Poor Stu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All or Nothing

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

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

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

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

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

These are the Days of Their Lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drinkin' 'n Drama

I am halfway through one of my MA weekends.  I've said it before and I'll keep on saying it - who on EARTH thought it was a good idea putting these hardcore days after a Friday and a Saturday night?  Destined for trouble.

The first weekend in the autumn term I was really good and really sober.  Shock horror I have not kept this level of discipline up and last night reverted to a Friday night bottle of wine.  Even though it doesn't start until 10am and is just down the road, I was feeling, and sweating, that bottle of wine today after six hours of intensive physical theatre training. How then, have I combated this tonight?  By opening a bottle of champagne already to celebrate a fantastic day.  What.  A.  Knob.  There is actually no helping some people.

This led me to reminiscing about my final year at University.  One of my best friends at Uni, Lynsey, and I, had chosen a module called '20th Century Practitioners' or something similar.  We had to get into pairs and each pair had to present on a Practitioner on different weeks during the term.  Lynsey and I had been given 'Meyerhold' and I must say that having studied and taught Drama on and off for about 20 years or so now I would still struggle to tell you very much about that chap.  Needless to say Lynsey and I did NOTHING for a long time that term apart from bitching about the dullness or other groups' presentations.  When we finally got around to preparing ours it was going to be absolutely epic and exciting.

So, we arrive at the evening before the morning of our 9am presentation.  Nothing has been done.  Nothing.  Oh, and the library is now shut.  We had exactly one book between us with about half a page on the not-so-infamous Meyerhold, 12 hours to prepare and a stack of 'emergency' unopened bottles of wine.  To cut a long and pretty painful story short, we stayed up all night, drank all the wine and presented at 9am in our lecture, shitfaced.  We started off by hiding behind a desk, giggling, and jumping out, maybe in mask?  Anyhow, that was the high point and it went rapidly downhill from there.  We got a bollocking from our tutor (who I had a bit of a crush on and I have a nasty memory of drunkenly winking 'alluringly' at him whilst he was telling us off).  Even our peers, even our friends were embarrassed for us and the things that had seemed so hilarious at 4am were just drunken, inappropriate and lame at 9.  It still amuses Lynsey and myself however 18 years on, particularly as we managed, somehow, to pass the module in the end.

I think I'm in a better place that that these days.  I don't think, (never say never), that I would actually turn up drunk to my Masters degree sessions.  I come out of the sessions full of a complete and total satisfaction with what I have taken part in and absolutely sure that my professional life is in the best place it could possibly be at the moment.  Today, I went straight to pick Seb up from 'Top Hat'.  It amused me therefore as I watched the last five minutes of his lesson through the door to think that he was doing pretty much the same as I had been doing about half an hour previously.  Slightly more Disney focussed and less stylised but definitely the same ball-park.  It's no wonder really that Sebi is the only person in my personal circle so far, (has also been tried out pissed on Stu, Shelley and Sam at various points), to appreciate my sharing of contemporary Indian dance moves. He just sat enraptured as he finished his chinese takeaway and I hunted imaginary tigers through the kitchen.  Needless to say Stu and Zak had long since retired to the lounge with the rugby.  Bring on tomorrow.  Can't fucking wait.