Stuart is working very hard these days at his new job and it is going well. It involves a lot of travelling so my phobia of staying home 'alone' has had to get over itself rather suddenly; a bottle of champagne through a straw seems to do the trick. His new boss has given him some guidance about working from home and told him it will be hard as you will be around for a few days and your wife will get used to having you about and then it will be difficult for her when you are then away. "You haven't met my wife" replied Stuart perceptively.
My poor husband told me that he was having to do a business trip to Bulgaria this month. I felt really sorry for him, three days away from home training up some Bulgarians in deepest darkest February. Then the goalposts shifted just a touch. The business trip became more temperate as the dates changed to the end of April and I was genuinely pleased for Stuart, much more pleasant. A few more Sales Men were added to the mix and suddenly it was becoming a bit of a piss up too. Nice. Again, good luck to you mate. I'm examining two of the days he will be away but I don't bear a grudge and I will work my socks off and juggle the kids quite happily while he has a nice time in the Bulgarian sunshine. More power to him (I'm planning a week's jaunt to Sydney in October so racking up some points....!)
Over dinner the other night my cousin slipped in to the conversation that the 'scenery' in Bulgaria was lovely. My considerate husband tried to cover up by saying that he had heard it was actually in the middle of an industrial estate. "No, no, no" said my pissed and not-tactful-at-the-best-of-times cousin, "the SCENERY is really really good." It came out in the wash that the person Stuart is going to be training and spending all of his time with over there is apparently very beautiful; stunning in fact. Oh great.
I'm not that jealous a person. I most definitely used to be but nearly seven years of marriage irons out most of those wrinkles. I never poke through his emails/texts etc. anymore. Oh believe me I used to but had my pokey-pointy nose well and truly burnt once on that front so decided that these days ignorance is bliss. However, the thought of my husband spending three pissed and steamy nights with Miss Bulgaria 2012 does not exactly have me jumping for joy.
I immediately phoned my wise counsel Samantha for some sympathy and advice. Once she had finished pissing herself with laughter she told me not to worry as Bulgarian women have hairy fannies and armpits and stinky breath. (She is well racist.) Probably not true but I will be clinging on to this hope as I wave him off into the ether in two months time.
If anything good is to come out of this I reckon it will be that Stu may well have a gift of a replacement wedding ring sooner rather than later. I've been dragging my feet on this since he lost it in the Greek sea last summer but maybe the fact that the price of gold has doubled since last time I bought him one isn't so important anymore....
Saturday, 9 February 2013
Saturday, 19 January 2013
Belt Tightening
Most people get tighter belts around Christmas because they eat too much. Our belts tightened when Stu was made redundant two weeks before Christmas. Owchy.
We were obviously not going to be destitute straight away. We knew that if he found a job within three months we would be tickedy-boo. If he found another job within six months we would be a bit skint but survive. If it took a year we would be slightly fucked. Etc etc ad infinitum.
The problem is you don't know how long it is going to take. So Family Ward went immediately into emergency-measure-monetary-lockdown.
To be honest, it did us good. We were at best frivolous with money and at worst stupidly bloody extravagant. We really haven't questioned our spending habits for a while now. If we wanted something, we more than likely bought it. If I was at the bar I would buy a round or meal for whoever I was with, plus one for the barmaid as standard. I'd begun to drink champagne all night, every night I went out. I was having my nails done every two weeks, even if they didn't immediately look like they needed it. We had at least a take away a week and at least two meals out a month. Now, when I stick it in black and white I actually can't believe not that I spent all this but that it didn't enter my consciousness exactly how much I was/we were spending. We just did it, because we could.
Talking of black and white, those of you who know me will know that my life doesn't hold many grey areas. As readily as we had spent money, the day Stu lost his job we stopped spending any money on anything that wasn't completely necessary. My cooking became much more inventive as I experimented with preparing three meals a day, seven days a week, week-in, week-out. I needed more recipes!
My lovely parents were obviously gagging to write us a massive cheque and make everyone relax a little but all credit to them, they didn't. I would be lying if I said they would've seen their Grandchildren begging on the street but at the ripe old age of 35 I may have eventually stopped legging it to them to bail me out of whatever 'situation' I may have found myself in...
Stu gave his I Phone back as it was part of his old job package. Zak was a big fan of playing games on his I Phone and I didn't want him to keep crapping on about it so I had a little Mum-to-boy chat when we were alone. I explained to my gorgeous, gentle and kind-hearted eldest that Daddy might be a bit sad about the fact he doesn't have a job anymore and that we should all try to make him feel better and maybe not go on at him about how much 'we' used to love the games on his I Phone. Zak walked in and straight up to Stu and said "Don't worry Daddy, I'm really sad about you not having your I Phone too". I'm sure his heart was in the right place ;-)
Fortunately however, it was the week before Stu's birthday and I had already bought him an I Pad - hooray. Unfortunately, I had decided before all this happened that it would be hilarious to have it engraved with 'Stuart Ward has a very generous wife'. The gift that just keeps on giving, and sticks in the throat rather when one has been made redundant.
All's well that ends well. My clever husband has a new and much more interesting job with great prospects. We've gone back to our bottle of champagne on a Saturday night but I'm trying not to go out and drink it by the bucket-full. I've had my overly-hairy bits hot-waxed but haven't as yet booked in for a new set of nails. I definitely learnt some lessons and I hope that saving will be more important than pissing it up the wall in a fountain of fizz in the future, but I think a full and permanent change of character is probably improbable.
We were obviously not going to be destitute straight away. We knew that if he found a job within three months we would be tickedy-boo. If he found another job within six months we would be a bit skint but survive. If it took a year we would be slightly fucked. Etc etc ad infinitum.
The problem is you don't know how long it is going to take. So Family Ward went immediately into emergency-measure-monetary-lockdown.
To be honest, it did us good. We were at best frivolous with money and at worst stupidly bloody extravagant. We really haven't questioned our spending habits for a while now. If we wanted something, we more than likely bought it. If I was at the bar I would buy a round or meal for whoever I was with, plus one for the barmaid as standard. I'd begun to drink champagne all night, every night I went out. I was having my nails done every two weeks, even if they didn't immediately look like they needed it. We had at least a take away a week and at least two meals out a month. Now, when I stick it in black and white I actually can't believe not that I spent all this but that it didn't enter my consciousness exactly how much I was/we were spending. We just did it, because we could.
Talking of black and white, those of you who know me will know that my life doesn't hold many grey areas. As readily as we had spent money, the day Stu lost his job we stopped spending any money on anything that wasn't completely necessary. My cooking became much more inventive as I experimented with preparing three meals a day, seven days a week, week-in, week-out. I needed more recipes!
My lovely parents were obviously gagging to write us a massive cheque and make everyone relax a little but all credit to them, they didn't. I would be lying if I said they would've seen their Grandchildren begging on the street but at the ripe old age of 35 I may have eventually stopped legging it to them to bail me out of whatever 'situation' I may have found myself in...
Stu gave his I Phone back as it was part of his old job package. Zak was a big fan of playing games on his I Phone and I didn't want him to keep crapping on about it so I had a little Mum-to-boy chat when we were alone. I explained to my gorgeous, gentle and kind-hearted eldest that Daddy might be a bit sad about the fact he doesn't have a job anymore and that we should all try to make him feel better and maybe not go on at him about how much 'we' used to love the games on his I Phone. Zak walked in and straight up to Stu and said "Don't worry Daddy, I'm really sad about you not having your I Phone too". I'm sure his heart was in the right place ;-)
Fortunately however, it was the week before Stu's birthday and I had already bought him an I Pad - hooray. Unfortunately, I had decided before all this happened that it would be hilarious to have it engraved with 'Stuart Ward has a very generous wife'. The gift that just keeps on giving, and sticks in the throat rather when one has been made redundant.
All's well that ends well. My clever husband has a new and much more interesting job with great prospects. We've gone back to our bottle of champagne on a Saturday night but I'm trying not to go out and drink it by the bucket-full. I've had my overly-hairy bits hot-waxed but haven't as yet booked in for a new set of nails. I definitely learnt some lessons and I hope that saving will be more important than pissing it up the wall in a fountain of fizz in the future, but I think a full and permanent change of character is probably improbable.
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Mum Times
I was a bit disappointed when Zak started at school and I found myself in the playground surrounded by a load of 'Mums'. I seem to remember doing a pretty thorough character assassination of a few of them in a previous post and ending with the conclusion that I definitely have enough friends.
It may therefore surprise you to know that I had a bit of a 'Mums' party last night. Not the masses, obviously, but a few hand-picked beauties that I thought would make an entertaining night in. They all rose to the occasion in impressive style.
Claire doesn't really drink. When I was emailing her about the night I asked her to bring something she would like to drink as I didn't think that I knew how to supply anything that wasn't seriously alcoholic. Imagine my surprise and delight therefore when she turned up with and drank most of a bottle of vodka! Good girl. I'm lying a bit low today as apparently she isn't feeling too great and I have a feeling I encouraged her to drink more of it than she might have wanted to with my usual technique of smiley-hostess-drink-topping-upping that leaves the majority of people that enter Chez Ward to leave a little bit shit-faced.
There is one person that came that must remain nameless as she blew out another Mums night to come. Apparently the person hosting that night is a pretty scary individual. I'm pleased that I came out scarier so that she came to me.
Alison was the only lady who drank a full glass of the disgustingly sweet mulled wine that I'd made by guessing the amount of sugar to put in as I couldn't be arsed to get the scales out of the cupboard. Full marks for good guest-work love.
Heather definitely doesn't smoke but walked all the way home to get the ciggies out of her drawer and all the way back again so that she could. She took herself home for good when she started trying to pee through the child's toilet seat in my loo. Good self-pissedness-recognition I thought.
Fay decided to give poor unloved Toby some love for a bit but ran out of enthusiasm when he stuck his claws in her and covered her in ginger fur. It was long enough for Sam to screech a good few rounds of "Look at Fay stroking her Ginger Pussy" however. Don't know where she got that silly and immature idea from ;-)
Stu came home at 10pm. The lure of seven ladies in his kitchen was too much for him. Plus the ton of leftover buffet food. He had the time of his life 'educating' Fay and Claire about hip-hop.
All in all a damn good night. Ok,thirties fun is more based around being 'in' with champagne and vol-au-vents rather than being 'out-out' with class As and fags but it is still fun nevertheless. We were all up till nearly 1 on a school night. I'm loving the fact that my youngest child does a good hangover morning and was happy to spend the morning back in bed with me with Tig-Tig and the Mr Men. He is going to make an excellent teenager!
It may therefore surprise you to know that I had a bit of a 'Mums' party last night. Not the masses, obviously, but a few hand-picked beauties that I thought would make an entertaining night in. They all rose to the occasion in impressive style.
Claire doesn't really drink. When I was emailing her about the night I asked her to bring something she would like to drink as I didn't think that I knew how to supply anything that wasn't seriously alcoholic. Imagine my surprise and delight therefore when she turned up with and drank most of a bottle of vodka! Good girl. I'm lying a bit low today as apparently she isn't feeling too great and I have a feeling I encouraged her to drink more of it than she might have wanted to with my usual technique of smiley-hostess-drink-topping-upping that leaves the majority of people that enter Chez Ward to leave a little bit shit-faced.
There is one person that came that must remain nameless as she blew out another Mums night to come. Apparently the person hosting that night is a pretty scary individual. I'm pleased that I came out scarier so that she came to me.
Alison was the only lady who drank a full glass of the disgustingly sweet mulled wine that I'd made by guessing the amount of sugar to put in as I couldn't be arsed to get the scales out of the cupboard. Full marks for good guest-work love.
Heather definitely doesn't smoke but walked all the way home to get the ciggies out of her drawer and all the way back again so that she could. She took herself home for good when she started trying to pee through the child's toilet seat in my loo. Good self-pissedness-recognition I thought.
Fay decided to give poor unloved Toby some love for a bit but ran out of enthusiasm when he stuck his claws in her and covered her in ginger fur. It was long enough for Sam to screech a good few rounds of "Look at Fay stroking her Ginger Pussy" however. Don't know where she got that silly and immature idea from ;-)
Stu came home at 10pm. The lure of seven ladies in his kitchen was too much for him. Plus the ton of leftover buffet food. He had the time of his life 'educating' Fay and Claire about hip-hop.
All in all a damn good night. Ok,thirties fun is more based around being 'in' with champagne and vol-au-vents rather than being 'out-out' with class As and fags but it is still fun nevertheless. We were all up till nearly 1 on a school night. I'm loving the fact that my youngest child does a good hangover morning and was happy to spend the morning back in bed with me with Tig-Tig and the Mr Men. He is going to make an excellent teenager!
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Road Rage
I've just had a little 'incident' on the roads. Nothing major, just the teeniest bit of shoulder-shrugging, mouthing-swearing and finger-upping. The bloke at the end of all of this abuse was probably a very nice man. He just happened to be driving up my arse somewhat in his ginormous silly car which might have made me go ever so slowly just to antagonise him. It worked. We then went through our pantomime of swearing and arm-waving before driving off in different directions, both of us absolutely sure that we had put the other one firmly in their place and taught them a thing or two about driving.
The funny thing about being in a car, I find, is that it seems to give you the right to behave like a total thug. Let's say the same man had stood too close to me in a pub or bumped into me in the street, I can't imagine it making me stick two fingers up in his face and call him a twat.
I'm not as bad as my husband and he is not nearly as bad as he used to be. If Stuart thought that someone had transgressed on the road he would take it upon himself to chase them. Oh yes, he would turn around and head off at high-speed in the opposite direction to the way he was meant to be going, beeping, flashing and driving right behind them until he thought they had been taught a sufficient lesson. How he didn't end up with a knife between his shoulder-blades I don't know...
My boys are pretty useful accomplices. Zak in particular is mastering the art of shaking a fist through the window at anyone old/stupid/incompetent and telling them that they really shouldn't be on the road.
I have nearly come unstuck a couple of times. I wound down my window in a car park a few months ago to shout at some old/stupid/incompetent people who were cocking up their parking so badly that they were blocking the entire car park and causing gridlock. Unfortunately, this threw them into a blind panic and made the whole process take even longer. I was slightly concerned that one of them was about to keel over at one point as I yelled at him and could see headline in the Herts. Ad as something like the following:
"Local mother and teacher frightens pensioner to death in St Albans car park."
That possibly wouldn't be my finest hour.
The funny thing about being in a car, I find, is that it seems to give you the right to behave like a total thug. Let's say the same man had stood too close to me in a pub or bumped into me in the street, I can't imagine it making me stick two fingers up in his face and call him a twat.
I'm not as bad as my husband and he is not nearly as bad as he used to be. If Stuart thought that someone had transgressed on the road he would take it upon himself to chase them. Oh yes, he would turn around and head off at high-speed in the opposite direction to the way he was meant to be going, beeping, flashing and driving right behind them until he thought they had been taught a sufficient lesson. How he didn't end up with a knife between his shoulder-blades I don't know...
My boys are pretty useful accomplices. Zak in particular is mastering the art of shaking a fist through the window at anyone old/stupid/incompetent and telling them that they really shouldn't be on the road.
I have nearly come unstuck a couple of times. I wound down my window in a car park a few months ago to shout at some old/stupid/incompetent people who were cocking up their parking so badly that they were blocking the entire car park and causing gridlock. Unfortunately, this threw them into a blind panic and made the whole process take even longer. I was slightly concerned that one of them was about to keel over at one point as I yelled at him and could see headline in the Herts. Ad as something like the following:
"Local mother and teacher frightens pensioner to death in St Albans car park."
That possibly wouldn't be my finest hour.
Saturday, 10 November 2012
Todger Tube Tying
I had a broody baby wobble last night. That hasn't happened for a long time. I was a bottle of champagne down and had a little browse through the boys' baby photos and BANG, there it was, the big broody-wobbly-baby-wobble.
My husband was out which is why it went on for a little longer than it would've done had he been here where our conversation would have been something along these lines:
N: "I'm having a bit of a 3rd baby wobble".
S: "Shut the fuck up, no fucking way."
Job done.
I don't want three children. I'm bad enough at being a Mum to two of them sometimes without spreading myself even further. So what is it? I thought I had got over the girl issue, maybe not really. My best mate is due to pop in a couple of months so maybe that's something to do with it, although surely I could just get my cuddles and baby-head-sniffing in with her baby and then give it back without losing any sleep.
I think it is just the fact that the door is still open. I say to my husband relatively regularly that if he went and had the snip I wouldn't be unhappy about it. In fact, I think I would be quite happy - I like definite decisions. If you tie Stu down and stick pins in his eyes (doesn't everyone do that to get the truth out of their partners?), he will say that he would rather have the snip than have another baby; just not this week. We'd nearly made the decision (for 'we' read 'me', obvs.) a couple of years ago and then we went down the pub with one of Stu's best mates who had recently had it done. He tried to sell it to Stu by telling him that you get balls as big as oranges for 24 hours, "how cool is that mate?" Stu wasn't convinced.
I love my husband a lot but he will be the first to admit that he is a bit of a pussy (ok, I'm being kind - a huge pussy), when it comes to needles. When you start talking about needles and snippedy-snippedy instruments down near his wotsamagigger it sends him a bit funny. Bless.
I wrote myself a letter in a sleep-deprived state when I had a newborn and a toddler outlining loudly and clearly the reasons why a third child would be B.A.D. Even in this state of knackered desperation I love the fact that the letter started 'Dear Nikki' and was signed off 'Love Nikki'. Letter writing skills ingrained in my head by my Mother: I'm such a knob.
I also have a spreadsheet (of course I do) that I created about a year ago with Pros and Cons about a third child. I set up a points system (of COURSE I did) where I scored things from 1 (not that big a deal) to 3 (massive and life changing).
Some of the best Cons strike me as: 'Have to put sun cream on 3 children' - 1 point. This may sound slightly crazy to people that haven't sun-creamed two irritated screaming children twice a day for 14 days on holiday, but believe me, as I read it again I'm thinking of upping its points value.
When the BFF previously mentioned read this spreadsheet over a year ago, she questioned an entry on the 'Pros' sides which said: "will have more money when the cat dies". I was asked how much money I spent on the cat and I said that as he was so old these days the insurance was really expensive (about £25 a month). "Why don't you stop insuring him then?" was the obvious question. I explained that if I stopped insuring him then I wouldn't get the pay out when he died. Which is £50. I'm not intelligent enough to safely raise the two children I currently have, let alone subjecting any more to this irrational mother-ship.
Disclaimer: I wrote this as an amusing blog post based on a teeny-tiny wobble. I'm not going to have any more bloody kids. Please don't look at me expecting news if I look a bit podgier than usual at any point in the future, I've probably just eaten too many pies. Thanks.
My husband was out which is why it went on for a little longer than it would've done had he been here where our conversation would have been something along these lines:
N: "I'm having a bit of a 3rd baby wobble".
S: "Shut the fuck up, no fucking way."
Job done.
I don't want three children. I'm bad enough at being a Mum to two of them sometimes without spreading myself even further. So what is it? I thought I had got over the girl issue, maybe not really. My best mate is due to pop in a couple of months so maybe that's something to do with it, although surely I could just get my cuddles and baby-head-sniffing in with her baby and then give it back without losing any sleep.
I think it is just the fact that the door is still open. I say to my husband relatively regularly that if he went and had the snip I wouldn't be unhappy about it. In fact, I think I would be quite happy - I like definite decisions. If you tie Stu down and stick pins in his eyes (doesn't everyone do that to get the truth out of their partners?), he will say that he would rather have the snip than have another baby; just not this week. We'd nearly made the decision (for 'we' read 'me', obvs.) a couple of years ago and then we went down the pub with one of Stu's best mates who had recently had it done. He tried to sell it to Stu by telling him that you get balls as big as oranges for 24 hours, "how cool is that mate?" Stu wasn't convinced.
I love my husband a lot but he will be the first to admit that he is a bit of a pussy (ok, I'm being kind - a huge pussy), when it comes to needles. When you start talking about needles and snippedy-snippedy instruments down near his wotsamagigger it sends him a bit funny. Bless.
I wrote myself a letter in a sleep-deprived state when I had a newborn and a toddler outlining loudly and clearly the reasons why a third child would be B.A.D. Even in this state of knackered desperation I love the fact that the letter started 'Dear Nikki' and was signed off 'Love Nikki'. Letter writing skills ingrained in my head by my Mother: I'm such a knob.
I also have a spreadsheet (of course I do) that I created about a year ago with Pros and Cons about a third child. I set up a points system (of COURSE I did) where I scored things from 1 (not that big a deal) to 3 (massive and life changing).
Some of the best Cons strike me as: 'Have to put sun cream on 3 children' - 1 point. This may sound slightly crazy to people that haven't sun-creamed two irritated screaming children twice a day for 14 days on holiday, but believe me, as I read it again I'm thinking of upping its points value.
When the BFF previously mentioned read this spreadsheet over a year ago, she questioned an entry on the 'Pros' sides which said: "will have more money when the cat dies". I was asked how much money I spent on the cat and I said that as he was so old these days the insurance was really expensive (about £25 a month). "Why don't you stop insuring him then?" was the obvious question. I explained that if I stopped insuring him then I wouldn't get the pay out when he died. Which is £50. I'm not intelligent enough to safely raise the two children I currently have, let alone subjecting any more to this irrational mother-ship.
Disclaimer: I wrote this as an amusing blog post based on a teeny-tiny wobble. I'm not going to have any more bloody kids. Please don't look at me expecting news if I look a bit podgier than usual at any point in the future, I've probably just eaten too many pies. Thanks.
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Halloween Horrors
I fucking hate Halloween. Hugely. I see no point whatsoever in applauding evil spirits and paganism and I feel we have caught the Halloween fever from America and the media have made it nearly as commercial as Christmas.
We managed to get through until about 2pm today before Zak even realised it was Halloween. "Happy Halloween" said some small-minded broadcaster on our car radio and suddenly the game was up. Since when did people wish each other "Happy Halloween" anyway?! I thought the whole bloody point of the 'festival' was that it was distinctly unhappy; evil in fact.
Eagle-ears in the backseat then demanded that we began celebrating immediately as we had missed practically the whole day without doing anything. I am SUCH a rubbish mother don't you know. I relented and bought a box of bat biscuits from the garage to take over to the friends we were visiting. Shuddup now child, don't say I never buy you anything.
Stu is going to sneak Zak-the-Incredible-Hulk out trick-or-treating in our road while Sebi is none-the-wiser-in-the-bath. I don't want any part of it though. I think trick-or-treating is basically begging and Zak needs NO encouragement to beg for food. As a toddler we had many an unhappy encounter in parks when I would temporarily lose Zak and find him standing on top of another family who had snacks. Invariably the cute smiley two-year-old was given some of whatever was being eaten, thus teaching him that it was OK and so the painful cycle continued.
I also don't want my evening disrupted by begging children. I'm going to put a notice on the door saying "Please help yourself to a sweet below and don't ring the doorbell." The hounds of hell better be ready to back-up any goblin or wizard that ignores this and disturbs this grumpy old witch.
So why do I bother at all? Surely if I object that much then I should just unplug the doorbell and sulk into my glass of wine? Maybe the nasty memories of my car being egged by some toe-rag I used to teach many moons ago are haunting me? Perhaps I give a shit about what the neighbouring parents would say? Or maybe I'm sucked into conforming in the same way that people who have no interest in Christianity cheerfully buy each other Christmas presents and chomp on Easter Eggs? Dunno. All I can say is roll on November and I never thought I would be saying that.
We managed to get through until about 2pm today before Zak even realised it was Halloween. "Happy Halloween" said some small-minded broadcaster on our car radio and suddenly the game was up. Since when did people wish each other "Happy Halloween" anyway?! I thought the whole bloody point of the 'festival' was that it was distinctly unhappy; evil in fact.
Eagle-ears in the backseat then demanded that we began celebrating immediately as we had missed practically the whole day without doing anything. I am SUCH a rubbish mother don't you know. I relented and bought a box of bat biscuits from the garage to take over to the friends we were visiting. Shuddup now child, don't say I never buy you anything.
Stu is going to sneak Zak-the-Incredible-Hulk out trick-or-treating in our road while Sebi is none-the-wiser-in-the-bath. I don't want any part of it though. I think trick-or-treating is basically begging and Zak needs NO encouragement to beg for food. As a toddler we had many an unhappy encounter in parks when I would temporarily lose Zak and find him standing on top of another family who had snacks. Invariably the cute smiley two-year-old was given some of whatever was being eaten, thus teaching him that it was OK and so the painful cycle continued.
I also don't want my evening disrupted by begging children. I'm going to put a notice on the door saying "Please help yourself to a sweet below and don't ring the doorbell." The hounds of hell better be ready to back-up any goblin or wizard that ignores this and disturbs this grumpy old witch.
So why do I bother at all? Surely if I object that much then I should just unplug the doorbell and sulk into my glass of wine? Maybe the nasty memories of my car being egged by some toe-rag I used to teach many moons ago are haunting me? Perhaps I give a shit about what the neighbouring parents would say? Or maybe I'm sucked into conforming in the same way that people who have no interest in Christianity cheerfully buy each other Christmas presents and chomp on Easter Eggs? Dunno. All I can say is roll on November and I never thought I would be saying that.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Parking Wars
Yes I'm still crapping on about this, sorry.
I've always had a problem with people that park in disabled spaces that are not disabled. Michael McIntyre does a really funny sketch about it where he says that when we see somebody getting out of a car in a disabled space we will really only be satisfied if they fall out of the car and have to drag themselves along on their stomachs, (or something like that). Then we would feel they are really entitled to the space. I think on a lesser scale it is true that you are subtley but definitely looking for what the disability is when somebody exits their car, even if they have a disabled badge.
So, HM from the last post was parking in the disabled spot at school with no disabled badge. This was a red rag to the bullock in me, particularly after the issues that Seb had been having in nursery. Petty? Quite possibly, but I really don't think that being hugely overweight and smoking too much is justification to park in a disabled bay. I took down her numberplate and cheerfully grassed her up to the school office. The secretary looked a little awkward and said that there were "discussions" in place as to whether she was allowed to park in that disabled spot or not. The next day, she was parked instead just outside the gates on the definitely not allowed to park at any time ziggedy-zaggedy yellow lines. I grassed her up again.
The following day she had moved ever so slightly down the road and parked on double yellow lines. As the school would have no control over this, I went to the police and the council. A very nice policeman came back to me and said that he would sort it. I was then delighted when a letter was sent out to all the parents from the Head asking for considerate parking and saying that "a parent had received a phonecall from the police having been reported by another parent". Whoop! Fame at last...
There are plenty of people that seem to have nothing better to do than to get up to school 20 minutes early to secure a parking spot within flobbing distance of the school gates. I must admit, I have been there when it has been chucking it down. So why can HM not just join the masses and rock up prematurely?
We seem to have come full circle however as yesterday she was back in the bloody disabled spot in school. What now? Even the goody-goody grasser in me would find it difficult to go whingeing to the school office again about the fact that she is back in the disabled space. Surely they must know she is there? It is pretty blatant. I need to find myself one of those mobile clamping devices maybe? Or a traffic warden outfit and fake ticket? (I reckon I could pull that off with a big enough peak on my cap, I am a drama teacher after all.) I think though that the real answer is that I have to let it go and not let it bother me anymore. Unfortunately, this is not in my nature, I tend to have a dog-with-a-bone type of persistence. It isn't affecting my life, merely pissing me off. What we need is a certified blue badge holder to have to park somewhere else and fling themselves from the car having to crawl on their belly into the school and past HM in her fag-mobile and then maybe someone would take notice.
Cathartic parking-related-issues release through blogging this morning people. Thank you for listening. x
I've always had a problem with people that park in disabled spaces that are not disabled. Michael McIntyre does a really funny sketch about it where he says that when we see somebody getting out of a car in a disabled space we will really only be satisfied if they fall out of the car and have to drag themselves along on their stomachs, (or something like that). Then we would feel they are really entitled to the space. I think on a lesser scale it is true that you are subtley but definitely looking for what the disability is when somebody exits their car, even if they have a disabled badge.
So, HM from the last post was parking in the disabled spot at school with no disabled badge. This was a red rag to the bullock in me, particularly after the issues that Seb had been having in nursery. Petty? Quite possibly, but I really don't think that being hugely overweight and smoking too much is justification to park in a disabled bay. I took down her numberplate and cheerfully grassed her up to the school office. The secretary looked a little awkward and said that there were "discussions" in place as to whether she was allowed to park in that disabled spot or not. The next day, she was parked instead just outside the gates on the definitely not allowed to park at any time ziggedy-zaggedy yellow lines. I grassed her up again.
The following day she had moved ever so slightly down the road and parked on double yellow lines. As the school would have no control over this, I went to the police and the council. A very nice policeman came back to me and said that he would sort it. I was then delighted when a letter was sent out to all the parents from the Head asking for considerate parking and saying that "a parent had received a phonecall from the police having been reported by another parent". Whoop! Fame at last...
There are plenty of people that seem to have nothing better to do than to get up to school 20 minutes early to secure a parking spot within flobbing distance of the school gates. I must admit, I have been there when it has been chucking it down. So why can HM not just join the masses and rock up prematurely?
We seem to have come full circle however as yesterday she was back in the bloody disabled spot in school. What now? Even the goody-goody grasser in me would find it difficult to go whingeing to the school office again about the fact that she is back in the disabled space. Surely they must know she is there? It is pretty blatant. I need to find myself one of those mobile clamping devices maybe? Or a traffic warden outfit and fake ticket? (I reckon I could pull that off with a big enough peak on my cap, I am a drama teacher after all.) I think though that the real answer is that I have to let it go and not let it bother me anymore. Unfortunately, this is not in my nature, I tend to have a dog-with-a-bone type of persistence. It isn't affecting my life, merely pissing me off. What we need is a certified blue badge holder to have to park somewhere else and fling themselves from the car having to crawl on their belly into the school and past HM in her fag-mobile and then maybe someone would take notice.
Cathartic parking-related-issues release through blogging this morning people. Thank you for listening. x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)