I am considering posting an ad in the local paper...
"Knight in shining armour required; has tool belt, answers to the name of Dave."
Why? Oh because me, in my grand idea of being independent, have found myself hanging two interior doors on my own, whilst making further lists for myself as I hang on to said doors in earnest.
"This shouldn't be difficult", my brain informs me as I order the doors...
"This is not hard", I think as I unpack the doors and gleefully throw away the exterior cardboard with wilful abandonment...
"This is educational," I ponder while admiring saws and planes in the DIY store...
"This is not beyond me", I consider as I YouTube how to hang a door...
"I'm screwed", I realise as I pretend to pose with the door against a now empty door frame...
To be honest I really wanted to do this alone. I wanted to be able to stand back, through wood shavings, sweat and varnish and say...'Yeah, I did that. I hung a door. And it looks straight'.
However, hanging doors is not a simple thing. It looks simple on the YouTube video, but actually it isn't. That is why carpenters are skilled people who know what they are doing, with the right tools...however, why is it that so many men are able to do this efficiently who aren't carpenters? Is it just practice? Are you taken to one side in your college years and given chances to practice these skills, just in case you use them in the future?
The man in the local DIY store asked me a couple of days ago if I made pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.
I looked at him with a saw in my hand a tad bemused, but he smiled encouragingly so I said yes, of course I did.
"Well, it's much like making pancakes." He said wisely.
"Oh? Mixture a bit too thick and disastrous?"
"More or less. The first one you make will not be perfect, however the rest are all fab."
"Great. So what you are telling me is that my first door will be crap."
He nodded and smiled, then left me with my thoughts.
Way to go local DIY store with the inspiring, motivational...You Can Do It speech...
Also, I am infuriated that I am struggling with this. I don't want to rely on calling a friend if I get into difficulties...I want to try some of these things on my own, I want to achieve these things...but bloody hell, I keep looking at this 6ft high piece of wood and thinking 'Oh bollocks, where the hell is that Knight in shining armour when I bloody need him?"
I am being so super careful with the measuring and cutting. So careful, I have had to cut it three times and it still doesn't fit...too nervous to cut too much. I have discovered a cheap alternative however, to a Black and Decker workmate... They are called the twins and they sit, balanced on the door on two dining room chairs while I saw...it really helps to steady it.
We are nothing, if not practical...
Alas, there is no such thing as a Knight, or a Prince, or Batman with a tool utility belt...so, best to just get on with it, and accept that my first door will be my worst.
So...anyone need their door hanging before I start on mine?
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Doing it alone...
I discovered something this week that I'd been unwittingly missing...and no, it wasn't just my sanity of raising three superheroes, that alas, has been missing for a very long time.
No what I realised this week is that I had been plodding along in my usual hustle and bustle of a life, and lo and behold bam there it was. It kind of crept upon me, sneaky like - one moment I was happily, definitely enjoying my solitary existence, then the next...not so much.
What started as a comfortable evening with a friend, chatting, watching TV, suddenly left me with the realisation that not only had I enjoyed the company, but that I had also missed it.
Not such a shocker perhaps to many of you, we all enjoy company, however most of us singletons are quite happy with the fact that we get to hog the remote control all night, and that we have first refusal on the last chocolate biscuit in the tin. However, there are occasions, where the companionship of another or a cuddle on the sofa with someone more profound than the dog, is the only thing that one needs.
A friend on Facebook has written that very thing this evening - a public declaration of her need for that most basic human instinct, (beside food and water obviously)...warmth, touch and affection.
I mentioned it to another friend just yesterday, genuinely surprised that my emotional need had shifted a little.
"It's a new phase in your life," she said with delight, "It's not such a terrible thing is it?"
"Well, no of course not."
"It is not that surprising that you are moving on and are ready for the next phase." She went on to explain that the last three years had seen so many changes; relationships that perhaps one wasn't ready for; a new home, new car and creating new ground rules for raising children alone, to name but a few, that it was only natural that once things were established that I would want the next thing. "You have proved your independence," she said, "Now it is time to allow someone else in."
With this declaration she rummages through my recently delivered post and smiles, "Look! Local business man looking for new trade! Get a quote, it could be the man of your dreams!"
I think this is highly unlikely - and to be fair, I already have a window cleaner who is very good at his job. However, it does make me think that if we do not 'push' ourselves to make that step, then it is more than probable that the single life will remain the path that I am on.
The man of my dreams, (if such a thing exists) isn't going to turn up on my front door without an invite, and whilst much of the advice from good friends is, 'things only happen when you aren't looking for them'; well, I am sorry to burst that bubble but I know friends who have not been looking for years and guess what...they are still single.
I am, however, not quite ready to frequent every bar in my search for a star...or to work through the soul destroying internet dating websites again...so I am left pretty much where I am. Bumbling through life, in the knowledge that I am remiss of my companion and his affection.
It will happen - one day. In the meantime, I seem to have acquired some local tradesmen telephone numbers...hey, don't knock it, it's as good a place to start as any...and Pootle, we do have a lot of work to do on our houses. Who said we had to do it alone?
No what I realised this week is that I had been plodding along in my usual hustle and bustle of a life, and lo and behold bam there it was. It kind of crept upon me, sneaky like - one moment I was happily, definitely enjoying my solitary existence, then the next...not so much.
What started as a comfortable evening with a friend, chatting, watching TV, suddenly left me with the realisation that not only had I enjoyed the company, but that I had also missed it.
Not such a shocker perhaps to many of you, we all enjoy company, however most of us singletons are quite happy with the fact that we get to hog the remote control all night, and that we have first refusal on the last chocolate biscuit in the tin. However, there are occasions, where the companionship of another or a cuddle on the sofa with someone more profound than the dog, is the only thing that one needs.
A friend on Facebook has written that very thing this evening - a public declaration of her need for that most basic human instinct, (beside food and water obviously)...warmth, touch and affection.I mentioned it to another friend just yesterday, genuinely surprised that my emotional need had shifted a little.
"It's a new phase in your life," she said with delight, "It's not such a terrible thing is it?"
"Well, no of course not."
"It is not that surprising that you are moving on and are ready for the next phase." She went on to explain that the last three years had seen so many changes; relationships that perhaps one wasn't ready for; a new home, new car and creating new ground rules for raising children alone, to name but a few, that it was only natural that once things were established that I would want the next thing. "You have proved your independence," she said, "Now it is time to allow someone else in."
With this declaration she rummages through my recently delivered post and smiles, "Look! Local business man looking for new trade! Get a quote, it could be the man of your dreams!"
I think this is highly unlikely - and to be fair, I already have a window cleaner who is very good at his job. However, it does make me think that if we do not 'push' ourselves to make that step, then it is more than probable that the single life will remain the path that I am on.
The man of my dreams, (if such a thing exists) isn't going to turn up on my front door without an invite, and whilst much of the advice from good friends is, 'things only happen when you aren't looking for them'; well, I am sorry to burst that bubble but I know friends who have not been looking for years and guess what...they are still single.
I am, however, not quite ready to frequent every bar in my search for a star...or to work through the soul destroying internet dating websites again...so I am left pretty much where I am. Bumbling through life, in the knowledge that I am remiss of my companion and his affection.
It will happen - one day. In the meantime, I seem to have acquired some local tradesmen telephone numbers...hey, don't knock it, it's as good a place to start as any...and Pootle, we do have a lot of work to do on our houses. Who said we had to do it alone?
Tuesday, 10 March 2015
A man called Dave...
My wedding anniversary passed me by recently. Unnoticed by anyone else except for me...and perhaps my ex-husband. The last three years have moved so quickly since our separation, and we now seem to have defined our new roles quite easily.
We now see the light the other side of the hurt and the anger and get on better than we have for years. It feels better. Life has moved on, and I see him as a friend now. Someone I can share the news of excitement or disaster in the family unit, without feeling judged.
I am lucky. I know I am. I know so many other couples who have separated and the hate, anger and distrust remains for years maybe forever. Thankfully in our family unit we have evolved and we now welcome Daddy's new girlfriend. I don't quite see myself picking out curtains with her, however she and I seem to have adjusted to take on a friendly stance and attitude towards each other. I get where she is coming from; taking on board a new boyfriend with three children and an ex-wife is a daunting prospect, so complete kudos to her. As for me, there has needed to be further elements of adjustment, however now I am just pleased and want to work towards our children accepting the extension of our family.
So consequently, whilst driving the other day, Superman felt the need to clarify the new roles...
"If Daddy and H get married, she will be our step mum."
"Yep," I respond waiting for it to tick over a little more in his mind.
"But can I still call her H, as I don't want to call her mum."
"Absolutely," I say, quietly chuffed.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Well when you get married again..." (anxiety overwhelms me a little here but I recover quickly) "I won't call him Daddy."
"No, he wouldn't be your daddy would he?"
"No." He thinks again, "I think I'll call him Dave or David."
"Well that could be awkward."
"Why?"
"What if he is called Frank, or James? Calling him by a different name might look rude."
Giggles in response...
It is a tough one. Children have to be flexible and prepare themselves for the possibility that someone else may take the affection of their parents, struggling with the knowledge that this is more than likely to mean that their parents will never get back together.
It is a process that needs to happen, however what is recommended is that as always, communication is the key. Talk about the possibility you could start dating again, talk about hypothetical situations where Mummy, or Daddy, might have someone else in their life; and as hard as it is, try and encourage a relationship with your ex's new partner.
As I said I know I am lucky. I know others who have found themselves willing to forge a new relationship with the new desired choice of their ex, and unfortunately the new partner is difficult and makes this is incredibly hard. For everyone concerned.
Introducing a step parent takes time, patience and resilience, however in my house, if they are called Dave - they are already half way there.
Thursday, 12 February 2015
No fast food in space...
Spiderman has been experiencing a blip.
The last few weeks at school have been a trying time for him, his teachers and myself alike, while he has tested new boundaries and expressed his 'irritation' for all things...including learning.
Thankfully the last ten days have seen him turn a corner and we appear to be back on track, (admittedly seemingly encouraged by the lack of all things electronic) and he also seems to actually be excited by a recent school project.
I admit, I am excited by his project too. His project is all about Space, the planets and our moon; something that has seen him avidly researching 'Moon Facts' and replaying the lunar landings until the cows come home.
In turn, his growing knowledge has also started to inspire Batman and Superman and the last few nights have seen the three of them in the garden, wrapped up warmly, poised delicately with binoculars, checking out star constellations and crescent moons.
This evening brought further excitement. When I told them about Mars One.
"You mean someone is going to Mars?"
"What? Like forever?"
"Will they have babies?"
"How will they breathe?"
"Can they still order pizza from Domino's?
They found the whole thing fascinating, and so do I - that within the next 8 years man or woman could be landing on Mars; within my and their lifetime.
My hobbits however are less than impressed about going, with looks of horror on their faces as they each refused to go.
"No way."
"Nope, not for me."
"Couldn't live without Domino's Pizza."
Oh it is so wonderful to hear where I am in the pecking order.
However it is also wonderful to have children who get excited about something so exhilarating and inspiring that even I feel quite overwhelmed by it. Is this what it felt like back in 1969 when man landed on the moon? Did they consider it to be impossible as they gathered around their black and white TV's?
Now we are here, and hopefully within the next decade, humans will walk on Mars. Maybe they will find life? Water? Or maybe they will find proof that men really did originate from there?
Alas for me, I will still be plodding along back here on Earth, reprimanding my children and removing hardware and electronics to assist them in making the right choices...however after this evening, I also have another threat to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"If you don't behave, I'll send your ass to Mars."
The last few weeks at school have been a trying time for him, his teachers and myself alike, while he has tested new boundaries and expressed his 'irritation' for all things...including learning.
Thankfully the last ten days have seen him turn a corner and we appear to be back on track, (admittedly seemingly encouraged by the lack of all things electronic) and he also seems to actually be excited by a recent school project.
I admit, I am excited by his project too. His project is all about Space, the planets and our moon; something that has seen him avidly researching 'Moon Facts' and replaying the lunar landings until the cows come home.
In turn, his growing knowledge has also started to inspire Batman and Superman and the last few nights have seen the three of them in the garden, wrapped up warmly, poised delicately with binoculars, checking out star constellations and crescent moons.
This evening brought further excitement. When I told them about Mars One.
"You mean someone is going to Mars?"
"What? Like forever?"
"Will they have babies?"
"How will they breathe?"
"Can they still order pizza from Domino's?
They found the whole thing fascinating, and so do I - that within the next 8 years man or woman could be landing on Mars; within my and their lifetime.
My hobbits however are less than impressed about going, with looks of horror on their faces as they each refused to go.
"No way."
"Nope, not for me."
"Couldn't live without Domino's Pizza."
Oh it is so wonderful to hear where I am in the pecking order.
However it is also wonderful to have children who get excited about something so exhilarating and inspiring that even I feel quite overwhelmed by it. Is this what it felt like back in 1969 when man landed on the moon? Did they consider it to be impossible as they gathered around their black and white TV's?
Now we are here, and hopefully within the next decade, humans will walk on Mars. Maybe they will find life? Water? Or maybe they will find proof that men really did originate from there?
Alas for me, I will still be plodding along back here on Earth, reprimanding my children and removing hardware and electronics to assist them in making the right choices...however after this evening, I also have another threat to keep them on the straight and narrow.
"If you don't behave, I'll send your ass to Mars."
Thursday, 20 November 2014
Just so we are clear...
Clarity.
Makes everything clearer. Smoother. Normal even. Just a little bit of communication so that people understand and can relate to what you are doing or feeling.
When I worked for BA and there was a plane delay, I would make a point of telling everyone that I was checking in or boarding for their flight, as much information that I was able to. It helped them. There were less arguments, less stress at the Gate and even some camaraderie to be found.
We are simple creatures. We like to be told what is happening; it gives us a sense of control.
Now, of course I am well aware that not every reader of my blog knows every intimate part of my life...good God, why would you want to? I am sure that you have your own dilemmas to deal with and adding mine to the mix would be rude and a little bit presumptuous of me.
Nevertheless, I do feel compelled to blog this evening over the issues once again, of communication. Call it; a second part to 'New Balls Please.'
A recent experience has led me down this route. A recent experience has made me completely realise that there are men out there whose only focus is themselves and their ego. Not that I was completely oblivious to that fact, but it is with sad realisation that someone I trusted and allowed back into my life on their request, felt the need to lie to me, ignore me and in general behave badly.
Then finally, after gaining and breaking my trust yet again - they suggested that in a roundabout way that we stay in touch, by commenting on my blog.
Please. Don't do me any favours. Do not think that I want to ever hear from you again by blog, by email, by text or snail mail.
Seriously people, if you are even considering contacting an ex flame to enquire about their general well being or contemplating a new relationship, and there is a little part of you that is just unsure...then DON'T DO IT!! Step away from your 'phone...leave them alone. It took months maybe years to get over you, so don't even consider making them feel shit again. It makes you selfish, weak, shitty and quite frankly, a cockwomble (look it up under Urban Dictionary.)
As for my dilemma, it is no longer a dilemma. I now have complete clarity and for once I am speaking what is really on my mind. I am finally waking up to the fact that being nice, is not always the answer.
So Goodbye. You know who you are.
...and just so we are clear...
Makes everything clearer. Smoother. Normal even. Just a little bit of communication so that people understand and can relate to what you are doing or feeling.
When I worked for BA and there was a plane delay, I would make a point of telling everyone that I was checking in or boarding for their flight, as much information that I was able to. It helped them. There were less arguments, less stress at the Gate and even some camaraderie to be found.
We are simple creatures. We like to be told what is happening; it gives us a sense of control.
Now, of course I am well aware that not every reader of my blog knows every intimate part of my life...good God, why would you want to? I am sure that you have your own dilemmas to deal with and adding mine to the mix would be rude and a little bit presumptuous of me.
Nevertheless, I do feel compelled to blog this evening over the issues once again, of communication. Call it; a second part to 'New Balls Please.'
A recent experience has led me down this route. A recent experience has made me completely realise that there are men out there whose only focus is themselves and their ego. Not that I was completely oblivious to that fact, but it is with sad realisation that someone I trusted and allowed back into my life on their request, felt the need to lie to me, ignore me and in general behave badly.
Then finally, after gaining and breaking my trust yet again - they suggested that in a roundabout way that we stay in touch, by commenting on my blog.
Please. Don't do me any favours. Do not think that I want to ever hear from you again by blog, by email, by text or snail mail.Seriously people, if you are even considering contacting an ex flame to enquire about their general well being or contemplating a new relationship, and there is a little part of you that is just unsure...then DON'T DO IT!! Step away from your 'phone...leave them alone. It took months maybe years to get over you, so don't even consider making them feel shit again. It makes you selfish, weak, shitty and quite frankly, a cockwomble (look it up under Urban Dictionary.)
As for my dilemma, it is no longer a dilemma. I now have complete clarity and for once I am speaking what is really on my mind. I am finally waking up to the fact that being nice, is not always the answer.
So Goodbye. You know who you are.
...and just so we are clear...
Sunday, 16 November 2014
New balls please...
All of you men (and women) who have behaved badly towards someone who cares about you, need to go stand in the corner right now.
I am not talking about the usual couple type arguments that come and go like the change of the weather, but all of those who have been deliberately dishonest, lied, broken promises, played mind games and generally made someone else feel crap by your actions.
Yes, you. Go stand in the corner and face the wall and reflect on your behaviour.
Did you think that those that were hurt wouldn't eventually see your behaviour for what it truly is? That we wouldn't wake up to the knowledge that your behaviour is wrong and actually you don't deserve the best?
Many of my friends are tired of being lied to by 'potential' love interests...would it really be such a terrible thing to just be honest? If you had the balls enough to contact someone, tell someone a pack of lies or flirt with them - then you surely still have the cojones to tell them the truth and not hide behind silence and blame culture?
Grown up men behaving like teenage boys with no responsibility and no respect to the women they are talking to...do you seriously think that you deserve such amazing women in your life?
A good tennis game starts with two freshly faced partners, ready to play...a bad tennis game will always have one that plays unfairly, loses their temper when things don't go their way and love is always a zero score...
Is it all about winning? Is it all about scoring the ace and knocking out your partner?
Well, do you know what? If the above sounds like you I would like to tell you without further ado... Game over and new balls please...
I am not talking about the usual couple type arguments that come and go like the change of the weather, but all of those who have been deliberately dishonest, lied, broken promises, played mind games and generally made someone else feel crap by your actions.
 |
| Badly behaved characters return in real life too... |
Yes, you. Go stand in the corner and face the wall and reflect on your behaviour.
Did you think that those that were hurt wouldn't eventually see your behaviour for what it truly is? That we wouldn't wake up to the knowledge that your behaviour is wrong and actually you don't deserve the best?
Many of my friends are tired of being lied to by 'potential' love interests...would it really be such a terrible thing to just be honest? If you had the balls enough to contact someone, tell someone a pack of lies or flirt with them - then you surely still have the cojones to tell them the truth and not hide behind silence and blame culture?
Grown up men behaving like teenage boys with no responsibility and no respect to the women they are talking to...do you seriously think that you deserve such amazing women in your life?
A good tennis game starts with two freshly faced partners, ready to play...a bad tennis game will always have one that plays unfairly, loses their temper when things don't go their way and love is always a zero score...
Is it all about winning? Is it all about scoring the ace and knocking out your partner?
Well, do you know what? If the above sounds like you I would like to tell you without further ado... Game over and new balls please...
Monday, 10 November 2014
Pants, pot noodle and passports...
Due to a random drunken decision six weeks ago, Pootle and I found ourselves jetting off to Ireland this weekend. Dublin to be precise.
The hobbits and I have recently just moved house and Pootle is in the process of buying hers, so this felt like something we needed to do to let our hair down, however we were also reliably informed that Dublin was expensive...not a good time for added expense.
"Don't worry," Pootle reassured me, "we take clean pants, our passports and we can survive on Pot noodles should we need to."
So leaving unpacked boxes and the heating system on low, our adventure started with the unforgettable flight journey with Ryan Air; attended by the wicked witch of the west and her mate.
Could the staff on this low budget airline be any more miserable? Muttering through the safety procedure, grumbling about the inconvenience of changing a five euro note and almost pushing us down the steps on arrival. Ryan Air - making it memorable.
However, not to have our excitement quelled...here we were in Dublin. In Ireland. The home of James Joyce, The Pogues, Leprechauns and most importantly...the black stuff...Guinness.
...and what a fabulous city it is.
Many people made suggestions for our weekend, but we were warned by the mother of Pootle, than in no uncertain terms not to go to Main Street. Allegedly, there were undesirables there...i.e. Drunkards, people who partied all night, men etc... So we promptly googled it and made our way to Temple Bar. A city of buzzing night life and Irish jigging...a match made in heaven.
We visited the Leprechaun museum, the only place to make me feel tiny on a chair, tried Irish Stew in a small pub; drank a large Whiskey at the Jameson's factory...and got a tad tipsy on Guinness on the Guinness tour.
The best bit however, just had to be rocking it late into the wee early hours of sunday morning back at Temple Bar, with some new found friends. People, like us, who were not quite ready to sit in their rocking chairs and give into the aches and pains of older age.
So if you ever get a chance to go to Dublin...enjoy the Guinness, the Whiskey, and the friendliness of the Irish...after all, all you need to get away is just your pants, your passport and some pot noodles...
The hobbits and I have recently just moved house and Pootle is in the process of buying hers, so this felt like something we needed to do to let our hair down, however we were also reliably informed that Dublin was expensive...not a good time for added expense.
"Don't worry," Pootle reassured me, "we take clean pants, our passports and we can survive on Pot noodles should we need to."
So leaving unpacked boxes and the heating system on low, our adventure started with the unforgettable flight journey with Ryan Air; attended by the wicked witch of the west and her mate.
Could the staff on this low budget airline be any more miserable? Muttering through the safety procedure, grumbling about the inconvenience of changing a five euro note and almost pushing us down the steps on arrival. Ryan Air - making it memorable.
However, not to have our excitement quelled...here we were in Dublin. In Ireland. The home of James Joyce, The Pogues, Leprechauns and most importantly...the black stuff...Guinness.
...and what a fabulous city it is.
Many people made suggestions for our weekend, but we were warned by the mother of Pootle, than in no uncertain terms not to go to Main Street. Allegedly, there were undesirables there...i.e. Drunkards, people who partied all night, men etc... So we promptly googled it and made our way to Temple Bar. A city of buzzing night life and Irish jigging...a match made in heaven.
We visited the Leprechaun museum, the only place to make me feel tiny on a chair, tried Irish Stew in a small pub; drank a large Whiskey at the Jameson's factory...and got a tad tipsy on Guinness on the Guinness tour.
The best bit however, just had to be rocking it late into the wee early hours of sunday morning back at Temple Bar, with some new found friends. People, like us, who were not quite ready to sit in their rocking chairs and give into the aches and pains of older age.So if you ever get a chance to go to Dublin...enjoy the Guinness, the Whiskey, and the friendliness of the Irish...after all, all you need to get away is just your pants, your passport and some pot noodles...
Sunday, 19 October 2014
Decluttering...
I am currently going through a spate of de-cluttering.
Emptying wardrobe contents, rifling through full boxes of old photos and reaching into the depths of cupboards with a shaky hand and a nervous twitch, slightly alarmed at what I might find.
It is an interesting process, de-cluttering. A cleansing and decision making process.
The hobbits and I are moving house soon and naturally are quite excited by the changes ahead. However the mere act of decluttering has seen me acknowledge the past as well as the future.
It is an inevitable thing. Take a box of photos that contain the last twenty odd years of your life, and you can't help but reminisce, shed a tear of joy or sadness, and laugh at old outfits that were worn in 1989.
This paraphernalia, including old pieces of furniture and even old clothes show a timeline of events that happened in your life and remind you of decisions and paths that you took...some for the good, some for the not so good.
Many of my big decision making moments over the years have been emotionally fraught, painful, refreshing and above all, scary...they would have kept me awake all night most probably, and I would have in no doubt, drowned my friends in my angst and fear whilst thinking through some of these decisions.
However, once the decision had been made, I was, and am, essentially on my own; bumbling my way through my resolution in an attempt to see it through to the best of my ability and to a successful conclusion. Alas, we know decisions don't always work out like that...not every choice we make comes out the way we intended.
I have made other decisions this past month that have been tinged with a hint of fear for the future; moving house; being strong in the face of adversity and letting go of something that could have potentially been special. I did all of these with a different emotion attached; a spring in my step, a gulp in my throat and a heaviness in my heart - but all with the same profound base; the care and health of my family and myself.
Are they the right ones? Well, only time will tell. However, I do have the benefit of past behaviour and all the best psychologists will say that this is always the best way to predict the future. Ergo, we have managed it this far on my decision making abilities without too much of a scathing, that hopefully, the best is yet to come.
Emptying wardrobe contents, rifling through full boxes of old photos and reaching into the depths of cupboards with a shaky hand and a nervous twitch, slightly alarmed at what I might find.
It is an interesting process, de-cluttering. A cleansing and decision making process.
The hobbits and I are moving house soon and naturally are quite excited by the changes ahead. However the mere act of decluttering has seen me acknowledge the past as well as the future.
It is an inevitable thing. Take a box of photos that contain the last twenty odd years of your life, and you can't help but reminisce, shed a tear of joy or sadness, and laugh at old outfits that were worn in 1989.This paraphernalia, including old pieces of furniture and even old clothes show a timeline of events that happened in your life and remind you of decisions and paths that you took...some for the good, some for the not so good.
Many of my big decision making moments over the years have been emotionally fraught, painful, refreshing and above all, scary...they would have kept me awake all night most probably, and I would have in no doubt, drowned my friends in my angst and fear whilst thinking through some of these decisions.
However, once the decision had been made, I was, and am, essentially on my own; bumbling my way through my resolution in an attempt to see it through to the best of my ability and to a successful conclusion. Alas, we know decisions don't always work out like that...not every choice we make comes out the way we intended.
I have made other decisions this past month that have been tinged with a hint of fear for the future; moving house; being strong in the face of adversity and letting go of something that could have potentially been special. I did all of these with a different emotion attached; a spring in my step, a gulp in my throat and a heaviness in my heart - but all with the same profound base; the care and health of my family and myself.
Are they the right ones? Well, only time will tell. However, I do have the benefit of past behaviour and all the best psychologists will say that this is always the best way to predict the future. Ergo, we have managed it this far on my decision making abilities without too much of a scathing, that hopefully, the best is yet to come.
Monday, 13 October 2014
...just a number...
My friend L recently informed me that he went on a course last week and met a young woman who was, in his words, simply perfect.
They laughed, they talked, they connected... and L had visions of their beautiful future together in front of a warm fire, two labradors and soft furnishings all sewn up in his mind's eye.
However his dream was rudely interrupted, when the young lady in question turned to him and uttered the worst sentence known to a man of his age...
"Oh, you are so nice," she smiled, "you remind me of my dad".
Oh.
This weekend I went to see a band that I hadn't seen in twenty odd years. Pootle and I scanned the room when we arrived, and Pootle deduced quite promptly that we were the youngest in the room. Correct that - she was potentially the youngest in the room. I looked around and noted that I recognised many of the faces ... and alas, they were no longer that young.
It came as quite a shock to me to recognise some of these men and women. They were faces I remembered from the past; they were middle aged drinkers, and old rockers that had once been lovers of pints of Bitter on a friday night at the local pub, and all night ravers on a dark night in an empty field. Now, they were parents...maybe even, grandparents...
Where did that time go? Am I the only who doesn't feel my actual age? If I don't look in the mirror and see the obvious reminder of where I am in my timeline, then I still feel as though I am in my mid twenties.
Seeing and recognising those 40 plus year olds in the bar shocked me, not because they had aged...but because I had aged right alongside them.
Another nail in my coffin was a conversation I had with a young lad this morning. Upon discovering he was just about to turn 21, I had a sharp intake of breath - I was now old enough to be his mum! Just like L had experienced this past week, I was now in a position where this young lad could say, "Oh, you are just like my mum,' then laugh as another wrinkle appeared on my forehead.
So what to do? Should I act like the person in the mirror, or act like the person that is still within? The one who still does like the odd pint of bitter? Who has fond memories of staggering home in the early hours of the morning and still getting up for work three hours later? Or is it time to embrace the next stage in the timeline? Middle aged acceptance...
Dare I say it - but I think the secret bitter drinker in me may just win. I think I'd prefer to stay in my twenties and avoid all mirrors. I am beginning to realise that thinking that we are old is what ages us...not the age itself.
It is, after all, just a number...
They laughed, they talked, they connected... and L had visions of their beautiful future together in front of a warm fire, two labradors and soft furnishings all sewn up in his mind's eye.
However his dream was rudely interrupted, when the young lady in question turned to him and uttered the worst sentence known to a man of his age...
"Oh, you are so nice," she smiled, "you remind me of my dad".
Oh.
This weekend I went to see a band that I hadn't seen in twenty odd years. Pootle and I scanned the room when we arrived, and Pootle deduced quite promptly that we were the youngest in the room. Correct that - she was potentially the youngest in the room. I looked around and noted that I recognised many of the faces ... and alas, they were no longer that young.
It came as quite a shock to me to recognise some of these men and women. They were faces I remembered from the past; they were middle aged drinkers, and old rockers that had once been lovers of pints of Bitter on a friday night at the local pub, and all night ravers on a dark night in an empty field. Now, they were parents...maybe even, grandparents...
Where did that time go? Am I the only who doesn't feel my actual age? If I don't look in the mirror and see the obvious reminder of where I am in my timeline, then I still feel as though I am in my mid twenties.
Seeing and recognising those 40 plus year olds in the bar shocked me, not because they had aged...but because I had aged right alongside them.
Another nail in my coffin was a conversation I had with a young lad this morning. Upon discovering he was just about to turn 21, I had a sharp intake of breath - I was now old enough to be his mum! Just like L had experienced this past week, I was now in a position where this young lad could say, "Oh, you are just like my mum,' then laugh as another wrinkle appeared on my forehead.
So what to do? Should I act like the person in the mirror, or act like the person that is still within? The one who still does like the odd pint of bitter? Who has fond memories of staggering home in the early hours of the morning and still getting up for work three hours later? Or is it time to embrace the next stage in the timeline? Middle aged acceptance...
Dare I say it - but I think the secret bitter drinker in me may just win. I think I'd prefer to stay in my twenties and avoid all mirrors. I am beginning to realise that thinking that we are old is what ages us...not the age itself.
It is, after all, just a number...
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Foot thumping...
Our family pet rabbit is miffed.
Notice how I was very clear to say 'family pet rabbit' - I wouldn't want to give anyone any ideas of any other particular type of rabbit that may be a little annoyed and the connotations of that...
So anyway, annoyed rabbit...pissed off...aggrieved...restless little bunny.
The reason for his dismay is that I purchased today a new hutch for Mr Easter. Over the past year, Mr Easter has slowly but surely chewed his way through his old hutch which consequently left him with more than a draft around his nether regions.
You would think that having a new home would make him happy and delirious with the new opportunity to chew something else for a change and with new hutch walls to hang up his latest pornographic picture of Jessica Rabbit.
Alas, that does not seem to be the case.
He has thumped his foot in annoyance and made his feelings very clear.
"He is glaring at me," Pootle remarked this evening over a cuppa. "He is looking at me, disgusted with this change."
"I don't know why, it is a nicer hutch."
"Hmm...I'm not too sure," she laments still maintaining eye contact with Mr Easter, "after all, he had a two storey pent house before, now he just has a lower floor bedsit."
We both watch Mr Easter as he tests the new cage like the dinosaurs did in Jurassic Park - looking for the weakest link in his prison.
It is true - the new hutch is not the same. With the previous one he did have a bedroom upstairs, space to dance and a room for poo downstairs - it was a much grander hutch - however his old hutch has for a long time been held together with random pieces of wood, and sadly now that winter is drawing closer just won't do.
Isn't it typical however, that now that he has lost his larger house that he is indignant? If only he had realised earlier that had he cared for his old hutch, swept it occasionally, stopped chewing through the beams that it would have lasted so much longer?
A reminder, if we ever needed one, that we don't truly appreciate the things we love and care for until they have gone...and unfortunately for Mr Easter, no amount of foot thumping is ever going to change that.
Notice how I was very clear to say 'family pet rabbit' - I wouldn't want to give anyone any ideas of any other particular type of rabbit that may be a little annoyed and the connotations of that...
So anyway, annoyed rabbit...pissed off...aggrieved...restless little bunny.
The reason for his dismay is that I purchased today a new hutch for Mr Easter. Over the past year, Mr Easter has slowly but surely chewed his way through his old hutch which consequently left him with more than a draft around his nether regions.
You would think that having a new home would make him happy and delirious with the new opportunity to chew something else for a change and with new hutch walls to hang up his latest pornographic picture of Jessica Rabbit.
Alas, that does not seem to be the case.
He has thumped his foot in annoyance and made his feelings very clear.
"He is glaring at me," Pootle remarked this evening over a cuppa. "He is looking at me, disgusted with this change."
"I don't know why, it is a nicer hutch."
"Hmm...I'm not too sure," she laments still maintaining eye contact with Mr Easter, "after all, he had a two storey pent house before, now he just has a lower floor bedsit."
We both watch Mr Easter as he tests the new cage like the dinosaurs did in Jurassic Park - looking for the weakest link in his prison.
It is true - the new hutch is not the same. With the previous one he did have a bedroom upstairs, space to dance and a room for poo downstairs - it was a much grander hutch - however his old hutch has for a long time been held together with random pieces of wood, and sadly now that winter is drawing closer just won't do.
Isn't it typical however, that now that he has lost his larger house that he is indignant? If only he had realised earlier that had he cared for his old hutch, swept it occasionally, stopped chewing through the beams that it would have lasted so much longer?
A reminder, if we ever needed one, that we don't truly appreciate the things we love and care for until they have gone...and unfortunately for Mr Easter, no amount of foot thumping is ever going to change that.
Monday, 22 September 2014
Growing old disgracefully...
Clothes shopping.
It's a f**king conspiracy man, I tell ya.
I feel like I am being forced into middle age clothes now that I am - you know - above the forty line. There are clothes stores for those just below, and those for 50+ but what happened to decent clothes for those who can no longer get away with that teenage look, but are not quite ready to embrace the tweed, pearls or cake hats?
Looking in a well known store today, the best thing I found was a pair of boots - the rest, well, the rest was just too young. It looked like I was trying to be something that I am not.
However whilst I don't mind not being a teenager anymore, I do resent being pushed into a store that produces matching skirts and jacket, with an accompanying flowery blouse...I don't know about you, but I don't want to wear ' a blouse'.
Is this what women have to look forward to? Wool knits, weak bladders and pregnancy horse pee tablets? (Yes, that is what HRT really is I have been reliably informed)
Well, to hell with it. I am making a stand and I refuse to stop wearing my DM's just because it isn't cricket for a 40 year old to do that. If I want to wear tartan, leather or dye my hair pink then I bloody well will. I many not quite embrace my youth, but I am also not ready to be written off quite yet...
I can see it now, come the revolution sister, a sea of middle aged women marching down the street with smiles on their faces, standing against the wall in our FMB's, waving our six inch bra straps and tena slips shouting, "...because we want to!"
Don't let anyone force you into the mould of conformity, come with me and let's grow old disgracefully...
It's a f**king conspiracy man, I tell ya.
I feel like I am being forced into middle age clothes now that I am - you know - above the forty line. There are clothes stores for those just below, and those for 50+ but what happened to decent clothes for those who can no longer get away with that teenage look, but are not quite ready to embrace the tweed, pearls or cake hats?
Looking in a well known store today, the best thing I found was a pair of boots - the rest, well, the rest was just too young. It looked like I was trying to be something that I am not.
However whilst I don't mind not being a teenager anymore, I do resent being pushed into a store that produces matching skirts and jacket, with an accompanying flowery blouse...I don't know about you, but I don't want to wear ' a blouse'.
Is this what women have to look forward to? Wool knits, weak bladders and pregnancy horse pee tablets? (Yes, that is what HRT really is I have been reliably informed)
Well, to hell with it. I am making a stand and I refuse to stop wearing my DM's just because it isn't cricket for a 40 year old to do that. If I want to wear tartan, leather or dye my hair pink then I bloody well will. I many not quite embrace my youth, but I am also not ready to be written off quite yet...
I can see it now, come the revolution sister, a sea of middle aged women marching down the street with smiles on their faces, standing against the wall in our FMB's, waving our six inch bra straps and tena slips shouting, "...because we want to!"
Don't let anyone force you into the mould of conformity, come with me and let's grow old disgracefully...
Monday, 15 September 2014
The pursuit of happiness...
Things have been rather hectic for the crew and I these last few weeks, consequently the blog has been on the back burner even more than usual.
I apologise for this, however sometimes that family commitment must come first and my little family have needed my attention more than ever recently.
We have had lots of changes, but one of the biggest and most noticeable ones are the changes in the three hobbits themselves. They are growing up super fast, so fast that that I am running out of pencil lineage on the kitchen wall.
You know, I am sure I have mentioned this before...but it is pretty damn tough being a parent. Most of it is guess work and bribery, and for those actions I am winning by a mile - however what I am not winning is the parent race itself.
It is true that if we didn't question our motives or behaviour, and always assumed that we were right, then by definition we would make bad parents, but constantly questioning and checking our skills is exhausting. Am I the only one terrified that I am already setting up at least one son for a lifetime of counselling and therapy due to my mistakes or inadequacies?
If I treat them then they expect more than I can give, which is wrong; if I tell them off then I am the worst mother ever; if I refuse then they play the 'I want to go live with daddy card'... It is very hard to know what am I currently getting right.
Blaming everything on hormones seems too much like the easy option.
Oh I apologise for the woe is me blog, because actually we do have so many things to look forward to in the coming months. However sometimes, trying to keep everyone happy and maintaining that happiness is an endless, thankless task...The pursuit of Happiness...it was never this hard for Will Smith...
I apologise for this, however sometimes that family commitment must come first and my little family have needed my attention more than ever recently.
We have had lots of changes, but one of the biggest and most noticeable ones are the changes in the three hobbits themselves. They are growing up super fast, so fast that that I am running out of pencil lineage on the kitchen wall.
You know, I am sure I have mentioned this before...but it is pretty damn tough being a parent. Most of it is guess work and bribery, and for those actions I am winning by a mile - however what I am not winning is the parent race itself.
It is true that if we didn't question our motives or behaviour, and always assumed that we were right, then by definition we would make bad parents, but constantly questioning and checking our skills is exhausting. Am I the only one terrified that I am already setting up at least one son for a lifetime of counselling and therapy due to my mistakes or inadequacies?
If I treat them then they expect more than I can give, which is wrong; if I tell them off then I am the worst mother ever; if I refuse then they play the 'I want to go live with daddy card'... It is very hard to know what am I currently getting right.
Blaming everything on hormones seems too much like the easy option.
Oh I apologise for the woe is me blog, because actually we do have so many things to look forward to in the coming months. However sometimes, trying to keep everyone happy and maintaining that happiness is an endless, thankless task...The pursuit of Happiness...it was never this hard for Will Smith...
Friday, 1 August 2014
The new us...
You may have noticed on my Facebook page and now on the blog that I have a wonderful piece of customised artwork that represents the hobbits and I...
My wonderful friend Jacqui has captured the boys so perfectly in their relevant superhero shirts, and drawn me so incredibly well and kindly that I am considering having the picture blown up to replace the real me.
I just wanted to say a very BIG thank you to you Jacqui and of course promote her Etsy page - she is an excellent artist and you can look at her work by following this link... Jacqui Clark ART
Her work is unique and beautiful, and I am very happy to recommend her...please take a look.
My wonderful friend Jacqui has captured the boys so perfectly in their relevant superhero shirts, and drawn me so incredibly well and kindly that I am considering having the picture blown up to replace the real me.
I just wanted to say a very BIG thank you to you Jacqui and of course promote her Etsy page - she is an excellent artist and you can look at her work by following this link... Jacqui Clark ART
Her work is unique and beautiful, and I am very happy to recommend her...please take a look.
Tuesday, 22 July 2014
The 5 things I hate to do...
Now whilst I love the fact that I am totally independent, there are always going to be things that I groan about having to do alone.
I know that they have to be done and that there is no escaping them, yet they always fill me with dread. They bother me more than I can say.
I am sure that I am not the only one who procrastinates about 'those jobs' around the house; like fixing broken bedroom curtain poles or wobbly chairs, however there are just some jobs in my life that irritate me beyond belief and I will do anything to put them off...
1) Fixing bikes - really? Your tyres need pumping, your brakes are loose and your seat needs replacing? That wasn't in the small print when I signed the form to commit to a house full of boys... where the heck is Grandpa when I need him?
2) Filling the car up with petrol. I surely can't be the only one who hates this job? My car fuel light flashes at me angrily -
'Feed me! Feed me now!'
'Oh sod off, surely you have a few more miles left in you?'
'Nope,' cough, cough splutter, 'Need food - must be fresh!'
It isn't even the paying for petrol that bothers me, it is the whole arse about pulling into a petrol station, blah blah bollocks... it is laziness I know, but also time - I always get in the car to go somewhere, I don't want the inconvenience of having to pull into somewhere, I have places I need to be...
Therefore I feel we need drive through petrol stations or even better, something that Air Force One has when in flight. I could be driving down the motorway when a big tanker pulls up alongside and just tops me up. Sorted!
3) Mowing the lawn. The long grass in my garden taunts me every two weeks. Every two weeks, seriously? My bloody hair doesn't need cutting that often, although it might do if I stood in the rain and sun more frequently. My lawn looks like wild unkempt hair and waves at me,
'Oy, you...stop for a moment and look at my long tresses of unkempt blades of grass...don't I look messy again?'
'I only mowed you last week, you bugger - you need more attention than a newborn!'
'Oh and look, those weeds you dug out last week? They're back too - look!'
To make it worse, my neighbour is obsessed with cutting his lawn - which only seems to make mine gloat even more...
4) Fending off imaginary would be intruders. Unsurprisingly, this a) doesn't happen very often, and b) I truly hate doing this on my own. Doors slamming in the night from the wind can see me sitting in the dark with my heart pounding, clutching my baseball bat ready and mobile, with finger poised over 999 waiting for a potential intruder who may walk in... which of course they never do. However just the potential thought of it makes me feel vulnerable... and unnecessarily angry.
Last but not least, number 5)
Seeing my children leave at the airport for their summer holiday. It is gut wrenching to wave goodbye to them as they leave to spend time with their father. It is the worst thing ever and if I could procrastinate about that - they would never leave my side.
I know that they have to be done and that there is no escaping them, yet they always fill me with dread. They bother me more than I can say.
I am sure that I am not the only one who procrastinates about 'those jobs' around the house; like fixing broken bedroom curtain poles or wobbly chairs, however there are just some jobs in my life that irritate me beyond belief and I will do anything to put them off...
1) Fixing bikes - really? Your tyres need pumping, your brakes are loose and your seat needs replacing? That wasn't in the small print when I signed the form to commit to a house full of boys... where the heck is Grandpa when I need him?
2) Filling the car up with petrol. I surely can't be the only one who hates this job? My car fuel light flashes at me angrily -
'Feed me! Feed me now!'
'Oh sod off, surely you have a few more miles left in you?'
'Nope,' cough, cough splutter, 'Need food - must be fresh!'
It isn't even the paying for petrol that bothers me, it is the whole arse about pulling into a petrol station, blah blah bollocks... it is laziness I know, but also time - I always get in the car to go somewhere, I don't want the inconvenience of having to pull into somewhere, I have places I need to be...
Therefore I feel we need drive through petrol stations or even better, something that Air Force One has when in flight. I could be driving down the motorway when a big tanker pulls up alongside and just tops me up. Sorted!
3) Mowing the lawn. The long grass in my garden taunts me every two weeks. Every two weeks, seriously? My bloody hair doesn't need cutting that often, although it might do if I stood in the rain and sun more frequently. My lawn looks like wild unkempt hair and waves at me,
'Oy, you...stop for a moment and look at my long tresses of unkempt blades of grass...don't I look messy again?'
'I only mowed you last week, you bugger - you need more attention than a newborn!'
'Oh and look, those weeds you dug out last week? They're back too - look!'
To make it worse, my neighbour is obsessed with cutting his lawn - which only seems to make mine gloat even more...
4) Fending off imaginary would be intruders. Unsurprisingly, this a) doesn't happen very often, and b) I truly hate doing this on my own. Doors slamming in the night from the wind can see me sitting in the dark with my heart pounding, clutching my baseball bat ready and mobile, with finger poised over 999 waiting for a potential intruder who may walk in... which of course they never do. However just the potential thought of it makes me feel vulnerable... and unnecessarily angry.
Last but not least, number 5)
Seeing my children leave at the airport for their summer holiday. It is gut wrenching to wave goodbye to them as they leave to spend time with their father. It is the worst thing ever and if I could procrastinate about that - they would never leave my side.
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
So long and thanks for the salad cream...
I am in love.
It has finally arrived...and it is a beautiful thing.
Oh alright not quite in love but certainly an element of lust. The feelings sneaked up on me a little bit when I wasn't really paying them any notice. Today however, I realise I am in lust with the man who works in the local supermarket.
Don't worry Dad, he is not permanent relationship material, but he is quite cute and is certainly worth popping in to the local supermarket for; to while away the hours while I take a sneaky peek at him through the freshly made (on premises) baguettes and to admire his muscular physique as he replenishes the low milk stocks with ease.
We have spoken on many occasions my supermarket man and I, as he has commented on my excellent choice of fresh fruit, suggested items from the deli and we have even had that relationship seal making debate on the virtues of Salad cream Vs Mayonnaise...
*sigh*
I have come to the very satisfactory conclusion that I absolutely love being single, however there is the odd occasion when one's eye wanders a little bit and a little lustful demon pops up to say hello.
Pootle agrees with me...she has a lustful demon too and watches road workers from the safety line of her injunction limits.
"Just ask him out for a drink," She tells me boldly.
"Oh yes, can you imagine the silence that will ensue after that...'Fancy a drink?' Long pause followed by tumbleweed flowing down the aisle."
"Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't be that brave either."
It is a shame really, that even in these modern times that we feel embarrassed to ask. After all, what harm is there? I would feel flattered if someone asked me, it is nice to feel attractive to someone else...well, unless he was from the Manson Family...regardless of whether you say yes or no.
So alas I will go back to watching, as being so brave as to ask someone for a drink is not in my forte. I will watch him from afar whilst he stocks shelves, rips cardboard boxes with aplomb and hopefully one day we will laugh over Salad Cream again...
It has finally arrived...and it is a beautiful thing.
Oh alright not quite in love but certainly an element of lust. The feelings sneaked up on me a little bit when I wasn't really paying them any notice. Today however, I realise I am in lust with the man who works in the local supermarket.
Don't worry Dad, he is not permanent relationship material, but he is quite cute and is certainly worth popping in to the local supermarket for; to while away the hours while I take a sneaky peek at him through the freshly made (on premises) baguettes and to admire his muscular physique as he replenishes the low milk stocks with ease.
We have spoken on many occasions my supermarket man and I, as he has commented on my excellent choice of fresh fruit, suggested items from the deli and we have even had that relationship seal making debate on the virtues of Salad cream Vs Mayonnaise...
*sigh*
I have come to the very satisfactory conclusion that I absolutely love being single, however there is the odd occasion when one's eye wanders a little bit and a little lustful demon pops up to say hello.
Pootle agrees with me...she has a lustful demon too and watches road workers from the safety line of her injunction limits.
"Just ask him out for a drink," She tells me boldly.
"Oh yes, can you imagine the silence that will ensue after that...'Fancy a drink?' Long pause followed by tumbleweed flowing down the aisle."
"Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't be that brave either."
It is a shame really, that even in these modern times that we feel embarrassed to ask. After all, what harm is there? I would feel flattered if someone asked me, it is nice to feel attractive to someone else...well, unless he was from the Manson Family...regardless of whether you say yes or no.
So alas I will go back to watching, as being so brave as to ask someone for a drink is not in my forte. I will watch him from afar whilst he stocks shelves, rips cardboard boxes with aplomb and hopefully one day we will laugh over Salad Cream again...
Saturday, 28 June 2014
The end of an era...
So today the end of an era arrived...
There were no dramatic exits, no traumatic goodbyes or slamming of doors even ... there were however a few tears shed.
My bestie Pootle moved today.
Not just from one side of a room to another, but for now, a whole 3 miles away.
I can no longer run across the road in my onesie after the kids have fallen asleep for a quick G&T. There is no point, from now on, in nipping over whenever I run out of Spaghetti, eggs or ham, (she was my one stop Londis), and no longer will I arrive after a busy day at work, see her car and pop into her house for the pair of us to de-stress over a cuppa and a Rich Tea biscuit.
She has, rightly so, upped sticks and changed location. Having bought a new house and decided on that next adventure in her life. She will soon be within walking distance again...but never as close as we have been for the last three years.
I wish my beloved bestie a wonderful new life in her new home when it is ready. A change is as good as a rest they say, and I firmly believe that she has made the right decision. However allow me to indulge myself here when I say I arrived home this afternoon, and realised completely and fully that she had gone.
I had a good cry...then with a cuddle from a hobbit, felt mildly improved.
You see Pootle and I have already seen each other through so much and we have lived in each other's pockets for the best part of three years. We have shared the strains of raising children alone, the stress of dealing with ex and new relationships, financial worries, fun, motivational speeches, outrageously re-enacted music videos, drunken nights...and laughter....so much laughter. I can honestly say I couldn't have got through the last two and half years without her.
However now it is her turn to do something new; to try out a different path and I couldn't be happier for her. Nothing stays the same, we would stagnate if we did...but what I have realised this evening is how much we have helped each other to develop into the people we are today. We have given each other confidence, and believed that the other person could. Restored some of the faith and un-done some of the damage.
She is my best buddy, my soulmate and my favourite Gin and Tonic maker....rare commodities to find all in one person.
I am her biggest fan.
Good luck Pootle...the sequel is gonna be amazeballs!!!
There were no dramatic exits, no traumatic goodbyes or slamming of doors even ... there were however a few tears shed.
My bestie Pootle moved today.
Not just from one side of a room to another, but for now, a whole 3 miles away.
I can no longer run across the road in my onesie after the kids have fallen asleep for a quick G&T. There is no point, from now on, in nipping over whenever I run out of Spaghetti, eggs or ham, (she was my one stop Londis), and no longer will I arrive after a busy day at work, see her car and pop into her house for the pair of us to de-stress over a cuppa and a Rich Tea biscuit.
She has, rightly so, upped sticks and changed location. Having bought a new house and decided on that next adventure in her life. She will soon be within walking distance again...but never as close as we have been for the last three years.
I wish my beloved bestie a wonderful new life in her new home when it is ready. A change is as good as a rest they say, and I firmly believe that she has made the right decision. However allow me to indulge myself here when I say I arrived home this afternoon, and realised completely and fully that she had gone.
I had a good cry...then with a cuddle from a hobbit, felt mildly improved.
You see Pootle and I have already seen each other through so much and we have lived in each other's pockets for the best part of three years. We have shared the strains of raising children alone, the stress of dealing with ex and new relationships, financial worries, fun, motivational speeches, outrageously re-enacted music videos, drunken nights...and laughter....so much laughter. I can honestly say I couldn't have got through the last two and half years without her.
However now it is her turn to do something new; to try out a different path and I couldn't be happier for her. Nothing stays the same, we would stagnate if we did...but what I have realised this evening is how much we have helped each other to develop into the people we are today. We have given each other confidence, and believed that the other person could. Restored some of the faith and un-done some of the damage.
She is my best buddy, my soulmate and my favourite Gin and Tonic maker....rare commodities to find all in one person.
I am her biggest fan.
Good luck Pootle...the sequel is gonna be amazeballs!!!
Saturday, 17 May 2014
Thank God, for Homemade Pizza...
I have been asked by two different people this week, as to whether or not I am still blogging.
The shortest answer is yes. Yes, I am.
However, I have been concentrating so very hard on the book these past few months that thoughts about blogging about my everyday life has fallen down the side of the sofa. Nevertheless, keen as I am to make people happy and to at least attempt to please the two people who had the grace to mention the blog, here I am today.
So, if you want someone to blame - I can provide their email details at a later stage.
I have to confess, I thought (past tense), that I was a fairly cool mum. I didn't expect to get down with every nuance that my children were going through or indeed liked, as I would rather watch paint dry than listen to One Direction but I do at least know who they are. However, I thought I was pretty much up with the times and was ready with fantastic knowledge that would make my children say with a wink and a smile, "She's got it, our mum's a dude."
Alas with a rude awakening I have discovered that this is not the case. I am 'Embarrassing Mum'.
My son had a school disco yesterday. I lovingly ironed, yes FFS, a pair of fab, khaki green, combat trousers that I considered my son would adore. I imagined he would come home and see them lying on the bed, and simply turn to me and say;
"You are amazing Mum. God, they are so cool, how did you get to be that cool?"
I would, of course, have shrugged off the compliment with cool nonchalance, while inside screaming 'Get in girl."
Unfortunately, things didn't go quite to plan.
"What's that on my bed?" Says a grumpy faced Spider-Man.
"Green combats, aren't they fab?"
"Err, no." Followed by a face full of disgust.
"Oh."
"Why are they on my bed?" And my 9 year old Gok Wan tosses them to the floor with a flick of his duvet.
"I thought you might like to wear them tonight?" I say hastily picking them back up again.
"Err, I don't think so. I'm wearing the red ones."
"What?!?! They are old and faded, and horrid."
Thus started an argument that most of the street must have heard. I wanted him to wear the smart trousers, so that he could woo the girls at the local disco and look a dude, where he wanted to wear the same bloody red jeans he always wears which look like they have been washed and beaten on the rocks in a local stream.
We argued for at least ten minutes between doing other things. He steadfastly refused and I found myself between a rock and hard place. Much like where the jeans had been.
Eventually I sent a photo of him in each pair to a good friend and asked his advice. Spiderman and I agreed that whatever the friend went for, then that would be the winner. I secretly felt that I was in a good place, after all - I knew, I was the cool one. What did Gok know?
A few minutes later my friend texted back, "Red. Defo. They say, 'Seduce with a diet-coke.'"
"Yes!!" Shouted Spiderman, punching the air with his fist.
I had to accept defeat. However it wasn't just the defeat that mortified me, it was also the total realisation that I am out of touch with what 9 year old boys want to wear - what they feel is cool.
Thankfully I am not the only one. Pootle is feeling much the same, and confirmed my suspicions that we are not the hip kids we thought we were.
"I had exactly the same conversation with mine," She lamented to me over tea and sympathy this morning. "Yesterday, I chose a fab pair of denim shorts but mine wanted to buy a pair of torn off jogging bottoms! I ask you! They looked like something I had dug out of the bin. I flatly refused of course, but you'd think I'd bought him an orange tank top with his reaction!"
I couldn't help but laugh, "God, what has happened? I know I am not a big clothes shopper, but I thought I had a bit of an idea."
"I know. Trouble is they are 9. They are balanced on a precipice of being a young child and then just over the cliff is a young man who is starting to think about how they look." She continued, "The funny thing is, we had this big row yesterday about it, then this morning he walks out in bright green shorts, bright green trainers and a pink t-shirt singing the Frozen soundtrack." She laughed at the memory, "They are still little boys who want their mums, but then every so often, this young man rears its head and says, 'No, I feel the grunge-look is more my style'."
"The disco itself was an eye opener too - when I said "goodbye and have fun', he just looked at me as though I had suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world. 'Whatever, mum'."
...and thus it starts...the beginning of the pre-teenage years. The start of total defiance, annoyance, and they know it all scenarios...
Serves me right for raising boys with their own minds.
The good news is we haven't quite completed the transformation. They still squeal with excitement at the thought of homemade pizza and want cuddles on the sofa. Alas, I'm just going to have to brave out the next few years, and I suspect it won't be long before I start going to them for advice about what to wear.
The shortest answer is yes. Yes, I am.
However, I have been concentrating so very hard on the book these past few months that thoughts about blogging about my everyday life has fallen down the side of the sofa. Nevertheless, keen as I am to make people happy and to at least attempt to please the two people who had the grace to mention the blog, here I am today.
So, if you want someone to blame - I can provide their email details at a later stage.
I have to confess, I thought (past tense), that I was a fairly cool mum. I didn't expect to get down with every nuance that my children were going through or indeed liked, as I would rather watch paint dry than listen to One Direction but I do at least know who they are. However, I thought I was pretty much up with the times and was ready with fantastic knowledge that would make my children say with a wink and a smile, "She's got it, our mum's a dude."
Alas with a rude awakening I have discovered that this is not the case. I am 'Embarrassing Mum'.
My son had a school disco yesterday. I lovingly ironed, yes FFS, a pair of fab, khaki green, combat trousers that I considered my son would adore. I imagined he would come home and see them lying on the bed, and simply turn to me and say;
"You are amazing Mum. God, they are so cool, how did you get to be that cool?"
I would, of course, have shrugged off the compliment with cool nonchalance, while inside screaming 'Get in girl."
Unfortunately, things didn't go quite to plan.
"What's that on my bed?" Says a grumpy faced Spider-Man.
"Green combats, aren't they fab?"
"Err, no." Followed by a face full of disgust.
"Oh."
"Why are they on my bed?" And my 9 year old Gok Wan tosses them to the floor with a flick of his duvet.
"I thought you might like to wear them tonight?" I say hastily picking them back up again.
"Err, I don't think so. I'm wearing the red ones."
"What?!?! They are old and faded, and horrid."
Thus started an argument that most of the street must have heard. I wanted him to wear the smart trousers, so that he could woo the girls at the local disco and look a dude, where he wanted to wear the same bloody red jeans he always wears which look like they have been washed and beaten on the rocks in a local stream.
We argued for at least ten minutes between doing other things. He steadfastly refused and I found myself between a rock and hard place. Much like where the jeans had been.
Eventually I sent a photo of him in each pair to a good friend and asked his advice. Spiderman and I agreed that whatever the friend went for, then that would be the winner. I secretly felt that I was in a good place, after all - I knew, I was the cool one. What did Gok know?
A few minutes later my friend texted back, "Red. Defo. They say, 'Seduce with a diet-coke.'"
"Yes!!" Shouted Spiderman, punching the air with his fist.
I had to accept defeat. However it wasn't just the defeat that mortified me, it was also the total realisation that I am out of touch with what 9 year old boys want to wear - what they feel is cool.
Thankfully I am not the only one. Pootle is feeling much the same, and confirmed my suspicions that we are not the hip kids we thought we were.
"I had exactly the same conversation with mine," She lamented to me over tea and sympathy this morning. "Yesterday, I chose a fab pair of denim shorts but mine wanted to buy a pair of torn off jogging bottoms! I ask you! They looked like something I had dug out of the bin. I flatly refused of course, but you'd think I'd bought him an orange tank top with his reaction!"
I couldn't help but laugh, "God, what has happened? I know I am not a big clothes shopper, but I thought I had a bit of an idea."
"I know. Trouble is they are 9. They are balanced on a precipice of being a young child and then just over the cliff is a young man who is starting to think about how they look." She continued, "The funny thing is, we had this big row yesterday about it, then this morning he walks out in bright green shorts, bright green trainers and a pink t-shirt singing the Frozen soundtrack." She laughed at the memory, "They are still little boys who want their mums, but then every so often, this young man rears its head and says, 'No, I feel the grunge-look is more my style'."
"The disco itself was an eye opener too - when I said "goodbye and have fun', he just looked at me as though I had suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world. 'Whatever, mum'."
...and thus it starts...the beginning of the pre-teenage years. The start of total defiance, annoyance, and they know it all scenarios...
Serves me right for raising boys with their own minds.
The good news is we haven't quite completed the transformation. They still squeal with excitement at the thought of homemade pizza and want cuddles on the sofa. Alas, I'm just going to have to brave out the next few years, and I suspect it won't be long before I start going to them for advice about what to wear.
Thursday, 10 April 2014
Understanding friends...
Sometimes there are occasions in my life where winning the epic title of Mother of the Year award is so far beyond my reach that I should have been born a male...
This week is the first week of the Easter Holidays. This always brings on a test of any parenting skills, but the fact that I started low means that my expectations are not high for the rest of the two weeks.
Our first weekend started with a lazy sunday. We woke up late and I made them a large breakfast. So far so good. This breakfast was so large that I expected to see three young contented boys with swollen bellies lying on the sofa, passing the following hour away dreamily whilst being educated by The Disney Channel.
A proper sunday breakfast therefore you would think, would be followed much later by a proper sunday dinner. Alas it all went downhill from there. The laziness of the day meant that the hobbits ate a Fab ice cream and a packet of Fruit-Tella for lunch and sausage sandwiches for tea. I just couldn't be bothered.
There are days when trying to think of something that combines both a healthy and nutritious balance is completely beyond me, and this was definitely one of those days. To be fair, we didn't quite resort to a McRoast...but it wasn't that far off from a very poor meal.
So, Monday. Fresh start. I was at work and the hobbits were being shipped off, sorry cared for, at a new childcare group. This was their first time as the previous one they had been to was now closed, (Nothing to do with us - honest) and they were going for the whole day.
When I arrived there were other children clambering forward to get onto the bus that would take them to the club, and my three shuffled forward slowly. It was then that I noticed that every other child had a bag on their back. Hmmm, was I supposed to be sending spare clothes in? Were they going swimming? Had I missed an email?
I asked a fellow parent, "Sorry, but can I ask? Was I supposed to be sending in something extra? Spare clothes?"
She looked at me and smiled. She was with two young boys, who looked far smarter than my three, who looked they'd just rolled out of bed into their clothes that they'd left lying on the floor the night before. She really was a super mum.
"Oh, my boys are there for the day. This is their lunch."
I felt myself go a little lightheaded. "Lunch? Was I supposed to send lunch?" I looked panicked at the driver of the minibus who just looked back at me.
"Only if you haven't paid for lunch." Said the mother who my children were now looking longingly at as a potential replacement for their own.
I gulped and looked again at the driver, "I didn't pay for lunch, and I haven't got them any lunch." I said slowly.
Within a few moments we managed to resolve it and the driver reassured me that there was a kitchen at the group, and that the hobbits would indeed eat that day. A part of me was tempted to slip him a tenner and ask him to pop into the garage on the way, however something his voice suggested that wouldn't go down well.
So after saying my goodbyes and driving off, I reflected on the fact that I am a bloody disorganised mother who sent her children off somewhere for 8 hours WITHOUT FOOD! What sort of mother does that? Thankfully hobbits were fed, and no harm was done, however I often wonder how my children do not despair of me and are not more prepared, and make sure they tuck biscuits in their pockets.
My friends were understanding. They also reminded me that until recently the previous childcare club had provided lunch, so that it wasn't such a terrible assumption to make that the new one would do the same. They didn't scold me for being useless and disorganised.
Nevertheless, two days later another friend's son came for the day whilst she herself went to work. They arrived nice and early, cheerful and with scooters for a morning to be spent at the park. Her son would be spending the majority of the day with us and my eldest was looking forward to it.
"I hope he behaves himself," she said as she walked down the path back to her car, "Oh and by the way," she turned back with a smile. "I brought some biscuits for them to share and his lunch...you know, just in case."
Yeah - my friends understand.
This week is the first week of the Easter Holidays. This always brings on a test of any parenting skills, but the fact that I started low means that my expectations are not high for the rest of the two weeks.
Our first weekend started with a lazy sunday. We woke up late and I made them a large breakfast. So far so good. This breakfast was so large that I expected to see three young contented boys with swollen bellies lying on the sofa, passing the following hour away dreamily whilst being educated by The Disney Channel.
A proper sunday breakfast therefore you would think, would be followed much later by a proper sunday dinner. Alas it all went downhill from there. The laziness of the day meant that the hobbits ate a Fab ice cream and a packet of Fruit-Tella for lunch and sausage sandwiches for tea. I just couldn't be bothered.
There are days when trying to think of something that combines both a healthy and nutritious balance is completely beyond me, and this was definitely one of those days. To be fair, we didn't quite resort to a McRoast...but it wasn't that far off from a very poor meal.
So, Monday. Fresh start. I was at work and the hobbits were being shipped off, sorry cared for, at a new childcare group. This was their first time as the previous one they had been to was now closed, (Nothing to do with us - honest) and they were going for the whole day.
When I arrived there were other children clambering forward to get onto the bus that would take them to the club, and my three shuffled forward slowly. It was then that I noticed that every other child had a bag on their back. Hmmm, was I supposed to be sending spare clothes in? Were they going swimming? Had I missed an email?
I asked a fellow parent, "Sorry, but can I ask? Was I supposed to be sending in something extra? Spare clothes?"
She looked at me and smiled. She was with two young boys, who looked far smarter than my three, who looked they'd just rolled out of bed into their clothes that they'd left lying on the floor the night before. She really was a super mum.
"Oh, my boys are there for the day. This is their lunch."
I felt myself go a little lightheaded. "Lunch? Was I supposed to send lunch?" I looked panicked at the driver of the minibus who just looked back at me.
"Only if you haven't paid for lunch." Said the mother who my children were now looking longingly at as a potential replacement for their own.
I gulped and looked again at the driver, "I didn't pay for lunch, and I haven't got them any lunch." I said slowly.
Within a few moments we managed to resolve it and the driver reassured me that there was a kitchen at the group, and that the hobbits would indeed eat that day. A part of me was tempted to slip him a tenner and ask him to pop into the garage on the way, however something his voice suggested that wouldn't go down well.
So after saying my goodbyes and driving off, I reflected on the fact that I am a bloody disorganised mother who sent her children off somewhere for 8 hours WITHOUT FOOD! What sort of mother does that? Thankfully hobbits were fed, and no harm was done, however I often wonder how my children do not despair of me and are not more prepared, and make sure they tuck biscuits in their pockets.
My friends were understanding. They also reminded me that until recently the previous childcare club had provided lunch, so that it wasn't such a terrible assumption to make that the new one would do the same. They didn't scold me for being useless and disorganised.
Nevertheless, two days later another friend's son came for the day whilst she herself went to work. They arrived nice and early, cheerful and with scooters for a morning to be spent at the park. Her son would be spending the majority of the day with us and my eldest was looking forward to it.
"I hope he behaves himself," she said as she walked down the path back to her car, "Oh and by the way," she turned back with a smile. "I brought some biscuits for them to share and his lunch...you know, just in case."
Yeah - my friends understand.
Wednesday, 2 April 2014
How to...
...procrastinate about writing a book...
1) Open computer and attempt to stare at the book in a reasonably intelligent and positive way, that suggests you know what you are doing...i.e. blag.
2) Write down the idea that has been swilling around in your head for the past few days in a random chapter...You have no idea where to put it, but it sounds good - for now.
3) Go back to the first chapter and plead with it to tell you which first chapter version is better...you then realise that perhaps a combination of all three of the current versions could potentially be better and therefore there is now a fourth option.
4) Put Billy Ocean, Red Light Spells Danger on and dance around the kitchen like a woman possessed pretending you're an extra in a Hollywood Blockbuster about single women...
5) Agree with oneself that you need to go back to old fashioned methods for inspiration and rush out to buy really nice writing paper...get home, don't want to deface really nice lined writing paper and just look at it.
6) Make pot noodle and pretend to look through chapters in a effort to remain optimistic about the fact that you have written 'a book'.
7) Search deep within your soul for inspiration and find only an urge for a chocolate digestive...
8) Take a break and check out Facebook...repeat this throughout.
9) Write blog about procrastinating, in order to justify said procrastination...
10) Realise the time wasted today and go pick up kids from school...
1) Open computer and attempt to stare at the book in a reasonably intelligent and positive way, that suggests you know what you are doing...i.e. blag.
2) Write down the idea that has been swilling around in your head for the past few days in a random chapter...You have no idea where to put it, but it sounds good - for now.
3) Go back to the first chapter and plead with it to tell you which first chapter version is better...you then realise that perhaps a combination of all three of the current versions could potentially be better and therefore there is now a fourth option.
4) Put Billy Ocean, Red Light Spells Danger on and dance around the kitchen like a woman possessed pretending you're an extra in a Hollywood Blockbuster about single women...
5) Agree with oneself that you need to go back to old fashioned methods for inspiration and rush out to buy really nice writing paper...get home, don't want to deface really nice lined writing paper and just look at it.
6) Make pot noodle and pretend to look through chapters in a effort to remain optimistic about the fact that you have written 'a book'.
7) Search deep within your soul for inspiration and find only an urge for a chocolate digestive...
8) Take a break and check out Facebook...repeat this throughout.
9) Write blog about procrastinating, in order to justify said procrastination...
10) Realise the time wasted today and go pick up kids from school...
Friday, 21 March 2014
In memory of a Gentle Giant...
Welcome to the first day of Spring......'tis good ya?
Certainly for me it feels as though it was a welcome relief. To know that Winter is behind us for now, and that hopefully Summer is just around the corner.
The last month for our family has been difficult, with the loss of someone very close to us who we miss greatly. My gentle giant of a Godfather sadly passed away a few weeks ago and this week we all attended his well supported funeral.
I find funerals all rather a bit odd. There you are meeting all these people who cared, loved and laughed with someone that you loved too. They all know him in one way or another, and yet the majority of the people have never met before. It also feels as though the person passing has missed out on the greatest celebration of their years...their life.
I believe that funerals should be done before someone dies. So you really get to say goodbye and swap photos, stories & memories. So the person who is dying really has a chance to see how much we love them. I spend the whole time thinking; I wish they could see this.
I am lucky. I have an extensive amount of memories that I share about my Godfather. I can talk to my children about him with warmth, with tears, with humour and his legacy will continue to go on.
He would have loved this weather. He was always out in his garden, watching the birds and walking his dogs. So it seems fitting that the week of his funeral saw the first day of Spring.
So to my Godfather this week, Goodbye and Thank you. I am honoured to have been a part of your life.
Certainly for me it feels as though it was a welcome relief. To know that Winter is behind us for now, and that hopefully Summer is just around the corner.
The last month for our family has been difficult, with the loss of someone very close to us who we miss greatly. My gentle giant of a Godfather sadly passed away a few weeks ago and this week we all attended his well supported funeral.
I find funerals all rather a bit odd. There you are meeting all these people who cared, loved and laughed with someone that you loved too. They all know him in one way or another, and yet the majority of the people have never met before. It also feels as though the person passing has missed out on the greatest celebration of their years...their life.
I believe that funerals should be done before someone dies. So you really get to say goodbye and swap photos, stories & memories. So the person who is dying really has a chance to see how much we love them. I spend the whole time thinking; I wish they could see this.
I am lucky. I have an extensive amount of memories that I share about my Godfather. I can talk to my children about him with warmth, with tears, with humour and his legacy will continue to go on.
He would have loved this weather. He was always out in his garden, watching the birds and walking his dogs. So it seems fitting that the week of his funeral saw the first day of Spring.
So to my Godfather this week, Goodbye and Thank you. I am honoured to have been a part of your life.
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