Happy Half Term

It doesn't get much better than the first Saturday morning of any school holidays; well, it wouldn't get much better, if only I was alone. Unfortunately, my children always seem to be fairly hideous for the first few days of any holidays which does take the shine off a little.

It was doomed from the start as Zak finished school two days before Sebi and me. I threatened him with death or loss of X box, (which is worse), if he even breathed a moment's boast to Seb of his longer holidays. To give him his due, he didn't, really. There were a few smug smiles behind Sebi's head as he got into his school uniform but it was all just for my benefit. The problem was that Zak now got two full days of being at home alone. First day, not too bad. He went out and met his friends and played football. Day two however, he was in, ALL DAY, apart from a trip to Sainsbury's to get lunch. There were two problems with this; one, he had unlimited screen time all day with no adults in the house which turned him into Voldermort's more evil twin, and secondly, the mess he managed to create. I kid you not, I walked into the kitchen last night and if somebody had told me I had been burgled I would have believed it. Zak's default way for travelling around the house is with an Ipad in both hands and kicking a football in front of him no matter what he is doing or what he is carrying. When I enquired why the kitchen floor was crunchy he told me that whilst getting a glass out of the cupboard he had knocked over the sugar jar and didn't know how to clear it up. That was obvious. What he didn't add in was that he then spilled apple juice on top of it, (which he left too), and then, (and this is the bit that really hurts), he had moved a half full bottle of champagne with a stopper in on its side in the fridge to fit the apple juice back in the door. The champagne then dribbled down the side of the fridge. Most things I can forgive but sacrificing champagne is not ever okay in this house.

Anyway, he's off on a sleepover in an hour. He just came down and told me he was packed. There is a sleeping bag with an Ipad on top ready to go. I mean, I travel light but that is ridiculous. Apparently there is no point taking his toothbrush because he won't use it, likewise clean pants and socks. I have managed to get his onesie into the mix however as I don't think at 12 he is going to 'one of those' kinds of sleepovers yet.

Stu has gone to Manchester to rekindle his bromance with Gibbo, not even Storm Dennis can keep them apart. I didn't check his packing but I wouldn't be surprise if it is of the same ilk as Zak's. Sebi and I are therefore looking forward to 24 hours of one-on-one perfect contentment. It would be wrong to say that we don't love the other two members of our family but we are seriously happy when we are left alone too. The place is harmonious, cleaner, less smelly and quieter. We can read without music playing or footballs hitting our heads. We can eat meals without meat and watch films without guns.

I'm sure once I've sanitised Zak on his return and put him to bed early tomorrow night our half term will then be great fun for all three of us. I will ensure I drink a full bottle of champagne each night to save any future spillages. I really do only have myself to blame...

Cats (not the crap film that ruined Ian Mckellan's hard earned reputation...)

We are two months in to the adoption of two rescue kittens; aptly called Bubbles and Fizz. Bubbles is scared of her own shadow, cries for attention and then runs away from you when you give it to her. Fizz is out and about and picking fights with cats three times her size.

We arrived home on Wednesday this week to find that Fizz has completed her first successful hunt. There were feathers everywhere and we began the fun game of 'hunt the corpse'. The boys joined in with gusto and it wasn't long before Sebi discovered a furry ball under the largest and heaviest bit of furniture that we own. My feminist tendencies left the building and I dispatched Stu to lie on his stomach with a torch, a long stick and a carrier bag whilst I pretended to stack the dishwasher. Stu's masculine tendencies left him when he poked the 'corpse' with a stick and it moved.

"It's a rat", declared my husband, as he showed more agility than he has done in a while, as he rapidly did the worm backwards across the kitchen. Although I was aware that he was the one (a) with the torch and (b) that was nearest, I did dispute the rat call because of the aforementioned enormous amount of feathers. It would have been one hell of a coincidence if the cats had killed a bird in the house on the same day a rat has just decided to take up residence underneath our sideboard.

With a second look Stu decided that the rat had a beak after all which made our lives slightly less complicated. Then followed a rather painful twenty minutes of Stu poking a terrified bird out into the open and me flapping at it with a towel until it eventually went out of the window, probably straight back into the jaws of an eagerly waiting Fizz.

It got me thinking back to when my last cat Toby was in his heyday. I have never, ever, known such a determined hunter as he was; he would tackle anything, no matter what size it was. He managed to drag in pigeons through the cat flap which made the most almighty mess. When I turned my nose up at a common old garden pigeon, he outdid himself by bringing in a very expensive racing pigeon instead. (That was an awkward phone call.) Toby half killed a squirrel and then grew bored and left it suffering. I couldn't cope with watching it slowly die, or with doing anything with it myself, so I called my poor father who had to travel half an hour to my place to bludgeon to death an equally poor squirrel with his garden spade. Toby decided to bring in an enormous rat, alive, that my partner at the time managed to shoot in the lounge with his air rifle. What on earth the neighbours thought was going on, I don't know.

Toby's finest hour however came after his death. Shelley had moved into the flat with me by this stage and we were staggering back from the pub next door one night, as normal, when we bumped into one of our neighbours on the path. She told me that a ginger cat had been run over on the hill and she thought it was mine. Shelley and I were distraught. We went up to the flat for another drink whilst the neighbour valiantly offered to scoop up the cat remains and bring them to us. She delicately presented me with a dead ginger cat in a cardboard box and we all sobbed and drank a little more. The neighbour, (by then our new best friend, can't remember her name now though), decided it was time to leave and as we were elongating our effusive farewells at the top of the stairs, the cat flap opened and Toby came in. Silence. Shelley turned to me and said, "you can see that cat can't you?" I think she thought the ghost of Toby had come to see us instead! Toby thought we were insane as we all landed on him kissing him and crying, he turned around and went straight back out again. We were, of course, then left with the problem of having a dead ginger cat in our flat in a cardboard box. Technically, I think the neighbour should have taken it with her - she had brought it in in the first place after all, and, it was now nothing to do with us. Of course, she didn't, she scarpered and we all went to bed, exhausted. I wonder what Toby's reaction was when he found it on his return... Must have been rather disconcerting. I took the corpse to the vet the next day and let it become their problem instead.

So, here we go again. Another fourteen or so years of active contributions to the housekeeping by our feline friends. Once Bubbles dares to stick her nose out of the cat flap it will be double trouble too. Most days the boys are home at least an hour and a half before I am though so surely the responsibility must lie with them? I am sure however that I will walk through the door and still find them in ignorant bliss sucked into their X box, even if they are surrounded by half of Hertfordshire's rodent population... I'll keep you posted...

I ❤ the Summer Holidays!

Five and a half more blissful weeks of lay-ins and relaxation, (apart from the normal couple of twitchy days before results are released of course).  I came up with a new plan this year to stop me drinking every day; I would only drink champagne this summer.  Hooray.  So far this hasn't quite worked as I seem to be just drinking champagne...every day...  This fail safe plan could just end with me being seriously broke as well as having alcohol poisoning...

After an extremely heavy weekend, I found myself on Monday morning at 9.30am in Beaumont gym, being pounded by Miss D, with Ms D and our five little boys for company.

"Have mercy", I begged as the weights were increased and the Lanson ran from my pores.

"Never", the torturess replied whilst piling on the weights and increasing my pain. "Hanh has done 75 of those reps and you have done 40; are you going to let her beat you?"

Wrong audience.  I become decidedly non-competitive when in agony.  As ever, I loved it when it was over and as I couldn't straighten my hair for two days afterwards as I was unable to lift my arms, I'm guessing it has done some good.

On Tuesday we headed into London.  First stop the eye hospital in Fulham, (don't tell me that I don't take you to all the best places kids)!  Our tickets didn't work at Blackfriars and it flashed up with 'Seek Assistance'.  This I did and the helpful man let us through the barrier.

"Mummy did you pick the brown man in particular to help us because he was a Sikh?  Are you being racist Mummy?"  Wow.

What's the worst thing to happen when you arrive after a long journey with two bouncy boys to a posh private hospital in Fulham for an 11am appointment?  To discover that the hospital have cocked up and have given you an appointment for 12.

"It's fine Madam, you are very welcome to wait here and use our facilities."

Was she actually insane?  Like we would survive the hour (and a quarter) without creating complete carnage.  I explained, firmly yet fairly, that this was not a viable option and that possibly her customer service skills were not quite being pitched as they should be in this situation.  She handed me over to somebody else, equally as unhelpful and equally as snooty.  This second useless lady at least apologised for the cock up but then asked if Sebi would not lie down on the sofa.  He was lying QUIETLY READING A BOOK after having been lodged in a waiting room for 20 minutes.  I'm sorry would you rather he ran around a bit screaming instead; Sebi and I locked eyes and with mutual silent agreement decided that this would be the next course of action.  Thankfully my Professor decided to enter stage left just at this moment and swept me off into his consultation room before any blood was shed.  Pizza for lunch and then an afternoon at Madame Tussauds sorted out the rest of the day.

I really am fairly healthy during term time but if I carry on eating and drinking for the next five and a half weeks, the way I have done for the first few days, I think I will need to being personal trained 24 hours a day up until Christmas!  Cheers.  Happy holidays!  :-)

D-I-WHY-OH-WHY

My husband and I are perfectly capable of falling out and bickering without any external pressures. but I think we are probably at our worst as a couple when we have to deal with anything DIY based.  We tend to avoid it therefore at all costs.  So we were both dreading this afternoon when we knew we had to assemble a 12 foot trampoline for Sebi's birthday tomorrow.

The instructions said that it would take two people two hours.  We therefore reckoned it would be three and painful for us.  We have just finished, in the dark; it took us seven. Seven long and hideously unpleasant hours.  I am fairly dire at DIY and Stu is definitely much worse.  Unfortunately, a trampoline is something that cannot be done single handed and so tackle it together we had to.

It started badly.  I had separated all the washers, nuts, bolts, screws etc. etc. into piles so that we could be clear about what was what.  Stuart took a screw number 12 and started putting it where a screw number 8a should have gone instead.  Cue first enormous flid from his wife, two minutes into the task.  At this point he shuffled off inside and started phoning every handyman in St Albans.  Unsurprisingly, every handyman in St Albans did not want to come and build our trampoline at 3.15pm on a Friday afternoon, they wanted to be in the pub.  Fair dos.  Me too.

By the time the aforementioned sheepish husband reappeared, I had pretty much built the frame single-handed and was irritatingly smug.  We got it on its feet and it was Stu's turn to get involved and stretch out the springs.  To those of you lucky buggers that have never put together a trampoline, you have to do this in a balanced way, doing opposite springs and then a cross section to ensure the stretch stays equal whilst you're putting it together.  Stu was stretching, I was counting springs.  How the mighty fall.  I miscalculated one spring when we were halfway through which meant then moving half of the springs again.  They are so taut that once they are in they don't want to come out again.  Cue lots of swearing and shouting from Stu.  I was trying to offer helpful advice, (maybe feeling the tiniest bit guilty that this bit could have been my fault), stuff like, "are you sure you've got the angle right?", and "I think you maybe just need to pull a bit harder?"

About this time, Stu announced that he was going to go down the pub and we could finish it later.  That went down like a cup of cold sick.  He didn't go, (although he is there with my blessing now), but he did mention it approximately every 10 minutes between 5.30 and 10.15.  Not ideal.

The boys had been told they would be able to use this new, fun, shiny trampoline after tea tonight.  Luckily, their mother was too hot, busy and grumpy to even make them tea, so Zak made them toast and they put themselves to bed, wondering if Mummy and Daddy would still be together by the time Sebi turned eight.

The second mistake I made was when I had tied half tied the safety net around which took about 25 minutes.  I have never been into weaving/sewing/knitting and this was like a nasty combination of all three.  Stu tried to really go to the pub again at this point but was threatened with death by trampoline tool if he dared to try and step out of the garden.  He therefore joined in with the heinous knitsewtrampoweaving until I realised that we were tying the net onto the outside of the springs whereas it should have been tied on the inside instead.  We then had to UNDO our last 25 minutes work and start again. So horribly painful.  Plus it was getting dark.  I had a pang of historical empathy for the 19th century matchstick girls as I squinted at my throbbing fingers that I couldn't see and which had stopped working properly anyway.

We did it.  We have started talking in a fairly civilised manner again.  I am hoping that we may someday see the funny side of all this.  I look forward to my ohsohandyman Dad's take on it tomorrow.  Stu had to go and borrow a couple of washers from him at some point so he was aware of the extreme pain of our situation.  We didn't ask for his help, and so he didn't impose himself.  I reckon at the age of 77 he could have possibly done it in 90 minutes standing on his head however.

Handymen of St Albans - we are an easy target for your marketing right now,  Ring on our doorbell and we will probably stick you on a fantastic retainer for twenty years.

We live to fight another day.  Although, as tomorrow is a special one, we may try not to fight too much.

Marvellous Muscat

I reckon I have pretty much done forty now as hard as it could possibly be done.  It's been going on for about a month and I'm absolutely knackered.  It started with a weekend in Dorset with my besties, followed by the party to end all parties and ended with eight days in Muscat.

With my previous track record, I don't blame my Dad for checking every day in the week previously that I was definitely going to get on the plane.  For the large majority of both the inward and outward journey, I was very calm and occasionally relaxed; it's amazing what free-pour champagne achieves really isn't it?  I reckon we have ruined the boys forever - Ryan Air just isn't going to cut it from now on. Zak was in heaven with his fully reclining seat, free choice of games and movies and someone who brought him food every time he looked at them.  Sebi, was, of course, more suspicious:

"Why have they just offered me coffee and a newspaper?  I'm seven.  Obviously I don't need either of those things."

"Well darling, they just don't want to treat you any differently."

"Do I LOOK like I drink coffee and read newspapers?"

Cue Sebi retreating underneath a duvet with a game of Space Invaders for the next hour and a half with his bottle of seven-year-old-appropriate water.  To be honest, it was a relief for everyone.

They were, of course, very grateful to Granny and Grandad for the amazing treat, as were we all, but there were some seriously cringey 'say what you see' moments too.  Oman Airport is beautiful and we were whisked seamlessly through check in, fast-track security and the Business Class Lounge.  When we were about to board the plane and we were in the queue for the bus by the gate, Zak said, rather too loudly:

"But Mummy, we're in the wrong bit.  We're with everybody else.  Where is the Business Class queue for this part?"

An innocent question from an actually not generally that spoilt child.  The 300 people around us however thought they had just encountered the world's largest over-indulged brat.  Fortunately we didn't have to put up with the disgusted looks for long as we were soon back in our classy bubble.  Now, where did I put that free champagne? ;-)

The hotel was suitably amazing.  I couldn't believe I bumped into Sally who I went to school with on Day 1.  Surreal.  It always does my head in that when we are in the middle of London, Zak will say, 'oh look, there is Mrs so-and-so from school', or 'there is our next-door neighbour'.  I've got really cross with him in the past and said that there are billions of people all over the place and we are unlikely to ever bump into anyone we know.  That argument doesn't wash anymore I feel...

It really was the holiday to end all holidays.  I'm not sure that other families in the future will benefit from the 'children eat free' at the buffet situation as the waiting staff realised that Zak was cheerfully putting away what they could have charged three grown men for at every meal.

So far, forty, so good.  As long as this kind of lifestyle continues, I reckon I will cope with the next decade just fine!  :-)

Birthday Blessings

Granny's seventy-somethingth birthday today.  I announced to my husband last night that I was going to get up this morning and go to church with her.  He didn't believe me at all which is fair enough as I normally don't open my eyes until at least 10 on a Sunday.

I rose at 8.45 as promised, and was going to take Sebi with me anyway, but found that hockey had been cancelled due to ice, and so as Stu was going to the gym it was going to be three of us going to church.  I had less resistance to the idea than I expected; the boys are rather devoted to their Granny.  They bounced into church and she was completely delighted and surprised to see them.  Lovely.  Now just an hour's service to get through.

I explained to Sebi that the vicar read the words in normal type and we read everything in bold.  Thus when we stood up as the service started, the vicar started speaking and Sebi joined in with:

"Introduction and Opening Hymn."

"Not that bold writing Darling", I hissed in his ear, "that's a title, you don't read that bit".

"But you said..."

My fault.  Entirely.  I accept it.  The rest of the service passed without incident, (apart from the 50 times that Zak dropped his hymn book and service sheet on the floor), until we reached the Peace.  Whilst Zak was quite happy to shake hands all around the church, Sebi was questioning me as to how he knew if he was going to want peace to be with people if he didn't know them.  He could not like them and then he wouldn't care if they had peace or not, or maybe even would prefer that they didn't.  We compromised on a handshake for everyone without him saying anything.  He eyeballed me whilst shaking all of these hands making it perfectly clear to me that he was not wishing peace upon anyone. Hopefully the congregation thought he was a mute.

They didn't want to come up for Communion as they thought it was unfair that we got bread and wine whilst they just got a pat on the head.  I see their point I suppose.  The last hurdle was when Sebi read ahead to the last page and told me that he didn't want to say that he would give his body and soul as a living sacrifice to Jesus Christ as he would rather keep his body and soul to himself.  Rather than getting into a theological debate I just told him that he could stay quiet during that bit, which he did with great vigour.

At the end of the service Granny thanked her Grandsons for their fantastic behaviour and said that it had made her birthday them being there.

"At least we only have to do it for one week", quipped Zak, "it's so boring I feel sorry for you having to go every week".  I don't think the vicar heard.  When he said goodbye to me at the door and said it was lovely to meet me whilst I was visiting my Mother, I didn't correct him.  He doesn't have to know we live down the road and I don't think he'll be seeing us again any time soon.  Happy Birthday Mother! :-)

Sebi's Stroppy Sunday...

Normally our Sundays are spent scoffing roast beef and apple pie at my parents' house. Today however, Sebi was going to a football party at 12 so Mum and Dad got some respite and we arranged our Sunday around that.  Stu and Zak were going swimming then I was going to drop Seb at the party; the three of us were going to go to lunch and then I would pick Sebi up again.

The best laid plans and all...

We arrived at the football party and as the doors to the hall opened, every little boy that had been waiting eagerly outside grabbed a football and started running happily about. Every little boy that is, bar one.  His eyes filled with tears and he looked balefully at me and said:

"Why have you brought me here?"

Erm, because you bloody asked me to?!  Fortunately, most other mothers had dumped and run whilst their little darlings enjoyed the activity on offer but I felt really sorry for the mum-of-birthday-boy who I have never met before who was hovering helplessly nearby.  If it hadn't been for her I probably would have booted him through the door and legged it out for lunch but instead I put on my best sympathetic face and coaxed my little anti-footballite into the hall.

A very well-meaning party leader immediately noticed the small sad face and tried to encourage Sebi to participate.  I could have told him straight away that he was wasting his breath and there was no way Seb was going to engage with him, but instead I pasted on a concerned motherly gaze and acted surprised when Sebi didn't immediately spring up and participate once the man had asked.  Once he was safely out of the way, I hissed at Sebi:

"Why don't you just go and kick a ball about - everybody else is?"

I received a withering glare that was like looking in a mirror whilst Sebi painstakingly explained to me that he didn't know WHICH ball he was meant to play with.  Equally patiently I explained to Sebi that there were so many balls around he could just kick any one and then if somebody else kicked that one he could choose another one and run about with it.

"What's the fun in that?"

I'd lost the battle.  I knew this now but felt I should show willing for another few minutes. Back comes the eager party man and suggests that Sebi might like to join in with the warm up that doesn't even involve any footballs, just running.  Big, fat, awkward, three-way-stary silence, broken only by me saying that we were perfectly happy sitting and watching.  The minute he turned his back we were up, coats on, apologising profusely to mum-of-birthday-boy and legging it for the exit.

I said my piece as soon as we got in the car and then we both fumed silently until we reached home.

"Change of plan", I yelled as we walked through the door, "we're going to Cafe Rouge, they sell champagne".

My husband began to remind me that I don't drink on Sundays but as he arrived in the hall and saw his youngest son who was meant to be at a party and the expression on both of our faces, he inwardly waved a fond farewell to his cheap greasy burger meal for three and resigned himself to a champagne lunch for four instead.

Later, as we had a moment alone, I informed Stu that I thought this proved Sebi was definitely floating somewhere near the autistic spectrum: unwillingness to participate in new activities, preferring to play on his own, resistance to change not to mention unable to look at anything from a non-literal perspective and his rather impressive OCD tendencies...

"Maybe he's just tired instead", (subtext 'and a little fucker that you have created by pandering to him for seven years'). suggested Stu, who then told me that I'd once again slept through the middle of the night nightmare situation.  Somebody told Sebi a riddle in the week about a girl who was murdered in her bed and it has unsettled his sleep somewhat since.  When I've been putting him to bed, I have comforted him and promised him that no murderer would ever make their way through Mummy and that I would lay down my life to protect him.

"What good is that if you have drunk a bottle of champagne and got your earplugs in; you won't even wake up", he replied.  Good point, well made.  I'll just leave Daddy to sort that one out too then.

(Loving the fact that he comes with a warning on him...😠)

Stay-at-Pub Mummy

Due to the boys' school going back two days before mine; I am in the middle of two precious days at home, without work, whilst they are at school.

Yesterday morning, we all floated downstairs, full of smiles at our change in routine; a later start and Mummy at home. Everybody had something different for breakfast - my smile did not crack.  We walked to school on a beautiful frosty morning, waved the chiddlers a fond farewell and I went off on a refreshing morning run.  I love my job but I had a flicker of doubt yesterday morning that I should be working full time when the kids are still at primary school as the whole experience had been so pleasant.

Fast forward twenty four hours: Mummy got up later this morning due to a larger amount of alcohol consumption yesterday.  The Friday treat of Dairylea Dunkers had been overlooked in the post-holiday quick-shop and so two packets of rubbish Monday - Thursday raisins were mutinously packed into school bags.  When I was standing on the doorstep ready to go the not-quite-as-cute-as-yesterday rugrats announced that they hadn't done their teeth. Of course, Sebi does the full two minutes on the tooth timer I bought him even though I was yelling that a few less seconds really wouldn't make that much difference for one day.

"But why did you buy me the timer then if it doesn't make any difference?"

He then had to add on a few seconds as he had stopped to talk to me.

We hurtled up the road and bumped into the boy that Zak had told me had been mean in the playground yesterday who then started walking with us.  They are walking and having a nice chat, with yesterday's argument obviously forgotten but I cannot help myself at finally being able to be Mother Protector so am hissing into Zak's ear:

"Do you want me to say something?  Shall I give him a Mummy Special Glare?"

Zak put his hood up, his head down and walked a little faster, hoping that the ground would swallow me whole.

I got so sick of playground politics when I was a full time Mum but nowadays a trip to the playground is a treat.  Sebi's gorgeous teacher still managed to smile at me for the second day on the trot as I leapt about in her face telling her that MY school still isn't back at work today and I'm going to the pub for lunch AGAIN.

When I saw my partner in crime for today, Ali, I jumped up and down waving with excitement that we were pub-lunching.  Ayelet in front of her thought I was jumping about because I was excited to see her instead and then realised I was waving at the person behind her...#awks

"Don't be sad.  I was only waving at Ali because I was excited about drinking wine at lunchtime";  I said; trying to make Ayelet feel better but in fact handing out insults all round.

So, it is best for everybody that I have a Dry January (8th - 12th) and head back to work next week.  I'm not cut out for this stay at home Mum business because I don't bloody stay at home; I stay in the pub.

Felices Vacaciones

We decided to strike whilst the flying iron was hot and headed off to Spain for a week after Christmas.

I think there may have been a slight bit of unspoken trepidation from pretty much everyone I know as to whether I was going to make it on this holiday or not.  I got on the plane with no hysterics however and hardly even a sweaty palm.  Zak was checking on me during take off whereas Sebi chipped in with: 'Does that wing look broken to you?"  I'd like to think he doesn't do it on purpose...but...!

I was determined to get a feel of the 'real Spain' and so we ventured into a fairly untouristy part of Andalucia.  I was pretty good at languages at school and a couple of years ago in Lanzarote, I cheerfully ordered for everyone in Spanish, so just assumed I would sail through it again.  Oh no.  It is a little bit different when nobody at all anywhere speaks any English, and everyone is completely relying on you to get them anything to eat, and an A in GCSE Spanish approximately a thousand years ago doesn't really seem to help at all! Day 1 was painful.  I headed off to the supermarket; got lost in the old town and then couldn't find my way either to the supermarket or back to the hotel.  It didn't help that I stuck out like a sore thumb in my bikini with a playsuit on top whilst the Spaniards were in jumpers, coats and scarves!

I grew in confidence however, and, by about Day 4, I was ordering confidently and not even recoiling in horror any longer if the waiters dared to talk back to me!  It's all well and good practising your phrase in your head and saying it out loud but then for goodness sake don't ask me any questions; I'm done!

We decided to eat out on New Year's Eve as the hotel was fully booked for its Gala Dinner.  As we headed out into the town we noticed that everything was shutting its shutters and everyone was heading off the streets into their houses.  My husband refused to give up however and we walked every inch of pavement in Almunecar looking for food and drink.  Eventually we found a take away selling burgers and chips.  Zak's eyes lit up but my dear husband was unwilling to sacrifice our family's NY meal to a takeaway.  I'm a firm believer of any port in a storm and so quickly ordered food for the four of us.  Stu told me that he wasn't eating take away on New Year's Eve and so I pretended I had only ordered for the kids.  A couple of hours later the cold chips were washed down a treat with Cava in our hotel room after we trudged past everyone in their finery gala-dinnering.  Pure class...

Sebi's OCD tendencies were on clear show as he started a stone collection on the beach. Out of the ten thousand million pebbles on the beach would you believe that both of the boys' favourite stones happened to be the same bloody one? What are the chances? World War 3 kicked off until we accidentally managed to get exhibit A eaten by the sea. When we came back to the beach the next day Sebi suddenly announced he wanted to check that his stone collection was still intact.  We all had our hearts in our mouths but miraculously it was still as it had been - thank goodness.  Another disaster averted.

The journey back was equally as uneventful.  My children have inherited their mother's champagne tastes however, and, when offered burger and chips in Malaga airport demanded to use 'Grandad's special card again to get into the nice lounge with WIFI and free food'.  Sorry Dad.  Thanks for that; we owe you, a lot.  We toasted Grandad's generosity as we sat down in the oasis but I had to laugh when Zak asked if all the other people were allowed in the lounge purely because of Grandad too!

A bit of winter sun and family time did wonders at this time of year.  I now need to wring out my liver and return to the real world of work for a few months before we head off on the birthday jolly.  As Zak said, I'm sure we can use our leftover euros in Muscat! ;-)

Leaving on a jet plane

Having cancelled two holidays over the last two years at a painful personal cost of probably about 10 grand; I decided that it was about time I sorted my life out.

I have had a fear of flying in one form or another for as long as I remember and eleven years ago I tackled it head on with BA's fear of flying course.  It really was like a magic cure and I waltzed to Vegas a few months later without a flicker and the same year flew in a four-seater plane bouncing over clouds down to Devon.  For some reason, with me, it obviously had a shelf-life however, and slowly but surely the anxiety crept, (and then hurtled), back.

We had an amazing time in France this year and in fact are going back next summer. However, I don't want myself, and, even more than that, my family, to be limited on where we go, by only going to places that you can travel to by boat/bus/car/train!

So when Daddy-O started making noises about a big birthday present holiday, I decided that the Caribbean would be more temperate in April than Clacton and so I had better have another shot at the course!

I booked in a couple of months ago for today and then managed to convince my wing-woman that she really wanted to come with me.  Sam is equally as terrified but for completely different reasons.  We decided it was a good opportunity to make a weekend of it, (our husbands go to the Stone Roses together, we go to Gatwick); and got way too excited about heading off to an airport on a train on a rainy day in November.  Sam and I are good at making the best of stuff; we get excited about a half an hour kid-free cup of tea so this was obviously going to be epic.  Well, it would have been if the bloody woman hadn't given up drinking for a month!  There are so many reasons why we get on so brilliantly together but we do love a good drunken night and are dreadful partners in crime...  After two hours on a train together I nearly cracked her but we ended up having a burger in the hotel and then tucked up in our pyjamas at 9pm; me with a bottle of fizz, her with a cuppa; and alternating between watching 'I'm a Celebrity' and watching planes land out of our window.

The morning of the course was done by pilots and the afternoon was by a psychotherapist. I remembered a lot of the technical side of it from last time but it was still good to have a refresh.  When it came to questions, I was bored with how obsessed everybody seemed to be with turbulence.  Interesting then that the only wobble I had on the flight was for about ten seconds when it got a bit bumpy!  Apparently humans aren't meant to fly however and our inner ears can't cope with being jiggled up and down as well as side to side.  My question was straight in regarding the change in pilot procedures after the Germanwings bloke flew a plane into a mountain; no point beating about the bush I guess.  My wing-woman went a little pale and headed quickly for the sarnies and a cuppa.

I was fascinated by the afternoon and I think it was a different person to the last time I did it.  Last time I found out how much safer flying was than being kicked to death by donkey; this time I found out that it is eighteen times safer being on a plane than sitting on your sofa at home!  (Feeling a little anxious right now... ;-)) Also, apparently you are six times more likely to be murdered by a family member than to die in a plane crash.  (Sebi definitely has the most psychopathic stare; luckily, I'm his favourite.)

I quite enjoyed the flight.  It was only forty minutes and it was a slightly fake situation however, so I don't think I am fully cured.  A serious improvement though and no panicking; plus I was SOBER!  I did decide quite definitely that next time I get on a plane it will not be by going through a special scared-people-security with a label around my neck and curious onlookers gawping and pointing whilst a lot of people in hi-vis jackets treat us like delicate cargo.  Also, I would really like to get off the plane somewhere more interesting than Gatwick!

Back to the hotel for a celebratory glass of champagne and a diet coke... (yawn...), then we headed home to share the good news with our loved ones that we could take to the skies once more.  So far, the text to my Dad from the train which said: 'Flying course good. Bahamas?', has been a little bit ignored but with a congratulatory 10% discount from BA I'm sure that he will soon see that it would be rude not to!

Death by 10K

It's okay.  Don't panic.  I'm not really dead dead.  Just a little bit dying right now.  I ran 10K this morning for the third time in my life and I did not enjoy it.  I'm not sure I've ever really enjoyed it but today I found it ridiculously unpleasant.  I think I've realised that 10K is not something that you can just wake up one morning and run without being completely ready.

I did try to be ready, I really did.  Having not run properly for a while I did the Race for Life in July with some of the school mums and sitting around with two bottles of champagne in my belly afterwards I agreed to run a half marathon with them in November.  Easy, I thought to myself.  July to November is a nice long time and I put together a training plan.  I then went to France and drank every day and ate cheese for two weeks.  September came with the craziness of the beginning of term and I was struggling to fit in the running (or struggling to be arsed to do any running!)  Saturday morning runs are out due to Friday nights so that meant that it had to be one night after work.  I began running around Clarence Park after my Monday evening meeting finished at 5pm, building up by half a mile a week.  I've always liked Clarence Park - nice and flat.  This all went very well until about three weeks ago when I pulled a muscle in my calf at 4 miles and stopped.  Bum.  No worries thought I; I continued with personal training and boot camp and thought that the long-distance-running-adrenaline-fairy would carry me through today.

Just before this calf-pull incident; I drunkenly signed up my friend and personal trainer Elena to do this 10K today with me.  She panicked for about five minutes and then embraced it in true Dundjerovic style and set out to smash it for me in my target time of less than an hour.

I realised there was a problem when we started off the first kilometre at a canter when I was expecting a trot.  Jeebus.  Maybe this hour malarky wasn't doable after all.  I was trying to tell Dunders that I was about to die already, five minutes in but I couldn't manage to get the words out.  I tried all sorts of tactics: slow down, try and get stuck behind a fatty, pretend to trip over a dog; but she was taking her job very seriously and kept me going at what I had quickly realised was not at all my pace.

I had described the hill at 4K to Elena as basically the same as Mount Everest and she had told me in no uncertain terms that I was not walking up it.  About halfway up I was most definitely walking up it and no amount of cajoling, shouting and even pushing me seemed to change that.  People were beginning to stare at the obviously fitter less sweaty lady pushing the seriously angry looking more sweaty bird in the back to try and make her go faster.  'She's a bitch' I was telling everybody I could.  Nobody replied.  It is not the best hill for conversation really.

I started running again (having tried to turn around and go home a couple of times) and by the time we hit 5K I knew I would probably finish at least and didn't care how long it took. Elena was still trying to do her job, the job I had set her up for, but I was trying to pant to her that I didn't want her to do the job anymore I just wanted to wallow silently in my own sweaty misery.  She tried everything but I was decidedly grumpy.  She was laughing when I tried to stop running again at about 7K and was telling her to fuck off with one breath but then when somebody came out of their house to cheer us on I was sweetness and light itself with a smile and a wave.  Poor Elena.

I did try to convince her to run on and save herself.  She knows far too many fit PT people who will be looking up her race time after all but she is a good friend and stuck with me and my little trot until the bitter end.  Apparently we are doing it every year from now on.  I reckon I might just stick on some rollerskates next time and tie myself onto her waist.

I have already backed out of the half marathon and am hugely relieved I will not be flogging it around Clarence Park seven times tomorrow evening.  I am now drinking all of my Saturday night champagne and enjoying the simple pleasure of sitting on my sore bum... ;-)

Old Dear

I'm feeling my age today.  I don't think I have ever written that sentence or uttered those words before but I'm sure I will say them again...and again...and again...in the future!

I went into town last night with a bounty of beautiful twenty-something girls from my workplace.  I had a lovely time.  Apart from the twenty minute wait at the bar every time I wanted a drink; that was not okay.  I'm ashamed to say that I was thinking of my own lovely fridge full of champagne that never, ever makes me wait when I visit it.  I was chatting to a lady in the bar-scrum who asked me how old I was.  When I told her I was 39, one of my colleagues popped up from behind my back and screeched 'THIRTY NINE!  WOW!  You look AMAZING!'  Obviously, I'm always willing to be told loudly that I look amazing but what was with the emphasis on the 39?  I wasn't aware that it was possibly NOT to look okay at 39.  This is still on the correct side of 40 right?

I had a real laugh but when at 11.15pm everybody stopped sitting down and chatting and started bobbing about behind their chairs and muttering about going dancing, I decided my time had come to exit stage left.  I was relatively sober, (due to the ridiculous wait at the bar), and happily began to wave the kids off in the direction of somewhere noisier and more dancey,  At this point however, the maybe-a-little-bit-worse-for-wear birthday boy decided that his evening couldn't possibly continue without me in it so he sent the girls off dancing and we put the world to rights over a few double gins in a variety of pubs before I dumped him with the dancing queens and legged it into a cab about 12.30.  Home at a sensible time to see my husband; but the worrying part of this story is that I sat down with him and had a chat over a cup of decaffeinated tea and a pain au chocolat.  Could I get any more middle class and middle aged?!

Let's assume that was breakfast then, as I was back on form today with the first thing to pass my lips being champagne at midday.  That's more like it.  I met my Uni pal Clare in Hammersmith for my second viewing of 'Things I Know to be True'.  Clare always looks fabulous.  She works for the London College of Fashion and I swear she knows what the next fashion is before the designers have even begun to design it.  I remember Lyns and I howling with laughter over dinner with her about three years ago, when she referred to her (perfectly nice) trousers as 'tailored joggers'.  We thought it the most hilarious oxymoron until a couple of months later we found that they were everywhere. That girl knows.  So today she turns up in a pair of amazing blue culottes.  If I put culottes on I would look about 85, or that I was back in 1985, one of the two.  However, Clare rocked the look, beautifully. So beautifully in fact that the elderly (yet very stylish) lady on the table next to us came over and told her how fabulous she looked and how amazing her style was.  How kind. The sting in the tail was that immediately afterwards she asked to move tables as we were so noisy...  When Clare, Lyns and I are together, I immediately feel 21 again.  I was thinking on the train on the way home though that the lady that paid Clare a compliment would probably have been about our age now when the three of us first met at Uni... Scary stuff.

I'm looking forward to turning 40.  If only for the amount of lovely champagne I will be given.  I'm not looking forward to turning 50 however.  That seems ridiculously scary. Would I have coped with the thought of turning 40 a few months before my 30th birthday though?  There was a poignant line in the play today where the female protagonist tells her 63 year old husband that there is less in front of them than there is behind them but that doesn't mean that they should give up on living. Unsurprisingly, that didn't seem to cheer him very much...

I pray that I never lose my sense of fun.  There was a moment last night when I slightly lost my footing and my colleague gallantly threw himself to the ground to ensure that if I was face down in the street he was most definitely going to be face down with me to make me feel better about the situation.  I was laughing so hard at this that it took me much longer than it should have done to recover my footing and return to a vertical position.

Anyway, I've been out all day today and it is nearly ten o'clock so I reckon it is time for me to head to my bed with a cup of tea and a bourbon.  Or will I?  Maybe it is time to recreate the days of getting out of pyjamas and into gladrags at 10pm instead to head out out?

Maybe not.  Night night.  :-)

Runaway

Zak left home for the first time yesterday.  It was about an ice cream.  An ice cream that he wasn't bought in the park as he had already had some popcorn and sweets at the cinema. The lack of ice cream led to some behaviour that resulted in his IPad evening slot being removed from him.  This resulted in him leaving home.

I was warned.  All the way back from the park he was telling me that he was leaving home. I told him that he most definitely wasn't, whilst keeping cool, calm and collected.  I was smugly planning on just quietly double locking the door when we got inside.  I was double bluffed however as I stopped the car on the drive and Zak leapt out and legged it down the road! Still wanting to play it cool, I kept unpacking the car and Sebi monitored events from the end of the drive.  Sebi seemed a little disappointed at his progress as I think he expected something more dramatic than his big brother loitering a few houses down. When you're gone you're gone however in Seb's eyes, and as I was moving Zak's scooter from the garage to the house, Sebi enquired as to why I was bothering because Zak wouldn't need it any longer if he wasn't here.  I'm surprised he hadn't moved his stuff into Zak's room and claimed squatter's rights within minutes.  On his next recky from the end of the drive, little brother was slightly more impressed with big brother's progress and fed back that he was now out of sight.  Oh.  Oops.  I'd wrongly assumed that he would loiter down the road and head back when I wasn't looking.  Triple bluffed.

Unfortunately at this precise moment my husband decided to return home.  I thought he made the enquiry in a much more reasonable manner than I would have done had the tables been reversed, about why he had just seen his nine-year old son on his own heading away from home along Ardens Way.

I must pause here and take a minute to explain the hierarchy in our house.  Seb's in charge and the rest of us do as he says.  No, only joking, (sort of).  I am the strict, disciplinarian parent; the boys are the kids and Stuart falls somewhere in between.  I'm not doing him a disservice by saying this - he would be in complete agreement.  He spends hours being silly with the boys: wrestling, football, computer games, making up comedy rhymes about fat people etc, etc; none of which I have any interest in at all.  The boys have the most amazing fun with him but unfortunately that has led to a slightly grey area when it comes to him being able to discipline them.  Quite often he will come to me if something really needs sorting out.  Stu = fun Dad.  Nikki = fun-spoiler Mum.

I think therefore, when Stu found me on the drive with one son having lost the other one and I didn't seem in that particular moment to be doing that much about it, he relished his rapid promotion through the sensible parenting ranks...

Stu and Sebi went inside and I began backing the car out of the drive, tail between my legs, with no particular Plan B about how I was going to actually get Zak to get into the car when I found him.  Halfway out of the drive I noticed a blue cap peeking out from behind a tree.  Slowly I returned the car to the drive, went into the house and waited for the return of the fugitive.

At this point I am pleased to say that the super-early pre-teen behaviour seemed to bury itself again for another day and the rest of the afternoon was passed in a relatively amicable truce.  We're off to the park again in a bit; I reckon I might just buy some ice creams today...

Summer Lovin'

Summer holidays are odd.  As a teacher you spend the ENTIRE year hanging out for this six week break and then it seems to be over in a flash.  I almost take the fun out of the summer holidays but being obsessed by the fact I should be enjoying every single little minute of them.  I counsel myself as we go through, after a week by saying, 'well, I've still got five weeks to go' - FIVE WEEKS!  Halfway through I'm equally as buoyant, and then we get to now; two weeks to go, and you realise that you are nearer the end than the beginning.  I comfort myself at the point by saying it is basically like starting an Easter or Christmas break now and look at all the time I've had already.  Next weekend I'll be convincing myself it is like the start of a half term and all the while I have a slightly suppressed, unusual sensation that when work starts again, I might quite like it.  (Oops - I've said it aloud now.)

We really are making the most of these holidays but I think I got a little bit overexcited and may have packed too much in.  Our suitcases were unpacked last weekend from France and repacked for Suffolk with a day at Warner Bros. Studios squeezed in the middle. We're back today from Suffolk and although a lovely time was had; the constant high of excitement from the kids resulted in slightly less-than-perfect behaviour between 4am and 5.15am this morning.  (I should have stuck to my resolute guns about not letting them share a room!)  We are all officially knackered.  I wonder if this is full-time-working-mother-guilt rearing her ugly head again?  Everybody says to me that teaching is so perfect when you have small kids because you can really re-group in the holidays.  It's true!  I have spent so much quality time with my lovelies in the last four weeks that I've completely remembered why I decided to work full time! ;-)  I'm kidding.  Sort of.

Yet still I can't seem to stop: Wicked tomorrow, Gullivers on Monday, Whipsnade on Tuesday - so much to do and it is imperative that we must all have fun at all times.  In fact, all you end up with is spoilt brats that moan when they have to fill an hour or two of their own time at home with a house and garden full of toys.  'But I'M BORED...' laments Zachary when I have dared to remove an IPad away from his trance-like gaze.

The added problem is that the no alcohol in the week situation really doesn't seem to apply to school holidays.  I'm a miserable bastard during term time so school holidays is when I get to do a huge amount of socialising.  Dinner on a Monday night?  Sure, why not?  Wine tasting on a Wednesday?  Brilliant - bring it on.  The only problem is that if you remember correctly my alcohol intake is meant to be vaguely limited at the moment and I'm currently trying to schedule in my next blood test when I will have had at least 48 hours off the sauce.  September 6th it is then!

I also reckon that I have spent approximately ten hundred million pounds in the last four weeks having so much fun.  I feel a few days of £1.50 morning cinema tickets (because who wants to eat popcorn at 10am?!) and laps of the park on scooters coming on to ensure there is enough money left in the bank to pickle my liver in cheap champers before it is head down again until half term.  Happy holidays everyone!  :-)

Half Term High Jinks

I do love a half-term.  The week started beautifully with a visit from my lovely work colleague Sophie, who is currently on maternity leave.  She has three little girls that I instructed my boys to look after.  Zak asked me their names just before they came.

'Mia is the oldest, then Orla and then... *Big fat pause* ...the baby.'  

Not to be put off by my lack of attention to detail Zak pursued this with:

'I'm sure she didn't just call her 'baby'.'

No Zak, no she didn't but Mummy has forgotten the poor child's name, okay?!  I responded with:

'I think it is something Greek, Cassandra?  No, that's not it.  Oh well never mind, I'm sure we'll find out over the course of the morning.'

Sophie hadn't even got through the door before Zak yelled from the top of the stairs:

'Mummy can't remember what you called your baby.'  Great.  Welcome.  (It's Juno by the way which is most definitely more Roman than Greek.)

That afternoon we took a trip to the cinema for them to watch 'Angry Birds the Movie' and for me to have a little nap.  This is definitely the onset of old age but ticked all boxes.  The kids were entertained, we were out of the house allowing Stu to work without chaos around him and I was indulging in my favourite past time.  Well my favourite past time when there aren't any open bottles of champers around anyway.

Wednesday I had to go to Chelsea for my eye appointment.  (All good news - meds are working - I'm back in contacts.)  I decided to combine this with a day out with the boys and booked lunch after at our favourite restaurant, Heddon Street Kitchen.  Zak was disappointed that my Professor didn't have crazy white hair and that he wasn't mad, but he warmed to him after he let them look at the back of my eyeball.  I wasn't quite as keen on them 'helping' when the Professor said to Sebi: 'Don't drop that will you?  It's worth 6 and a half grand.'  Maybe he was mad after all...

Having refused to go to the loo at the hospital, Sebi started clutching his willy at Sloane Square tube station, which I'm sure is not the done thing at all in that neck of the woods. The furious willy grabbing and hopping from one foot to another became rather frantic by Oxford Circus so I decided we needed an urgent pit stop before we got to the restaurant. Like an Oasis I saw a public pay-as-you-go portaloo on Regent Street.  I was just scrabbling for my 50p (50P4APEE!!) when I was approached by a friendly local drunk who told me I didn't need that and let me in with his key...  (Who gave him the key...?!)  I was hurriedly grateful and went in and Seb plonked himself on the toilet.  I (STUPIDLY) left Zak in charge of the electronic door and he pressed the button to shut and lock it and then pressed every other button so soon it opened again; permanently.  Apparently Sebi was not as yet finished so was now sitting in his glory in the middle of Regent Street.  I was busy bollocking Zak when my new tramp friend came back to tell me we needed to exit as the thing was about to self-disinfect.  Cue Sebi: 'But I TOLD you, I HAVEN'T FINISHED'. I'll gloss over the next few unpleasant minutes and 15 minutes later we were ensconced in the restaurant, obviously via another toilet en route.

The ice cream bar in this restaurant has to be seen to be believed.  One small scoop of ice cream in a bowl with ten thousand jars of sprinkles and sweets for the kids to help themselves to.  I think I got to Zak each time before he put a serving spoon full of sweets straight into his gob but I'm not completely sure.  Safe to say you couldn't see any ice cream on their plates by the time they had finished loading.  Two deliriously happy, sugar high boys charged around Hamley's and then their distinctly-less-wealthy-than-the-start-of-the-day Mother decided it was time to head home.

On the second traumatic tube journey of the day, Zak decided he was about to puke within about 20 seconds.  I'm normally a big fan of anti terror measures on the tube but I really could have done with a bin that afternoon.  There was no way in the world he was puking into my Ted Baker handbag (it's all about the lining!) so he managed to hold it in.  I think he was just a bit hot and full of sweets but was still a distinctly odd colour by the time we got on the train home.  'Air' started escaping from the other end to ease his sore tummy and even with me subtly opening windows we managed to clear a whole French family and their suitcases from our carriage.  I think I've now learnt how to say 'disgusting smelly English boys' in French now, should I ever happen to need it...

I had an amazing PT session with my friend Elena in the park yesterday.  She obviously chose the bandstand to do it in so that we were literally centre stage.  All of our boys took great delight in swinging high enough so they could see me over the hedge and hurl abuse at my efforts.

'YOU...*swing*...LOOK...*swing*...LIKE...*swing*...A...*swing*...DOG' sang my eldest. Personally I haven't met a dog that can plank with its feet in stirrups but I obviously need to get out more.

Everything in moderation

Life is a little less dull than last time I posted.  The situation is not quite as dire as first thought.  I decided to canvass a third opinion on the lack of booze situation as I was becomingly rapidly very, very grumpy.  We get on very well my GP and I and were able to have a candid conversation.  He immediately told me that I would be fine with some 'sensible drinking'.  I told him that I was not, never had been, and never will be a sensible drinker.  I needed to cut to the chase and find out if there was actually any danger of death with the odd binge drinking night.  He assured me that the occasional slip off the wagon was fine.

I reinterpreted this in my own way.  I'm still quite nervous of these drugs so I have figured out if I drink within the recommended government guidelines for a week still but just narrow that down over two days instead of seven, I will probably remain with an un-pate-like liver and still have Friday and Saturday nights worth looking forward to.  I am therefore totally tee total Sunday to Thursday and am allowing myself a bottle of fizz on Friday and Saturday nights.  Win win.

I'm still refusing to drink any alcohol that is not champagne however.  It is important to retain standards and also not waste any units.  Unfortunately the cheapest bottle of champagne in the restaurant last night however was a £55 bottle of Veuve.  My husband took this with quite good grace however.  Doctor's orders and all.  Well, nearly.

A sunny Sunday BBQ with the Morgans was less of a sober challenge than I thought.  The key to me not drinking is to not chill anything worth drinking.  I was not coveting their lagers at all and even remarked to Samantha on our sun loungers that I was managing to have quite a fun day sober.  Some people would have taken that as a bit of an insult; not my mucker however.  She said she wasn't that surprised that I was having a good time it was just that I had never bothered trying it before!  It's true.  It would have never crossed my mind to not drink at a social occasion.  Maybe after this year is up I will be one of those irritating middle-aged women who looks at you like you are a piece of dog poo if you try and refill their glass.  Hmmm, maybe not.

I'm not as thin as I should be if alcohol is full of calories and I've cut mine down by at least half...ish...and the rest...  I've had a hamstring injury for a couple of months now that has kept me from running and I've noticed that my normal regime of shoving everything I fancy food or drink wise in my mouth whenever I want it then running around the block a couple of times a week has come unstuck and I've turned into a bit of a lard arse.  I have never dieted in my life and have only been weighed when I was preggers and forced on the scales but I am currently doing the nearest thing I ever will do to a diet until I can run again. I call it the eat-like-a-health-freak-Monday-to-Thursday-and-then-shove-everything-you-can-see-down-your-throat-Friday-to-Sunday.  Catchy eh?  Look out for the cook book and DVD coming soon.  It does seem to be working a bit although the everything in moderation outlook has never really worked for me.  I've just had to eat all of these from my lovely Year 11s:

...so that they are not there tomorrow to ruin my healthy start to the week.  The hilarious part of it is that whilst I was troughing through them I was preparing my 'overnight-oats' brekkie for the morning.  Right then, how many hours is it until Friday night...? ;-)

Nil (or not much) by Mouth

There is no point beating about the bush, let's get straight to the point - I have to give up the demon drink for a year.

Well, not exactly give up, but, drink within 'the government's recommended guidelines', which is basically as bad.

My evil-eyeball-eating-itself disease seems to be resistant to every type of eyedrop known to man so instead we need to suppress my immune system with some kind of chemotherapy instead (it's not cancerous however).  It's a clinical trial, I have no fear of things like this, but the two things that it can't cope with are (a) alcohol and (b) sunshine. Seriously, talk about fucking up your summer!

It is going to be very good for me I'm sure.  2-3 units a night, rather than 2 bottles on a weekend night cannot help but reap benefits but the downside is I'm obviously going to be sober.  Sober on nights out, sober out for dinner, sober at the pub, sober after a shit day at work, sober at birthdays, sober at Christmas, sober at celebrations, sober at Sunday lunch, sober with my Dad, sober with my husband, sober with my bezzie, sober when my kids are pissing me off, sober on a Friday night, sober on a Saturday night, sober on weekends away, sober at the two summer balls I'm attending, sober on holiday (and sitting in the shade for the love of God!) - mainly quite sober!

Now, I'm not for one cotton-pickin minute insinuating that I only ever have fun when I am drinking, because that would make me a fully bonafide alcoholic, but, I have never actually tried the fun sober stuff.  I am never the designated driver and tend to be the life and soul of the party always with some champagne in my belly.

Ahhhhh, champagne.  My one true love.  This makes me especially sad.  Therefore I have decided to invest in this:

24 x individual bottles of champagne that I can keep in the fridge to ensure that I can have my 2-3 units a night, cold and fizzy.  I knew that these were invented for a reason.

It's bollocks but I appreciate that it is also karma.  If there is anyone in the world that probably needed a reality check on alcohol, it is me.  Maybe I will come out of this year a reformed character and irritate the masses with my newly emphatic evangelism on the benefits of sobriety and the evils of the demon drink.  Hmmmm, maybe not.  I think it is more likely that I sulk my way through the year, grumpily accepting only the invitations that I have to and avoiding most other social situations.  Basically spending the year as if I was pregnant but without the cute alcohol-soaked baby at the end of it.

I may become a bore on this blog, I warn you now.  I need to get my kicks from somewhere.  If you are not a proper dirty drinker like me then none of what I've said so far will be resonating with you.  If you are on my wave length then you will be feeling my pain, reaching for your favourite tipple and just having a little check that your eyeball looks as it should, thanking your lucky stars and raising a glass to my sobriety.

I think I will be probably making it 50.5 weeks instead of the required 52 so that I can celebrate my 40th in style next April.  As Samantha sympathetically pointed out to me a couple of days ago though; there is not much point spending the money I was going to on my 40th, as after a year off the booze I will definitely be the cheapest date in the room.  I could possibly be passed out on the floor by 7.30pm, but, if I am, I am sure that I will be asleep and very, very happy!

Cheers :-/ x

Happy Easter!

What a weekend!  Friday saw Kate and I heading up to London early doors to attend a pop-up Moët Academy.  Neither of us knew what to expect, but I was going as it obviously involved champagne drinking, and she was going as she likes champagne, has a sense of adventure, a healthy budget and a kind habit of indulging my folly.  We were greeted with a glass of water which was not what I was expecting but after a 360 degree tour of the virtual vineyard for 45 minutes, the serious business of tasting began.  They first gave us Prosecco so that we could all spit it into our branded Moët buckets in disgust...  I surprised myself by not being the biggest champagne snob in there.  Other people took it really properly seriously.  I was just trying to guzzle as many free bubbles as possible before being kicked out.  With the help of a winning smile and a wink at the barman I think Kate and I possibly banked more than our fair share...  We glided giggling down in the lift as we were thrown out, hoping to find the loos on the way and wishing au revoir to our fellow connoisseurs; only to take a wrong turn and have to go back in the lift to the toilet as we had done a drunken loop and had to drift past the same people once again, feeling just a little less sophistimacated...  Fortunately as we left the building I was immediately propositioned by a tramp.  I didn't want to take up his kind offer for a drink but I think he had correctly sussed out the alcoholic capability of his proposed drinking partner if perhaps not quite the class...  Cue Kate and Nikki heading to Bubbledogs for hot dogs and more champagne.

Saturday I hopped on a train and joined my husband in Redditch for Lindsey's 40th.  Stu was picking me up at the station but I stomped straight past him as I was so convinced that he wouldn't bother getting out of the car to come and meet me - who says romance is dead after nearly ten years of marriage?!  He bought me lunch, then I reluctantly shelled out for dinner but then turned up cashless to the party, which of course was cash only.  My darling husband used to be a right tight-wad when I met him but has morphed into generosity itself, (well nearly). Grumping away he was that I didn't have the readies, until he found out it was £4.65 for a pint and a glass of wine.  Got to love a social club in the Midlands!  Suddenly I was no longer the devil incarnate and for possibly the only time in my life was a bit of a cheap date.

Good job, as today I reversed at speed into a brand new Audi.  Well done me.  I left a note on the window that said: 'Hello, I'm Nikki.  I crashed into your car; sorry.' and my phone number. What else is there to say?  A very nice, understanding gentleman left a voicemail for me whilst I was watching 'Zootropolis' at the cinema and I rang him back playing the helpless, dumb blonde (yes - it was acting, of course), and we had a very civilised and St Albans conversation about how my insurance was going to go up and never, ever come down again but ho, ho, ho as long as nobody was hurt and yes of course it could happen to ANYONE, so all was okay.  The patronising subtext was of course, 'stupid f-ing women drivers' but hey, we rode it out.  I now need to deal with the fortnight of ribbing from my husband and father of course...

Three and a half day week coming up followed by tenth wedding anniversary celebrations in Cornwall, a birthday and then two weeks off.  Not too shabby.  This Monday is showing Mondays what they should be like (car crash excepted).  Roll on tomorrow and my form's 'ISIS assembly'.  We are treading the thin and controversial line to get a powerful message across. What could possibly go wrong with an ethnically diverse, dramatically challenged, 'interesting' Year 7 form led by a possibly slightly hungover, dangerous reverser of a form tutor?  I'll let you know... ;-)  

Super Saturdays

I had 11 hours sleep last night.  It was utter bliss.  I awoke briefly at 9.30am as Stu left the bed and Zak entered it.  I soon ejected Zak when I realised that he can't jump on an IPad game without kicking his legs.  I guess it is like when I put the brake on whilst sitting in the passenger seat of Stu's car; intrinsic.  Zak left and I dozed for a few minutes and then Sebi took his place.  This was more restful and I carried on sleeping until 10.50.  Lazy-arse-happy-Mumma.

An hour after I had breakfasted, we went out for lunch.  That is when you know it is going to be a good Saturday.  We headed into town to a fantastic burger restaurant called 'Relish'.  Parking in St. Albans can be hellish on a Saturday so when I spied a street space very near to the restaurant I yelled and Stu duly pulled into it.  The kids and I started sauntering towards 'Relish' whilst Stu went to get a ticket.  Two minutes later however, my husband was stropping about in a mood about the ridiculous parking charge and told me I should have let him park in the car park instead.  The sun was shining, I was determined to have a nice family Saturday, so I told him he was very welcome to move the car into the car park in order to save a few pennies if it was going to make him any happier. Unbelievably, he moved the car into the car park only to find out it would cost him 30p more so moved it back out onto the street again.  I said nothing as 15 minutes later we walked to the restaurant.  Nothing.  Not a thing.  I did laugh in his face a bit however...

We decided after lunch we would park near my Nana's nursing home and Stu could take the boys to the park whilst I went to see her for a little while.  Zak legged it into the park far ahead of everyone and launched himself at a swing in ecstasy.  As he jumped on, he hadn't realised that someone before him had rolled the swing up and as he landed it unrolled leaving him hanging upside down.

'DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDD!' he cried, but managed to hang upside down bat-like until Stu caught up.

I spent an interesting half an hour or so with Nana where the conversation wandered from reality to fantasy and back again.  When Dad spoke to her later she told him that she had had a lovely afternoon with Mary (my sister)...

I'm currently snuggled on the sofa with my biggest boy and a glass of champagne watching 'The Voice' and having our normal Saturday night discussion about the Transgender performer.  Zak being delightfully innocent, me being incredibly politically correct and Stu snorting from the end of the sofa.  Happy Saturday Night everyone!

Mamma Mia

Mothering Sunday is just coming into its own.  Stu has gone off to watch the footie, my parents have left, the boys are on the IPads and I have just opened my motherly bottle of champagne.  Bliss.

The boys were under strict instructions this morning that the way to make Mummy have a really wonderful start to Mother's Day was to not arrive in to see me before they were invited.  Good job as a 'civilised' few drinks and a dog walk last night turned into the normal Nikki-Sam carnage...

Once I had translated Zak's card this morning from: 'Smelly, not all Mothers are like you' to 'Sadly, not all Mothers are like you', we began getting on a little better.  I'm still not convinced that my original guess wasn't right.  It would have been a fair point first thing this morning too.

We had a delicious lunch at The Plough with the four of us, plus Granny and Grandad, plus a large amount of both Beaumont and Samuel Ryder students and parents.  One of the members of staff there is a parent and took the time to thank me for increasing her daughter's confidence at school.  Really lovely until she finished with the information that her daughter had asked her to find out how many glasses of wine Mrs Ward drinks with her Sunday lunch.  Not as many as she would like to under the beady eyes of students.  I remember our poor Geography teacher at STAGS being spotted once coming out of Budgens clutching a bottle of gin by a member of Year 11.  It's now the only thing she is remembered for.  I am so screwed.

Our lunch took quite a long time to arrive today as they were extraordinarily busy in there. The boys were 'STARVING' so Dad saved the day with some well timed packets of crisps. When they had finished Sebi asked how long the food would be and I said five minutes and told him to count to 300.  Which of course he did. When he was at about 265 he was eyeing me suspiciously and my parents enquired what my Plan B was if the food didn't arrive in exactly 35 seconds time.  How many packets of crisps have you got up your sleeve Grandad?

Zak had to shoot off to cricket straight after lunch so Mum, Dad, Sebi and I went home for coffee.  Grandad gave Sebi a pound and Sebi said that he now had £52.76 in his money box.  Grandad refused to take his word for it and counted it all out with Sebi sitting next to him asking me what on earth he was doing as he had told him exactly how much was in there and so he was wasting his time.  Grandad was far too overexcited to find that in fact there was only £52.74 in there and to prove Sebi wrong.  Until that is he got up to go and found he was sitting on two pence.  The look Sebi shot him was a six year old equivalent of sticking two fingers up I think...

I presented Mum with her bouquet as she left and the boys looked bemused.  'She can't drink that' quipped Zak.  You really can tell whose children they are can't you.

Happy Mother's Day lovely people!  Cheers!