900 Minutes

I am entering a new era of my life today.  For the first time in over five years I am going to have 15 hours, or 900 minutes to myself each week whilst Sebi is at nursery.  Amazing.

I'm not the woman I used to be however.  A few years ago, fifteen precious hours to myself over a lunchtime period would most definitely have been mainly spent in the pub.  I'm ashamed to say that I can't handle lunchtime drinking anymore.  I'm pleased that I hit my twenties as hard as I did because I've become a bit of a pussy in my thirties.

So, what am I going to do with all of this free time.  Well once you have done the nursery drop off and school pick up, cleaned the house and done a couple of runs, I don't reckon there will be that much time left.  I intend to go out to lunch once a week.  This was my main reason for choosing afternoon nursery.  My poor child was cheerfully sleeping for two hours over lunchtime until I cut it out for him a few weeks ago to prepare him for going to nursery in his nap time instead so that Mummy could do some lunching.  MOTY.

My dear Mother has also decided that at the ripe old age of 72 she should really start using the internet and that I am the person to teach her.  This is a poisoned chalice, believe me.  She is probably the most intelligent woman I know but is a total techno-phobe.  When I was pregnant with Sebastian, Dad bought her a mobile so that I could contact her to drop off Zak to her if I suddenly went into labour.  As the mobile remained turned off in her glove box for a couple of months it was a good job I was able to drive Zak to her house myself when the time came.  A few weeks later she broke down and decided to use it to phone my Dad but when she turned it on it wasn't charged up so she had to walk home anyway.  Bring on the ICT lessons.

Seb is very concerned about my welfare without him around.  "Mummy be lonely", he says, looking terribly worried.  I'm sure that he thinks that he is the one that looks after me rather than the other way around.  Maybe some of the time, after a heavy night, he is right. There was a morning this week when he suggested we should go and lie on my bed and watch some CBeebies until "Mummy feel better".

I don't want to peak too soon.  With my 90 minutes of freedom today I think I will just revel in using the loo on my own and perhaps decadently have a bath in the middle of the day, just because I can.

Nursery Nightmares

Sebi is starting nursery next week, supposedly.  His current stance is that he is "not going".  I didn't take this too seriously when we first started talking about it but he is a stubborn little mule (no idea where he gets it from) and as time ticks on I'm beginning to think that we may have a problem.

The nursery teachers came over for their home visit last Friday.  At least this time around I knew that this was normal procedure, when Zak started nursery I was assuming I had found my way onto some sort of list for parents that needed watching a little more closely than others (guilty conscience?)  Anyway, the lovely teachers arrived with their box of toys and their folder full of glossy pictures of children having a lovely time.  Down we sat and they asked Sebi if he was looking forward to starting nursery.  "No thank you", said my polite, yet definite youngest.  How we all nervously laughed.  Half an hour later they had played with Seb, engaged him and he had definitely warmed to them both.  As they left they said that they were looking forward to seeing him in a couple of weeks and as he shut the door he said, audibly, "No THANK you, I said I not coming".

Seb is going to go into politics I think.  His latest angle on this dilemma popped up soon after this visitation.  "Mummy", says he, "Can I stay home with Mummy if I do the washing?"  Clever little chap.  He has obviously noticed me sinking under the piles of washing since we arrived back from holiday last week and thought he would hit me where I am most vulnerable.  I mean, technically he doesn't have to be in any sort of schooling as yet, so I might take back to the table that if he throws in the hoovering and polishing we may well have a deal.

We tried his nursery uniform on this morning to see if that would enthuse him.  Big mistake, huge.  Huge is exactly what his brother was when he went to nursery as the barely-used tops in our cupboard are size 5/6.  Obviously he is not going to get new tops that actually fit him when there is perfectly good wear left in these. However, I could see exactly what was going through his poor little head as he stood swamped in what might as well of been a dress: not only is the silly cow making me go somewhere I don't want to but she is already lining me up for a year of ridicule due to my daft costume.  Brilliant.

The nursery teachers were not impressed when I told them that I still help Seb go to the toilet.  I assumed this was quite normal as he is only just three but they looked at me very sternly and made noises about signing forms from the SENCO and so I thought we'd better hit toilet boot camp for these last couple of weeks.  We're now pretty competent at pulling pants and shorts up and down (yes, both of us) but we have hit a brick wall over the 'standing up wee wee'.  Apparently, the fact that I don't have a willy is not a good enough reason for me to go to the toilet in a different fashion to my little shadow.  It is a conversation I don't want to get much more deeply into, for obvious reasons, but we are getting nowhere fast.  I think I'm going to rely on Seb's bladder of steel to get him through the three hours of nursery without him having to go.

All in all, much as I'm looking forward to my 15 hours a week of freedom (first time in five years - bring it on), I'm getting the feeling that it maybe be a bit of a bumpy ride for the first few weeks.  I wonder if the nursery teachers will support my envisaged idea of first day drop off which I imagine may be Seb tucked under my arm like a rugby ball, quickly dumped in the classroom and me legging it?  Possibly not.  If I wasn't on a list before, I'm pretty sure I will be then.

Fur Coat and No Knickers

No, I'm not talking about myself for once, but Raymond Blanc's Brasserie in St Albans. Six of us road-tested it last night for the lovely Kate's birthday.

It looks fantastic inside and out and they have banished any memories of Harry Smith's by the decor and the layout.  The food was great but I feel the staff training is more than a little bit lacking.  We had a lovely, smiley waitress who didn't really have a fucking clue about anything.  When you are paying quite expensive prices for food and booze you don't expect to have a waitress who brings a bottle of wine over saying "I've never opened a bottle of wine before".  Seriously.  Jan and Emski were luckily on hand to instruct her in the finer working points of her corkscrew before the Manager saw her and gave her a bollocking.  When I was smiling encouragingly at her as we asked her to explain the puddings she said "Do you really want to know what the puddings are or are you just taking the Mickey?"  Oh dear God.  As we paid the bill I said to her "It's a really good job that you're pretty," and she took it as a compliment.  Bless.

The great and the good of St Albans have obviously decided that this is the latest place to be seen and it was packed out with generally well-dressed expensive looking couples.  Ralph took exception to the gentleman at the table next to us who had his collar standing up and the men at our table followed suit for a few minutes.  Personally, I had more of an issue with the fact that he was doing a crossword under the table.  You're not in your fucking kitchen mate!

Anyway, we had a great champagne-filled evening.  I'm beginning to come to the conclusion though that these celebrity chef haunts can do one out of my life and, out of choice, I will be eating in Freddie's for as long as he will continue to let me.

A Grecian Adventure

I have just returned from a wonderful two weeks in Lefkas and am fat, brown and happy after lazing around in the sun eating deep fried cheese on a daily basis.

We holidayed in the most amazingly child-friendly set of 12 villas where everyone had a young family and it was perfect for us.  I'm normally quite stand-offish on holiday, (I've got enough friends remember), but in a place that small it is impossible not to make friends with the other families.  Although, unsurprisingly there were the odd one or two who got up my nose.  One woman had told four other sets of people around the pool at the top of her voice within the first hour of us being there that she "ran her own business" because "it just wasn't challenging enough working for someone else".  She was also reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey', don't get me started again.

Man Utd were playing on the first night of our holiday and I couldn't cope with Stu mooning around looking like a kicked puppy so I selflessly sent him off to the bar whilst I sat on my terrace imbibing Greek wine and reading a decent book.  I popped over (it's about 5 metres - don't judge me) to tell him that I was going to bed and found him sitting in the middle of a long line of non-English speaking Greeks all perfectly bonding over the match.  Footie is indeed the most universal of languages.

We had the most fabulous neighbours.  Our villa was semi-detached and our terrace was adjoined to Diana and Jamie.  They were quite a bit older than us but didn't really look or act it.  My most horrific hangover of the holiday was when they were on our terrace until 1am drinking until Stu threw them out.  Jamie is writing a book and I took great pleasure in tearing it apart and trying to disprove every point he was making.  That takes a good few bottles of wine....

I also made friends with a policewoman.  When I texted Shelley about this she replied immediately that this was a very bad idea and I should stop talking to her, or stop drinking, or preferably both.  Obviously I completely ignored this good advice and in fact invited her (policewoman, not Shell) to dine with us that night.  We took them to a restaurant and they were following our car as they didn't know where they were going and I got lost and ended up making them do a U turn in the middle of a busy street in the main town.  Ooops.  Then there is the dilemma of how much you drink when you are driving and out in a foreign country with the police.  I decided to match her husband drink for drink as surely she wouldn't arrest him, would she?  I realised I had definitely drunk too much when I told her that this was what I was doing and started fashioning handcuffs out of straws.  I'm such a knob-end.

Our toilet in the villa downstairs didn't work properly at first and we kept having to get someone out to fix it. It just happened that when it stopped working it was me that had just used it but that was a complete coincidence.  I fell asleep later that day on the sunbed and woke myself up snoring.  When I asked my silly husband if I had been snoring for ages, he said that I had and he had left me because it was so hilarious.  He then said he was going to stick a sign next to me saying "And she did a poo that blocked the loo!" but thought that might have been a step too far.  Romance definitely still exists in our marriage.

Kids Club rocked my world.  Monday - Friday for three and half whole hours we were without the little angels.  We worked out we could do shopping, swim, sunbathe, shag and a shandy in that time - perfect.  I realised that if I indulged my husband in some afternoon delight daily I could then get my preferred room-sharing combination: early risers Zak and Stu together and lazy sods Mummy and Sebi getting up about an hour or so later.  Happy families.

There were too many wasps on Lefkas for my liking.  I tended to chuck myself in the pool whenever I was suitably dressed, much to the delight of my fellow holidaymakers.  Somebody introduced me to the joys of Citronella candles and I bought a load from the mini-market and would not be seen without one at mealtimes.  I think I looked slightly like a monk parading to dinner holding a lit candle; albeit a monk in a too short dress showing a non-religious amount of cleavage.

I reckon we might well be returning there next year.  Even the airport was civilised.  You checked in, then popped across the road to drink wine in a taverna at the end of the runway and when you heard the incoming flight land you toddled back over and got on it.  I bloody love Greece.

 

Boobs and Bums; Best Forgotten...

I think I've finally grown up.  I had a bit of an Epiphany last night when we were having dinner with some of our closest friends.  I realised that I've stopped feeling as if a night isn't complete without a quick flash of an inappropriate part of my anatomy.  I'm not suggesting that I was contemplating baring flesh last night, more that I was aware, (as we fondly reminisced over many a boob-flashing moment), that I hadn't done it for ages and didn't really feel the need anymore.  A definite sign of ageing is that I'm beginning to forget why I found it amusing in the first place.  I make it a point of principle to refuse to be embarrassed about any of my previous behaviour (quite lucky, considering), but I do think now that there are better ways of showing off.

We're not just talking about random nights down the pub either, but quite monumentous occasions.  Zak's Godfather relished in reminding me last night that I flashed my pants at Zak's Godmother during the after-party of Zak's Christening.  Apparently there was 'some old man' in full view too, I dread to think who that was.

I got my boobs out on my wedding day.  It was nearly the shortest marriage in history. Granted, again, it was not during the service, but still, a topless bride in the classy establishment that is St. Michael's Manor regardless of whether it is 3am or not is not a good look!  Stu told me off on that occasion and I stropped off to bed only to realise that I was so tightly pinned into the remainder of my dress that I couldn't technically strop to bed without his help.  (Bridesmaids had long since ceased to be of any use.)

An ex-boss of mine still takes huge delight in reminding me of a curry we went for where I decided to dunk one of my breasts in the chicken tikka masala.  (Seriously, WTF?!)  As I recounted this particular story to Shelley and Tony last night I had a nasty creeping feeling that on top of that being really quite ridiculous behaviour already, I wasn't sure if it was actually MY chicken tikka masala in which the boob dunking occurred......

When I was in my mid-twenties I thought I would never change.  I was proud of my outrageous actions as they were what made me me.  Acquiring a husband however who didn't really stand for that sort of malarky took the wind out of my sails a little, as did becoming a local teacher, (can you imagine the headlines?).  Most importantly though, I would hate to think of Zak or Sebi having to bail out a half-dressed and decidedly sagging mother in the next decade as they are trying to find their feet socially in St Albans.  Time to keep myself fully buttoned up (well nearly) and think of some other ways in which to grow old disgracefully. ;-)

Ebay Doesn't Pay

I'm a bit of a closet ebay addict.  I think it is the gambler in me raising its ugly head again (I had a fairly short-lived but expensive flurry with fruit machines when I worked in a pub many moons ago).  I like the element of risk and the fact that sometimes some bit of junk that has been sitting in the back of my cupboard for a while can make me some cash.  Obviously, it doesn't always pay off.

I've been nagging Stu for ages to clear our his bulging wardrobes.  He is the King of hoarders and I am the most merciless clearer-outer; not a great combination.  I used to randomly clear out his cupboards and bin stuff when we first met but soon realised it was not worth the agro.  He would lament for days over a binned tape with three years worth of dust on it (we don't even own a bloody tape deck - GRRRRR!) looking at me as if he was a puppy I had kicked.  Painful.

Anyway, after years of training he is much improved.  (Why do I get the feeling this is one blog post I will not be prompting him to read.....?)  Ok, he is nowhere near my brutal standards (I regularly do an inventory of my wardrobe and if something hasn't been worn for a year, for whatever reason, it is gone), but, he does do a fairly regular clear-out.  This happened last week and suddenly there was a huge pile of (in some cases, hardly worn), designer clothes for charity.  Way too much temptation for this ebay-gambler and when filling the Children in Need bag, I found myself sifting off some of the cream of the crop for my own miserly gains.

Learn from my mistakes blog-readers, no good will ever come from stealing from charity.  Every sodding piece sold for a measly 99p!  Ninety-nine sodding pence.  What a load of hassle was then involved parcelling it all up and standing in a post-office queue with two distinctly non-patient small people to send this stuff off to some jammy designer-clothes-stealing bastards.  No point crying over it though.  Until, someone emailed me to complain about the Ted Baker shirt they had received (the day after winning it, just note the award winning service too please) and had paid 99p for.  Ebay can be a little bit like road-rage I find.  You behave suddenly in a completely un-civilised manner to complete strangers.  Apparently, although this stupid man had ordered the size I had clearly stated, it was a little tight around his chest as it was a slimmer fit than he had imagined and now it didn't fit, what did I want to do about it?  Feeling generous, I offered to refund him if he sent it back to me but apparently he didn't want to pay the postage and what did I want to do about that?  Erm, mainly nothing mate.  After fees etc, I had made about 50p on this purchase and I wasn't about to go into negative equity.  Apparently, I'm not a very helpful person.  I could've told him that on the first email.

Then there was the item I sold for £1.24 plus 70p postage a couple of weeks ago but forgot to put a stamp on the envelope so ended up refunding that poor chap the full amount as he had had to drive a long way to his post depot and pay a fee.  It hardly all seems worth it sometimes.

I had an email from one man when I was selling some high heels once however, who said he would bid on them if I would walk around with my smelly plates of meat in them for the week in which they were being auctioned as he had a 'used high heel fettish'.  Ewwwwwww..........

I think ebay and I just need to have some time-out from each other for a bit.  Well, until the next the time I'm having a snoop around inside some wardrobes anyway..... I'm joking Darling, don't go ballistic ;-)

Park Life

I think we peaked too soon in the first week of the summer holidays doing far too many exciting activities all at once.  Mummy has realised that if she is going to have enough wine money for her holiday we need to chill a little bit on the days out/lunches out/films.

So this week we have mainly being visiting parks.  It is the first time in five years of park visitations that I find myself able to sit on a bench for some of the time.  It may not sound much to you, but I'm finding it to be pretty life-changing.  One Mum gave me a very odd look this morning when I realised I had been staring at her from my bench in a pitying fashion for more than a socially acceptable amount of time as she endlessly walked her not-quite-walking child around and around the playground.  My time of that is over.  I'm nowhere near the glorious heights of bringing a book or a newspaper with me and just occasionally interacting with one of my offspring if there is an emergency of sorts, but, it is a serious improvement on last year nonetheless.

However, I don't know if it is my control freak nature, or my teacher-training, or just the fact that there are a lot of muppet parents around but I seem to pick up on 'situations' much faster than many of the other parents.  Zak and Sebi are not angels by any means but I like to think that if they aren't behaving then I am breathing down their necks before they have a chance to get seriously out of control.  Example, a six year old boy karate chopped Zak in the face on Tuesday morning while his Dad was walking the dog at least 50 metres away and didn't see.  I roared my most ferocious "How dare you!" at him and he shat his pants and legged it.  I toyed with chasing him back to the father (who was flirting outrageously with somebody who definitely wasn't the boy's mother) and letting him know what his son had just done but I ended up leaving it as Zak was fine, the boy wouldn't come back in a hurry and I couldn't cope with the idea of the incredulous disbelief from this Dad who has no idea what his kids are up to.

Children can be really mean.  Zak walked up to a boy and a girl yesterday morning to see if they wanted to play.  "We don't like you", said one little cherub; "Go away and leave us alone" said his sidekick.  Again, the parents were oblivious.  I told Zak to ignore them and play with Seb until his friends arrived.  Within twenty minutes Zak, Seb and their two mates were having a whale of a time and the nasty-snot-ridden-meany-peg boy had gone home leaving the little girl skulking around on her own.  Part of me was proud when she asked Zak if she could join in his game and he said "yes" without hesitation, though part of me wanted him to tell her to do one maybe with a teeny-tiny punch in the boobies.  He definitely gets his nice nature from Stuart.

We had a go at 'Play in the Park' this morning which is a couple of hours of FREE outdoor activities.  Seb is technically too little to join in but the (bored teenage) organisers didn't really seem to care so I let him loose with trepidation.  Sure enough, during a parachute game where Seb was meant to be a 'cat' crawling on top of the parachute catching the 'mice' he lay flat on his face in the middle and refused to move and so I had to crawl across the parachute and drag him off by his feet!

Hmmm, maybe caning £60 on a visit to the zoo doesn't seem like such a bad plan after all...