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.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
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!
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