Well, I am officially 'wife of the year'. Not. I planned a fabulous birthday surprise holiday trip to Dubai for my husband, shouted about it to anyone who would listen and then got a stomach bug on the day we were due to go and had to cancel the whole thing. Well done me.
Unfortunately during the traumatic realisation of not going and the dreadful cancellation episode, POOR STU's (and I mean it this time) feelings were slightly overshadowed by our oh-most-self-centred youngest son.
'I WANT TO GO TO DUBAI!'
Various platitudes from Daddy, Granny and Grandad, muffled puking platitudes from Mummy and instructions to 'shut up' from his big brother did absolutely nothing. Sebi-Woo wanted to go to Dubai and Sebi-Woo made sure we all fucking knew about it.
Once I removed my head from the toilet bowl at some ungodly the hour this morning; we started work on Plan B. There were various unexciting options in the UK, and some more interesting options abroad. No further Dubai options however. We have settled on a week in a smart hotel in Lanzarote where we will definitely have a lovely time, and get some sun, good food and treats, if not quite the luxurious travel options my dear husband was promised.
Zak is happy that (a) there is a plane with food on (b) there is a plane with the ipad on and (c) there is still the promise of ice cream once a day. Sebi sat and thought about it for a while, whilst we all waited with baited breath and then declared: 'Lanzarote is toes (yep really) better than Dubai anyway.' He may get some weird looks at Gatwick tomorrow with that rhetoric.
Anyway, we are are packed, unpacked, repacked and ready to go again. I'm sure my dear parents who couldn't change their flights will have a lovely time during their stopover at the most family-orientated hotel in Dubai without us. As my Dad so eloquently put as he was lending me the money pre-travel-insurance-claim to book this next trip: 'What more could he want from three days apart from children he didn't know and NYE fireworks.' :-/
These things happen. Time to count our blessings and realise really what a win-win situation we do eventually find ourselves in. We are luckier than most.
Now then, to google if they take United Arab Dirhams anywhere on the island of Lanzarote! x
Saturday, 27 December 2014
Friday, 5 December 2014
An Epitaph for the Living
My 100 year old Nana was given two weeks to live two weeks ago as she was diagnosed with pneumonia and is currently getting decidedly better day by day. Incredible. She is now saying that this is probably the last year that she will bother writing Christmas cards. Oh the optimism. We had a few hairy conversations over the last couple of weeks as the doctor decided to speak to Nana about her predicament but as she didn't feel well enough to have her hearing aids in then she couldn't really hear what he was saying. 'It is only a matter of time...' was taken the wrong way and she thought that it was only a matter of time until she got better, whereas that was not what he was insinuating to her at all. Although, having said all that, she is the one who is now decidedly on the mend so maybe it was us that got the wrong end of the stick after all.
It boggles my mind that she was born in 1914. That when you talk to her about the war she says, 'which one?' That she could have been a child in Downton Abbey, (which is basically a historical documentary as far as I'm concerned... ;-)). but now, we are more convinced than ever that she will outlive us all.
I very gently broached the subject with my boys last week when she was pretty unwell. There is no skirting around the subject when you have two small boys however. All my pussy-footing around was a little pointless when Zak summarised it with: 'so she might die then'. Yep. That's pretty much it my love. I know Sebi is one of a kind (to put it diplomatically) but even I was surprised with his response of: 'Lucky Nana'. I enquired why, in particular, he thought that potentially dying of pneumonia made one lucky and he shot me a scathing glance and said: 'Because then Nana can play with Toby...' (dead cat - whole other story - see blog post from about a year ago) '...and WE still don't have another cat'. There is no arguing with that logic and I skulked off into another room trying to congratulate myself that I had passed on the news without upsetting anybody but actually rather grateful that no other members of my family had been around to hear it.
So Nana lives to fight another day/week/month/year/decade. Good for her. Living under this critical cloud on a daily basis does have then tendency to make even the most sunny of us rather morbid. I convinced myself I definitely had incurable bowel cancer in the middle of the other night. In the cold light of day I realised the actual diagnosis was piles which I had contracted via karma for laughing at my dear friend, (who absolutely on the pain of death I apparently cannot name), for the same complaint the week previously. Oh happy haemorrhoid! I sent my silly husband off to his 48 hour long Christmas party yesterday with the cheerful cheerio of, 'Have a lovely time and don't die', which he objected to slightly, but I thought was pretty sound advice. I am soon going to open a bottle of champagne to celebrate (a) all of us being healthy and living, (b) it being Friday and (c) Stuart being somewhere with a free bar and therefore not trying to drink any of my bubbles. Happy weekend lovely people and cheers to looking on the bright side of life!
It boggles my mind that she was born in 1914. That when you talk to her about the war she says, 'which one?' That she could have been a child in Downton Abbey, (which is basically a historical documentary as far as I'm concerned... ;-)). but now, we are more convinced than ever that she will outlive us all.
I very gently broached the subject with my boys last week when she was pretty unwell. There is no skirting around the subject when you have two small boys however. All my pussy-footing around was a little pointless when Zak summarised it with: 'so she might die then'. Yep. That's pretty much it my love. I know Sebi is one of a kind (to put it diplomatically) but even I was surprised with his response of: 'Lucky Nana'. I enquired why, in particular, he thought that potentially dying of pneumonia made one lucky and he shot me a scathing glance and said: 'Because then Nana can play with Toby...' (dead cat - whole other story - see blog post from about a year ago) '...and WE still don't have another cat'. There is no arguing with that logic and I skulked off into another room trying to congratulate myself that I had passed on the news without upsetting anybody but actually rather grateful that no other members of my family had been around to hear it.
So Nana lives to fight another day/week/month/year/decade. Good for her. Living under this critical cloud on a daily basis does have then tendency to make even the most sunny of us rather morbid. I convinced myself I definitely had incurable bowel cancer in the middle of the other night. In the cold light of day I realised the actual diagnosis was piles which I had contracted via karma for laughing at my dear friend, (who absolutely on the pain of death I apparently cannot name), for the same complaint the week previously. Oh happy haemorrhoid! I sent my silly husband off to his 48 hour long Christmas party yesterday with the cheerful cheerio of, 'Have a lovely time and don't die', which he objected to slightly, but I thought was pretty sound advice. I am soon going to open a bottle of champagne to celebrate (a) all of us being healthy and living, (b) it being Friday and (c) Stuart being somewhere with a free bar and therefore not trying to drink any of my bubbles. Happy weekend lovely people and cheers to looking on the bright side of life!
Saturday, 22 November 2014
Agebook
I got in a bit of a mood with Facebook this week. It wasn't serious, it didn't last long and we've made it up now but I guess this is normal when you spend so much time together. I'm a big fan of only saying something if you have something worth saying, preferably something that will either amuse other people or have some kind of important relevance to somebody else. Luckily the majority of my virtual friends are the same, or else they are hidden. The thing that annoyed me particularly this week was regurgitated photos. Pictures that have already been posted 1/3/5 years ago do not need to be posted again - that is serious self-indulgence. If somebody wants to re-look at something you have posted then they can have another poke through your photo albums, otherwise, bore off.
Hiding people on Facebook comes with its own perils however. I was having a conversation with a colleague the other day about their ever-increasing minor health issues. I was making the appropriate noises and asking the right questions and wondering why they were looking at me curiously. 'But of course you must have picked most of this up from Facebook', they said. Oh. Not so much. I was friends with you for about two days before I hid your boring arse. Cue serious backtracking and more convincing affirmative noises.
I always think it is time to un-hide somebody and delete them when you cross the road before they see you to avoid speaking to them. This happened to me last week as I decided that Lady X was probably somebody I could do without in my virtual environment if I couldn't bear to exchange a few pleasantries in the flesh.
I wonder what the future holds for Facebook. It is definitely the social media of choice for our age group. I have a few friends who have their teenage children on Facebook which must be a comfort for them. It is a shame that the aforementioned teenage children never actually post anything on there and use every other social media site to actually communicate with their peers instead! I rejected a friend request from my father a few years ago on Facebook as I thought I swore too much to be friends with him. He popped up again the other day though and as I seem slightly less controversial these days I felt sorry for his friendlessness and requested him. Only to be completely rejected and darked out by his 74 year old self. Who does he think he is?!
If Facebook continues to be rejected by the generations following ourselves, it does not promise to get any more interesting. Selfies over the next few decades may start being taken over afternoon tea and at the opera; check-ins could eventually be in a stream of retirement properties and one day we will be flooded with millions of regurgitated pictures of grandchildren. Damn it. Here's hoping that some people decide to grow old disgracefully and share it with the virtual masses. I am sure I will be at the front of that particular queue...
Hiding people on Facebook comes with its own perils however. I was having a conversation with a colleague the other day about their ever-increasing minor health issues. I was making the appropriate noises and asking the right questions and wondering why they were looking at me curiously. 'But of course you must have picked most of this up from Facebook', they said. Oh. Not so much. I was friends with you for about two days before I hid your boring arse. Cue serious backtracking and more convincing affirmative noises.
I always think it is time to un-hide somebody and delete them when you cross the road before they see you to avoid speaking to them. This happened to me last week as I decided that Lady X was probably somebody I could do without in my virtual environment if I couldn't bear to exchange a few pleasantries in the flesh.
I wonder what the future holds for Facebook. It is definitely the social media of choice for our age group. I have a few friends who have their teenage children on Facebook which must be a comfort for them. It is a shame that the aforementioned teenage children never actually post anything on there and use every other social media site to actually communicate with their peers instead! I rejected a friend request from my father a few years ago on Facebook as I thought I swore too much to be friends with him. He popped up again the other day though and as I seem slightly less controversial these days I felt sorry for his friendlessness and requested him. Only to be completely rejected and darked out by his 74 year old self. Who does he think he is?!
If Facebook continues to be rejected by the generations following ourselves, it does not promise to get any more interesting. Selfies over the next few decades may start being taken over afternoon tea and at the opera; check-ins could eventually be in a stream of retirement properties and one day we will be flooded with millions of regurgitated pictures of grandchildren. Damn it. Here's hoping that some people decide to grow old disgracefully and share it with the virtual masses. I am sure I will be at the front of that particular queue...
Saturday, 8 November 2014
Forget, Forget the 5th and Regret
We have seriously fucked up fireworks night for our kids this year. I couldn't have managed it worse if I had put all my efforts into making it awful for them.
I had the bright idea a couple of weeks ago to take the boys to Nana's nursing home's fireworks display. She always wants to see the boys but we don't tend to last more than 10 minutes when we visit her, every couple of months or so, as there is very little for them to do and quite a lot of havoc they can cause in a small-old-person's-bedroom. I therefore had a rose-coloured vision of her in her wheelchair, great-grandson clasped in each hand, romantically watching the fireworks. Error. Sorry to spoil the end of the story but... big, fat, fucking error.
First up, having arranged all this with Nana, she then forgot. We'll forgive her, she's 100, but the next time I asked her she said that she 'might possibly come down, if we were there, if she felt like it'. No Nana. If I'm haring across St. Albans, with children, after work, to watch fireworks at your Nursing Home - you can bloody come down and watch them. She then, pretty quickly, got it.
There was then a seriously complicated arrangement where my Mum had to meet me at my house so that I could leave my drama club as near to 5pm as possible, then leg it to my house, pick up my mother, leg it to childcare, pick up the boys and furthermore leg it across St. Albans in rush hour to make the 5-7pm party at Verulam House. My mistake I'm sure, but when I arrived at 5.20pm I did not expect the fireworks to have finished. Arse. Unfortunately I had bigged up the event to the kids quite a lot so that they seemed enthusiastic to Nana. Cue two small boys welling up with tears standing around Nana's wheelchair. Fortunately there were enough sausages hanging about for me to plug Zak's mouth shut with food. Sebi sweetly gave Nana a cuddle and said 'perhaps it is just time you just died'. Ahhhh - as my Mum caustically mentioned on the way home, 'she obviously hasn't come around to that idea however'!
On the long, tedious, rush-hour, car journey, across St. A again, I spent my time praising the boys for not being little fuckers and telling them it didn't matter as it was all about Saturday at Jersey Farm. That was the proper fireworks night.
Come Saturday, the weather forecast for early evening was horrendous. Stu and I had already agreed fireworks in the pouring rain were a no-go so we managed to bribe the children with a take-away curry instead (it's all about the food). Having sat and watched the rain not appearing all afternoon I was delighted to see the torrential downpours start at about 5pm, only to fricking stop again as I brought the curry home. The poor unfortunate kids watched the fireworks from a distance from Zak's bedroom, post-curry, only complaining that the neighbours had a tree that got in the way a bit. I would love to think that Sebi was being sardonic as he thanked me for a lovely fireworks day as I put him to bed tonight; but for once, I think he wasn't...
It's all about next year kiddies. I may even have to take up Halloween for once, to compensate. ;-)
I had the bright idea a couple of weeks ago to take the boys to Nana's nursing home's fireworks display. She always wants to see the boys but we don't tend to last more than 10 minutes when we visit her, every couple of months or so, as there is very little for them to do and quite a lot of havoc they can cause in a small-old-person's-bedroom. I therefore had a rose-coloured vision of her in her wheelchair, great-grandson clasped in each hand, romantically watching the fireworks. Error. Sorry to spoil the end of the story but... big, fat, fucking error.
First up, having arranged all this with Nana, she then forgot. We'll forgive her, she's 100, but the next time I asked her she said that she 'might possibly come down, if we were there, if she felt like it'. No Nana. If I'm haring across St. Albans, with children, after work, to watch fireworks at your Nursing Home - you can bloody come down and watch them. She then, pretty quickly, got it.
There was then a seriously complicated arrangement where my Mum had to meet me at my house so that I could leave my drama club as near to 5pm as possible, then leg it to my house, pick up my mother, leg it to childcare, pick up the boys and furthermore leg it across St. Albans in rush hour to make the 5-7pm party at Verulam House. My mistake I'm sure, but when I arrived at 5.20pm I did not expect the fireworks to have finished. Arse. Unfortunately I had bigged up the event to the kids quite a lot so that they seemed enthusiastic to Nana. Cue two small boys welling up with tears standing around Nana's wheelchair. Fortunately there were enough sausages hanging about for me to plug Zak's mouth shut with food. Sebi sweetly gave Nana a cuddle and said 'perhaps it is just time you just died'. Ahhhh - as my Mum caustically mentioned on the way home, 'she obviously hasn't come around to that idea however'!
On the long, tedious, rush-hour, car journey, across St. A again, I spent my time praising the boys for not being little fuckers and telling them it didn't matter as it was all about Saturday at Jersey Farm. That was the proper fireworks night.
Come Saturday, the weather forecast for early evening was horrendous. Stu and I had already agreed fireworks in the pouring rain were a no-go so we managed to bribe the children with a take-away curry instead (it's all about the food). Having sat and watched the rain not appearing all afternoon I was delighted to see the torrential downpours start at about 5pm, only to fricking stop again as I brought the curry home. The poor unfortunate kids watched the fireworks from a distance from Zak's bedroom, post-curry, only complaining that the neighbours had a tree that got in the way a bit. I would love to think that Sebi was being sardonic as he thanked me for a lovely fireworks day as I put him to bed tonight; but for once, I think he wasn't...
It's all about next year kiddies. I may even have to take up Halloween for once, to compensate. ;-)
Thursday, 30 October 2014
With a little help from my friends
I have had a great day today visiting my pal from Uni, Charlotte. I got to thinking on the way home about friends and what keeps you linked with people over the years, even though you don't see each other that often? I have no doubt, that if she lived down the road then we would be in and out of each other's kitchens drinking tea all the time, but she doesn't, so it could easily be a year before I see her again. At one point in my life, this would have made me really sad but nowadays it makes me happy as I don't think we will ever lose touch. So what is it that binds you to some people and not others? Shared values I have realised the older I get. I cannot hang around with people (and their kids) if we do not hit parenting from the same-ish angle. The number of times Zak has been told off for stuff he hasn't really been doing, to make a point to some vacant looking mother whose child is running riot. That is a whole other blog post however, and one I am sure I have already done! Charlotte and I used to live together at Uni too and there is something about having lived with somebody (if you got on that is!) that gives you a bond as you were the person who was there every single day, warts and all. It makes me laugh that when I see my other Uni friends that I lived with, (Clare and Lyns), we always end up getting into bed together in our pyjamas to chat in the mornings as we used to do when we were 20. When you are in the midst of a consuming friendship you can't imagine not telling that person every last thing you are doing but as you move on you realise that you can actually live your day-to-day life without them.
Shelley has always laughed at the fact that I have a new bezzie every five minutes and also that I feel the need to classify my friends in my head. She finds it hilarious that if questioned, (by her - always - who else gives a fuck?!), I can come up immediately with a current Top 3, Top 10, Top 20 list. Not quite sure why it's so surprising; I had a colour-coded list of boyfriends as I went through them as a teenager classified into 'I dumped him', 'he dumped me', 'mutual amicable split'. Don't even get me started on the point allocated spreadsheet I had to decide about our #seriouslynevergoingtohappennow third child. There was a positive and a negative column with a range of 1 - 3 points given for each consideration. E.g. a big negative three pointer was 'having to put sun cream on three children'. Serious stuff. I'm laughing on the other side of my face since Shelley got her new best-baby-mummy-mate, and just in case you ever meet her, we really don't like her by the way. ;-)
Then you have your nearest and dearest mates that decide to up and head off to sunnier climes. They are mainly both called Jenny. Again, it seemed like the end of the world at the time, but you adjust and it is then ridiculously exciting when they come back to visit.
You do end up sharing your day-to-day tribulations with work colleagues. Although I have made some lifelong friends through work, it always surprises me when you can end up not speaking to people quite easily ever again when for such a long time previously you knew every intimate intricacy of their lives. It proves we are all fickle creatures at heart really.
Stu gets cross when I get back from Sam's house and she phones me for an hour later on that evening. (I'm still not a big phone user but she knows that I just won't answer if I'm not in the mood - i.e. drunk.) I was saying to her the other day that there are some people who don't seem to need the relationship that she and I have where we know pretty much every little mundane detail of each other's dull lives. 'Ah', said she with wisdom in her voice, 'those are women who have husbands that want to sit down and talk to them'. Perish the thought.
Shelley has always laughed at the fact that I have a new bezzie every five minutes and also that I feel the need to classify my friends in my head. She finds it hilarious that if questioned, (by her - always - who else gives a fuck?!), I can come up immediately with a current Top 3, Top 10, Top 20 list. Not quite sure why it's so surprising; I had a colour-coded list of boyfriends as I went through them as a teenager classified into 'I dumped him', 'he dumped me', 'mutual amicable split'. Don't even get me started on the point allocated spreadsheet I had to decide about our #seriouslynevergoingtohappennow third child. There was a positive and a negative column with a range of 1 - 3 points given for each consideration. E.g. a big negative three pointer was 'having to put sun cream on three children'. Serious stuff. I'm laughing on the other side of my face since Shelley got her new best-baby-mummy-mate, and just in case you ever meet her, we really don't like her by the way. ;-)
Then you have your nearest and dearest mates that decide to up and head off to sunnier climes. They are mainly both called Jenny. Again, it seemed like the end of the world at the time, but you adjust and it is then ridiculously exciting when they come back to visit.
You do end up sharing your day-to-day tribulations with work colleagues. Although I have made some lifelong friends through work, it always surprises me when you can end up not speaking to people quite easily ever again when for such a long time previously you knew every intimate intricacy of their lives. It proves we are all fickle creatures at heart really.
Stu gets cross when I get back from Sam's house and she phones me for an hour later on that evening. (I'm still not a big phone user but she knows that I just won't answer if I'm not in the mood - i.e. drunk.) I was saying to her the other day that there are some people who don't seem to need the relationship that she and I have where we know pretty much every little mundane detail of each other's dull lives. 'Ah', said she with wisdom in her voice, 'those are women who have husbands that want to sit down and talk to them'. Perish the thought.
Friday, 26 September 2014
Outnumbered
I announced to my husband this week that if I didn't find a job by Christmas-time-ish, I wanted to have a third baby. I've never seen anyone's beard go pale before, but it was quite an interesting phenomenon. Poor Stu. The worst thing is, that for me it was quite a flippant comment. It is early days for job-hunting for September in the teaching profession and I have plenty of time as yet to get a job for next academic year. Also, surely I need to make a few important decisions first with regard to whether I want to be a full-time HOD or HOY or a part-time teacher? Stu began googling incessantly however and was grilling me as to how I should sign up to teacher recruitment agencies.
If I don't end up getting a job then the house is going to be pretty busy with both of us in it full-time. It's taken us 18 months to shake down to Stu working from home without us killing each other. He has had to conduct webinars to a background of hoovering and howling children and I have had to invent interesting school-holiday days out for kids, for free, in the pouring rain. No easy feat for either of us.
There are benefits. One of us takes the kids to school every day even though we both work. It's lucky really as Sebi would miss Breakfast Club before school as most days I'm dragging him begrudgingly from his bed by his big toe at nearly 7.45am. Zak is quite keen on the sound of Breakfast Club but only because he thinks he would have his breakfast at home and then top up with another one at club half an hour later. This is the child that isn't tending to have any time playing out at lunchtimes now that he has hit the Juniors and is allowed to go back for school-dinner-seconds...
My husband also has now learnt to use the toilet downstairs if I've just cleaned upstairs and vice-versa. The poor man does try everything in his power not to get under my feet and irritate me but unfortunately for him I seem to have the patience and the tolerance of a wasp in a jam jar. I now know on my days off that if I open the fridge at lunchtime and let out a little sigh, he tends to take me up to Molens for a sarnie. What a great chap - I definitely don't deserve him.
So, chucking a baby into the equation is probably not the best idea. Our weekday house is busy enough as it is. I was offered £100 this week to do a champagne tasting; with me doing as much 'tasting' as the potential customer. Dream. Job. I need to be very, very nice to the lady concerned in the run up to next summer as one or two of those a week could be all I need to keep me interested. Definitely what a Masters in Drama in Education should lead into I think...
If I don't end up getting a job then the house is going to be pretty busy with both of us in it full-time. It's taken us 18 months to shake down to Stu working from home without us killing each other. He has had to conduct webinars to a background of hoovering and howling children and I have had to invent interesting school-holiday days out for kids, for free, in the pouring rain. No easy feat for either of us.
There are benefits. One of us takes the kids to school every day even though we both work. It's lucky really as Sebi would miss Breakfast Club before school as most days I'm dragging him begrudgingly from his bed by his big toe at nearly 7.45am. Zak is quite keen on the sound of Breakfast Club but only because he thinks he would have his breakfast at home and then top up with another one at club half an hour later. This is the child that isn't tending to have any time playing out at lunchtimes now that he has hit the Juniors and is allowed to go back for school-dinner-seconds...
My husband also has now learnt to use the toilet downstairs if I've just cleaned upstairs and vice-versa. The poor man does try everything in his power not to get under my feet and irritate me but unfortunately for him I seem to have the patience and the tolerance of a wasp in a jam jar. I now know on my days off that if I open the fridge at lunchtime and let out a little sigh, he tends to take me up to Molens for a sarnie. What a great chap - I definitely don't deserve him.
So, chucking a baby into the equation is probably not the best idea. Our weekday house is busy enough as it is. I was offered £100 this week to do a champagne tasting; with me doing as much 'tasting' as the potential customer. Dream. Job. I need to be very, very nice to the lady concerned in the run up to next summer as one or two of those a week could be all I need to keep me interested. Definitely what a Masters in Drama in Education should lead into I think...
Thursday, 11 September 2014
On the Weekly Wagon
I've given up boozing in the week and I'm rather proud of myself. I know that for many of you this is a lifestyle change that you will have made a long, long time before the age of 37 but for me it is a new found trick so bear with me.
Let's clarify 'week' here too. Obviously I'm a massive boozer so five days off just wouldn't work for me. I do not see how you can't count either Friday or Sunday as not being the weekend as it really wouldn't be fair to either of them. So, by 'week', I actually mean four days, I don't want to sell myself short however so I must also elucidate by saying that it is four days and FOUR NIGHTS. On the trot. Over 100 consecutive hours each week, (well two so far), of no drinking. Hooray for me.
I feel pretty great. I know it's not rocket science but my brain seems more engaged at work, my body feels healthier and I am sleeping fantastically well. I've spent years telling people that I always have to get up in the middle of the night for a wee since I had the kids. Over the last fortnight I have discovered that it is actually wine in my bladder that has got me up at night rather than ancient childbirth sagging. Incredible.
I have been sitting at home all this time though, I haven't, as yet, been out anywhere during the week. I'm not completely convinced that this non-alcoholic zeal will last through a night at the theatre next week, or in fact any time that I actually talk to people other than my husband, but that's OK. I think I've probably already added about another ten years onto my life over the last couple of weeks, and so we are heading, finally, in the correct direction.
In other news, Stuart had to go on a speed awareness course this week and I was interested to see how his attitude changed on his return. I have spoken to a lot of people who have done these courses and have come back completely converted to the belief in speed limits. Surely not my husband? I don't have a problem with speed limits but he tends to be a bit of a boy racer. Probably because when all of his peers were boy racing back in the day, he was on the bus. Anyway, although it may have slowed him down slightly I'm pleased to say he is not evangelising about the danger of our roads to anyone who will listen. One newly converted smug bastard in our house is more than enough at the moment.
Let's clarify 'week' here too. Obviously I'm a massive boozer so five days off just wouldn't work for me. I do not see how you can't count either Friday or Sunday as not being the weekend as it really wouldn't be fair to either of them. So, by 'week', I actually mean four days, I don't want to sell myself short however so I must also elucidate by saying that it is four days and FOUR NIGHTS. On the trot. Over 100 consecutive hours each week, (well two so far), of no drinking. Hooray for me.
I feel pretty great. I know it's not rocket science but my brain seems more engaged at work, my body feels healthier and I am sleeping fantastically well. I've spent years telling people that I always have to get up in the middle of the night for a wee since I had the kids. Over the last fortnight I have discovered that it is actually wine in my bladder that has got me up at night rather than ancient childbirth sagging. Incredible.
I have been sitting at home all this time though, I haven't, as yet, been out anywhere during the week. I'm not completely convinced that this non-alcoholic zeal will last through a night at the theatre next week, or in fact any time that I actually talk to people other than my husband, but that's OK. I think I've probably already added about another ten years onto my life over the last couple of weeks, and so we are heading, finally, in the correct direction.
In other news, Stuart had to go on a speed awareness course this week and I was interested to see how his attitude changed on his return. I have spoken to a lot of people who have done these courses and have come back completely converted to the belief in speed limits. Surely not my husband? I don't have a problem with speed limits but he tends to be a bit of a boy racer. Probably because when all of his peers were boy racing back in the day, he was on the bus. Anyway, although it may have slowed him down slightly I'm pleased to say he is not evangelising about the danger of our roads to anyone who will listen. One newly converted smug bastard in our house is more than enough at the moment.
Friday, 22 August 2014
London Lads
Don't you think it's funny how things that drive you potty in your own children can be ignored in other children?
I have just spent a very pleasant day in Greenwich meeting an old University pal of mine, Ada. After a good run around the park (small people), the larger people rewarded themselves with Pinot and Pizza. Sebi was being his usual delightful self when he gets a cob on and watched Ada draw a beautiful picture for him on a Pizza Express postcard, then looked her in the eye whilst he scribbled all over it. All she could come up with was: "Aren't his eyelashes amazing?" Erm, yes they are, and he knows it, which is part of the reason his list of personality disorders is forever increasing. (I blame the Mother. No, I actually do, entirely.)
When she commented on the noise one of her children was making in the park earlier as being something that 'only dogs would respond to', I hadn't even noticed. If my kids were making a noise like that I would have gone ballistic but somehow in a tone that is not belonging to you, it really doesn't matter.
Don't get me wrong, I am not generally a great fan of other children. Correction, I'm not so much a fan of other parenting. I know I went into teaching for the holidays but I don't think I would have lasted this long if I actually couldn't stand the littler people. I have a few friends that are kindred spirits, one in particular springs to mind who agrees that in the public arena, well-behaved and well-mannered kids are much more important that happy kids. It amused me today that mid paddy from Sebi he stopped what he was doing to thank the waiter for his drink then continued as was...
Little boys are feral by nature but I really believe that as long as you have run them around in circles for a good hour or so first, and don't inject sugar into them, you should generally be able to get them to behave for an hour or two over lunch by this age without the help of electronic devices. We managed it. The moment they were let loose from the restaurant however they turned back into wild dogs, which is fine. We got to the river without losing any, which is always a good start.
As I walked along the South Bank on the way home and they were legging it about, I caught a small sideways glance from a lady with two little girls walking beautifully next to her, holding her hands. I felt the glance. I have given it many a time. It was a glance that told me that at this present moment in time her children were better behaved than mine. True enough but technically they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just a little 'buoyant'. I stand by the fact that it is illegal for a mother of all-females to chuck me that look however- I'm dealing with a completely different breed here.
I have just spent a very pleasant day in Greenwich meeting an old University pal of mine, Ada. After a good run around the park (small people), the larger people rewarded themselves with Pinot and Pizza. Sebi was being his usual delightful self when he gets a cob on and watched Ada draw a beautiful picture for him on a Pizza Express postcard, then looked her in the eye whilst he scribbled all over it. All she could come up with was: "Aren't his eyelashes amazing?" Erm, yes they are, and he knows it, which is part of the reason his list of personality disorders is forever increasing. (I blame the Mother. No, I actually do, entirely.)
When she commented on the noise one of her children was making in the park earlier as being something that 'only dogs would respond to', I hadn't even noticed. If my kids were making a noise like that I would have gone ballistic but somehow in a tone that is not belonging to you, it really doesn't matter.
Don't get me wrong, I am not generally a great fan of other children. Correction, I'm not so much a fan of other parenting. I know I went into teaching for the holidays but I don't think I would have lasted this long if I actually couldn't stand the littler people. I have a few friends that are kindred spirits, one in particular springs to mind who agrees that in the public arena, well-behaved and well-mannered kids are much more important that happy kids. It amused me today that mid paddy from Sebi he stopped what he was doing to thank the waiter for his drink then continued as was...
Little boys are feral by nature but I really believe that as long as you have run them around in circles for a good hour or so first, and don't inject sugar into them, you should generally be able to get them to behave for an hour or two over lunch by this age without the help of electronic devices. We managed it. The moment they were let loose from the restaurant however they turned back into wild dogs, which is fine. We got to the river without losing any, which is always a good start.
As I walked along the South Bank on the way home and they were legging it about, I caught a small sideways glance from a lady with two little girls walking beautifully next to her, holding her hands. I felt the glance. I have given it many a time. It was a glance that told me that at this present moment in time her children were better behaved than mine. True enough but technically they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just a little 'buoyant'. I stand by the fact that it is illegal for a mother of all-females to chuck me that look however- I'm dealing with a completely different breed here.
Monday, 18 August 2014
Summer Shut Down
It is the middle of the summer holidays and I'm pretty much as relaxed as I could be. I woke up at 11am this morning - amazing! Granted that is probably because the kids are spending some much needed time at their Grandparents but these days with the help of the holy Ipad, I never really rise before 9 in the holidays. Sleeping from midnight to 9.30 suits me much better than going to bed early and getting up for 7ish. Unfortunately I haven't as yet found a school that would allow me to roll into work about 10am - it doesn't really fit the job.
I've figured out I have two speeds. (1) Crazy busy and (2) Lazy cow. In the height of my busyness I achieve so much, always. I juggle jobs and studying and everyone is still fed nutritiously and the house is clean. I am currently running on Lazy Cow speed however and nothing is being achieved, at all. I just drove to the shop to buy a sandwich as I couldn't be arsed to make one myself. Seriously. It must have taken more time/effort and energy to drive to the shop and buy one but it felt like the Lazy Cow option and I took it.
So I'm revelling in my sluggishness at the moment. The only problem is that all good things come to an end and jeebus isn't it a shock to the system when they do? This time in two weeks I will be halfway through a session of inset at my new job that started at 8.30am in the morning and I will have had to have delivered my kids to Wheathampstead beforehand. From where I'm sitting at the moment you might as well ask me to climb Mount Everest, that would be easier. The sensible way to tackle this problem would be to have earlier and more sober nights in the last week before real life starts again, thus training me back into the real world. However, I know that I will be hanging onto the sloth by my fingernails and drowning the idea of actuality in buckets full of champagne. Hmmmm.
I need to rev my brain back up into gear as it is also the final year of my MA for which a cool 20000 words is expected. I wrote 12500 words this year but if you held a gun to my head at the moment and asked me for any more than about 10 of them I really don't think I would be able to help you.
I'm sure I'll get there, we all do in the end. I must be going now anyway. There's place mat on the table with crumbs on that I've been working up to wiping for a couple of hours now. I reckon I'm nearly up to it. Happy Days.
I've figured out I have two speeds. (1) Crazy busy and (2) Lazy cow. In the height of my busyness I achieve so much, always. I juggle jobs and studying and everyone is still fed nutritiously and the house is clean. I am currently running on Lazy Cow speed however and nothing is being achieved, at all. I just drove to the shop to buy a sandwich as I couldn't be arsed to make one myself. Seriously. It must have taken more time/effort and energy to drive to the shop and buy one but it felt like the Lazy Cow option and I took it.
So I'm revelling in my sluggishness at the moment. The only problem is that all good things come to an end and jeebus isn't it a shock to the system when they do? This time in two weeks I will be halfway through a session of inset at my new job that started at 8.30am in the morning and I will have had to have delivered my kids to Wheathampstead beforehand. From where I'm sitting at the moment you might as well ask me to climb Mount Everest, that would be easier. The sensible way to tackle this problem would be to have earlier and more sober nights in the last week before real life starts again, thus training me back into the real world. However, I know that I will be hanging onto the sloth by my fingernails and drowning the idea of actuality in buckets full of champagne. Hmmmm.
I need to rev my brain back up into gear as it is also the final year of my MA for which a cool 20000 words is expected. I wrote 12500 words this year but if you held a gun to my head at the moment and asked me for any more than about 10 of them I really don't think I would be able to help you.
I'm sure I'll get there, we all do in the end. I must be going now anyway. There's place mat on the table with crumbs on that I've been working up to wiping for a couple of hours now. I reckon I'm nearly up to it. Happy Days.
Monday, 11 August 2014
The Circle of Life
I have just recovered from the worst two-day hangover of my life. I thought I was going to die. Seriously. I was having heart attacks, kidney and liver failure all at the same time. It was unpleasant. This immediately followed 14 days of hardcore drinking, even by my standards, so it was well deserved.
It got me to thinking about the hideous injustice of not being able to drink forever as you could in your twenties. Why can things just not stay the same forever? Much as I am afraid to admit it, I am officially getting old.
After Zak has asked me to jump in five times with him in a row in the pool, I was bored shitless. I used to do that for 10 hours straight as a child. When did I get so boring?
Stu and I haven't partied like that on holiday since pre-kids. It was brilliant, but I am also enjoying eating vegetables and drinking water today. That would NEVER have happened before. I would've been downing a bottle of vodka and crying over the fact my holiday was over. Does this mean in ten years I will be one of 'those' women who has two white wine and sodas and that is quite enough? I don't think so. I bloody hope not. I don't want to go clubbing anymore, definitely not. What will I have lost over the next ten years? Surely I can't go off pubs? Maybe I need to make the most of them in what is left of my thirties, just in case.
I wonder sometimes about what our holidays will be like when the kids have left home. I really hope we are still able to have fun by then. I can't ever see me becoming seriously into sight-seeing or walking or anything that isn't lying in the sun and boozing but you never know.
Shell was telling me the other day about a pill that is being developed at the moment that simulates being drunk without actually drinking any alcohol. You can then take another pill that stops it immediately with no hangover. Sounds like the answer to all my problems but the problem is that is doesn't sound that fun really! The best drunken nights are the ones that sneak up on you without warning, not a pre-medicated decision. Plus, I know I would never get around to taking the second pill and would end up drunk and disorderly forever...
So, I will continue with my detox for a few days. I have some seriously alcoholic pals coming to visit on Friday night so it will be all over by then. That is followed by three child-less days so I reckon next week I will be mid-anxiety-attack-seriously-about-to-die-any-minute-now all over again.
At least I'm prepared this time. ;-)
It got me to thinking about the hideous injustice of not being able to drink forever as you could in your twenties. Why can things just not stay the same forever? Much as I am afraid to admit it, I am officially getting old.
After Zak has asked me to jump in five times with him in a row in the pool, I was bored shitless. I used to do that for 10 hours straight as a child. When did I get so boring?
Stu and I haven't partied like that on holiday since pre-kids. It was brilliant, but I am also enjoying eating vegetables and drinking water today. That would NEVER have happened before. I would've been downing a bottle of vodka and crying over the fact my holiday was over. Does this mean in ten years I will be one of 'those' women who has two white wine and sodas and that is quite enough? I don't think so. I bloody hope not. I don't want to go clubbing anymore, definitely not. What will I have lost over the next ten years? Surely I can't go off pubs? Maybe I need to make the most of them in what is left of my thirties, just in case.
I wonder sometimes about what our holidays will be like when the kids have left home. I really hope we are still able to have fun by then. I can't ever see me becoming seriously into sight-seeing or walking or anything that isn't lying in the sun and boozing but you never know.
Shell was telling me the other day about a pill that is being developed at the moment that simulates being drunk without actually drinking any alcohol. You can then take another pill that stops it immediately with no hangover. Sounds like the answer to all my problems but the problem is that is doesn't sound that fun really! The best drunken nights are the ones that sneak up on you without warning, not a pre-medicated decision. Plus, I know I would never get around to taking the second pill and would end up drunk and disorderly forever...
So, I will continue with my detox for a few days. I have some seriously alcoholic pals coming to visit on Friday night so it will be all over by then. That is followed by three child-less days so I reckon next week I will be mid-anxiety-attack-seriously-about-to-die-any-minute-now all over again.
At least I'm prepared this time. ;-)
Friday, 4 July 2014
I don't do sick...
...I don't. I really, really don't.
Before I had children I perfected the art of avoiding sick of school trips by positioning myself always next to the window on a coach and then inviting a complete keeno teacher (normally a trainee or an NQT) to sit next to me. It is quite likely that the aforementioned unfortunate seat-partner had been pretty much ignored at work by me until this point and so was pleased that I was being so friendly. Little did they know that the moment a pupil vomited, they were purely my buffer to that situation. Happy days. Worked a treat.
Unfortunately, you are then a Mother and there is no buffer. Well, no buffer that is going to efficiently enough clean puke stains from your house...
Zak started vomming at about 7pm last night. Mummy had just returned from the pub, (such lucky children), and Daddy sent me up to see Zak as he was feeling sick. It was his class assembly today and he is not a natural performer so I thought he was suffering from nerves. We were having a lovely cuddle in bed and I was giving him a pep talk about it not mattering if things went wrong, he forgot his words or he wasn't loud enough, thinking I was making it all better; when he threw up all over both of us. Not nerves then.
No more grim details, I promise, let's just say there were four hours of grimness following. This is one of our busiest weekends of the year (of course). Zak's assembly was today then I was straight up to London for a financial meeting with my Dad and a piss-up lunch. Tomorrow is Sebi's first stage school performance, which Stu's parents are down for. Then Sunday is Zak's birthday BBQ and Monday is his actual birthday and party. He couldn't really have timed it better.
Or course I was going to sacrifice a snazzy lunch in London with pretty much my favourite person on the planet today if Zak had been really ill. I was totally prepared for it at 11pm as I settled down for the night expecting not to be asleep for particularly long. However, as I woke up at 7am this morning I figured out the worst could be over and I might in fact make it. Of course, if Mummy and Grandad are out on the piss, Granny is always available. It worried me slightly that mid-retch last night Zak was gasping at me:
"You... must.. phone... Granny..."
"No darling, it's ok, Mummy's here."
"But Granny always looks after us when we're poorly..."
Yikes. At least we all know where we stand.
So I now only have 72 hours or so to watch Sebi like a hawk to see if we can get through weekend-of-the-year with no further sicky disasters. Knowing Seb, he will save it up for mid tap dance tomorrow, just in case the focus is off him for a second...
Before I had children I perfected the art of avoiding sick of school trips by positioning myself always next to the window on a coach and then inviting a complete keeno teacher (normally a trainee or an NQT) to sit next to me. It is quite likely that the aforementioned unfortunate seat-partner had been pretty much ignored at work by me until this point and so was pleased that I was being so friendly. Little did they know that the moment a pupil vomited, they were purely my buffer to that situation. Happy days. Worked a treat.
Unfortunately, you are then a Mother and there is no buffer. Well, no buffer that is going to efficiently enough clean puke stains from your house...
Zak started vomming at about 7pm last night. Mummy had just returned from the pub, (such lucky children), and Daddy sent me up to see Zak as he was feeling sick. It was his class assembly today and he is not a natural performer so I thought he was suffering from nerves. We were having a lovely cuddle in bed and I was giving him a pep talk about it not mattering if things went wrong, he forgot his words or he wasn't loud enough, thinking I was making it all better; when he threw up all over both of us. Not nerves then.
No more grim details, I promise, let's just say there were four hours of grimness following. This is one of our busiest weekends of the year (of course). Zak's assembly was today then I was straight up to London for a financial meeting with my Dad and a piss-up lunch. Tomorrow is Sebi's first stage school performance, which Stu's parents are down for. Then Sunday is Zak's birthday BBQ and Monday is his actual birthday and party. He couldn't really have timed it better.
Or course I was going to sacrifice a snazzy lunch in London with pretty much my favourite person on the planet today if Zak had been really ill. I was totally prepared for it at 11pm as I settled down for the night expecting not to be asleep for particularly long. However, as I woke up at 7am this morning I figured out the worst could be over and I might in fact make it. Of course, if Mummy and Grandad are out on the piss, Granny is always available. It worried me slightly that mid-retch last night Zak was gasping at me:
"You... must.. phone... Granny..."
"No darling, it's ok, Mummy's here."
"But Granny always looks after us when we're poorly..."
Yikes. At least we all know where we stand.
So I now only have 72 hours or so to watch Sebi like a hawk to see if we can get through weekend-of-the-year with no further sicky disasters. Knowing Seb, he will save it up for mid tap dance tomorrow, just in case the focus is off him for a second...
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Like Father...like Son-in-Law
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7593336.stm
I've always laughed in the face of articles like the above, which profess that women tend to marry people that resemble their fathers. I am beginning however to laugh on the other side of my face...
Stuart took his Father's Day present back to Marks and Spencer yesterday, (how rude, who doesn't need a pair of Mr. Men socks for every day of the week?), and returned with a really nice checked shirt. A really nice checked shirt that looks as though it came straight out of my Dad's wardrobe.
I have always thought that Stu and my Dad were polar opposites, even though they have got on very well. In the way that dogs begin to look like their owners over time, or owners begin to look like their dogs, I feel this son-in-law is becoming more like John Stocker every day.
There is a general intolerance of rude, drunken, swearing people in pubs. This is unfortunate for me as quite often my default stance in a pub is rude, drunk and swearing.
I think my Dad forgets the blood link occasionally, or believes that male fellow feeling is more important. When I meet him for a drink, even if he is the one who has arranged it, I am often greeted with: "your husband let you out then did he?" I know he only does it to wind me up - so it annoys me that it still does manage to slightly irritate me.
So I will monitor any future shopping decisions by my spouse with interest, quietly. I will only ever get involved if he follows the dodgy fashion decision of bright blue crocs with beige socks pulled up to the knee. There are some things that only my Dad can get away with.
Who knows, maybe the boys will bring home someone who resembles me one day? I think that may be the point that Stu flies our happy nest. One of me if more than enough for any man to have to put up with I think.
I've always laughed in the face of articles like the above, which profess that women tend to marry people that resemble their fathers. I am beginning however to laugh on the other side of my face...
Stuart took his Father's Day present back to Marks and Spencer yesterday, (how rude, who doesn't need a pair of Mr. Men socks for every day of the week?), and returned with a really nice checked shirt. A really nice checked shirt that looks as though it came straight out of my Dad's wardrobe.
I have always thought that Stu and my Dad were polar opposites, even though they have got on very well. In the way that dogs begin to look like their owners over time, or owners begin to look like their dogs, I feel this son-in-law is becoming more like John Stocker every day.
There is a general intolerance of rude, drunken, swearing people in pubs. This is unfortunate for me as quite often my default stance in a pub is rude, drunk and swearing.
I think my Dad forgets the blood link occasionally, or believes that male fellow feeling is more important. When I meet him for a drink, even if he is the one who has arranged it, I am often greeted with: "your husband let you out then did he?" I know he only does it to wind me up - so it annoys me that it still does manage to slightly irritate me.
So I will monitor any future shopping decisions by my spouse with interest, quietly. I will only ever get involved if he follows the dodgy fashion decision of bright blue crocs with beige socks pulled up to the knee. There are some things that only my Dad can get away with.
Who knows, maybe the boys will bring home someone who resembles me one day? I think that may be the point that Stu flies our happy nest. One of me if more than enough for any man to have to put up with I think.
Thursday, 26 June 2014
Pay it Forward
I am not community spirited by nature. It's not technically my bag. Ask any of the Mums at the school gate who pee their pants over asking me if I have volunteered for the school trip/am attending the camping night/am doing a stall at the school fair. No, no and NO. Missing my kids' Sports Day for the first time today though made me a little bit sad but I wasn't beside myself by any means. Particularly as my parents had arranged their 8 day holiday in between the end of the times that I needed them to pick up the kids when I was examining and play-directing, and today, when neither Stu or I could make Sports Day due to work. We did find out a couple of days ago however that as Stu's meeting had been cancelled he could actually be at Sports Day after all. My text message to the parents in Italy went something along the lines of this:
'GOOD NEWS - Stu's meeting has been cancelled and he can now make Sports Day!
BAD NEWS - You have arranged your entire holiday around this! Stay on in Italy?!'
My Mother obviously got her own back on me by coming and watching anyway and then feeding back through my Father in the pub this evening: 'I don't think we should hold out for the Olympics for the Ward boys.' Miaooowwwww (but fair ;-))
Anyway, I digress. I popped to Budgens on the way home as I realised we didn't have any mushy peas to accompany our fish 'n chips - sacrilege. The middle-aged, middle-class lady in front of me was obviously embarrassed as she put forward her burgers and croissants and handed over a fiver saying that she didn't have her purse with her and she hoped she wasn't going to be 'financially mortified'. Financially mortified she was as it came to £5.15 and she tried to put the croissants back (savoury over sweet, every time, totes agree). I piped up that I would give her the 15p and she honestly acted as if I had just given her a kidney. We are so bloody British. I'm not even sure if I would have given her the 15p if I didn't have two glasses of wine in my belly, but I should have, regardless. I'm not telling this story to be a wanker. 15p is 15p and to any of us it means nothing at all but we should take these chances of showing we live as a community of sorts when we can.
I must say more than anything to my boys, 'Be kind'. Am I always kind? No. Absolutely not. However, I am generally kind to anyone who has not proved themselves as a fuckwit or a cunt, and I cannot bear meanness, particularly childhood nastiness. 'Be kind to anyone who isn't a fuckwit or a cunt' is probably a little too advanced for even my children however.
I must thank you all, for being kind to me in continuing to read my blog through the bother of having to sign up/create accounts etc. etc. It is a personal thing to me, that I love doing and I am grateful that so many people have shown interest and bothered to keep on reading. Be sure I will give you lot 15p any time, without a second thought, or even one glass of wine in my belly...
'GOOD NEWS - Stu's meeting has been cancelled and he can now make Sports Day!
BAD NEWS - You have arranged your entire holiday around this! Stay on in Italy?!'
My Mother obviously got her own back on me by coming and watching anyway and then feeding back through my Father in the pub this evening: 'I don't think we should hold out for the Olympics for the Ward boys.' Miaooowwwww (but fair ;-))
Anyway, I digress. I popped to Budgens on the way home as I realised we didn't have any mushy peas to accompany our fish 'n chips - sacrilege. The middle-aged, middle-class lady in front of me was obviously embarrassed as she put forward her burgers and croissants and handed over a fiver saying that she didn't have her purse with her and she hoped she wasn't going to be 'financially mortified'. Financially mortified she was as it came to £5.15 and she tried to put the croissants back (savoury over sweet, every time, totes agree). I piped up that I would give her the 15p and she honestly acted as if I had just given her a kidney. We are so bloody British. I'm not even sure if I would have given her the 15p if I didn't have two glasses of wine in my belly, but I should have, regardless. I'm not telling this story to be a wanker. 15p is 15p and to any of us it means nothing at all but we should take these chances of showing we live as a community of sorts when we can.
I must say more than anything to my boys, 'Be kind'. Am I always kind? No. Absolutely not. However, I am generally kind to anyone who has not proved themselves as a fuckwit or a cunt, and I cannot bear meanness, particularly childhood nastiness. 'Be kind to anyone who isn't a fuckwit or a cunt' is probably a little too advanced for even my children however.
I must thank you all, for being kind to me in continuing to read my blog through the bother of having to sign up/create accounts etc. etc. It is a personal thing to me, that I love doing and I am grateful that so many people have shown interest and bothered to keep on reading. Be sure I will give you lot 15p any time, without a second thought, or even one glass of wine in my belly...
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Having my Apron Strings Cut
A lot has changed in Sebi over the past couple of weeks since his birthday and he is not afraid to share it. There have been a few pleasing mealtime moments where he has poked in one, previously scorned carrot or piece of cucumber and then told us quite definitely, with a look of wonder as to why we are surprised:
"But of course, I eat carrots/cucumber now, I am FIVE."
Oh, of course, silly me. His Top Hat teacher had the same experience when she tried to help him undo his tap shoes, as she does every week. She told me that he looked at her extremely scathingly as he delivered her the same line.
I can't say I have noticed huge changes in my life since turning thirty-seven from thirty-six, but maybe the leaps are less great these days, or maybe I'm not trying hard enough.
My baby does not exist anymore. My Mum told me the other day that Sebi had confided in her that he needed Mummy to stop calling him 'her baby' as he really was, most definitely, five now. He had a long discussion with me the other day as to whether he needed to change from being called 'Sebi' to 'Seb' now that he was a year older. I thought it was probably unnecessary, and could become a little complicated. He could then become 'Sebastian' when he was six but I think by the time he hit ten we may well have run out of suitable variations. I think I may have to knock 'Sebi-Woo' on the head however...
I went to Sainsbury's to buy a new rucksack after Uni today and had a moment of nostalgia that a year ago I would have plumped for the 'Thomas' one without a second thought but today I had to weigh up the relative benefits of 'Spiderman' versus 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles', neither of which are particularly my areas of expertise.
I'm beginning to realise that I'm not always top of Sebi's list now in every single part of his life. This should be no rude shock, I know, but I have had five years of being THE person who must be on his team/first person drawn in his picture/last person he sees at night and first person he sees in the morning. These days it isn't quite so crucial. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there is anything attractive about Mummy's boys but I was just expecting the cut to be slightly more gradual... I'm bracing myself for no more kisses on the lips and lap-sitting becoming a distant memory.
I know however, that we are still peas in a pod in so many ways. When I picked him up yesterday from Top Hat, straight after my MA, I couldn't help but think that the things he was poncing about doing at 5 were pretty much the same things I had been poncing about doing half an hour earlier at 37, and apparently I'm getting a clever degree for it...
I decided to practise his songs with him in the bath when we got home and launched enthusiastically into the chorus of a 'High School Musical' number. Instead of joining in, Sebi eyeballed me and asked me fairly politely if I could 'be quiet as it sounded better with just him singing', you've got it, because he was FIVE now...
"But of course, I eat carrots/cucumber now, I am FIVE."
Oh, of course, silly me. His Top Hat teacher had the same experience when she tried to help him undo his tap shoes, as she does every week. She told me that he looked at her extremely scathingly as he delivered her the same line.
I can't say I have noticed huge changes in my life since turning thirty-seven from thirty-six, but maybe the leaps are less great these days, or maybe I'm not trying hard enough.
My baby does not exist anymore. My Mum told me the other day that Sebi had confided in her that he needed Mummy to stop calling him 'her baby' as he really was, most definitely, five now. He had a long discussion with me the other day as to whether he needed to change from being called 'Sebi' to 'Seb' now that he was a year older. I thought it was probably unnecessary, and could become a little complicated. He could then become 'Sebastian' when he was six but I think by the time he hit ten we may well have run out of suitable variations. I think I may have to knock 'Sebi-Woo' on the head however...
I went to Sainsbury's to buy a new rucksack after Uni today and had a moment of nostalgia that a year ago I would have plumped for the 'Thomas' one without a second thought but today I had to weigh up the relative benefits of 'Spiderman' versus 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles', neither of which are particularly my areas of expertise.
I'm beginning to realise that I'm not always top of Sebi's list now in every single part of his life. This should be no rude shock, I know, but I have had five years of being THE person who must be on his team/first person drawn in his picture/last person he sees at night and first person he sees in the morning. These days it isn't quite so crucial. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there is anything attractive about Mummy's boys but I was just expecting the cut to be slightly more gradual... I'm bracing myself for no more kisses on the lips and lap-sitting becoming a distant memory.
I know however, that we are still peas in a pod in so many ways. When I picked him up yesterday from Top Hat, straight after my MA, I couldn't help but think that the things he was poncing about doing at 5 were pretty much the same things I had been poncing about doing half an hour earlier at 37, and apparently I'm getting a clever degree for it...
I decided to practise his songs with him in the bath when we got home and launched enthusiastically into the chorus of a 'High School Musical' number. Instead of joining in, Sebi eyeballed me and asked me fairly politely if I could 'be quiet as it sounded better with just him singing', you've got it, because he was FIVE now...
Saturday, 14 June 2014
Hope Springs
So there was a seriously Sticky Situation this week when my Year 8 pupils stumbled across my Sticky's Situations blog! Ooops. I cannot actually believe I have been such a naive dickhead up until this point to think that children don't bother googling their teachers... Fortunately Kate overheard the giggling at what we think was an early juncture in the proceedings and I managed to navigate my way around the school firewall and shut it down, quickly. Jeebus. Big lesson to be learnt there, mainly that 13 year old boys may find it relatively amusing to read about their Drama Teacher's sex life and learn that she likes to say 'Fuck' a lot.
FUCK!
The craziness that has been threatening for months is peaking right now. The play is on Wednesday and Thursday next week and we are rehearsing pretty much every minute between now and then. The kids are dropping like flies. The low point of yesterday's rehearsal was one of the cast breaking his wrist. Great. He cheerfully waved his plaster cast in my face this afternoon at the school fair and I'm trying to convince myself it adds extra depth to his character... Another parent caught me at the fair to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the Dress Rehearsal tomorrow as he had a temperature of 104. I guess that is a pretty good excuse. However, when the Dad jokingly said to me that it was funny but the boy still wanted to attend, I'm not sure he expected me to fix him with a steely stare and say that if the boy was that committed to his art then who were we to stand in his way? Luckily, I managed to chuck in a fake laugh just in time so he may have thought I was joking. I wasn't. As for the child who isn't coming due to a fencing competition...please don't get me started. According to HIS Dad, it will be fine as the play is AGES away. 95 and a half hours to be precise.
FUCK.
It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine. Kate was in Tesco one morning at 7.30am last week and texted me to ask if I would like anything. "Gin and valium" I replied. I brought my own bottle of tonic but I think she thought I was joking. I'm sure 7.30am in the UK is gin and tonic drinking time somewhere in the world!
The boys I'm directing, I haven't taught before and if I'm honest I don't think they find me that funny. I don't think I am particularly funny either at the moment. I am dog tired. I have threatened to cut off someone's hair for fiddling with it too much, asked someone else to put their socks back on due to foul smelling feet and had a distinctly sticky situation yesterday when I threatened to shove a broom that was being messed around with up... and I managed to stop myself just in time and change it to 'shove it up into a cupboard'. Phew. I had yet another nasty moment the other day when the Headmaster popped in to see how it was all going and I am really not sure if I replied: "It's going to be brilliant", or, "It's going to be fucking brilliant". It's a good, good job that I'm leaving, if they think the play that I'm directing is 'not very Lochinver' then I think we are all realising that I'm 'not particularly Lochinver' either!
FUCK!
The craziness that has been threatening for months is peaking right now. The play is on Wednesday and Thursday next week and we are rehearsing pretty much every minute between now and then. The kids are dropping like flies. The low point of yesterday's rehearsal was one of the cast breaking his wrist. Great. He cheerfully waved his plaster cast in my face this afternoon at the school fair and I'm trying to convince myself it adds extra depth to his character... Another parent caught me at the fair to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the Dress Rehearsal tomorrow as he had a temperature of 104. I guess that is a pretty good excuse. However, when the Dad jokingly said to me that it was funny but the boy still wanted to attend, I'm not sure he expected me to fix him with a steely stare and say that if the boy was that committed to his art then who were we to stand in his way? Luckily, I managed to chuck in a fake laugh just in time so he may have thought I was joking. I wasn't. As for the child who isn't coming due to a fencing competition...please don't get me started. According to HIS Dad, it will be fine as the play is AGES away. 95 and a half hours to be precise.
FUCK.
It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine. Kate was in Tesco one morning at 7.30am last week and texted me to ask if I would like anything. "Gin and valium" I replied. I brought my own bottle of tonic but I think she thought I was joking. I'm sure 7.30am in the UK is gin and tonic drinking time somewhere in the world!
The boys I'm directing, I haven't taught before and if I'm honest I don't think they find me that funny. I don't think I am particularly funny either at the moment. I am dog tired. I have threatened to cut off someone's hair for fiddling with it too much, asked someone else to put their socks back on due to foul smelling feet and had a distinctly sticky situation yesterday when I threatened to shove a broom that was being messed around with up... and I managed to stop myself just in time and change it to 'shove it up into a cupboard'. Phew. I had yet another nasty moment the other day when the Headmaster popped in to see how it was all going and I am really not sure if I replied: "It's going to be brilliant", or, "It's going to be fucking brilliant". It's a good, good job that I'm leaving, if they think the play that I'm directing is 'not very Lochinver' then I think we are all realising that I'm 'not particularly Lochinver' either!
Thursday, 29 May 2014
The Drowned Man
The blog is becoming far too smutty for my educated readers so I've decided to up the ante with a theatre review instead: *99% of readers leave*.
Not since I fell in love with 'Blood Brothers' in the nineties, (seems unbelievable now that I have examined it a million times, can recite it by heart and grimace every time I see it on a running order), have I been to see a show as many times as I have 'The Drowned Man'. Five to be precise.
I am addicted. Completely. Apparently I'm not alone in this as the Facebook group for addicts proves. Every line/prop/character/cast member is analysed within an inch of their life on this group and it does make you think that people really have got too much time and money on their hands, until you find yourself joining right in. I reckon it will become a support network once the blasted thing has closed, which is looming, on July 6th.
So what is it about this performance that is so compelling? Immersive theatre is a steadily growing genre in this country, and worldwide, as a new generation of theatre-going public are desperate to be part of the action rather than just being spectators. Being a control-freak, the ability to dictate the show that I want to see when I go is definitely part of the draw.
The incredible phenomena of the 1-2-1 experience is also a huge pull. Last night was the most terrifying encounter I have had there. I followed a character called The Dust Witch for the first time as I figured I had to man up as it was probably my last visit. Up until this point I have avoided an entire floor of the warehouse as I had no intention of coming face-to-face with a black-veiled figure in a shadowy desert. I duly grew a pair and followed her religiously for twenty minutes or so before being taken by the hand and dragged into a pitch black room where she locked the door behind me. She uncovered her face and then blindfolded me, made me run about a bit in the dark, threw a bit of sand at me and then whispered in my ear that I was about to be blinded by the sun whilst pushing me in front of what must have been a huge heated lamp of some sort. Fascinating that I paid good money for this. I am a bit of a pussy and did at some point wonder if I was actually going to come out alive and had to do a little bit of mantra-chanting, "It's just Drama, it's Drama, she's just acting, I'm sure she's a really nice lady..." etc, etc. to stop myself from having a heart attack. It was completely exhilarating though, and, as I legged it to the bar immediately after being released to down a large glass of Pinot as quickly as possible, I revelled in the amazing experience of it all.
Many companies are attempting immersive these days but nobody gets it quite as right as Punchdrunk. My Studio Executive ticket last night had me downing vodka shots whilst watching a lady float across a table in failing light before I'd even entered the performance. Thinking about it, maybe I just like the huge amounts of available alcohol and the naked cowboys with big dongs, maybe it is nothing to do with 'art' at all?
Shelley came with me as a newbie last night and loved it too. I would have dumped her otherwise, without a second thought. ;-) She was totally up for exploring and we got over-excited as we found a trapdoor that was open and I crawled through it first, with her following in close pursuit. Unfortunately, the trapdoor shouldn't have been open at that point and we ended up arriving in the middle of a floor that a huge dance was happening on with about 100 audience members watching. I was 'escorted' to the side by a member of the crew and knew the same 'head-popping-up-in-the-middle-of-a-scene' fate was about to happen to Shell but was unable to stop it. We laughed, a lot, then headed back to the bar to down more big wines.
Perhaps I will treat myself to one more sneaky visit before the curtain comes down. Maybe it would be better to leave on the high of last night though. We shall see. In any case, the blog needs to give up this slightly more cultured feel and head back to talking about booze and willies. Although I did a fairly good job of keeping booze and willies involved in the cultural post...
Not since I fell in love with 'Blood Brothers' in the nineties, (seems unbelievable now that I have examined it a million times, can recite it by heart and grimace every time I see it on a running order), have I been to see a show as many times as I have 'The Drowned Man'. Five to be precise.
I am addicted. Completely. Apparently I'm not alone in this as the Facebook group for addicts proves. Every line/prop/character/cast member is analysed within an inch of their life on this group and it does make you think that people really have got too much time and money on their hands, until you find yourself joining right in. I reckon it will become a support network once the blasted thing has closed, which is looming, on July 6th.
So what is it about this performance that is so compelling? Immersive theatre is a steadily growing genre in this country, and worldwide, as a new generation of theatre-going public are desperate to be part of the action rather than just being spectators. Being a control-freak, the ability to dictate the show that I want to see when I go is definitely part of the draw.
The incredible phenomena of the 1-2-1 experience is also a huge pull. Last night was the most terrifying encounter I have had there. I followed a character called The Dust Witch for the first time as I figured I had to man up as it was probably my last visit. Up until this point I have avoided an entire floor of the warehouse as I had no intention of coming face-to-face with a black-veiled figure in a shadowy desert. I duly grew a pair and followed her religiously for twenty minutes or so before being taken by the hand and dragged into a pitch black room where she locked the door behind me. She uncovered her face and then blindfolded me, made me run about a bit in the dark, threw a bit of sand at me and then whispered in my ear that I was about to be blinded by the sun whilst pushing me in front of what must have been a huge heated lamp of some sort. Fascinating that I paid good money for this. I am a bit of a pussy and did at some point wonder if I was actually going to come out alive and had to do a little bit of mantra-chanting, "It's just Drama, it's Drama, she's just acting, I'm sure she's a really nice lady..." etc, etc. to stop myself from having a heart attack. It was completely exhilarating though, and, as I legged it to the bar immediately after being released to down a large glass of Pinot as quickly as possible, I revelled in the amazing experience of it all.
Many companies are attempting immersive these days but nobody gets it quite as right as Punchdrunk. My Studio Executive ticket last night had me downing vodka shots whilst watching a lady float across a table in failing light before I'd even entered the performance. Thinking about it, maybe I just like the huge amounts of available alcohol and the naked cowboys with big dongs, maybe it is nothing to do with 'art' at all?
Shelley came with me as a newbie last night and loved it too. I would have dumped her otherwise, without a second thought. ;-) She was totally up for exploring and we got over-excited as we found a trapdoor that was open and I crawled through it first, with her following in close pursuit. Unfortunately, the trapdoor shouldn't have been open at that point and we ended up arriving in the middle of a floor that a huge dance was happening on with about 100 audience members watching. I was 'escorted' to the side by a member of the crew and knew the same 'head-popping-up-in-the-middle-of-a-scene' fate was about to happen to Shell but was unable to stop it. We laughed, a lot, then headed back to the bar to down more big wines.
Perhaps I will treat myself to one more sneaky visit before the curtain comes down. Maybe it would be better to leave on the high of last night though. We shall see. In any case, the blog needs to give up this slightly more cultured feel and head back to talking about booze and willies. Although I did a fairly good job of keeping booze and willies involved in the cultural post...
Saturday, 24 May 2014
Leaving on a Jet Plane
Stu's best mate is moving to Trinidad next week, as you do. It suits Martin very well that after years of seriously playing the field he finally manages to settle down in the Caribbean - liking his style.
The imminent bezzie separation is obviously very traumatic, except it's not, because they are boys. Apart from a slight increase in 'liking' of Facebook photos of the pair of them and some drunken song posting, you wouldn't really know it is happening.
Martin is an amazing bloke. He was our best man. I remember being so touched the night before our wedding when he presented Stu and I with individual gifts. How thoughtful. He bought me the most beautiful silver compact mirror that I carry everywhere with me to this day. Typical Martin though, as I got a little bit emosh when I was thanking him he said: "Well, I couldn't decide between that and a vibrator, but I figured that you probably already had a vibrator." Thanks mate.
It is his leaving do tonight which I bowed out of on grounds of the kids, but to be honest I think I'm way past the kind of caper he has planned. It starts at 10pm. I probably need not say anymore, but I will, it finishes at 6am tomorrow morning! Really! I think somebody needs to remind him that we are all nearly 40. Stuart has had his head shaved and headed off into darkest Peckham to send his bezzie off in style. I'm ruining his street cred here I know but if the truth be told he is slightly worried about the crazy finish time too. This is quite a new occurrence for Stu, until a very few years ago he would party like a bastard for at least 12 hours at a time without batting an eyelid. I guess it catches up with all of us in the end.
Stu is meant to be bringing Martin back here with him tomorrow to say goodbye to me and the kids. I'll believe it when it happens, as when I didn't have kids the most horrendous end to an all night bender would be a house with somebody else's small kids in it. Maybe he is more of a man than I am however...
Martin, we love you, we'll miss you. Even though I hardly ever see you, your presence in the country will be mourned, especially by Stu, even though he may not admit it until about 5.55am tomorrow. Real shame the wages are so low in Trinidad that you'll never be able to come back again so I guess we will have to dump the kids on someone and force ourselves out to the Caribbean at some point - it would only be fair to Stu.
The imminent bezzie separation is obviously very traumatic, except it's not, because they are boys. Apart from a slight increase in 'liking' of Facebook photos of the pair of them and some drunken song posting, you wouldn't really know it is happening.
Martin is an amazing bloke. He was our best man. I remember being so touched the night before our wedding when he presented Stu and I with individual gifts. How thoughtful. He bought me the most beautiful silver compact mirror that I carry everywhere with me to this day. Typical Martin though, as I got a little bit emosh when I was thanking him he said: "Well, I couldn't decide between that and a vibrator, but I figured that you probably already had a vibrator." Thanks mate.
It is his leaving do tonight which I bowed out of on grounds of the kids, but to be honest I think I'm way past the kind of caper he has planned. It starts at 10pm. I probably need not say anymore, but I will, it finishes at 6am tomorrow morning! Really! I think somebody needs to remind him that we are all nearly 40. Stuart has had his head shaved and headed off into darkest Peckham to send his bezzie off in style. I'm ruining his street cred here I know but if the truth be told he is slightly worried about the crazy finish time too. This is quite a new occurrence for Stu, until a very few years ago he would party like a bastard for at least 12 hours at a time without batting an eyelid. I guess it catches up with all of us in the end.
Stu is meant to be bringing Martin back here with him tomorrow to say goodbye to me and the kids. I'll believe it when it happens, as when I didn't have kids the most horrendous end to an all night bender would be a house with somebody else's small kids in it. Maybe he is more of a man than I am however...
Martin, we love you, we'll miss you. Even though I hardly ever see you, your presence in the country will be mourned, especially by Stu, even though he may not admit it until about 5.55am tomorrow. Real shame the wages are so low in Trinidad that you'll never be able to come back again so I guess we will have to dump the kids on someone and force ourselves out to the Caribbean at some point - it would only be fair to Stu.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Hip Hip Hip Hooray!
After a very stressful week I have discovered an easy solution to stopping the nervous breakdown in its tracks. Put all of the piles of work out of sight and sit and drink wine in the sunshine. Seriously, it's a bloody winner. Why on earth didn't I think of this before?
We do get seriously over-excited about the weather in this country don't we? The lack of guaranteed sunshine tends to ensure that it becomes the top topic of conversation as soon as the sun does decide to get his hat on. I'm the worst culprit. "Isn't it LOVELY", I must have said to everybody I have come across today and they have said back "ISN'T is just..."
The boys have had a long and extremely naked paddle in Granny and Grandad's garden all day. Zak was pretty pissed off that he had to put his clothes on for lunch but I think willies at the Sunday lunch table is a step too far for Nomansland.
I spoke to Jenny in Australia last night who has never understood why I don't want to move my backside out to a country where it is sunny pretty much every day of the year. I love the sunshine but surely the complete joy that a day like to today brings is partly due to the fact that it is a surprisingly rare occurrence?
One thing I'm not enjoying about the weather is the stupid ice-cream van that has decided to visit at 6.45pm a few times this week. Really? That's bedtime in our house. Luckily my poor, deprived chidlings don't know what an ice cream van sounds like. This isn't going to last forever though is it? Zak will find out from someone with nicer parents soon enough that the weird tinny music doesn't actually come from the Child Catcher's wagon, meaing it is imperative that we stay inside and don't go near any windows...
Tomorrow I will have to hide the suncream and wine and dig out the piles and piles of paperwork instead. Oh well, Mondays were made to be miserable and there is still a few hours of sunshine left in today. At least at the moment myself and my kids are actually dressed suitably for the weather. I've been in flip flops since March in eager anticipation of summer and Zak begs me every morning to take his fleece to school 'just in case'... I blame his Godmother. ;-)
We do get seriously over-excited about the weather in this country don't we? The lack of guaranteed sunshine tends to ensure that it becomes the top topic of conversation as soon as the sun does decide to get his hat on. I'm the worst culprit. "Isn't it LOVELY", I must have said to everybody I have come across today and they have said back "ISN'T is just..."
The boys have had a long and extremely naked paddle in Granny and Grandad's garden all day. Zak was pretty pissed off that he had to put his clothes on for lunch but I think willies at the Sunday lunch table is a step too far for Nomansland.
I spoke to Jenny in Australia last night who has never understood why I don't want to move my backside out to a country where it is sunny pretty much every day of the year. I love the sunshine but surely the complete joy that a day like to today brings is partly due to the fact that it is a surprisingly rare occurrence?
One thing I'm not enjoying about the weather is the stupid ice-cream van that has decided to visit at 6.45pm a few times this week. Really? That's bedtime in our house. Luckily my poor, deprived chidlings don't know what an ice cream van sounds like. This isn't going to last forever though is it? Zak will find out from someone with nicer parents soon enough that the weird tinny music doesn't actually come from the Child Catcher's wagon, meaing it is imperative that we stay inside and don't go near any windows...
Tomorrow I will have to hide the suncream and wine and dig out the piles and piles of paperwork instead. Oh well, Mondays were made to be miserable and there is still a few hours of sunshine left in today. At least at the moment myself and my kids are actually dressed suitably for the weather. I've been in flip flops since March in eager anticipation of summer and Zak begs me every morning to take his fleece to school 'just in case'... I blame his Godmother. ;-)
Friday, 9 May 2014
Almost an Alcoholic
I drink too much. Fact. I blame genetics.
It has never bothered me, at all. However, as I begin to leave my mid-thirties (it's true Shell, we can't deny it much longer), I wonder if it should start to bother me more.
I read an article a few months ago on the rise of 'Almost Alcoholics':
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-25639406
...and thought the description fitted me beautifully. I'm relatively sure I'm not a fully-fledged 'proper' alkie. I have nearly never drunk alcohol whilst still in bed in the morning (Ibiza 1998 apart), I can go a few days off booze without pining for pinot (although I do tend to go to bed rather early) and I definitely never swing around the streets with stubble swigging out of a bottle of whiskey like they do on Eastenders; well it hasn't happened thus far. I think I freaked the Year 8s out the other day when I was directing a rehearsal and told one of the boys to stand up and speak as if he was in an Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting and then I said, "but of course YOU wouldn't know what that was like...", which sounded the teensiest bit like I did. Oh well, I'm leaving soon, never mind.
Anyway, back to the article. There are five tell-tale signs that you have a drink problem. Number 1:
It has never bothered me, at all. However, as I begin to leave my mid-thirties (it's true Shell, we can't deny it much longer), I wonder if it should start to bother me more.
I read an article a few months ago on the rise of 'Almost Alcoholics':
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-25639406
...and thought the description fitted me beautifully. I'm relatively sure I'm not a fully-fledged 'proper' alkie. I have nearly never drunk alcohol whilst still in bed in the morning (Ibiza 1998 apart), I can go a few days off booze without pining for pinot (although I do tend to go to bed rather early) and I definitely never swing around the streets with stubble swigging out of a bottle of whiskey like they do on Eastenders; well it hasn't happened thus far. I think I freaked the Year 8s out the other day when I was directing a rehearsal and told one of the boys to stand up and speak as if he was in an Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting and then I said, "but of course YOU wouldn't know what that was like...", which sounded the teensiest bit like I did. Oh well, I'm leaving soon, never mind.
Anyway, back to the article. There are five tell-tale signs that you have a drink problem. Number 1:
- You continue to drink despite at least some negative consequences
Erm, well if that includes a hangover, that would have to be a yes. I cannot see how a hangover is a non-negative consequence of drinking and having done some L-O-N-G work days after a night on the piss I would say that is a definite negative.
Number 2:
- You look forward to drinking.
Forgive my naivety, but why would you do it otherwise? I think I'm discounting this point as utterly ridiculous.
Number 3:
- You drink alone.
Yep, absolutely. Possibly my favourite type of drinking when it involves champagne...
Number 4:
- You sometimes drink in order to control emotional and/or physical symptoms.
I can't say that I've ever drunk because I felt ill. However, if I've had a bad day then this would definitely apply...
Finally, Number 5:
- You and your loved ones are suffering as a result of your drinking
Apart from the hangovers, I don't think I suffer because of my drinking. The kids definintely don't. Stu would suffer more if I didn't chill out with a glass of wine and my Dad disowns me when I don't drink so I think we are probably ok on this one.
Having done this 'test', I began to think I was a proper alcoholic in total denial. So I tried out some of the questions on my nearest and dearest. I don't think somehow though that Stu, Shelley, Sam and Anna give a balanced view of the population; that's why they are my nearest and dearest.
My drinking habits have changed since I have been working so hard. I have been drinking nothing at all during the week and then drinking like a woman possessed at the weekends. Still not healthy. It really is my only proper-full-time vice left though, (if being mean to people doesn't count), so I don't think I'm willing to give it up, or even cut it down, unless I have to.
I reckon if my liver ever packs up and I can't drink anymore then I may take up smoking again, or a full-time coke habit, or even crystal meth. ;-) Let's hope that Milk Thistle does its job properly and that never happens.
Cheers!
Thursday, 1 May 2014
Testing Times
The shit has started hitting the fan. I've seen it coming, helplessly, for 8 months. There has been nothing I can do to prepare for the badly timed next 53 days in which I examine a load of centres, team lead a bunch of examiners, write a whole school-worth of reports, stage the school play and do my research enquiry for the MA. F-U-C-K-E-D.
I'm a week in and I've already started dropping balls. The right balls, luckily. I'm confident that every GCSE candidate I have examined so far has achieved the correct mark, my examiners are performing competently and my boss is happy. However, ask me to a kids' party in Hatfield last Saturday and I will most definitely take my over-excited-soon-to-be-very-disappointed children to a non-party in Harpenden. It's fine. I'm aware it happens to normal mortals; it just normally doesn't happen to me. It would have been slightly less painful if (a) it hadn't been our next-door neighbour's party so there could be no hiding in shame for a while and (b) I hadn't, (and I kid you not), given my family a lecture in the car on the way to Harpenden about how lucky they were to have a Mummy as well organised as me. Oops. Testament to Poor Stu that he only threw that back in my face once when we realised my error. I would have been on at him about that for days.
On the subject of Poor Stu, he is, so far, coping admirably. He has realised that 'shut up completely' is probably the safest path to take and is doing stirling work with my neglected boys. I know I'm a bad wife at the moment; I've said before that it is the first thing to slip and I'm lucky he puts up with it. I was waxing lyrical as such to another Reception Mum at swimming the other day and she put my mind at rest by saying: "Don't worry, people don't normally rush into divorce, I'm sure you've got a couple of months in hand to sort it out." Amazing. At least we're all as cynically-minded as each other! I had a window tonight between preparing for tomorrow's exam and emptying the dishwasher so I decided to proposition my husband with a shag.
"Do you want sex then?" I growled, ungraciously from the corner of the sofa. He declined, more graciously, on the grounds of not having digested his dinner quite yet. This prompted an attack of unjustified malice reminding him of how lucky he was to be offered anything at all and it could quite likely be 2025 before he happened to get his end away again. Poor Stu.
It's the first time I've drunk any alcohol since Saturday. That doesn't happen very often. I hate to admit it but I have definitely been (shock) more efficient and alert this week without being at all hungover. I'm doing odd things like waking up before my alarm goes off and being able to function before a cup of tea in the morning. It is definitely the way forward career-wise but it really is quite boring. I can't quite decide where I want to be: there is the almost-alcoholic Mum that wants a clean house and well-fed kids being pestered by the high-flying career woman.
The boys' birthdays are looming in the next couple of months too. I wrote out Sebi's invites last night and badgered Stu to give them to his teacher this morning. The first text reply I got this afternoon however, nearly prompted me to answer: "What on earth are you talking about?" Luckily, I engaged my Mummy brain before I pressed send. If you're not giving it teenage-angst on a stage at the moment then you don't seem to enter my stratosphere.
Roll on July. The kids will have a mother that does more than baby-wipe spilt milk off their school-uniforms before bed. My parents will have a daughter that speaks to them about something other than child-care. My friends will have a two-way conversation once more. My husband will have some semblance of pleasantries and companionship...(no really!) and then I will get bored and the whole ridiculous cycle will start again.
I'm a week in and I've already started dropping balls. The right balls, luckily. I'm confident that every GCSE candidate I have examined so far has achieved the correct mark, my examiners are performing competently and my boss is happy. However, ask me to a kids' party in Hatfield last Saturday and I will most definitely take my over-excited-soon-to-be-very-disappointed children to a non-party in Harpenden. It's fine. I'm aware it happens to normal mortals; it just normally doesn't happen to me. It would have been slightly less painful if (a) it hadn't been our next-door neighbour's party so there could be no hiding in shame for a while and (b) I hadn't, (and I kid you not), given my family a lecture in the car on the way to Harpenden about how lucky they were to have a Mummy as well organised as me. Oops. Testament to Poor Stu that he only threw that back in my face once when we realised my error. I would have been on at him about that for days.
On the subject of Poor Stu, he is, so far, coping admirably. He has realised that 'shut up completely' is probably the safest path to take and is doing stirling work with my neglected boys. I know I'm a bad wife at the moment; I've said before that it is the first thing to slip and I'm lucky he puts up with it. I was waxing lyrical as such to another Reception Mum at swimming the other day and she put my mind at rest by saying: "Don't worry, people don't normally rush into divorce, I'm sure you've got a couple of months in hand to sort it out." Amazing. At least we're all as cynically-minded as each other! I had a window tonight between preparing for tomorrow's exam and emptying the dishwasher so I decided to proposition my husband with a shag.
"Do you want sex then?" I growled, ungraciously from the corner of the sofa. He declined, more graciously, on the grounds of not having digested his dinner quite yet. This prompted an attack of unjustified malice reminding him of how lucky he was to be offered anything at all and it could quite likely be 2025 before he happened to get his end away again. Poor Stu.
It's the first time I've drunk any alcohol since Saturday. That doesn't happen very often. I hate to admit it but I have definitely been (shock) more efficient and alert this week without being at all hungover. I'm doing odd things like waking up before my alarm goes off and being able to function before a cup of tea in the morning. It is definitely the way forward career-wise but it really is quite boring. I can't quite decide where I want to be: there is the almost-alcoholic Mum that wants a clean house and well-fed kids being pestered by the high-flying career woman.
The boys' birthdays are looming in the next couple of months too. I wrote out Sebi's invites last night and badgered Stu to give them to his teacher this morning. The first text reply I got this afternoon however, nearly prompted me to answer: "What on earth are you talking about?" Luckily, I engaged my Mummy brain before I pressed send. If you're not giving it teenage-angst on a stage at the moment then you don't seem to enter my stratosphere.
Roll on July. The kids will have a mother that does more than baby-wipe spilt milk off their school-uniforms before bed. My parents will have a daughter that speaks to them about something other than child-care. My friends will have a two-way conversation once more. My husband will have some semblance of pleasantries and companionship...(no really!) and then I will get bored and the whole ridiculous cycle will start again.
Monday, 21 April 2014
MOTY
We 'popped' to the pub for lunch today. Always a danger, particularly on a Bank Holiday. Luckily I was driving and giving my body a bit of a break after the bashing of the last few weeks/months/years/ever.
The sun shone and the bouncy castle was up and we all had a lovely time. I was gently yet smugly telling my kids off every five minutes for getting slightly too near another kid on the bouncy castle, totally in the knowledge that they were being fabulous and it was completely for show to ensure that everyone could see what a good parent I was.
Let's fast-forward five hours then. Car is dumped. The sausage and chips that Sebi had for lunch without any veg which was going to be made up with a veg-filled dinner later has been trumped by a pasty out of a paper bag for tea. Haven't looked at the kids for about an hour whilst there are squeals of delight (or maybe pain) from the bouncy castle. My parents randomly appear to see their barefooted, ragged-short-wearing grandchildren bounding across a pub garden and mainly I have fallen off the wagon, once-a-bloody-gain and the feral offspring are revelling in the result.
All are now clean and in bed. Nobody died and scurvy can be warded off with return-to-school-boot-camp-normality tomorrow.
It just makes me laugh at myself. We went on holiday when Zak was four months old and we were the only family in the complex that were barricaded in our room by 7pm with the baby in bed and us taking it in turns to do a run to the bar and back. Every time I came back with my round I gave 'poor' Stu a lecture on all the irresponsible parenting I had seen when I was out and about. As far as I was concerned it was bordering child-abuse having these poor, innocent children up and having a fabulous time running about after their bedtime. Who did these people think they were?
Last day of the holiday, we got completely twatted and Zak (eventually) fell asleep in his buggy, underneath a very loud speaker, whilst his parents danced the night away till 2am...
The thing I am so proud of about my own personality is that I absolutely and totally stick to my convictions. That is, until I absolutely and totally don't anymore...
The sun shone and the bouncy castle was up and we all had a lovely time. I was gently yet smugly telling my kids off every five minutes for getting slightly too near another kid on the bouncy castle, totally in the knowledge that they were being fabulous and it was completely for show to ensure that everyone could see what a good parent I was.
Let's fast-forward five hours then. Car is dumped. The sausage and chips that Sebi had for lunch without any veg which was going to be made up with a veg-filled dinner later has been trumped by a pasty out of a paper bag for tea. Haven't looked at the kids for about an hour whilst there are squeals of delight (or maybe pain) from the bouncy castle. My parents randomly appear to see their barefooted, ragged-short-wearing grandchildren bounding across a pub garden and mainly I have fallen off the wagon, once-a-bloody-gain and the feral offspring are revelling in the result.
All are now clean and in bed. Nobody died and scurvy can be warded off with return-to-school-boot-camp-normality tomorrow.
It just makes me laugh at myself. We went on holiday when Zak was four months old and we were the only family in the complex that were barricaded in our room by 7pm with the baby in bed and us taking it in turns to do a run to the bar and back. Every time I came back with my round I gave 'poor' Stu a lecture on all the irresponsible parenting I had seen when I was out and about. As far as I was concerned it was bordering child-abuse having these poor, innocent children up and having a fabulous time running about after their bedtime. Who did these people think they were?
Last day of the holiday, we got completely twatted and Zak (eventually) fell asleep in his buggy, underneath a very loud speaker, whilst his parents danced the night away till 2am...
The thing I am so proud of about my own personality is that I absolutely and totally stick to my convictions. That is, until I absolutely and totally don't anymore...
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
Like a Prayer
I've just fallen off my chocolate lent waggon, ten days early, and eaten an entire box of chocolates. I don't do things by halves. I've just cleaned my oven for the first time in 18 months as penance but I'm not sure that it a clean oven will be enough to get me through the pearly gates when my time comes...
Zak is reading the Bible at the moment, in its entirety. It is a Children's Bible but nonetheless I'm impressed by his dedication. His only view so far is that there isn't enough Jesus in it considering it is meant to be all about him. I've promised Zak that the second half makes Jesus Christ a Superstar. He was given this Bible by a local vicar during an assembly at school; all of Year 2 were. I'm delighted that he is taking it so seriously and taking such an interest, but I do find it odd that a non-faith school comes down so heavily with a Christian philosophy. I don't mind at all. In fact, I think it is a very good thing. I know however of one parent that was really angry about it and I am surprised that the school haven't come across strong views before.
Zak decided to take his Bible to discuss with Granny as she was 'the most proper Christian' in the immediate family. I think Granny dealt with her interrogation with great fortitude. Many weaker women would have buckled under Zachary's pointed finger and beady eye questioning the strength of her beliefs.
We were lost momentarily in Brighton this morning and Zak suddenly we suggested that we should pray. I told him that I would probably be able to sort it out on my own if I just had a moment to look at the map. Whilst I was looking at the map Zak told me it would be much quicker to ask God directly as he had made Brighton and therefore could just point us in the right direction immediately. At which point Sebi declared that Zak obviously didn't know what he was talking about as God was most definitely a 'She'. Amazing. The theological philosophising stopped dead at that moment, as I had nowhere to go on a feminist deity discussion with four-year old and Zak seemed to lose interest in God the minute he thought God could be more interested in dolls than footballs.
We managed to navigate our way, unaided, through the holy streets of Brighton. I would like to think that God has a sense of humour and enjoyed the meanderings of the Ward children so much that He/She looks indulgently this evening on their tired mother and her fat stomach full of illegal chocolates.
Amen.
Zak is reading the Bible at the moment, in its entirety. It is a Children's Bible but nonetheless I'm impressed by his dedication. His only view so far is that there isn't enough Jesus in it considering it is meant to be all about him. I've promised Zak that the second half makes Jesus Christ a Superstar. He was given this Bible by a local vicar during an assembly at school; all of Year 2 were. I'm delighted that he is taking it so seriously and taking such an interest, but I do find it odd that a non-faith school comes down so heavily with a Christian philosophy. I don't mind at all. In fact, I think it is a very good thing. I know however of one parent that was really angry about it and I am surprised that the school haven't come across strong views before.
Zak decided to take his Bible to discuss with Granny as she was 'the most proper Christian' in the immediate family. I think Granny dealt with her interrogation with great fortitude. Many weaker women would have buckled under Zachary's pointed finger and beady eye questioning the strength of her beliefs.
We were lost momentarily in Brighton this morning and Zak suddenly we suggested that we should pray. I told him that I would probably be able to sort it out on my own if I just had a moment to look at the map. Whilst I was looking at the map Zak told me it would be much quicker to ask God directly as he had made Brighton and therefore could just point us in the right direction immediately. At which point Sebi declared that Zak obviously didn't know what he was talking about as God was most definitely a 'She'. Amazing. The theological philosophising stopped dead at that moment, as I had nowhere to go on a feminist deity discussion with four-year old and Zak seemed to lose interest in God the minute he thought God could be more interested in dolls than footballs.
We managed to navigate our way, unaided, through the holy streets of Brighton. I would like to think that God has a sense of humour and enjoyed the meanderings of the Ward children so much that He/She looks indulgently this evening on their tired mother and her fat stomach full of illegal chocolates.
Amen.
Sunday, 6 April 2014
Ain't Nothin' but a House Party
Last night we partied like it was 1999.
I have found a new, favourite way to celebrate my birthday over the last couple of years that involves a load of champagne, a mixture of loud-mouthed birds and an 80's soundtrack in my kitchen. It works, I love it, and I'm not going to fuck with it for a few years - I had the time of my life.
The normal thing happened; I was just looking around about an hour in, thinking that it was lovely, everyone was getting on so well, but people really weren't drunk enough and then BOOM! Suddenly, everybody is totally and completely shitfaced, dancing on tables, non-smokers are smoking, new bezzies are bonding over lesbian-experience stories and comparative labia sizes and all hell has well and truly broken loose. Amazing.
Kath told me as she arrived that she was sorry she wasn't going to be able to stay all evening as her boyfriend was leaving for Qatar at 5am this morning for a month and she needed to spend some time with him before he left. I joked that that was a dangerous thing to say as it was tempting fate for her to be the last one out the door. She jointly was the last one out of the door at 2.30am and he left without seeing her this morning. Oops.
Will things ever change? I think I party as hard in 2014 as I did twenty years ago. The only difference is that I drink more expensive alcohol and tend to end up in bed with the same person at the end of the night these days.
Last night was relatively wild for people who are hurtling towards 40. Stuart re-entered his hareem at about 11pm and said that he could hear us from the end of the road. We are mainly avoiding the neighbours today... He thought it would be funny to prank call the house and pretend to be the police. He did, four times, and nobody answered the phone as we didn't hear it.
I love throwing a real mixture of people together and seeing what happens. It hasn't failed yet but I wonder when the day will come that people decide they really are too civilised to cope with the sex, drugs and rock 'n roll of Chez Ward. Maybe we will come to the same realisation at some point too and enter my parents' world of lunchtime drinks parties instead. I used to think that this would all end in my thirties but I'm beginning to think that that could be a little too close for comfort. I had three different cards with the same message on: "Growing old is compulsory, growing up is optional." Somebody is trying to tell me something I think. I was told last night that maybe I needed to rein it in a bit when I went back to Beaumont in September but they soon realised it was unnecessary as I pointed out my boss swigging a glass of champers over the other side of the kitchen. Happy, happy days. Thank you, you fabulous bunch. xxxx
I have found a new, favourite way to celebrate my birthday over the last couple of years that involves a load of champagne, a mixture of loud-mouthed birds and an 80's soundtrack in my kitchen. It works, I love it, and I'm not going to fuck with it for a few years - I had the time of my life.
The normal thing happened; I was just looking around about an hour in, thinking that it was lovely, everyone was getting on so well, but people really weren't drunk enough and then BOOM! Suddenly, everybody is totally and completely shitfaced, dancing on tables, non-smokers are smoking, new bezzies are bonding over lesbian-experience stories and comparative labia sizes and all hell has well and truly broken loose. Amazing.
Kath told me as she arrived that she was sorry she wasn't going to be able to stay all evening as her boyfriend was leaving for Qatar at 5am this morning for a month and she needed to spend some time with him before he left. I joked that that was a dangerous thing to say as it was tempting fate for her to be the last one out the door. She jointly was the last one out of the door at 2.30am and he left without seeing her this morning. Oops.
Will things ever change? I think I party as hard in 2014 as I did twenty years ago. The only difference is that I drink more expensive alcohol and tend to end up in bed with the same person at the end of the night these days.
Last night was relatively wild for people who are hurtling towards 40. Stuart re-entered his hareem at about 11pm and said that he could hear us from the end of the road. We are mainly avoiding the neighbours today... He thought it would be funny to prank call the house and pretend to be the police. He did, four times, and nobody answered the phone as we didn't hear it.
I love throwing a real mixture of people together and seeing what happens. It hasn't failed yet but I wonder when the day will come that people decide they really are too civilised to cope with the sex, drugs and rock 'n roll of Chez Ward. Maybe we will come to the same realisation at some point too and enter my parents' world of lunchtime drinks parties instead. I used to think that this would all end in my thirties but I'm beginning to think that that could be a little too close for comfort. I had three different cards with the same message on: "Growing old is compulsory, growing up is optional." Somebody is trying to tell me something I think. I was told last night that maybe I needed to rein it in a bit when I went back to Beaumont in September but they soon realised it was unnecessary as I pointed out my boss swigging a glass of champers over the other side of the kitchen. Happy, happy days. Thank you, you fabulous bunch. xxxx
Sunday, 30 March 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 16 March 2014
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
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
Friday, 14 March 2014
'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.
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.
Saturday, 8 March 2014
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.
"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.
Friday, 28 February 2014
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
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
Saturday, 22 February 2014
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!
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!
Sunday, 16 February 2014
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.
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.
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