Once again, hungover, I headed up to my husband's homeland with him yesterday for the wonderful Daniel's 40th birthday. My parents had given us 24 hours' babysitting from 1pm yesterday so needless to say we dropped the kids off and legged it at a respectable 1.02pm.
Man Utd kicked off at 5.30pm so the plan was that Stu would head to the pub while I had a bath. I was worried about navigating my way around a strange town but luckily we were staying in a Travelodge in the pub car park. Convenient. Really fucking nasty, but convenient.
I got my gladrags on and opened our bedroom door to go and join my husband in the boozer. However, I opened my bedroom door to find one of Stu's bezzies, Nick, standing right outside it. He claims he was waiting for another mate of his who was staying in the room next door to me. I saw no evidence of this bloke being in that room though and just warned Nick that if I found him outside my room at a later point in the evening, I would not be so understanding. ;-)
All 17 of us were in the pub by 6pm. These guys know how to party and a soft pansy southerner like myself had to strap my drinking boots firmly on to have any chance of keeping up. We hit the curry house at 7pm and Stu had a big gay fit as I hadn't saved him a seat and he'd gone deaf in one ear so couldn't hear anything where he was sitting. Luckily, he downed a bottle of Cava in about 20 minutes and that seemed to sort him out....well in one way anyway...
I seemed to be at the more raucous end of the table. I met a bloke called Damon that I hadn't come across before. I thought we were having a great time so I don't know what he meant when he caught Stu after two hours of my company and said, "Now I understand why you look so haggard mate". Funny.
I was in my comfort zone as the conversation was on to anal sex by 7.30pm. These brummies always have to take it a step further though and soon we had moved onto sex with goats. Well, we hadn't moved on to having sex with goats we had moved on to talking about having sex with goats. I 'kid' you not. The dilemma being discussed by the table was whether if a bloke was to shag a goat, did it make it more acceptable if the goat was female. I thought it probably didn't matter so much. Baaaaa-ha-ha.
The waiters tried to throw us out at 10pm. It didn't go so well for them. Apparently, there were some guys outside that needed out table and were going crazy. One of our party decided to show them that us going crazy inside was potentially more lethal. We left shortly afterwards through the kitchen door.
Back to the pub next door to our hotel but that would be far too convenient to stay in, wouldn't it? We therefore trekked half an hour in stillettos (some of us, I'm not naming names), to the hideousness of the Dog and Pheasant in Bromsgrove. I thought I was pretty drunk until I got in there. Jeesus. My stripy trousers were apparently too much for the people of Bromsgrove and I seemed to be nicknamed 'Beetlejuice' within minutes. Oh well, I've been called worse. We weren't possibly going to go straight home having walked the walk of death to get there so on of our party decided to solve it in a tried and tested Brummie night out fashion: "Drugs? Drugs? Anyone, got any drugs?" We settled for vodka and a quick shuffle around the dancefloor then headed back to the smelly Travelodge.
Having babysat overnight for us, my parents told us to meet them in the pub for a roast (LOVE THEM). They didn't get much conversation out of us if I'm honest but delighted in telling us how good the boys had been. At that point, Sebi threw a tantrum of unbelievable proportions and nearly cleared the pub in five minutes. My Mother's response; "Well, he is obviously very bright." Amazing.
We love you Danny-Boy. Thank you for a top, top night. xxxx
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Sunday, 29 September 2013
This 10K Marathong
Yes, I know there is a mistake in the title. I'm trying to make the whole thing less serious. Two weeks left until this bloody run and I am bored. Bored of running, bored of healthy (ish) living, bored of the thought of a sober weekend in two weeks time.
That is however, getting less sober by the minute. Next weekend is mahoosive with Book Club including the return of a brand new member all the way from Melbourne, followed by a mad dash to Redditch and a 40th birthday. I will have to drink on Sunday to sort my miserable self out but then that was going to be it until the race. I'm already rethinking this. I'm currently on an alcohol free lifestyle, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays so I thought that maybe a whole week off just to run 10K could be excessive. Proper marathon runners have a week or so off the sauce don't they and I'm only doing a quarter of that so technically I only need two days off. Well, as there aren't actually eight days in a week meaning I can't divide a week into quarters, so let's call it one and a bit days. Which really means I could drink on the Friday night and then run on the Sunday morning - nearly 36 hours see? Sorted.
The lack of boozing has been boring me the most. I've always had No-Alcohol Mondays, religiously; but over the last year or so I've added Wednesday into the mix as that is what that funny 'Change for Life' advertising advises. That's just about do-able due to a sadistically timed 8am meeting at school on a Thursday. Adding Tuesday to it as well though just makes the beginning of the week hardly worth getting out of bed for. I work on Tuesdays and I always find a day's work flows more freely with the promise of wine at the end of it. It does mean that I'm doing exactly what all the health advisors tell you not to do and that is binge-drinking from Thursday through Sunday. Last Thursday evening, Stuart said that I had had three glasses of wine by 7.30! The only blessing is that at least as my body isn't used to it I pass out at 9pm thus limiting further damage. Seb's at school now so that leaves the opportunity for a little snifter with my Pa on a Friday lunchtime. Yesterday, I found myself drinking gin and tonics in the armpit that is the Baton with my bezzie at 4.30pm, because, erm, well, just because really. Sunday lunch is a boozing religion in my family and I've discovered over the last few weeks that slow consumption of wine continued when we get home on a Sunday afternoon makes me much cheerier at about 6pm than a miserable early-evening hangover. Maybe healthy living isn't so bad after all?
So, my running. I've upped from two runs a week to three whilst I am officially 'in training'. Monday and Wednesday mornings and Thursdays after school. As you will have gathered from my description of my Sundays, Monday morning runs are pretty much a lame stagger back from school and round the block a bit whilst sweating 90% alcohol. Wednesdays are the days that I'm trying to build up mileage and it is a slow and painful process. I do feel a sense of achievement when I've added a nanomillimetre onto my distance from the week before but it is just so dull. I do actually enjoy running for about 7 minutes. Add another 35 minutes into the equation and I am pissed off and knackered. Thursday I co-run (b'doom) an after-school running activity with a colleague. (This is compulsory timetabled time for me, I'm not doing it out of the goodness of my heart, just in case you were thinking I'd changed.) This is probably the shortest distance I run but Lordy it is FAST. I'm not quite sure what speed I reckoned 10-12 year old boys ran at when I signed up for this but I struggle not to be last. Thank goodness for "Fred" let's call him who is hitting adolescent laziness and gets a stitch within seconds of starting off. Somebody needs to hang back and look after him, poor chap.
I've instructed Shelley, Sam and Stuart to keep a check on my enthusiasm in the future and remind me that 10K is where I should peak. If I looked back at this achievement through rose-coloured spectacles and started attempting to sign up for a half marathon at any point I should be bound and gagged and locked in the under-stairs cupboard until I have come to my senses. Sam rightly pointed out that there was no point making these sorts of plans as I will just get pissed and sign up for something at 2am in the morning and then it will be too late to do anything about it. She's got a point. Shit.
Anyway, must dash. There are only a good couple of drinking hours left in today and Sober Suicide Monday is looming heavy on my mind. Cheers!
That is however, getting less sober by the minute. Next weekend is mahoosive with Book Club including the return of a brand new member all the way from Melbourne, followed by a mad dash to Redditch and a 40th birthday. I will have to drink on Sunday to sort my miserable self out but then that was going to be it until the race. I'm already rethinking this. I'm currently on an alcohol free lifestyle, Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays so I thought that maybe a whole week off just to run 10K could be excessive. Proper marathon runners have a week or so off the sauce don't they and I'm only doing a quarter of that so technically I only need two days off. Well, as there aren't actually eight days in a week meaning I can't divide a week into quarters, so let's call it one and a bit days. Which really means I could drink on the Friday night and then run on the Sunday morning - nearly 36 hours see? Sorted.
The lack of boozing has been boring me the most. I've always had No-Alcohol Mondays, religiously; but over the last year or so I've added Wednesday into the mix as that is what that funny 'Change for Life' advertising advises. That's just about do-able due to a sadistically timed 8am meeting at school on a Thursday. Adding Tuesday to it as well though just makes the beginning of the week hardly worth getting out of bed for. I work on Tuesdays and I always find a day's work flows more freely with the promise of wine at the end of it. It does mean that I'm doing exactly what all the health advisors tell you not to do and that is binge-drinking from Thursday through Sunday. Last Thursday evening, Stuart said that I had had three glasses of wine by 7.30! The only blessing is that at least as my body isn't used to it I pass out at 9pm thus limiting further damage. Seb's at school now so that leaves the opportunity for a little snifter with my Pa on a Friday lunchtime. Yesterday, I found myself drinking gin and tonics in the armpit that is the Baton with my bezzie at 4.30pm, because, erm, well, just because really. Sunday lunch is a boozing religion in my family and I've discovered over the last few weeks that slow consumption of wine continued when we get home on a Sunday afternoon makes me much cheerier at about 6pm than a miserable early-evening hangover. Maybe healthy living isn't so bad after all?
So, my running. I've upped from two runs a week to three whilst I am officially 'in training'. Monday and Wednesday mornings and Thursdays after school. As you will have gathered from my description of my Sundays, Monday morning runs are pretty much a lame stagger back from school and round the block a bit whilst sweating 90% alcohol. Wednesdays are the days that I'm trying to build up mileage and it is a slow and painful process. I do feel a sense of achievement when I've added a nanomillimetre onto my distance from the week before but it is just so dull. I do actually enjoy running for about 7 minutes. Add another 35 minutes into the equation and I am pissed off and knackered. Thursday I co-run (b'doom) an after-school running activity with a colleague. (This is compulsory timetabled time for me, I'm not doing it out of the goodness of my heart, just in case you were thinking I'd changed.) This is probably the shortest distance I run but Lordy it is FAST. I'm not quite sure what speed I reckoned 10-12 year old boys ran at when I signed up for this but I struggle not to be last. Thank goodness for "Fred" let's call him who is hitting adolescent laziness and gets a stitch within seconds of starting off. Somebody needs to hang back and look after him, poor chap.
I've instructed Shelley, Sam and Stuart to keep a check on my enthusiasm in the future and remind me that 10K is where I should peak. If I looked back at this achievement through rose-coloured spectacles and started attempting to sign up for a half marathon at any point I should be bound and gagged and locked in the under-stairs cupboard until I have come to my senses. Sam rightly pointed out that there was no point making these sorts of plans as I will just get pissed and sign up for something at 2am in the morning and then it will be too late to do anything about it. She's got a point. Shit.
Anyway, must dash. There are only a good couple of drinking hours left in today and Sober Suicide Monday is looming heavy on my mind. Cheers!
Saturday, 7 September 2013
Bye Bye Baby
Sebi starts school next week. I'm sure he was actually only pulled out of my stomach about five days ago. When the hell did all this happen? I'm obviously in denial as I only got him out of a high chair a month or so ago, (he's small OK?!), and until last week I was still helping him go to the toilet for some reason when actually he has been completely capable for a year or so. I think it may all be a bit of a wrench come Wednesday.
We went for our final visit to his teacher on Friday. She asked Sebi to draw his family and then wanted him to put the drawing in his work folder. He refused, predictably. I didn't realise that it was so important but the teacher was not backing down; that piece of paper was going in the folder. There was a huge stand off. Our meeting was about three times as long as everybody else's as Sebi sat cross-legged on the floor, (on top of his drawing), with his back to the teacher, and I tried to make light of the situation: "I have no idea where he gets this kind of behaviour from", followed by an unnaturally high-pitched nervous giggle. I was beginning to regret talking about my own teaching experience with this teacher as she was obviously wondering how I could possibly handle a class full of boys when I had absolutely no control over this particular one. We compromised with the fact that Seb would do another drawing to put into his work folder and he could take the original drawing home. He nonchalantly strolled over to the drawing table and looked me in the eye whilst doing the smallest, crappest scribble on a piece of paper and handing it to the teacher. If he knew how to stick two fingers up and what it meant, he would've done that to all of us at that precise moment. I feel Miss Lockyer may have met her match in the same way that I have.
So the baby is off to school. I am embracing my freedom with both hands and have had no more new baby wobbles. I had the delightful company of my gorgeous 7 month old Godson this morning for a couple of hours, and I loved every second, but when I handed him back I was relieved that I was at the stage of not having to watch my offspring every minute any more. A colleague of mine asked me this week if I was going to try and find another job to fill in the other three days that I'm not working now Sebi is starting school. Erm, no thanks. She assented that of course the children were still very young but then looked a little shocked when I said I was a part-timer by trade these days and could never see me going back to a full-time position. There will still always be miles to be run, books to be read and lunches to be eaten, won't there? Bring. It. On.
Monday, 2 September 2013
Lefkas: The Sequel
Returning somewhere that you had the time of your life when you went previously is always a risk in case it doesn't live up to expectations. Take some of your closest friends with you and that risk doubles as they might arrive and wonder what you were making such a fuss about.
The Renner family's more immediate problem however, was that they didn't actually arrive; well not on the first day anyway. We were flying from Gatwick and we drove down and parked; Kate and Ralph were getting the train. As we were getting the bus to the airport from the car park, Ralph sent Stu a text saying that they were just having breakfast and aiming to get to the airport for 2pm. The flight was leaving at 1.10pm. Before Stu had a small heart attack I told him that Ralph was definitely on the wind up. Another couple of texts confirmed this and we all had a big laugh about it... until their train broke down five minutes later. So, they missed their plane and ended up doing a 24 hour marathon via Corfu and arriving a day later than expected and at least a grand worse off! Yowch.
They took it in their stride and we were soon into a happy routine of swimming in the morning and booting the kids into kids club in the afternoon indulging in some serious R&R. Another great bunch of people this year by the pool and lo and behold only one couple that seriously got up my nose. They were mind-numbingly and painfully dull. I was slightly chastised and told that they were probably just very shy. I'm not convinced. They were EVERYWHERE. Surely, if you're shy you don't stand in the middle of a group of people at the bar? If you were really really shy you would be watching the group of people at the bar from behind a bush? Talking of bushes; Jon (one half of my favourite couple from this year) decided that the boring/frumpy exterior was merely a cover up for this dreadful woman being a filthy dirty minx. I remain unconvinced.
Remaining with that thought however, Kate and I were lying by the pool one day discussing our fellow holidaymakers. I was expressing the opinion that everyone was a little too perfect for my liking and it felt a bit like Stepford Wives on tour. This led into the discussion about which of the ladies had ever taken it up the bum, which ended up with us howling with laughter on our sunbeds. They were probably looking at us thinking we were such nice girls too! Maybe not actually?
Kate and I did some drunken night swimming in Gen and Jon's pool. It got progressively darker and darker as the complex turned all the lights off until we decided it was time we headed home. Kate couldn't find her flip flops in the pitch black and so I crawled on my hands and knees feeling for them all around the pool until she remembered that she had actually come out with bare feet that night!
Sebi became famous in his own right by doing a dance to Gangnam Style at one of the pyjama parties. I was obviously seriously impressed but didn't realise what an overnight sensation he had become in Lefkas until we hit the pool the next morning and all the older kids were shouting out "There he is!" "Alright Sebi?" "Great dancing!". Seb was un-phased by all the attention and carried on floating about with a number of Mickey Mouse theme buoyancy aids. I think he gets his night-time behaviour from his mother and his daytime modesty from his father...
Ralph and I are both pretty dominant, strong-minded, obstinate and stubborn creatures. I joked a lot before we went on holiday about how I was going to drink a bottle (or two) of wine every night and have a go at him. It all went according to plan and we had some very heated debates. One night, he asked me to tell him exactly what I thought of him. Some sober bit of my mind nagged me that this probably wasn't a particularly sensible idea so I asked my dear husband what I should do. Stu decided that I could tell Ralph exactly what I thought of him for precisely 30 seconds and then Ralph was not allowed to say anything in response. It got better and better. I think I crapped on for at least a minute in the end and then there was a deathly silence... We all remained good friends in the morning though as Ralph (professes) that he can't remember anything I said. The final battle of our holiday war ensued on the way to the airport on our return journey. Ralph decided to follow me even though I said there was no need as even a monkey could navigate the 25 minute journey from our villas to the airport. Nevertheless, we set off, in convoy. Then I got lost. Ralph found his way there before we did in the end, although I had put him through another "we're going to miss our flight", unnecessary panic. In the check-in queue I admitted defeat and that we ended the holiday with him being absolutely right and me being totally wrong. Stu and I were laughing that some people who were still in their swimmers by the pool when we left for the airport were ahead of us in the queue then.... Ooops.
I finished my holiday as every by drinking a bottle of champagne on the plane on the way home. Delish. Stu wasn't drinking as he was driving from Gatwick but so I didn't look gluttonously alcoholic, I asked the flight attendants to chill some champagne "as a surprise for my husband". I then told Stu that he had to look surprised and delighted as the champagne was delivered that he was not going to drink. Lucky chap.
The Renner family's more immediate problem however, was that they didn't actually arrive; well not on the first day anyway. We were flying from Gatwick and we drove down and parked; Kate and Ralph were getting the train. As we were getting the bus to the airport from the car park, Ralph sent Stu a text saying that they were just having breakfast and aiming to get to the airport for 2pm. The flight was leaving at 1.10pm. Before Stu had a small heart attack I told him that Ralph was definitely on the wind up. Another couple of texts confirmed this and we all had a big laugh about it... until their train broke down five minutes later. So, they missed their plane and ended up doing a 24 hour marathon via Corfu and arriving a day later than expected and at least a grand worse off! Yowch.
They took it in their stride and we were soon into a happy routine of swimming in the morning and booting the kids into kids club in the afternoon indulging in some serious R&R. Another great bunch of people this year by the pool and lo and behold only one couple that seriously got up my nose. They were mind-numbingly and painfully dull. I was slightly chastised and told that they were probably just very shy. I'm not convinced. They were EVERYWHERE. Surely, if you're shy you don't stand in the middle of a group of people at the bar? If you were really really shy you would be watching the group of people at the bar from behind a bush? Talking of bushes; Jon (one half of my favourite couple from this year) decided that the boring/frumpy exterior was merely a cover up for this dreadful woman being a filthy dirty minx. I remain unconvinced.
Remaining with that thought however, Kate and I were lying by the pool one day discussing our fellow holidaymakers. I was expressing the opinion that everyone was a little too perfect for my liking and it felt a bit like Stepford Wives on tour. This led into the discussion about which of the ladies had ever taken it up the bum, which ended up with us howling with laughter on our sunbeds. They were probably looking at us thinking we were such nice girls too! Maybe not actually?
Kate and I did some drunken night swimming in Gen and Jon's pool. It got progressively darker and darker as the complex turned all the lights off until we decided it was time we headed home. Kate couldn't find her flip flops in the pitch black and so I crawled on my hands and knees feeling for them all around the pool until she remembered that she had actually come out with bare feet that night!
Sebi became famous in his own right by doing a dance to Gangnam Style at one of the pyjama parties. I was obviously seriously impressed but didn't realise what an overnight sensation he had become in Lefkas until we hit the pool the next morning and all the older kids were shouting out "There he is!" "Alright Sebi?" "Great dancing!". Seb was un-phased by all the attention and carried on floating about with a number of Mickey Mouse theme buoyancy aids. I think he gets his night-time behaviour from his mother and his daytime modesty from his father...
Ralph and I are both pretty dominant, strong-minded, obstinate and stubborn creatures. I joked a lot before we went on holiday about how I was going to drink a bottle (or two) of wine every night and have a go at him. It all went according to plan and we had some very heated debates. One night, he asked me to tell him exactly what I thought of him. Some sober bit of my mind nagged me that this probably wasn't a particularly sensible idea so I asked my dear husband what I should do. Stu decided that I could tell Ralph exactly what I thought of him for precisely 30 seconds and then Ralph was not allowed to say anything in response. It got better and better. I think I crapped on for at least a minute in the end and then there was a deathly silence... We all remained good friends in the morning though as Ralph (professes) that he can't remember anything I said. The final battle of our holiday war ensued on the way to the airport on our return journey. Ralph decided to follow me even though I said there was no need as even a monkey could navigate the 25 minute journey from our villas to the airport. Nevertheless, we set off, in convoy. Then I got lost. Ralph found his way there before we did in the end, although I had put him through another "we're going to miss our flight", unnecessary panic. In the check-in queue I admitted defeat and that we ended the holiday with him being absolutely right and me being totally wrong. Stu and I were laughing that some people who were still in their swimmers by the pool when we left for the airport were ahead of us in the queue then.... Ooops.
I finished my holiday as every by drinking a bottle of champagne on the plane on the way home. Delish. Stu wasn't drinking as he was driving from Gatwick but so I didn't look gluttonously alcoholic, I asked the flight attendants to chill some champagne "as a surprise for my husband". I then told Stu that he had to look surprised and delighted as the champagne was delivered that he was not going to drink. Lucky chap.
Saturday, 3 August 2013
See You Next Tuesday
During my Book Club dinner in a nice pub in Redbourn last night, one of my party said 'Cunt' really quite loudly at the table, (and, for once, it wasn't me).
The tumbleweed blew slowly through the room and a couple of other tables of diners began to stare at us, in quite a menacing way. It started quite an animated discussion at our table. Poor old Heather, who was driving and therefore the only sober one among us, looked as if she would quite like the ground to swallow her up but luckily she was at the furthest end of the table from the 'starers'.
I have no problem with the word. I think that perhaps people have become slightly over-sensitive about it, particularly women, leaving it with a 'cult' status, making it untouchable and unspeakable and therefore giving it more power than it deserves. A little bit like people in dramatic circles being afraid to talk about 'Macbeth', although cunt is a little less Shakespearian.
Kate felt quite strongly that it was a justified use of the word by she-who-will-not-be-named-at-book-club as we were talking about an Afghan Warlord who had murdered small children and done a number of other horrific things. I agree absolutely but I have also realised I'm a bit of a hypocrite.
I throw 'cunt' around in new circles, showing off, loving to shock, etc, etc; but actually if I had been out to dinner with my parents last night, or in fact, my children, I would have taken umbrage at someone shouting it out at a table near me. Why is it therefore alright to change your values, vocabulary and behaviour depending on the company you are currently keeping?
If someone said that they would give me £10,000 to say 'cunt' at my parents' Sunday lunch table, I would refuse absolutely. I may consider it for £100,000 but that is only because I would then have the means to leave the country for quite a long time, immediately afterwards.
As a parent myself, I can imagine that I would have a small coronary incident if either of my boys came home bandying it around in my company. I think that luckily we are a few years off that however as 'poo' and 'wee' are (a) still absolutely hilarious to them and (b) very frowned upon by me.
I think I'm at the extreme end of the scale of different behaviour for different situations. Many of my friends and family act in quite a similar fashion whoever they happen to be with. I like to think that this makes me interesting, vibrant and exciting but in actual fact it probably makes me an exhibitionist who will develop into a caricature of my former self as I get older and lose my amazing good looks and razor sharp wit. ;-)
Anyway, back to last night. We considerately moved outside a few minutes after the C-Bomb incident. One of the gentlemen from the table of starers gave us a wave and a cheery 'Cheerio' as he got into his taxi later. I reckon he ran a foul-mouthed Book Club back in his day too.
The tumbleweed blew slowly through the room and a couple of other tables of diners began to stare at us, in quite a menacing way. It started quite an animated discussion at our table. Poor old Heather, who was driving and therefore the only sober one among us, looked as if she would quite like the ground to swallow her up but luckily she was at the furthest end of the table from the 'starers'.
I have no problem with the word. I think that perhaps people have become slightly over-sensitive about it, particularly women, leaving it with a 'cult' status, making it untouchable and unspeakable and therefore giving it more power than it deserves. A little bit like people in dramatic circles being afraid to talk about 'Macbeth', although cunt is a little less Shakespearian.
Kate felt quite strongly that it was a justified use of the word by she-who-will-not-be-named-at-book-club as we were talking about an Afghan Warlord who had murdered small children and done a number of other horrific things. I agree absolutely but I have also realised I'm a bit of a hypocrite.
I throw 'cunt' around in new circles, showing off, loving to shock, etc, etc; but actually if I had been out to dinner with my parents last night, or in fact, my children, I would have taken umbrage at someone shouting it out at a table near me. Why is it therefore alright to change your values, vocabulary and behaviour depending on the company you are currently keeping?
If someone said that they would give me £10,000 to say 'cunt' at my parents' Sunday lunch table, I would refuse absolutely. I may consider it for £100,000 but that is only because I would then have the means to leave the country for quite a long time, immediately afterwards.
As a parent myself, I can imagine that I would have a small coronary incident if either of my boys came home bandying it around in my company. I think that luckily we are a few years off that however as 'poo' and 'wee' are (a) still absolutely hilarious to them and (b) very frowned upon by me.
I think I'm at the extreme end of the scale of different behaviour for different situations. Many of my friends and family act in quite a similar fashion whoever they happen to be with. I like to think that this makes me interesting, vibrant and exciting but in actual fact it probably makes me an exhibitionist who will develop into a caricature of my former self as I get older and lose my amazing good looks and razor sharp wit. ;-)
Anyway, back to last night. We considerately moved outside a few minutes after the C-Bomb incident. One of the gentlemen from the table of starers gave us a wave and a cheery 'Cheerio' as he got into his taxi later. I reckon he ran a foul-mouthed Book Club back in his day too.
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Run Forrest Run!
I went running at 7.30am today and I need to show off about it.
*Pauses and waits for 90% of the readership to leave the post*
Seven-fucking-thirty. Amazing. I don't normally even surface until 7.35 on a school day. Stu was asleep, Sebi was fast asleep, only Zak was awake to applaud me in my efforts and he only managed a swivelled eyeball away from the Ipad to shoot me a confused look before returning to shoot something in Angry Birds Star Wars.
I didn't even have breakfast. A banana and a pint of water and I was off. For the first 0.2 of a km I was full of it. Look at me. Really. Look at me. Running the streets of St. Albans whilst the masses still had their curtains closed. Then at 0.3 of a km I got hungry. Really hungry. Eaten-a-big-fat-plate-of-pasta-last-night-and-stretched-my-stomach-muscles-and-then-decided-to-go-running-without-brekkie kind of hungry. Arse. I'm stubborn though and I carried on the route I had planned trying to remember who it was that told me I would burn serious calories for the rest of the day with this early morning burst of fitness.
I realised I had become a member of a club I had never asked to join. You tend to exchange a smile with opposite-direction runners whenever you are running. From them, I think, it is normally an encouraging smile or a smile of camaraderie. From me, it is always, always, me laughing at the pair of us for putting ourselves something so horrific for the sake of beauty. The 7.30am jogging club has a different kind of smile from both sides: we are all seriously fucking smug. I can be smug while it lasts, I can't imagine it happening again this decade if I'm honest. I normally run after school drop off but the tropics of St. Albans are ensuring that even 8.45am at the moment makes me an unusually sweaty Betty.
All this showing off and how far did I run I hear you ask? 1.75 miles. I reckon there must be some kind of Bermuda Triangle hiding somewhere up Jersey Lane. I felt like I ran for miles and was out for ages but no; 18 sodding minutes and 1.75 miles. Arse, arse.
As I drove past McDonalds at 10.30am I toyed with the idea of a Large Quarter Pounder with Cheese Meal. After all, (a) it must definitely be lunchtime as I had been up for so long, and (b) a 1.75 mile run first thing must surely cover those calories and then allow me lunch as well? Luckily, as it was so bloody hot, I couldn't face the Maccy D smell today otherwise my healthy day could've drifted into minus points quite early on. As it is, I've rewarded myself with a couple of wines in the pub with my Daddy and a couple more with my hubby. I would imagine that the other early-rising joggers are already tucked up in bed with a carrot juice ready for tomorrow's outing. Good luck to them.
*Pauses and waits for 90% of the readership to leave the post*
Seven-fucking-thirty. Amazing. I don't normally even surface until 7.35 on a school day. Stu was asleep, Sebi was fast asleep, only Zak was awake to applaud me in my efforts and he only managed a swivelled eyeball away from the Ipad to shoot me a confused look before returning to shoot something in Angry Birds Star Wars.
I didn't even have breakfast. A banana and a pint of water and I was off. For the first 0.2 of a km I was full of it. Look at me. Really. Look at me. Running the streets of St. Albans whilst the masses still had their curtains closed. Then at 0.3 of a km I got hungry. Really hungry. Eaten-a-big-fat-plate-of-pasta-last-night-and-stretched-my-stomach-muscles-and-then-decided-to-go-running-without-brekkie kind of hungry. Arse. I'm stubborn though and I carried on the route I had planned trying to remember who it was that told me I would burn serious calories for the rest of the day with this early morning burst of fitness.
I realised I had become a member of a club I had never asked to join. You tend to exchange a smile with opposite-direction runners whenever you are running. From them, I think, it is normally an encouraging smile or a smile of camaraderie. From me, it is always, always, me laughing at the pair of us for putting ourselves something so horrific for the sake of beauty. The 7.30am jogging club has a different kind of smile from both sides: we are all seriously fucking smug. I can be smug while it lasts, I can't imagine it happening again this decade if I'm honest. I normally run after school drop off but the tropics of St. Albans are ensuring that even 8.45am at the moment makes me an unusually sweaty Betty.
All this showing off and how far did I run I hear you ask? 1.75 miles. I reckon there must be some kind of Bermuda Triangle hiding somewhere up Jersey Lane. I felt like I ran for miles and was out for ages but no; 18 sodding minutes and 1.75 miles. Arse, arse.
As I drove past McDonalds at 10.30am I toyed with the idea of a Large Quarter Pounder with Cheese Meal. After all, (a) it must definitely be lunchtime as I had been up for so long, and (b) a 1.75 mile run first thing must surely cover those calories and then allow me lunch as well? Luckily, as it was so bloody hot, I couldn't face the Maccy D smell today otherwise my healthy day could've drifted into minus points quite early on. As it is, I've rewarded myself with a couple of wines in the pub with my Daddy and a couple more with my hubby. I would imagine that the other early-rising joggers are already tucked up in bed with a carrot juice ready for tomorrow's outing. Good luck to them.
Friday, 12 July 2013
A Couple of Pairs
My family is split neatly in two. From the moment Zak was born, he looked like Stu, walked like Stu, laughed like Stu and comedy danced like Stu. They have a shared sense of humour that only the two of them get, (and I'm afraid to say that I judge it nearer a six-year old's than a 38 year old's but that could just be me not 'getting it').
All very sweet and very lovely and it would be fine because I would receive my mini-me girl second-time around. Oh no. Mini-me he is but he is no girl. Don't worry, I won't crap on about the lack of women in my house (as I have spent quite enough time on that before).
All very sweet and very lovely and it would be fine because I would receive my mini-me girl second-time around. Oh no. Mini-me he is but he is no girl. Don't worry, I won't crap on about the lack of women in my house (as I have spent quite enough time on that before).
Stu and Zak are a pair of pliable, funny, friendly, happy-eaters, kind, crowd-pleasers, sociable, early-risers.
Seb and I are a couple of stubborn, friend-picky, late-risers, hilarious, pig-headed, musical, loving, sleepy, awkward, mother-fuckers.
It's interesting because of the way you end up parenting your two children. Many of my best friends will argue with this, but, I don't have a favourite. I absolutely love Zak and Sebi equally but in totally different ways. I am constantly amazed by Zak and his compassion and intelligence but I fail at reaching out to him when it come to what interests him. I have to summon up every ounce of concentration to listen at breakfast to yet another oh-so-fascinating analysis of the latest workings of the most recent game on the IPad. I really, really don't care, but I have to, otherwise we won't connect, ever! I frustrate Zak already with my incessant demands for kisses and cuddles AT BEDTIME. Seriously. He is only just six. Surely that is acceptable? I won't be trying my luck at 16, or even 10, but at 6 I think I deserve a shot.
I find Sebi completely manageable, but to Stu he is a bit of an enigma, (as I imagine, am I). They have a good and fun relationship but Stu doesn't understand the way Seb works at all, and he will be the first to admit that. In the same way I have to work to find common ground with Zak, I can understand precisely what is going through Seb's head 95% of the time. It's really quite odd.
I had a lovely weekend a couple of weeks ago with my Uni friends when Stu took the boys up to Redditch. They went out of a meal for Sunday lunch and Seb ordered his dinner, yet when it arrived, he threw a blue fit and refused to eat it. Stu then ordered him a different dinner. I pass no judgement on this, (on here anyway), as, as I have said, I was having a lovely drunken time on my own. However, I can just imagine the bloody glint in Sebastian's eye as he achieved what he never would have done had Mummy been around.
My Dad has a lot of fellow-feeling with Sebi being a second-boy-child in quite a short space of time too. Seb hardly owns any clothes that aren't hand-me-downs and my Dad was appalled to hear that I put him in Zak's second-hand pants. Not quite as appalled as when I suggested that he had probably spent the best part of his childhood in Uncle Ted' pants...
Luckily, considering they are so different, Zak and Sebi have a wonderful sibling-relationship. Thank the Lord that Zak is the elder brother however, as I think that him having the controlling power through age is what makes is work so well. Seb worships the ground he walks on and is subservient to Zak and Zak only. Stu holds the age card on me but somehow it doesn't quite work in the same way. ;-)
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