on the table mats/crumbs on the carpet/toys all over the house didn't matter. It killed me to shut the fuck up for once, (although technically I'm voicing the whinge now to a wider audience), but I think my long-suffering-husband deserves a lot of credit tonight for holding the fort and letting me freely indulge my passion.
Zak found it hilarious when I was talking about 'Ken' and he discovered that was Mummy's teacher. "But Mummy, YOU are the teacher", he patiently explained to me. It must be difficult for him having a mother that struggles to understand the basic concepts of her life.
A bottle of fizz tonight to celebrate the first day (really, any fucking excuse), then back on it for six hours tomorrow. The people who are travelling for three hours there and back to get here each day must love the fact that I come from down the road and am still managing to have a half-decent weekend by drinking and rolling out of bed at 9am. Not that I've mentioned it at all as you can well imagine. Not much.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
BOOM!
Last running blog for a while I promise. In fact, last bit of running for a while. 10K done.
It is pissing down today. All the excitement that was building up inside me yesterday had done one this morning. I hate running in the rain even more than I hate running. My dear friend Anna offered to write me a sick-note yesterday when we saw the weather forecast but I thought that was probably taking the piss out of all the people that had sponsored me. My husband and bezzies gamely offered to come and support me this morning but I decided that there was no point at all in any more of us getting cold, wet and miserable than was completely necessary. I had a moment with a girl in the queue for the bogs before we started when we were trying to work out which was the more attractive option: doing the race in the pissing rain or hiding in the stinky portaloos for an hour instead? It was close.
Much of the course is through fields so it was a mud bath. For the first kilometre or so I was running around the puddles doing the nearest thing to ballet that I have ever achieved I reckon. This was until I realised that I was probably doubling the distance that I was running by doing this so decided soggy feet and a muddy arse was doable for an hour or so. The first three kilometres were a dream. I was a dog with two dicks wondering why the hell I had been so worried about this and was already signing up in my head for the St. Albans Half Marathon next year. Then came the 4 - 5 km hill of death. I had no idea where I was as I had been too scared to look at the route map previously but I must say that I had never before realised that Harpenden was such a mountainous region!
It took a couple of km after that to get my equilibrium back but I think once you are halfway you realise that you probably are going to actually make it. One of Stu's bezzies, Parky, once said to me that your body can do anything and it is just your mind that stops you. I kept telling my mind this throughout and it seemed to work.
The crowds rocked up from about 6km and that improved things greatly. I do sometimes loathe running but my love of being stared at and clapped fully outweighs this so I was beaming away at people who were absolutely nothing to do with me.
I tried to think of the km milestones like labour. In labour you are striving for the magic 10cms dilation and here I was striving to finish at 10K. Each km that you pass you know that the pain is a little bit closer to ending, plus you don't have a newborn to deal with at the end of it! I missed the sign for 7km and that nearly finished me off but the joy of hitting 8km instead was indescribable.
Job done. No more sober Saturday nights for mefor a while, sorry, EVER. They should put some 10K events on Tuesdays, after No-Alcohol Mondays, for the serious boozer-runners.
What I don't understand is why, when I got out of the bath just now, my tummy is still flibbedy-flobbedy. Is Mother Nature not aware of what I have endured? I should be a lean, muscular being now without an inch of flab. Life just isn't fair sometimes.
It is pissing down today. All the excitement that was building up inside me yesterday had done one this morning. I hate running in the rain even more than I hate running. My dear friend Anna offered to write me a sick-note yesterday when we saw the weather forecast but I thought that was probably taking the piss out of all the people that had sponsored me. My husband and bezzies gamely offered to come and support me this morning but I decided that there was no point at all in any more of us getting cold, wet and miserable than was completely necessary. I had a moment with a girl in the queue for the bogs before we started when we were trying to work out which was the more attractive option: doing the race in the pissing rain or hiding in the stinky portaloos for an hour instead? It was close.
Much of the course is through fields so it was a mud bath. For the first kilometre or so I was running around the puddles doing the nearest thing to ballet that I have ever achieved I reckon. This was until I realised that I was probably doubling the distance that I was running by doing this so decided soggy feet and a muddy arse was doable for an hour or so. The first three kilometres were a dream. I was a dog with two dicks wondering why the hell I had been so worried about this and was already signing up in my head for the St. Albans Half Marathon next year. Then came the 4 - 5 km hill of death. I had no idea where I was as I had been too scared to look at the route map previously but I must say that I had never before realised that Harpenden was such a mountainous region!
It took a couple of km after that to get my equilibrium back but I think once you are halfway you realise that you probably are going to actually make it. One of Stu's bezzies, Parky, once said to me that your body can do anything and it is just your mind that stops you. I kept telling my mind this throughout and it seemed to work.
The crowds rocked up from about 6km and that improved things greatly. I do sometimes loathe running but my love of being stared at and clapped fully outweighs this so I was beaming away at people who were absolutely nothing to do with me.
I tried to think of the km milestones like labour. In labour you are striving for the magic 10cms dilation and here I was striving to finish at 10K. Each km that you pass you know that the pain is a little bit closer to ending, plus you don't have a newborn to deal with at the end of it! I missed the sign for 7km and that nearly finished me off but the joy of hitting 8km instead was indescribable.
Job done. No more sober Saturday nights for me
What I don't understand is why, when I got out of the bath just now, my tummy is still flibbedy-flobbedy. Is Mother Nature not aware of what I have endured? I should be a lean, muscular being now without an inch of flab. Life just isn't fair sometimes.
Thursday, 10 October 2013
All work and a Play.
I have always sat happily on the fence of the working Mum debate. As a part-time working Mum with a lot of good friends in both camps, I've felt that I can absolutely agree with all sides. I'm always amazed at what a passionate issue this is. I am carefully not naming names as I badly mis-quote all my nearest and dearest in the following few sentences. Working Mums can be militant about needing to do it for financial reasons. Nobody in the world can argue with that. For the non-financially stretched though it seems as if it is a right that should not be taken away. If a man can work with a family, why can't a woman? The Stay-at-Home Mums are equally as fervent with the knowledge that they are giving up the freedom of life at work that they could have, all for the sake of the welfare of their children. Both valid arguments, I think.
Normally, I work two days a week. It's creeping up however now that my kids are both in school. I've recently been promoted up the examining ladder and my masters degree is starting in ten days time. Someone has decided to pay me £100 an hour; NO, not for that, you dirty Mo-Fos, but for some professional training and I would be lying if it said it hadn't gone to my head somewhat. Let's hope the powers that be never read this blog; my invitation would be removed before you could say "Who on earth would waste a ton on this Fuckwit?"
This week is Harvest Festival at school and I am in work every day. To the Working Mums there is no need to even make a big deal of this "Why would you not be?" and I can feel the Stay-at-Home Mums rightly worrying about the state of my house and the state of my children. My family runs beautifully like a military operation and we are at the point now where I can be absent in the mornings or after school and the kids still eat and are bathed/teeth are still cleaned and spellings are still learnt. It is easy to get sucked into the idea that your domestic life can function perfectly well without you in it. Not so much. I've said before that it is impossible to be simultaneously a good Mother/Wife/Employee and Daughter and I stand by that. My Dad was telling me the same thing, that I needed to put my kids first at all times; as we stood in the pub together this evening. This was after I had picked the kids from after-school club, bollocked Seb for losing his fleece, chucked the boys at Stu and legged it back out the door to go to the boozer. Something wrong there.
I spent a few minutes encouraging a lovely Year 2 boy at work today who was worried about his performance tomorrow and we had a bit of a moment as I realised I had made his day better and he was feeling good about the play now. I thought on my way back from the pub this evening that I hadn't spent that much time talking one-on-one to either of my own children today. Luckily, I was in time to remedy this and found out stuff about Zak and Sebi's day that would have been lost forever if I hadn't had that revelation. There were things that happened to them yesterday that I will never know about now.
Forgive the twee-ness. Unusual I know. I'm a nasty creature when I'm bored but maybe I need to learn to constantly re-evaluate my work-life balance. My babies aren't my babies any more but they need me as much today, in different ways, as they did when they were tiny. Poor old Stuart has accepted that he is nearly at the bottom of the pile and pretty much fends for himself. At least as long as the cat is alive he has a slightly more elevated status in the household...
Normally, I work two days a week. It's creeping up however now that my kids are both in school. I've recently been promoted up the examining ladder and my masters degree is starting in ten days time. Someone has decided to pay me £100 an hour; NO, not for that, you dirty Mo-Fos, but for some professional training and I would be lying if it said it hadn't gone to my head somewhat. Let's hope the powers that be never read this blog; my invitation would be removed before you could say "Who on earth would waste a ton on this Fuckwit?"
This week is Harvest Festival at school and I am in work every day. To the Working Mums there is no need to even make a big deal of this "Why would you not be?" and I can feel the Stay-at-Home Mums rightly worrying about the state of my house and the state of my children. My family runs beautifully like a military operation and we are at the point now where I can be absent in the mornings or after school and the kids still eat and are bathed/teeth are still cleaned and spellings are still learnt. It is easy to get sucked into the idea that your domestic life can function perfectly well without you in it. Not so much. I've said before that it is impossible to be simultaneously a good Mother/Wife/Employee and Daughter and I stand by that. My Dad was telling me the same thing, that I needed to put my kids first at all times; as we stood in the pub together this evening. This was after I had picked the kids from after-school club, bollocked Seb for losing his fleece, chucked the boys at Stu and legged it back out the door to go to the boozer. Something wrong there.
I spent a few minutes encouraging a lovely Year 2 boy at work today who was worried about his performance tomorrow and we had a bit of a moment as I realised I had made his day better and he was feeling good about the play now. I thought on my way back from the pub this evening that I hadn't spent that much time talking one-on-one to either of my own children today. Luckily, I was in time to remedy this and found out stuff about Zak and Sebi's day that would have been lost forever if I hadn't had that revelation. There were things that happened to them yesterday that I will never know about now.
Forgive the twee-ness. Unusual I know. I'm a nasty creature when I'm bored but maybe I need to learn to constantly re-evaluate my work-life balance. My babies aren't my babies any more but they need me as much today, in different ways, as they did when they were tiny. Poor old Stuart has accepted that he is nearly at the bottom of the pile and pretty much fends for himself. At least as long as the cat is alive he has a slightly more elevated status in the household...
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Birthday Brummies
Once again, hungover, I headed up to my husband's homeland with him yesterday for the wonderful Daniel's 40th birthday. My parents had given us 24 hours' babysitting from 1pm yesterday so needless to say we dropped the kids off and legged it at a respectable 1.02pm.
Man Utd kicked off at 5.30pm so the plan was that Stu would head to the pub while I had a bath. I was worried about navigating my way around a strange town but luckily we were staying in a Travelodge in the pub car park. Convenient. Really fucking nasty, but convenient.
I got my gladrags on and opened our bedroom door to go and join my husband in the boozer. However, I opened my bedroom door to find one of Stu's bezzies, Nick, standing right outside it. He claims he was waiting for another mate of his who was staying in the room next door to me. I saw no evidence of this bloke being in that room though and just warned Nick that if I found him outside my room at a later point in the evening, I would not be so understanding. ;-)
All 17 of us were in the pub by 6pm. These guys know how to party and a soft pansy southerner like myself had to strap my drinking boots firmly on to have any chance of keeping up. We hit the curry house at 7pm and Stu had a big gay fit as I hadn't saved him a seat and he'd gone deaf in one ear so couldn't hear anything where he was sitting. Luckily, he downed a bottle of Cava in about 20 minutes and that seemed to sort him out....well in one way anyway...
I seemed to be at the more raucous end of the table. I met a bloke called Damon that I hadn't come across before. I thought we were having a great time so I don't know what he meant when he caught Stu after two hours of my company and said, "Now I understand why you look so haggard mate". Funny.
I was in my comfort zone as the conversation was on to anal sex by 7.30pm. These brummies always have to take it a step further though and soon we had moved onto sex with goats. Well, we hadn't moved on to having sex with goats we had moved on to talking about having sex with goats. I 'kid' you not. The dilemma being discussed by the table was whether if a bloke was to shag a goat, did it make it more acceptable if the goat was female. I thought it probably didn't matter so much. Baaaaa-ha-ha.
The waiters tried to throw us out at 10pm. It didn't go so well for them. Apparently, there were some guys outside that needed out table and were going crazy. One of our party decided to show them that us going crazy inside was potentially more lethal. We left shortly afterwards through the kitchen door.
Back to the pub next door to our hotel but that would be far too convenient to stay in, wouldn't it? We therefore trekked half an hour in stillettos (some of us, I'm not naming names), to the hideousness of the Dog and Pheasant in Bromsgrove. I thought I was pretty drunk until I got in there. Jeesus. My stripy trousers were apparently too much for the people of Bromsgrove and I seemed to be nicknamed 'Beetlejuice' within minutes. Oh well, I've been called worse. We weren't possibly going to go straight home having walked the walk of death to get there so on of our party decided to solve it in a tried and tested Brummie night out fashion: "Drugs? Drugs? Anyone, got any drugs?" We settled for vodka and a quick shuffle around the dancefloor then headed back to the smelly Travelodge.
Having babysat overnight for us, my parents told us to meet them in the pub for a roast (LOVE THEM). They didn't get much conversation out of us if I'm honest but delighted in telling us how good the boys had been. At that point, Sebi threw a tantrum of unbelievable proportions and nearly cleared the pub in five minutes. My Mother's response; "Well, he is obviously very bright." Amazing.
We love you Danny-Boy. Thank you for a top, top night. xxxx
Man Utd kicked off at 5.30pm so the plan was that Stu would head to the pub while I had a bath. I was worried about navigating my way around a strange town but luckily we were staying in a Travelodge in the pub car park. Convenient. Really fucking nasty, but convenient.
I got my gladrags on and opened our bedroom door to go and join my husband in the boozer. However, I opened my bedroom door to find one of Stu's bezzies, Nick, standing right outside it. He claims he was waiting for another mate of his who was staying in the room next door to me. I saw no evidence of this bloke being in that room though and just warned Nick that if I found him outside my room at a later point in the evening, I would not be so understanding. ;-)
All 17 of us were in the pub by 6pm. These guys know how to party and a soft pansy southerner like myself had to strap my drinking boots firmly on to have any chance of keeping up. We hit the curry house at 7pm and Stu had a big gay fit as I hadn't saved him a seat and he'd gone deaf in one ear so couldn't hear anything where he was sitting. Luckily, he downed a bottle of Cava in about 20 minutes and that seemed to sort him out....well in one way anyway...
I seemed to be at the more raucous end of the table. I met a bloke called Damon that I hadn't come across before. I thought we were having a great time so I don't know what he meant when he caught Stu after two hours of my company and said, "Now I understand why you look so haggard mate". Funny.
I was in my comfort zone as the conversation was on to anal sex by 7.30pm. These brummies always have to take it a step further though and soon we had moved onto sex with goats. Well, we hadn't moved on to having sex with goats we had moved on to talking about having sex with goats. I 'kid' you not. The dilemma being discussed by the table was whether if a bloke was to shag a goat, did it make it more acceptable if the goat was female. I thought it probably didn't matter so much. Baaaaa-ha-ha.
The waiters tried to throw us out at 10pm. It didn't go so well for them. Apparently, there were some guys outside that needed out table and were going crazy. One of our party decided to show them that us going crazy inside was potentially more lethal. We left shortly afterwards through the kitchen door.
Back to the pub next door to our hotel but that would be far too convenient to stay in, wouldn't it? We therefore trekked half an hour in stillettos (some of us, I'm not naming names), to the hideousness of the Dog and Pheasant in Bromsgrove. I thought I was pretty drunk until I got in there. Jeesus. My stripy trousers were apparently too much for the people of Bromsgrove and I seemed to be nicknamed 'Beetlejuice' within minutes. Oh well, I've been called worse. We weren't possibly going to go straight home having walked the walk of death to get there so on of our party decided to solve it in a tried and tested Brummie night out fashion: "Drugs? Drugs? Anyone, got any drugs?" We settled for vodka and a quick shuffle around the dancefloor then headed back to the smelly Travelodge.
Having babysat overnight for us, my parents told us to meet them in the pub for a roast (LOVE THEM). They didn't get much conversation out of us if I'm honest but delighted in telling us how good the boys had been. At that point, Sebi threw a tantrum of unbelievable proportions and nearly cleared the pub in five minutes. My Mother's response; "Well, he is obviously very bright." Amazing.
We love you Danny-Boy. Thank you for a top, top night. xxxx
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