Today has been a long day. My normal plan for a Sunday is a couple of drinks with my parents over lunch followed by a bottle of wine or two with my husband over the course of the afternoon and evening. It is 5.55pm and I am nil-alcohol by mouth. BORRRRRRRRRING. I've had two and a half weeks of lazing around in bed until past 9 every day and now the school holidays have come abruptly to an end. I'm even working on a Monday tomorrow (ugh - and will do every Monday from June!) so I thought it would be good to give myself a fighting chance of sleeping tonight and getting up tomorrow morning by staying sober today! On the same track, I thought when I woke at 8.15 this morning, I'd better not roll over and have another hour but instead I hauled myself out of bed and went for a run! On a Sunday! Just in case any of you ever feel like trying the same, I will tell you now, don't bother - it is seriously not worth it. By the time I'd got to the end of the road I'd realised that yesterday evening's diet of pizza and champagne had not supplied me with the fuel I needed to successfully exercise.
I was cross-examined by both my father and my husband over my weird decision of a lime cordial with lunch. To add, insult to injury, I then spent over two hours at a children's party this afternoon; totally sober. I don't really do kids' parties. I find other small children, as a rule, generally quite annoying. Luckily with Zak I have never had to accompany him. I did the accepted run of parties with him while he was in Reception and the minute he hit Year 1, I dumped and ran. With his blessing, I hasten to add; he had no desire to have his bossy-teacher-mum embarrassing him any longer in front of his friends.
No such luck with Sebi. I had been gently suggesting for the past 24 hours that he might be absolutely fine to be left on this own at this particular party. He said that he was sure that he would but he would have more fun with me there too. I very much doubt it Sebi darling. I upped my game a little in the car on the way to the party and said quite firmly that I would stay for five minutes and then he would be fine. This backfired spectacularly as he then became hysterical as we rang on the doorbell that I was going to abandon him. Cue the parents of the birthday boy opening the door as I tried to throw Sebi through, whilst he yelled: 'I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE STUPID PARTY ANYWAY.' Excellent. Hi, my name is Nikki. Nice to meet you.
I eventually got him into the party and we sat in the corner for the first half an hour with his face buried in my neck and me watching some bloke in a lab coat not managing to get a balloon through the neck of a jar. Oh, and did I mention, I was sober?
Sebi eventually warmed up but by this time it was not worth me vanishing so I stayed and contented myself with bollocking the naughty children. Never invite a teacher to your party. Particularly a hungover teacher, on the waggon, on the last day of the school holidays. I was a right fun spoiler.
One nice lady sat down to have a chat with me. Pretty big of her I reckon considering what a miserable, unfriendly cow I am in the playground. She told me that she was happy that there was a good balance between working mums and non-working mums and that it wasn't heavily weighted in one way or the other. I told her that the easiest thing to do was not to give a shit about what anyone else thinks. Cue tumbleweed.
It was a good way for me to edit Sebi's birthday party list by watching the boys in action. One particular to-remain-nameless child will most definitely never darken my door or be added to any birthday list as long as there is breath in my body. I had a stand-off with another child as he held out his cup to me and demanded 'JUICE'. 'Juice what?' I countered approximately five times before I realised I was getting nowhere at all and therefore left it to a more tolerant parent to meet his demands instead!
I reckon I should be able to go to bed fairly soon and then Super-Sober Sunday can be replaced by No-Alcohol Monday. At least I am used to that one. I'm comforting myself with the thought of how pleasantly shitfaced I will be by this time next week at my parents' Ruby Wedding party. Stu is in charge of the bar, the boys are in charge of crisps and I'm in charge of socialising. If there was ever a recipe for a successful social event then surely that has to be it!
Sunday, 19 April 2015
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
Sleepover
Zak has just gone off on his first ever sleepover. The Mum was ten minutes early picking him up, thank God, as ever since it was arranged we have been crossing days off on the calendar, and since yesterday we have been counting down in minutes. I didn't think he would be worried about staying away for the night as this child has cheerfully toddled off to childminders/pre-school/nursery/school/kids club without one backward glance, ever, at his mother. However, all I wanted was a teeny bit of apprehension at the thought of staying in a strange house, without any member of his family present, at the tender age of seven. Not a hope.
'What's the big deal Mum?' he asked. 'I like Sam, I like his Mum, I like his Dad and I like his sister. Why would I be scared? I'm only taking Pooh with me to keep you happy.' Fine. Good. At least we all know where we stand.
When this sleepover was first arranged, the younger sibling's bottom lip went out and the beginnings of a huge tantrum started to burble as Zak was doing something good and he wasn't.
'Mummy and Sebi can have their own sleepover', I pulled quickly out of my arse. Luckily, this went down a storm with the poor deprived child with the promise of pizza out of a cardboard box in the lounge whilst watching 'Paddington'. Oooh, we know how to live.
I've categorically told Zak that he has got a long wait before anyone comes back here for a sleepover. I'm not having anyone here that doesn't come with a written declaration from their parents that they won't need feeding pre 9.30am and that they know how to shut the fuck up like a good 'un in the morning. I consoled Zak with the thought that sleepovers here would be rubbish anyway and would actually lose him friends as he would still be put to bed at 7.30pm and lights would be out without a sniff of a midnight feast happening.
Sebi wouldn't want to go anywhere overnight anyway, I don't know who he's kidding. He's just refused a play date on the grounds that he doesn't want the boy to think that he likes him more than he actually does. God forbid eh? Don't know where he gets it. I had to feign deafness the other week at school when I heard him telling the teaching assistant that he did like her but obviously not as much as he liked Mrs Dawson as she was his favourite and his best friend in the world after Mummy. Need to know basis Sebi, need to know. Is this nature or is it learnt behaviour however? I think he will be out Nikki-ing Nikki one day as our Easter card this year said on it: 'I have a lovely Mummy and brother.' Poor Stu. Apparently, a transgression from a couple of weeks earlier had meant eternal banishment from the 2015 series of Easter Sebi greetings. What on earth have I created?
'What's the big deal Mum?' he asked. 'I like Sam, I like his Mum, I like his Dad and I like his sister. Why would I be scared? I'm only taking Pooh with me to keep you happy.' Fine. Good. At least we all know where we stand.
When this sleepover was first arranged, the younger sibling's bottom lip went out and the beginnings of a huge tantrum started to burble as Zak was doing something good and he wasn't.
'Mummy and Sebi can have their own sleepover', I pulled quickly out of my arse. Luckily, this went down a storm with the poor deprived child with the promise of pizza out of a cardboard box in the lounge whilst watching 'Paddington'. Oooh, we know how to live.
I've categorically told Zak that he has got a long wait before anyone comes back here for a sleepover. I'm not having anyone here that doesn't come with a written declaration from their parents that they won't need feeding pre 9.30am and that they know how to shut the fuck up like a good 'un in the morning. I consoled Zak with the thought that sleepovers here would be rubbish anyway and would actually lose him friends as he would still be put to bed at 7.30pm and lights would be out without a sniff of a midnight feast happening.
Sebi wouldn't want to go anywhere overnight anyway, I don't know who he's kidding. He's just refused a play date on the grounds that he doesn't want the boy to think that he likes him more than he actually does. God forbid eh? Don't know where he gets it. I had to feign deafness the other week at school when I heard him telling the teaching assistant that he did like her but obviously not as much as he liked Mrs Dawson as she was his favourite and his best friend in the world after Mummy. Need to know basis Sebi, need to know. Is this nature or is it learnt behaviour however? I think he will be out Nikki-ing Nikki one day as our Easter card this year said on it: 'I have a lovely Mummy and brother.' Poor Stu. Apparently, a transgression from a couple of weeks earlier had meant eternal banishment from the 2015 series of Easter Sebi greetings. What on earth have I created?
Saturday, 7 March 2015
Happy Days
I love my own company, always have. When I'm on my own there are no arguments, no irritations, I am always in total agreement with myself and there is nobody to piss me off. What's not to like? My liking for my own company has definitely increased since being a Mum. Obviously it's not as intense as when they were tiny, but still, having to break up an argument whilst on the loo, incessant interrogation on the meaning of life pre-8am and the general level of noise in my house on a weekend makes me revel in my 'me time' when it comes.
My Greek friend is convinced I'm going to be ever so lonely when I don't share an office with himself and Zoe any longer. He says that in my newly formed department of one I'm going to be crying into a mirror and lamenting the days of Beaumont Banter. I will, of course, miss them both dreadfully, but actually working on my own doesn't phase me at all. Probably for all the same aforementioned reasons - mainly, I can do things my way with nobody else either telling me what to do or, God forbid, doing stuff wrong.
I had a matinee theatre date with my dearest Deputy Head at the Young Vic this afternoon and set off nice and early on a beautifully sunny day in a fantastic mood. I revelled in the simple act of sitting on a park bench in Southwark in the sunshine eating my egg and ham baguette and thinking that all was right with the world. Until I was joined by the beggar. I was early, it was the only bench in a half a mile radius and I wasn't moving. It was a particularly awkward social situation as he sat that little bit too close for comfort, (plus he smelt bad), and started a monologue that went along the following lines: 'please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please', (you get the idea), whilst staring at me. If I was ever have going to have given this particular beggar money, he hacked me off enough within a second that I was giving him nothing. He was however pretty persistent. I luckily had my iPod so I plugged in, tuned out, and eyeballed him back. I began to realise however that us staring into each other's eyes on a park bench, could look from a distance as if we were in some sort of relationship. So, after enough time had elapsed so that he knew he hadn't bullied me off the bench, I left, and went to the theatre. Damn you smelly beggar bulldozing me out of the sunshine.
We were watching 'Happy Days' which is an absurdist drama about a couple abandoned in some sort of desert in a sand dune where the husband lives in a cave with horrific sunburn and the wife is buried up to her waist for the first act and up to her neck in the second. As the house lights came up for the interval, I had Morag in hysterics when I told her that it was all a bit more depressing in the flesh than it was when I read it as a play. 'What were you expecting?' she said. Fair point really. The wife character, 'Winnie', keeps up an insistent monologue throughout the play and in the first act refrains that she is so lucky to have yet another 'Happy Day'. This happy day is fuelled by her lipstick not having run out quite yet, or by being able to read the writing on the tube of toothpaste. Most of the time she manages to forget the fact that she is buried in sand. The second act takes on a more sinister feel as she is buried up to her neck so unable to reach into the treasures of her bag or even the gun that could put her out of her misery. Her husband appears occasionally and towards the end we aren't sure if he is reaching out towards her or to get the gun. There are maybe therefore certain types of solitude that are not to be relished...
To the lady I met on the train home with two boys aged three months and two and a half years, who is moving house on Tuesday, with a husband who is currently working in China: I hope you listened to me. Send the big boy to pre-school and put the tele on without worrying so much. Things will get better a lot sooner than you think. Throw those eco-nappies in the bin and drink some more wine love. As the SMA advert keeps telling you - you're doing great.
My Greek friend is convinced I'm going to be ever so lonely when I don't share an office with himself and Zoe any longer. He says that in my newly formed department of one I'm going to be crying into a mirror and lamenting the days of Beaumont Banter. I will, of course, miss them both dreadfully, but actually working on my own doesn't phase me at all. Probably for all the same aforementioned reasons - mainly, I can do things my way with nobody else either telling me what to do or, God forbid, doing stuff wrong.
I had a matinee theatre date with my dearest Deputy Head at the Young Vic this afternoon and set off nice and early on a beautifully sunny day in a fantastic mood. I revelled in the simple act of sitting on a park bench in Southwark in the sunshine eating my egg and ham baguette and thinking that all was right with the world. Until I was joined by the beggar. I was early, it was the only bench in a half a mile radius and I wasn't moving. It was a particularly awkward social situation as he sat that little bit too close for comfort, (plus he smelt bad), and started a monologue that went along the following lines: 'please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please', (you get the idea), whilst staring at me. If I was ever have going to have given this particular beggar money, he hacked me off enough within a second that I was giving him nothing. He was however pretty persistent. I luckily had my iPod so I plugged in, tuned out, and eyeballed him back. I began to realise however that us staring into each other's eyes on a park bench, could look from a distance as if we were in some sort of relationship. So, after enough time had elapsed so that he knew he hadn't bullied me off the bench, I left, and went to the theatre. Damn you smelly beggar bulldozing me out of the sunshine.
We were watching 'Happy Days' which is an absurdist drama about a couple abandoned in some sort of desert in a sand dune where the husband lives in a cave with horrific sunburn and the wife is buried up to her waist for the first act and up to her neck in the second. As the house lights came up for the interval, I had Morag in hysterics when I told her that it was all a bit more depressing in the flesh than it was when I read it as a play. 'What were you expecting?' she said. Fair point really. The wife character, 'Winnie', keeps up an insistent monologue throughout the play and in the first act refrains that she is so lucky to have yet another 'Happy Day'. This happy day is fuelled by her lipstick not having run out quite yet, or by being able to read the writing on the tube of toothpaste. Most of the time she manages to forget the fact that she is buried in sand. The second act takes on a more sinister feel as she is buried up to her neck so unable to reach into the treasures of her bag or even the gun that could put her out of her misery. Her husband appears occasionally and towards the end we aren't sure if he is reaching out towards her or to get the gun. There are maybe therefore certain types of solitude that are not to be relished...
To the lady I met on the train home with two boys aged three months and two and a half years, who is moving house on Tuesday, with a husband who is currently working in China: I hope you listened to me. Send the big boy to pre-school and put the tele on without worrying so much. Things will get better a lot sooner than you think. Throw those eco-nappies in the bin and drink some more wine love. As the SMA advert keeps telling you - you're doing great.
Friday, 13 February 2015
Nanny-tastic
I have employed the most fabulous Nanny. She makes Mary Poppins look like Cruella Devil. I loved her, the boys loved her, she loved us (I hope!) and it is all going to be lovely and wonderful happily ever after. She is going to do Arts and Crafts with the boys and make sure there is no sign of it left by the time I get home - music to my un-arty-crafty ears.
The whole 'being an employer' thing is a little grown-up for my liking however. 'Yes of course I can sort out your tax', I gushed, whilst inside actually thinking 'Shit - how the hell do I do that?!' Luckily, there are very efficient Nanny Tax agencies that do all of this for you, for a certain fee of course, and there are a ream of highly efficient sounding ladies with cut-glass accents at the end of the phone answering all my really rubbish enquiries quickly and correctly, and if they have a slightly patronising air about them then I am choosing not to notice. I was doing really well on the phone to their payroll help department earlier until they asked me if I figure I had just quoted them was gross or net. 'No idea', I said, 'but if I had to guess I would say gross'. Apparently however guessing is not the way forward when you are sorting out somebody's payroll...
I am doing everything correctly though and have downloaded a very officious contract from the agency. During the customisation of this contract though, I found myself deleting a clause about never drinking alcohol around the children. What if I got home early and decided that I wanted to treat the lovely Nanny to a little tipple in the garden one summer's afternoon? It would be dreadful to be in breach of one's own contract wouldn't it? Better to be safe than sorry in this house. ;-)
I hope that I am going to be a wonderful employer. I just need to keep her away from any of you lot. Particularly Shelley who might tell her the story of how I rearranged the washing up on the drip tray when she moved into the flat and told her 'we don't do it that way'. I'm not quite sure which 'we' I was referring to... Poor girl - doomed. ;-) x
The whole 'being an employer' thing is a little grown-up for my liking however. 'Yes of course I can sort out your tax', I gushed, whilst inside actually thinking 'Shit - how the hell do I do that?!' Luckily, there are very efficient Nanny Tax agencies that do all of this for you, for a certain fee of course, and there are a ream of highly efficient sounding ladies with cut-glass accents at the end of the phone answering all my really rubbish enquiries quickly and correctly, and if they have a slightly patronising air about them then I am choosing not to notice. I was doing really well on the phone to their payroll help department earlier until they asked me if I figure I had just quoted them was gross or net. 'No idea', I said, 'but if I had to guess I would say gross'. Apparently however guessing is not the way forward when you are sorting out somebody's payroll...
I am doing everything correctly though and have downloaded a very officious contract from the agency. During the customisation of this contract though, I found myself deleting a clause about never drinking alcohol around the children. What if I got home early and decided that I wanted to treat the lovely Nanny to a little tipple in the garden one summer's afternoon? It would be dreadful to be in breach of one's own contract wouldn't it? Better to be safe than sorry in this house. ;-)
I hope that I am going to be a wonderful employer. I just need to keep her away from any of you lot. Particularly Shelley who might tell her the story of how I rearranged the washing up on the drip tray when she moved into the flat and told her 'we don't do it that way'. I'm not quite sure which 'we' I was referring to... Poor girl - doomed. ;-) x
Thursday, 5 February 2015
Jobsworths
I have had a vaguely irritating day full of encounters with flaky, inefficient people not really doing their jobs properly, which never really sits particularly well with me. As The Greek reminded me earlier, 'Darling', (he didn't call me darling, it will just annoy him intensely if I misquote him), 'you need to remember that not everyone is as good as you'. I duly stated that they should therefore all be fired with immediate effect.
My rumblings continued after the end of school when I discovered that my Green bin hadn't been cleaned after it had been emptied today. I pay the princely sum of £3.50 a month for this to happen and it hadn't happened for the second time in six months. I got hold of the bin cleaning man who told me it hadn't been cleaned as there was a banana skin at the bottom of it. I retorted that if a banana skin hadn't fallen into the lorry as it was being emptied then it was hardly my fault. Did bin-cleaning-man expect me to upend myself into the bin and retrieve it myself? When he started suggesting I found a long stick-type object to remove the banana skin so that the bin could be cleaned I decided to quickly end our standing order relationship. Jobsworth.
What was therefore going to tip me over the edge this afternoon? Craft, that's what. I am not a craft-mother. There are no paints in this house. Much of the boys artwork gets recycled without even surviving the walk home. I am the least artistic person you could meet and remember my art teacher giving up on me at the end of year nine and allowing me to sit on a desk and read a book whilst my classmates charcoal drew me - suited me nicely! We had a long and detailed email from Sebi's class teacher today telling us (parents) how we needed to provide an inverted box for technology on Monday. The box could not be resealed with sellotape as this could not be painted on top of so we needed to use masking tape or double-sided sticky tape (neither of which I had in the house, obviously). There was no way that was going to the shops to spend MONEY on equipment for CRAFT so I decided I would just be clever and make my own double sided sticky tape by folding normal sticky tape over and over on top of each other so that it stuck together. Read and learn and save yourselves. It is a really shit solution. Don't bother. I'm a stubborn cow though and as I'd started I was most definitely going to finish. Sebi now officially has the most rubbish inverted box with which to start his technology project. If it was Zak I would be worried that it is that rubbish that people would laugh at him. I don't worry about stuff like that with Seb - he has his mother's eyes... This is another reason I am looking forward to working full-time again. In a few months time I would simply delete the aforementioned email as I will be way too busy and important for that kind of caper. Or I will delegate to the Nanny (yep, Nanny, whoop whoop, another blog post to follow on that one), or the scary cleaner or in fact any of the Ward staff really... ;-) I'm waiting for Seb's class Mums' Facebook group to start collectively whinging about the box, I may even join in this time. They love a good whinge - previous whinges including Cathedral visits being too Christian, not being informed about the Year 1s visiting another classroom in the school day etc.., I have to be sure not to log onto the group with wine in my belly as I may start typing and offend; heaven forbid. I should just leave the group, but it is useful when it comes to things like finding out about boxes that need creating for craft activities...aha! That seals it then, (not the box, that is definitely still only partly sealed)!
Unfortunately, poor Stu is working away for a few days so I have nobody to take my random grumpiness out on. Fortunately, I can open the Veuve with no danger of sharesees and let my grumps float away on some bubbles. Fortunately, I'm still not dying and need to remember the pure joie de vivre that comes with that!
x
My rumblings continued after the end of school when I discovered that my Green bin hadn't been cleaned after it had been emptied today. I pay the princely sum of £3.50 a month for this to happen and it hadn't happened for the second time in six months. I got hold of the bin cleaning man who told me it hadn't been cleaned as there was a banana skin at the bottom of it. I retorted that if a banana skin hadn't fallen into the lorry as it was being emptied then it was hardly my fault. Did bin-cleaning-man expect me to upend myself into the bin and retrieve it myself? When he started suggesting I found a long stick-type object to remove the banana skin so that the bin could be cleaned I decided to quickly end our standing order relationship. Jobsworth.
What was therefore going to tip me over the edge this afternoon? Craft, that's what. I am not a craft-mother. There are no paints in this house. Much of the boys artwork gets recycled without even surviving the walk home. I am the least artistic person you could meet and remember my art teacher giving up on me at the end of year nine and allowing me to sit on a desk and read a book whilst my classmates charcoal drew me - suited me nicely! We had a long and detailed email from Sebi's class teacher today telling us (parents) how we needed to provide an inverted box for technology on Monday. The box could not be resealed with sellotape as this could not be painted on top of so we needed to use masking tape or double-sided sticky tape (neither of which I had in the house, obviously). There was no way that was going to the shops to spend MONEY on equipment for CRAFT so I decided I would just be clever and make my own double sided sticky tape by folding normal sticky tape over and over on top of each other so that it stuck together. Read and learn and save yourselves. It is a really shit solution. Don't bother. I'm a stubborn cow though and as I'd started I was most definitely going to finish. Sebi now officially has the most rubbish inverted box with which to start his technology project. If it was Zak I would be worried that it is that rubbish that people would laugh at him. I don't worry about stuff like that with Seb - he has his mother's eyes... This is another reason I am looking forward to working full-time again. In a few months time I would simply delete the aforementioned email as I will be way too busy and important for that kind of caper. Or I will delegate to the Nanny (yep, Nanny, whoop whoop, another blog post to follow on that one), or the scary cleaner or in fact any of the Ward staff really... ;-) I'm waiting for Seb's class Mums' Facebook group to start collectively whinging about the box, I may even join in this time. They love a good whinge - previous whinges including Cathedral visits being too Christian, not being informed about the Year 1s visiting another classroom in the school day etc.., I have to be sure not to log onto the group with wine in my belly as I may start typing and offend; heaven forbid. I should just leave the group, but it is useful when it comes to things like finding out about boxes that need creating for craft activities...aha! That seals it then, (not the box, that is definitely still only partly sealed)!
Unfortunately, poor Stu is working away for a few days so I have nobody to take my random grumpiness out on. Fortunately, I can open the Veuve with no danger of sharesees and let my grumps float away on some bubbles. Fortunately, I'm still not dying and need to remember the pure joie de vivre that comes with that!
x
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Domestic Delegation
My latest piece of news in a week of monumental developments is this: I have a cleaner!
*Tumbleweed*
Bear with me...
I haven't had a cleaner for 3 years and I have hated every hoover-crumbing-wee-stain-wiping second of those three years but, working part-time, haven't really been able to justify it until now. Justifying it I absolutely am! Starting full-time work in June means that I have this dissertation to bang out between now and May. Employing the cleaner was the first thing I did after popping the champagne on Tuesday evening.
Up until 3 years ago, I always had a cleaner. Ever since I moved into my flat. That was pure indulgence and laziness. Marcela used to clean for Shelley and I and we took great pleasure in throwing dinner parties the night before she came, just so that we didn't have to do the washing up! Marcela fell out of favour when Stu moved in. She became the teeniest bit obsessed with me and my arrangements, reading the calendar in the kitchen and then 'coincidentally' turning up at the same gigs as us in London! Scary. Bye bye Marcela.
The current cleaner started today and worked like a dog. I love her. I am possibly in love with her. When I was telling Dad yesterday that I had employed a cleaner, his first question was. 'What does she look like?' I was trying to convince him that I had no interest in her looks, whereas I had a lot of interest in her skills with a feather duster. My dear Father was trying to infer that a sexy cleaner and a husband that worked at home could be bad combination. Ahhh - warms your cockles doesn't it?! Luckily she is no oil painting.
I gave myself a talking to before she arrived this morning about being completely clear about exactly what I wanted from day 1 as bad habits to start with are then quite hard to correct. That went out of the window when she strode in and started poking about and I realised that she was most definitely wearing the trousers in our relationship. 'Where is the mop?' was one of her first questions. When I showed her, she continued, 'It's a bad mop. You need a mop that doesn't spread as much water.' Oh. I quite liked my mop. I was then quaking in my boots when she demanded to see the hoover. Henry passed the test though with a grunt of approval. I found my feet again when she told me it was a big house to clean in 4 hours and I told her I managed it quite easily in 3 and a half. I think I gained a smidgen of respect for this comment and lo and behold she did do an amazing job in her four hours here and I am NEVER looking back again.
I now just need to ensure that my Mondays and Fridays for the next four months are spent on educational discourse and not on sitting in the pub having elongated lunches...
*Tumbleweed*
Bear with me...
I haven't had a cleaner for 3 years and I have hated every hoover-crumbing-wee-stain-wiping second of those three years but, working part-time, haven't really been able to justify it until now. Justifying it I absolutely am! Starting full-time work in June means that I have this dissertation to bang out between now and May. Employing the cleaner was the first thing I did after popping the champagne on Tuesday evening.
Up until 3 years ago, I always had a cleaner. Ever since I moved into my flat. That was pure indulgence and laziness. Marcela used to clean for Shelley and I and we took great pleasure in throwing dinner parties the night before she came, just so that we didn't have to do the washing up! Marcela fell out of favour when Stu moved in. She became the teeniest bit obsessed with me and my arrangements, reading the calendar in the kitchen and then 'coincidentally' turning up at the same gigs as us in London! Scary. Bye bye Marcela.
The current cleaner started today and worked like a dog. I love her. I am possibly in love with her. When I was telling Dad yesterday that I had employed a cleaner, his first question was. 'What does she look like?' I was trying to convince him that I had no interest in her looks, whereas I had a lot of interest in her skills with a feather duster. My dear Father was trying to infer that a sexy cleaner and a husband that worked at home could be bad combination. Ahhh - warms your cockles doesn't it?! Luckily she is no oil painting.
I gave myself a talking to before she arrived this morning about being completely clear about exactly what I wanted from day 1 as bad habits to start with are then quite hard to correct. That went out of the window when she strode in and started poking about and I realised that she was most definitely wearing the trousers in our relationship. 'Where is the mop?' was one of her first questions. When I showed her, she continued, 'It's a bad mop. You need a mop that doesn't spread as much water.' Oh. I quite liked my mop. I was then quaking in my boots when she demanded to see the hoover. Henry passed the test though with a grunt of approval. I found my feet again when she told me it was a big house to clean in 4 hours and I told her I managed it quite easily in 3 and a half. I think I gained a smidgen of respect for this comment and lo and behold she did do an amazing job in her four hours here and I am NEVER looking back again.
I now just need to ensure that my Mondays and Fridays for the next four months are spent on educational discourse and not on sitting in the pub having elongated lunches...
Wednesday, 28 January 2015
The Bottom Line
This blog post may refer, however tastefully, (if that is possible), to the inner workings of my gut. Male friends of mine, or those of a more sensitive disposition, may choose at this point to skip this particular post and with my complete blessing and encouragement. ;-)
I feel better today than I have done since the beginning of November and have possibly just got through a couple of the most stressful days of my life. The 'piles' issue I referred to in a previous post did not end up being piles but instead is some form of inflammatory bowel disease called proctitis. For goodness sake don't Google it, as Google then accuses you of being a serial bum shagger with an STD. (No, that is not true.)
Anyway, it is all treatable and controllable; happy days. If only I didn't have such an active imagination, which unfortunately I have. The problem with all forms of IBD is that it completely mimics the symptoms of bowel cancer. My rational head is fully aware that bowel cancer is pretty much unheard of in people under the age of 40 (yes, Martin Russel, I am). However, when Googling on your phone at 3am in the morning it is totally possible to convince yourself otherwise. I have been a complete mess and hiding it well, apart from to my nearest and dearest who have greatly suffered along with me.
It is incredible how an intelligent, relatively sane, human being can overnight become a victim of their own Googling, pathetic self-diagnoses. I am pretty convincing though, even to myself. Sam told me on the phone tonight that she has been coming off the phone to me each time telling me to pull myself together and that I'm fine and then crying on her husband over the fact I might be dying. It's catching. I am bloody convincing.
Zoe and I have done some black humour counselling sessions in our office. Kyl is the only man in our department and we have stopped talking on a number of occasions when he has entered the office. We fed him the absolute bare minimum information about the situation so that he didn't get paranoid about our secret squirrel conversations and the poor man ran scared as soon as he possibly could. I texted him tonight: 'All good, not dying' and got the reply: 'Ah, that's nice'. It's as deep as the two of us ever need to go into that kind of discussion.
But this week, I had this procedure today, proceeded by my first ever Head of Department interview yesterday. To say I look like shit is an understatement and I am inhaling a bottle of wine ready to have passed out by 9pm tonight. I think I may actually sleep properly for the first time in two months. I celebrated last night in style when I got the job but all the time with the cloud hanging over me that it was such a shame I was a professional success when I knew really I would have to phone the Head tomorrow and tell him that I couldn't accept the job after all due to my speedily-declining ill-health. For such an optimist I do a good line in scary black clouds. Maybe I tempted fate through through all this doom and gloom imagination? Maybe I just need to get a little more statistical awareness? Or maybe, as Shelley suggested today, after the week I've had, I should really go and buy a lottery ticket.
All's well that ends well. High on gas and air this afternoon I do remember telling the consultant that I didn't want a copy of the picture of the inside of my bowel for the family album. He looked at me as if I was a complete cock. He was right. However, I'm a completely alive cock, with a fabulous new job and a rejuvenated attitude towards the insignificant trials and tribulations of everyday, happy, mundane life. Cheers. :-) xx
I feel better today than I have done since the beginning of November and have possibly just got through a couple of the most stressful days of my life. The 'piles' issue I referred to in a previous post did not end up being piles but instead is some form of inflammatory bowel disease called proctitis. For goodness sake don't Google it, as Google then accuses you of being a serial bum shagger with an STD. (No, that is not true.)
Anyway, it is all treatable and controllable; happy days. If only I didn't have such an active imagination, which unfortunately I have. The problem with all forms of IBD is that it completely mimics the symptoms of bowel cancer. My rational head is fully aware that bowel cancer is pretty much unheard of in people under the age of 40 (yes, Martin Russel, I am). However, when Googling on your phone at 3am in the morning it is totally possible to convince yourself otherwise. I have been a complete mess and hiding it well, apart from to my nearest and dearest who have greatly suffered along with me.
It is incredible how an intelligent, relatively sane, human being can overnight become a victim of their own Googling, pathetic self-diagnoses. I am pretty convincing though, even to myself. Sam told me on the phone tonight that she has been coming off the phone to me each time telling me to pull myself together and that I'm fine and then crying on her husband over the fact I might be dying. It's catching. I am bloody convincing.
Zoe and I have done some black humour counselling sessions in our office. Kyl is the only man in our department and we have stopped talking on a number of occasions when he has entered the office. We fed him the absolute bare minimum information about the situation so that he didn't get paranoid about our secret squirrel conversations and the poor man ran scared as soon as he possibly could. I texted him tonight: 'All good, not dying' and got the reply: 'Ah, that's nice'. It's as deep as the two of us ever need to go into that kind of discussion.
But this week, I had this procedure today, proceeded by my first ever Head of Department interview yesterday. To say I look like shit is an understatement and I am inhaling a bottle of wine ready to have passed out by 9pm tonight. I think I may actually sleep properly for the first time in two months. I celebrated last night in style when I got the job but all the time with the cloud hanging over me that it was such a shame I was a professional success when I knew really I would have to phone the Head tomorrow and tell him that I couldn't accept the job after all due to my speedily-declining ill-health. For such an optimist I do a good line in scary black clouds. Maybe I tempted fate through through all this doom and gloom imagination? Maybe I just need to get a little more statistical awareness? Or maybe, as Shelley suggested today, after the week I've had, I should really go and buy a lottery ticket.
All's well that ends well. High on gas and air this afternoon I do remember telling the consultant that I didn't want a copy of the picture of the inside of my bowel for the family album. He looked at me as if I was a complete cock. He was right. However, I'm a completely alive cock, with a fabulous new job and a rejuvenated attitude towards the insignificant trials and tribulations of everyday, happy, mundane life. Cheers. :-) xx
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