tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62004734946824203802024-02-20T08:30:19.803+00:00Write Or Wrong I'm Doing It Anyway.When you look at the world, what do you see?Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.comBlogger160125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-5522680605505090342019-11-10T15:19:00.080+00:002023-04-26T16:14:18.779+01:00An imperfect ending...<p>**The original "ending" to this story was written when things were very raw. And although it still exists on the internet, it lurks behind this post, unreadable to the general public (and more importantly, my kids). But I don't like loose ends. And those books and stories that don't have a proper ending frustrate me, and I wouldn't want to do that to anyone who has stumbled across this blog. So here we go...**</p><p>One of the harshest lessons a kid must learn is that their parents aren't perfect.</p><p>In fact, this is just one of the two main truths of life that we must come to learn of ourselves. </p><p>The first is that we will die. Accepting our mortality (if you're lucky and not in an accident or somehow realise it sooner) comes through middle age. It sort of creeps up on you and before you know it, you're a bloke in lycra on a bike, or a woman with a face full of Botox, both panicking that you're the wrong side of forty and haven't got your shit together yet.</p><p>The second truth is that you WILL make mistakes and you WILL have regrets.</p><p>But if the natural order has progressed as it should, before you accept these truths of yourself, you must first accept them of your parents.</p><p>Accepting that one day your parents will die is hard, but often far more hurtful is accepting that they also make mistakes. </p><p>To protect them from the sudden shock of "hang on, my parents aren't always right", I have always tried to show my kids my flaws. I am honest about my mistakes daily.</p><p>The end of this story was brutal. But there are also shades of grey, light and dark, frustration, and a whole lot of love throughout the whole thing. </p><p>And despite how monumentally devastating the finale was, I wouldn't change any of it. </p><p>I want my children to understand that. </p><p>And when they eventually hear what happened (as no doubt one day they will), I want them to know and understand that no one is ever perfect. And they'll come to accept that of themselves too, just as me and their dad have. There may be no excuse for some behaviour, but people make mistakes for their own reasons, and you can't always know why.</p><p>But what they can know, must know, is that while they cannot control others behaviour, and cannot control or undo things that happened in the past, they CAN control their response to it. And if they always chose love, as I have endeavoured to do, they will always have made the right choice. </p><p>THE END</p>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-67493405115221714142012-12-10T20:06:00.000+00:002012-12-10T20:06:29.290+00:00Mad-vent Calendar<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, Christmas is coming. And I don’t just know that because
the kids extend their Christmas list during every ad break from Peppa Pig
(there is now not a single thing they don’t want for Christmas. In fact, last
week Son Two told me he wanted the plane from the Cilit Bang advert, and I didn’t
have the heart to tell him that Christmas lists are kind of limited to things
he can find in the Argos book, why shatter his dreams?), or because I have heard “Last Christmas” three
times a day on the radio for the past three weeks (and how is it that I never
tire of it?). No, there are certain things that, for me at least, mark the
beginning of advent far more meaningfully than opening a little cardboard door
on a Power Rangers calendar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Firstly, my list making begins to snowball. I love lists
anyway, but as Christmas draws ever nearer the number of lists begins to
multiply, present lists, food lists, to do lists, to buy lists, costing lists…
In fact my Christmas list making begins in September, when it feels like I have
all the time in the world to create a Good Housekeeping worthy Christmas.
September lists are full of gorgeously twee ideas, things that I think the kids
will really appreciate and show people how much I care: <i>hand
make all presents this year</i>, <i>order
polystyrene balls to make funky tree baubles, talk to butcher re: free range
turkey</i> (incidentally I have never talked to a butcher in my life, unless
you count being chatted up in a bar by some guy who works behind the deli
counter in Asda, but it seemed like the kind of thing Kirstie Alsopp would do),
<i>felt for calendars.</i> You get the idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, in November, when I still haven’t managed to tick
anything off my September lists, I make a new list, still with the twee ideas,
but now fashioned in clipped demands, with added exclamation marks for emphasis
on importance: <i>make presents!!!, card
blanks!!!, balls!!!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we get to mid December, where we are now, and this is
when I truly know the festive season is upon us. Because it suddenly dawns on
me that I have wildly over estimated the amount of time I have available for
all the wholesome stuff that I wanted to do (I don’t have enough time in a
normal day to get everything normal done, so on what planet exactly was I on
when I thought I could crank out one hundred and fifty handmade cards and
matching envelopes?) So things start to slide. In the case of Christmas cards
for example, September list: <i>hand make
all Christmas cards</i>, (Christmas list making is suspended in October due to the multitude of Halloween lists) November list: <i>buy
and write all shop bought Christmas cards</i>, December
list: <i>write cards back to people who have
given one to me</i>, Mid December list: <i>Dispense
with cards all together and plan a nice Christmas day Facebook status
apologising for lack of Christmas cards (say it was an eco friendly decision or
some other lame excuse) but wishing good will and glad tidings on everyone I
know</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gone also by this time are the other gorgeous but equally
insane festive plans. <i>Talk to butcher </i> becomes <i>go
to Tesco two days before Christmas, pick up a frozen Bernard Matthews and curse
the damn things for taking up precious fridge space for the next three days as
it defrosts</i>. <i>Make all Christmas presents</i>
becomes <i>ask everyone what books they want
from my free bookshop </i>and <i>make own
baubles </i> turns into <i>pull out the remaining dented three baubles
that survived last years month long Bauble Footy Tournament courtesy of Sons
One and Two.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other reason why I know Christmas is upon us is that I
am absolutely knackered. I have no idea whose idea it was to call Christmas a “holiday”
because it is anything but. I feel exhausted, I look exhausted, I have a cold
sore, and I am forever sitting bolt upright in the night shouting “school play
tickets!” and scribbling things down on my list which I don’t understand the
next day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day I made 71 mince pies for my bakery business,
and a fondant Santa cake for Son One’s Christmas Fayre (yet again no bloody
certificate for “Best Cake”, when will I learn?), I then realised in sheer
panic at 6pm that I had exactly one hour before I was due to leave for my NCT Christmas
Dinner and I had to have handed in Son One’s nativity king costume by the
following morning. So I went to Tesco, fully prepared to do battle with the
other harassed and exhausted “bad mummies” over the last king costume, only to
be met with a stripped bare display, the only things left a lame sheep and a
suspiciously satiny and bejewelled Mary dress (do we think Mary really had
sequins sewn to the waistband of her shiny dress?). I ended up buying a Tesco
Value hand towel and manically sewing it onto a red fleece I had in the loft to
make an ermine cape (I learned my lesson last year, when my “cleverly
constructed costume” consisted of a purple towel with glued on cotton wool and
black felt to make the ermine, after a number of school rehearsals the cotton
wool had all but fell off and during the actual show poor old Son One was left
desperately clinging onto the last remaining strands of it, adversely affecting
his arm movements during the performance of “Little Donkey”), in amongst a days
worth of washing up and Expensive Cat repeatedly leaping for the spool of
cotton. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But just as I was rushing out the door to have the first of
many rather badly cooked pub Christmas dinners with friends I wish I had seen
more during the year, I kissed Son One on the head good night and he looked up
at me and said “You do work really very hard for us Mummy. But you do make us
lovely things.” Bugger, he would really have appreciated those handmade
Christmas balls. Well there’s always next year (and that goes for the ever
elusive “Best Cake” certificate too).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-24960614367707952182012-12-03T16:24:00.000+00:002012-12-03T16:24:37.177+00:00Social Hand Grenade<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like to consider myself a fairly
social person and have been lucky enough to meet lots of different kinds of
people over the years. I never tire of meeting new people, and there are always
new opportunities to strike up new friendships. This year in particular has
been full of meeting new people and starting new friendships, often without the
safety net of having my kids around to blame for any social blunders I make,
and that has given me ample opportunity to research how people interact with
each other for the first time (oh, the things I do for you, dear readers). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In general, most people are pretty
much the same, we all want to be liked and we all want to get on, and a lot of
us are quite similar in how we approach a new friendship and how we go about
interacting with people we don’t know. There are generally accepted ways of
behaving. But meeting new people can be awkward and throw unexpected
curveballs, because actually everyone is different, and occasionally someone
comes along who doesn’t quite stick to the rules, leaving the rest of us to pick
up the social slack </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Over Friendly Over Sharer</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am putting this one first
because this is me. I am the person who will, within five minutes of making
your acquaintance, discuss something others would consider highly inappropriate
eg, the toileting habits of my children (sometimes even my own), religion,
politics and money, I hug people on first meeting (see my posts on <a href="http://writeorwrongdoingitanyway.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/social-kissing-minefield.html">Social Kissing</a> and <a href="http://writeorwrongdoingitanyway.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/toppers-samers-downers-and-oversharers.html">over sharing</a>), often getting a stiff as a board “we’re not quite there yet”
response. My over friendly, over sharey ways come from an inner discomfort, I
want to be comfortable myself and get to that level of ease with someone
quickly, completely bypassing the awkward “don’t really know you so I’m on my
best behaviour” stages. But more importantly, I want others to feel comfortable
in my presence and want them to know early on that it’s ok for them to be themselves
around me, and that I am not going to judge them if they accidentally say the wrong
thing or a fart slips out (in fact, I often wish we lived in a world where
bodily functions were are relaxed as they are to kids, obliviously wandering
around with farts and burps falling out of them in an entirely uncontrolled
manner (if you have ever been sitting in a lecture or meeting someone for the
first time when you feel the urge, you will know the discomfort it causes)).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Opinionated Debater</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to be like this when I was
in my teens, as I think a lot of people are, although many people grow out of
it. I love a good debate, and there is nothing I enjoy more than a healthy
discussion on, well, anything at all. I recently met a girl at the bookshop
where I was working, and her approach to debate (between two people who barely
know each other) was very different to mine. She is highly intelligent and a
great conversationist, as she has a huge bank of knowledge on subjects I know
little about. That is until our discussion turned into debates over things she
didn’t like. She would make sweeping statements over elements of popular
culture that she did not approve of (“I hate Big Bang Theory, it is just not
humour, and it’s not funny, simple as that”) and this I found hard to swallow.
I love that everyone is different, and love hearing other peoples arguments when
they are different from my own, but in order for everyone to get along we all
need to be conscious of other people’s views. Our debating reached boiling
point when we had a heated discussion about Fifty Shades (do NOT slag off my Mr
Gray). She said it was drivel, rubbish and badly written. My argument is that
it is porn, pure and simple, and discussing it’s literary merits is like a book
club hammering out the subtle nuances running through Big Juggs magazine (an
argument I put forth when we <i>did</i>
discuss Mr Gray at my book club), it doesn’t hold up to literary criticism
because it’s not meant to be a literary work. But anyway, whatever the
argument, my point to the Opinionated Debater is that sometimes you need to
throw in a few “in my opinion”’s in order to help the other side see that you
are open to their argument. Otherwise the debate ends too quickly and they come
off as an arrogant twat (the girl in question asked me if I found her debates
offensive, so, at her request, I made my suggestions and she gallantly took
them on the chin).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harsh Tongue</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my friends has been
affectionately given the nick name “Harsh Tongue” because, in the nicest
possible way, she has a habit of saying exactly what she is thinking, and often
it can cut like a knife and end a conversation in one fell swoop. She is one of
the loveliest people I know, and means no harm to anyone, but her Harsh Tongue (like
my over sharing) can be a little disconcerting to the uninitiated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Underhand Harsh Tongue</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These people give with one hand
and take away with the other. “Oh my god, that dress is gorgeous, I’d never
wear anything from Primark but it looks great on <i>you</i>”. This kind of person I find the hardest to cope with (being
stupidly over sensitive and always reading far too much into these things)
because I can never tell which side of the fence they are on. I’m sure that 99%
of them are well meaning, but there is always an element of doubt as to whether
they are friend or foe. And, being the trusting sort of person I am, I often
find myself in conversations with people who say “Oh her, she is a right bitch”
when I thought they were perfectly lovely. Or maybe I am just gullible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Embarking on a new relationship
means a lot of meeting new people. Once you have got over the initial hurdle of
a first date, then comes the endless rounds of meeting, and making a good
impression on, their friends, family and so on. And I’m scared. Actually, if
the truth be told I am terrified of how I come across to people who aren’t used
to my way of doing things, and friends and family are important people to make
an impression on. But I know Mr P is a bit nervous too. He tells me his
nickname is the Social Hand Grenade, as he is apt to say the wrong thing. But I
think we are going to have a lot of fun together. Rocking up at social
functions where someone has just died, him saying “hey, who died” and me
hugging people I don’t even know. I actually don't think either of us have anything to worry about, as we both must have swerved the saying the wrong thing/over sharing to the point of being offensive or we would not have got to this point. I have a sneaking suspicion we will make a great team :-)</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-57665560249374505492012-11-26T15:58:00.002+00:002012-11-26T15:58:54.665+00:00Cloud Number Nine<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's funny the expression "falling for someone". It
really is like a free fall, jumping off a cliff or out of a plane with no idea
where you are going to end up or if you are going to survive it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the very early days just after The Dad and I split, it
felt like falling. And in some ways it was a nice fall, exciting and refreshing;
after the comfort, security and sometimes stuffiness of the airplane of a 12
year relationship. But after a few weeks of free falling I was soon wishing that
I could crawl my way back into the safety of the cockpit. But it was too late, my
parachute and my reserve had failed me and without them, the crash land broke
me into a million pieces. There was nothing left of who I was. I was convinced
that I could never truly trust someone again, despite my desperate need to, and
that maybe settling for something that seemed right on the surface was the best
I could ever hope for. One of my closest friends kept reminding me that time
heals, and he was right. Because, with thanks to time, and some interesting new
characters (as well as some old faithfuls), I put the pieces of myself back
together and ended up feeling happier than ever, and to those people I'll be
forever grateful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have met nine men through internet dating in the last
eight months, and countless more characters just through chatting online. There's
enough material there for a whole series of books (with names changed to
protect the innocent - and not so much - of course). I wanted to do the “Sex
and the City” thing, and I did (as much as you can in a small Hampshire town
with two kids in tow, New Look shoes not Jimmy Choo’s, a limited budget of
cash, and an even more limited selection of eligibles). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am very wary not to "kiss and tell" but one day,
if only to entertain, thrill (and frankly, warn) some of you of the dramas of the
30+ dating scene, I will write those books. But for those of you clamouring for
a sneaky peek, here’s a quick rundown for you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was date number one, a fantastic guy that made me
realise that yes I can still "pull" and that god gave me these legs
to put in short skirts, at least until I'm 40. But that maybe it takes a little
longer than six weeks and a <i>lot</i> of
laughing to get over a 13 year relationship. Date number one was super special,
because I learned that things can start as one thing, and turn into something
else, namely a much cherished friendship. Date number two who couldn't wait to
tell me that he had my wedding dress ordered and the church booked, <i>before we had even met</i> (Date One had a
laugh about that one). Date number three, who was like a recipe gone wrong, all
the ingredients were there but they seemed to have been mixed up in the wrong
order so the cake rose in the oven but quickly went flat. Date number four, an
old flame, and while it was comfy to throw on a pair of old slippers and feel
that security you can only get from someone you have known pretty much all your
life, you kind of realise there was a reason it didn't work out the first time.
Back to date number three for a second try, still no cake. Date number five, a
lovely fellow, bad teeth (even worse dress sense). Date number six, one of the
nicest guys you would ever meet, shame I just did not fancy him. Date number
seven, again a lovely guy, just not very exciting. Date number eight, the
Jeremy Kyle guy, high levels of drama and disappointment, very low levels of
actual feeling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this stage I was becoming rather experienced at the first
date thing. I had two first date outfits, one was a "I think I'm going to
fancy you and want you to fancy me back" date outfit (high heels, short
skirts – oh, I was so naïve), and one was a "really not sure what I'm
going to make of you in person so I'll wear this high neck and cover my legs
just in case you show up and I don't want to have to do the "sorry no
chemistry" text”. I always went to the same pub for the first meeting
(leading the bar staff to actually know “my usual”, like some sad old tramp
propping up the bar at The Queen Vic) and always seemed to end up with the same
taxi driver, who became the highlight of each date. We even had “in” jokes and
catch-ups about his family, a bit like an old married couple. In fact, there
were a few times I wished I was dating him (now <i>that</i> would make a good book).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Date number eight put me right off men, I thought, possibly,
for good. But as much as the whole thing turned into a complete mess, I am very
grateful to him, because he made me realise what I didn't want, and that
finding someone you <i>want </i>to trust and
someone you <i>can </i>trust at the same
time is very tricky. The hideousness of date number eight forced me to do what
I really needed. Take myself off the meat market, snuggle up on my sofa with a
bottle of wine and my cats, to mourn the loss of my old life and get excited
about the prospect of a new one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my four month man ban, I reluctantly got myself back
out there (before I became crazy wine and cat lady), and while I was at it I threw
away all my tried and tested first date methods, as they clearly didn’t work so
well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that brings us to date number nine. The date was
different, the approach was different, and from the instant I saw him in the
flesh, possibly even from his first message, I knew he was going to be different. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been researching the number nine for this post and
the number nine turns out to be one of the most interesting numbers there is. Nine is
a good number in <st1:country-region w:st="on">China</st1:country-region>
because it sounds the same as the word for “longlasting”. There are nine forms
of the Chinese dragon, a symbol of magic and power. There are nine major
planets in the solar system. Cats have nine lives. Beethoven wrote nine
symphonies. Being on “cloud nine” means feeling euphoric and happy. I like
number nine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having reduced dates 1-8 to playful nicknames; Swindon, London,
Crazy Cocktails, Ticks, The Mood Hoover, Farmer Guy, Harold from Neighbours (I
refuse to reveal who is who for obvious reasons), I am reluctant to do the same
for Number 9, as I desperately hope he turns out to be so much more than a
number in my chequered dating history. So, if he becomes a regular character in
my life, I will come up with a pseudonym more appropriate to how utterly
awesome I think he is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s very, very early days and I’m scared. Maybe I will
crash land, and end up broken (and embarrassed for letting my finely crafted
guard down), but you can never experience the free fall unless you are willing
to jump out of the plane. So for now, let’s just say I’m on Cloud Nine. Free
falling and happy to be doing so. </div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-8991336821475789932012-11-19T13:02:00.000+00:002012-11-19T13:02:49.905+00:00Thanks Mum<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a story in one of the papers today, stating that
the <st1:country-region w:st="on">UK</st1:country-region>
is in the grips of a “nutritional recession”. The Guardian suggest that because
people are so skint, they are relying on packaged, convenience foods rather
than fresh meat and vegetables and as a result consumption of saturated fats
and sugars has soared since 2010. I’m not saying the research is wrong, but I
think the reasoning behind these statistics is perhaps a little out (probably
because it was written by people who have money to burn on M&S ready
meals).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I make no secret of the fact I am completely broke right
now. And although this can be challenging and traumatic at times, it actually
has some benefits, and one of those is that the kids and I eat far healthier
than we ever did when we had more money in the bank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was growing up my mum had an absolutely incredible
talent which I really didn’t appreciate at the time. My dad was in a job that
wasn’t particularly highly paid, but my mum was adamant that she wanted to stay
at home to be there for us kids, and be a perfect housewife to my dad (a
sacrifice I am so very grateful to her for making). But in order to make this
arrangement work financially she had to be incredibly creative with cash. And
she was very good at it. Somehow, despite not having a lot of money, we grew up
in a lovely home, with absolutely amazing dinners every night (it is thanks to
my mum that I had no knowledge of the existence of Crispy Pancakes until I had
moved out of home and didn’t taste a Pot Noodle until the ripe old age of 21)
and at least one good holiday a year. We may not have had the latest trainers
and I didn’t get to go on the school ski trip (probably a good thing in
hindsight, what puts me off is the ski lift, given my total lack of
coordination I really can’t see myself having any success with something like
that whatsoever), but other than that we wanted for nothing, all of the
important stuff was there, and we also had our mum whenever we needed her. By
today’s standards, it was idyllic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I now have a paltry £17 a week food budget and a very hectic
work schedule, but thanks to my mum’s successful penny pinching and the lessons
I learned from her, I am managing that perfectly well. We have no control over
the rising costs of gas and electricity, or that extra money is constantly
being squeezed from everywhere you turn, but there are ways of buffering all of
that, and one of them is in keeping our food costs down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a long running joke in our house that my mum could
make a three course dinner out of four left over chips and a tin of tuna. And I
never really appreciated this sort of thing. Until now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Dad and I have had many conversations recently about
having very little money. He was finding that he was over spending at the
supermarket. I have stopped panicking about money now, as living in a constant
state of terror is not much fun, and having lived for a good few months on my
low budget I am still here, happier and probably healthier than ever. But The
Dad does not have the benefit of all my mums chip recycling knowledge, so I
have been trying to pass on some of the lessons she taught me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you are forced to be a little more creative with cash
you come up with some amazing results. My kids love ice cream. And despite my
tiny budget, I don’t like the thought of them going without anything so I made
some of my own, using only four ingredients and found that it was incredibly
quick to make, but more importantly cost only about 15% of the price of a tub
of the “ice cream” they sell in shops (which mostly don’t even list cream as
one of their ingredients, instead thousands of other ingredients which most of
us have never even heard of, don’t get me started).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not a food nazi. And I allow my kids to have
convenience foods as a treat when I can afford it, they get the occasional
dinner of fish fingers, and I don’t buy posh sausages, but we eat well and keep
it simple. And this is why I object to any research that seems to allude to the
fact that poor people are forced to have poor diets. I am, in the financial
sense of the word, poor, but we do not tuck into convenience foods on a daily
basis, because that is an expensive way of living. And the reason I know that
is because of my mum and her shielding me from Crispy Pancakes. Thanks Mum <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-16677252086292222692012-11-12T15:17:00.000+00:002012-11-12T15:17:36.460+00:00Junk (e) Mail<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I moved into my house well over two years ago and I still
get an awful lot of post for the previous owners/tenants. Now I wouldn’t mind
this if they ever received anything exciting but it seems as if they obsessively signed themselves up to every mailing list on the
planet because I am repeatedly receiving catalogues, “special invitations” and
vouchers for places I have never been or products I have never bought. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t need more stuff congregating around my front door
for me to slip on thank you very much. There are quite enough things just lying
in wait to surf me dramatically from my front door to dining room, usually a discarded
piece of Lego or (as this morning) a headless dead rat courtesy of Expensive Cats,
followed by a pile of cat sick two footsteps later (rat head obviously a bit
rich for greedy Expensive Cat). But aside from the inevitable trip hazard that
comes from junk mail it annoys me because it’s such a waste. All of this
un-read paper is completely undoing my good work of recycling my Coco-Pops box.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s not so much the paper junk mail that bothers me, I
made my peace with paper junk mail years ago, after the Dad had the awesome
idea of putting interesting things in the enclosed freepost envelopes and
sending them back (an unused teabag may have been quite useful, but I’m not
sure the person who opened the marmite sandwich was quite as excited), somehow
this helped me feel a little better about junk mail and hopefully provided a
smile to some poor work experience student who had to open the post in the
office that day. No, what really bothers me these days is emails.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not particularly exciting and I don’t get that many
interesting emails. And because of this I don’t really keep on top of my inbox
and often miss the really good stuff that I do get, like proper emails from
friends and invites to get-togethers, because it gets buried amid a sea of
“daily deals”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought I was pretty careful about who I give my details
out to, but judging by the state of my inbox it seems I am even less discerning
than the previous owner of my house. Bonny at Lovehoney is becoming a
particular pest. Those of you who have ever ordered anything from Lovehoney and
mistakenly signed up to their mailing list so they can order things using their
loyalty scheme (guilty) will know that the amount of emails you get from Bonny
after ordering one thing about two years ago, is verging on stalking (for those
of you that don’t know (hi Mum) Lovehoney is like Toys R Us for grown ups).
Anyway, Bonny (and I’m not convinced that’s her real name) sends me daily,
sometimes twice daily emails alerting me to daily deals or special offers. And
while I quite like a bit of a browse round Lovehoney’s virtual shelves, it’s
not the kind of place I drop into daily, like Tesco. Tesco don’t send me daily
deals coupons and special offers, I might get one a month offering me special
deals on my holiday insurance, which would be great if I actually ever went on
holiday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As well as Bonny I also get daily offers from Heather at
Printer Inks. I often feel a bit sorry for poor old Heath, because she shows up
in my inbox with her boring old printer inks right next to Bonny with her all
singing, all dancing pink glitter vibrators, and I think this, rather unfairly,
makes Heather come across as far more boring than she actually is in real life
(not that I know either of them personally of course). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so I could unsubscribe, and some thoughtful companies
have a miniscule “unsubscribe” button buried somewhere amongst the text of the
email, which actually does unsubscribe you with one click. But some of them
(and I suspect Bonny might be one of them) take you to a page that is wholly
designed to prey on the unsure of themselves, like myself. “Are you sure you
want to unsubscribe” so I click yes, “but if you unsubscribe you won’t have
access to our daily deals! Are you sure you want to unsubscribe?” Resolve is
now weakening slightly and hesitatingly click yes. “We also send you occasional
very special offers only available to our subscribers, are you absolutely, one
hundred percent, stake your life on it, POSITIVE that you don’t want access to
these once in a lifetime offers?” Oh, go on then. And that is the very reason
why my inbox is so full and why I completely sympathise with the previous
owners of my house. Besides, my inbox wouldn’t be the same without Heather and
Bonny, in fact I think I would feel rather lost and forlorn without them. </div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-62265835684079113742012-11-05T15:19:00.003+00:002012-11-05T15:24:28.581+00:00The end is nigh...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m only thirty four (yes, only) <i>and</i> I have been told that I look at least five, if not ten, years
younger than my age. So why then, did a carpet salesman, who I would guess at
being in his mid-fifties, think it was ok to ask me out while I was pondering
the differences between “twist” and “berber”? Listen, I realise I am no spring
chicken, and I have made my peace with the fact that I may never get to throw
an amazing fortieth birthday party for the love of my life. But honestly, this
guy was a good twenty years older than me, and this is what made me feel a bit
icky and sleazed over. I understand that being slightly sleazy and overly
flirtatious is an occupational hazard as a salesman (I speak from experience
having been in sales myself), but it is far more easy and pleasurable to take
from a twenty two year old. Coming from someone twenty years older wearing a <i>Dad </i>jumper for crying out loud (it was a
nice Dad jumper, so nice in fact that I thought of asking him where he got it
so I could buy it as a Christmas gift <i>for
my dad),</i> it suddenly made my cool single life seem a little sad and
depressing. Is this really what my life has come to?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t get me wrong, this carpet guy was a perfectly nice
chap, and I’m sure he’d make a great boyfriend, for my mum or one of her
friends. But it was me he asked for coffee, then for lunch, then coffee again. I
have a feeling I may have visibly recoiled with horror when he first suggested
it, before recovering with a cheery giggle and a “ah thanks but no. So does
this one come with free underlay?” but by the third ask I was getting less
convinced that he was joking and/or trying to make a sale and more frustrated
at not being able to use the “I’m spoken for” technique without being a big,
fat liar. But fending off unwanted attention from men twice my age is actually only
one of the reasons that I think it might be time to end my three and a half month
long man ban.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am incredibly comfortable on my own. Maybe a little <i>too</i> comfortable if I’m honest. I have
lost all interest in keeping my body hair free, in fact I am actually using the
cold weather as an excuse when my waxing lady asks me to remove my tights when
I go in for a wax. “Those aren’t tights,” I say “they are my natural defences
against the elements. So I am going to be cold after this, I hope you’re happy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have just painted my room a gorgeous shade of pink, it’s
like sleeping in a massive ballet slipper. It’s a proper girls room. And one of
the excuses against getting a new man is the whole décor thing. I go to
Homebase on a Sunday and see couples bickering in the paint aisle, while I
sweep past and breezily pick up a pot of matt Pink Bunting, inwardly smug that
I don’t have to deal with those trips anymore. I can go to Ikea and know that
no longer does it mean massive rows, I can merrily pick up as many yellow bags
and fill them with odd shaped kitchen implements that I will never use and
thousands of tea lights, safe in the knowledge that it’s up to me and only me
that decides what goes in my house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But staying single just so I can have a pink bedroom is
really missing the point of finding a soul mate. And the real clincher, the
thing that made me decide that the man ban absolutely <i>must</i> end, was that the other day I seriously considered getting a
dog. Not that much of a shocker on the surface, but I am not a dog person, at
all. I get fed up with having to feed my cats, let alone taking a dog for a
walk and spending half an hour each morning on a dog egg hunt in the garden. I
have sort of the opposite feeling for dogs as I do for kids. Other peoples dogs
are fine, and I enjoy spending time with them, but as for one of my own? No
way. However, I had this thought that maybe a dog might be nice company for me
in the evenings after the kids go to bed. And that is what did it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I am finally at the point where I’d be meeting someone
new not because I don’t like being alone, and not because I <i>need</i> someone. Which makes me think I
must be ready. But, given how busy I am, and knowing that the whole hands
touching over the last pain de campagne in Waitrose is a complete fantasy
dreamed up by myself in a time when I was less cynical of the mid-thirties
dating scene, it does, unfortunately, mean going back to online dating. Which fills
me with horror having learnt from experience that there are an awful lot of
yucky men on there just out for a bit of excitement. So I set up a new profile
(this one without any pictures) totally designed to stamp out any unwanted
attention from marrieds, lying fuckwits or oddballs. My user name is of the
Star Wars persuasion (obviously) and of course the first message I got was from
a guy offering to show me his light sabre. Great. The internet is not immune to
sleazebags. On the plus side, I am feeling optimistic, light sabre man may well have been a one off,
as I have had a couple of nice messages from some really normal seeming guys, who have
not mentioned their light sabres once, and there is not a Dad jumper in sight in any of their photos. Watch this space…</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-40250779955866558052012-10-29T15:21:00.000+00:002012-10-29T15:21:19.347+00:00Time Simplification Programme (TSP)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the clocks going back it is officially the end of
British Summer Time, ha. Blink and you’d miss it. I totally get why we do the
daylight saving thing. It makes so much more sense to have longer summer
evenings. In theory. But in practise what is the point? It's not like we even
get a summer anymore. Not like the summers I remember as a child which seemed
to last for ages and you could actually wear a summer dress and not need to
have a coat and gloves with you at all times. Why don't we just accept that it's winter all
year round and be done with it? Spring is really just an afterthought of winter
after all, tacked on to the last two weeks, the only difference being the trees
are starting to grow their leaves back and we occasionally see the sun for five
minutes before it pisses down again (or sometimes even snows, remember when it
snowed in March a few years ago? See? It is still winter in March). And autumn,
well it's just winter but people are still trying to prove a point by sloshing
around blue lipped in wet flip flops and dripping maxi dresses. Even summer is
never really Summer, all of us shivering in the garden, showing maximum goose
pimpled flesh, determinedly drinking Pinot Grigio and eating burnt barbeque
sausages in Baltic conditions, trying to pretend we have some semblance of
Summer like southern Europe. But it's all just a fallacy, winter lasts all year
long, deal with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Benjamin Franklin came up with the idea of daylight saving
in order to switch an extra light hour from the morning, which we all miss
because we are sleeping (unless you have children who decide it’s morning at
around 3am), to the evening, so we would save electricity as well as have more
light hours to do fun things (presumably in his day he was thinking of society
balls and mixers, he clearly had never visited my town where the only choice of
evening entertainment is a criminally expensive cinema, great if you want to
spend two weeks wages on a single night out, and twenty five Chinese
restaurants, each offering amazing deals on all you can eat buffets but charge a small fortune for drinks). So if I had more to do in the evenings maybe
having that extra hour would be worth the havoc it plays with my body clock
each time it changes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gaining an extra hour this weekend was wonderful, or it
should have been, as I laid in until 8am, great normally but technically it was
still only 7am. Last week waking up at 7am meant that it was pitch dark and
reminded me of those times as a child when we used to get woken up at 3am
because we were going on holiday. I quite liked it really, it felt very
exciting, and you get to enjoy the sunrise which is one of the best times of
day. This morning I woke up and jumped out of bed so fast I banged my knee on
the wall because I was convinced I had overslept. Then I go and confuse my body
even more by eating random things at different times of day (not Daylight Savings
fault admittedly but the confusion my body feels at having toast and marmalade
for dinner is certainly exacerbated by the fact that one day it's dark at six
and the next it's dark at five). It feels like everything is mixed up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even Son Two, who is three years old and at that age where
he kind of accepts everything with a shrug, is confused. Last week he was waking up every day in the dark, finding me in the shower at seven fifteen and saying "mummy is
it bedtime?" "No mate, it's morning, see you're still in your
pyjamas" "Ok" and he'd toddle off to play with his Lego (a
pastime that cares not what time of day it is, is there anything more ear
ripping than being woken up at 3am by a child sorting through Lego?).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just think that life is complicated enough and the
daylight saving just adds to the confusion. Is there anyone actually organised
enough to go round every clock in their house and change them all at exactly
the right time? Maybe I'm the only one that spreads the changeover over a
period of weeks, constantly having to remind myself that the kitchen clock is
now on new time but my car clock still thinks it's last week so I need to be at
work at 1045am instead of 945am, unless I am going by my bedroom clock which I
did put back to remind myself that I could get up an hour later (didn’t help me
this morning).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I think we should just simplify. Have one season a year
(winter) and keep the clocks the same all year round. It's certainly not worth
all this hassle. I am perfectly happy with it getting dark early, it means I
can get the kids to bed earlier so I am well prepared for middle of the night
Lego missions and I wouldn’t constantly be wandering around mumbling to myself Rainman style "kitchen clock is an hour forward, car clock is an hour backward, kitchen clock is right, car wrong". Or is it the other way
around? See? Confusion. I vote for my time simplification programme.</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-18944542134235686922012-10-26T13:56:00.001+01:002012-10-26T13:56:04.771+01:00Ohhhhhmmmmmmmm<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was really struggling with what to write today. But,
totally determined not to leave it til the last minute as I have so often done
these last few weeks and not at all procrastinating (honest), I started
googling what to write in a blog post and came across something called Zen
writers. Totally intrigued, I delved further and decide to download one called
Ohmwriter. I installed it, not really knowing what it was (Big Bro often
complains when he goes on my laptop that its full of all manner of tat, extra
search bars, random programmes making the whole system struggle, I do get a bit
one click download happy). So anyway, I downloaded it, clicked to open the
program and all of a sudden my entire desktop was gone, replaced with a snowy
scene, plinky music and nothing but a simple blinking cursor. Wow, what a
revelation. No distracting Chrome icon at the bottom of my screen just begging
me to check Facebook, no myriad of buttons on Word whispering silently "click me click me, you know you want to
know what I do" (invariably drawing a massive arrow on the screen or
deleting everything), and no clock at the bottom of the screen reminding you of
what you should be doing right now (or worse still that it's 745pm in the
evening, you're 34 and watching the Crystal Maze with more than a touch of
nostalgia, you're 34 for chrissake, and this is 2012 not 1991). Word has much
improved since it got rid of that annoying paper clip popping up every five
minutes to say "Hey! It looks like you're writing a letter, can I help you
with that?" Well yes I am and no thank you I'm not a moron, now eff off.
But still there are things about it that are distracting. Bright red lines
alerting me to typos, and green ones that say a sentence doesn't make sense,
when clearly it does (argue all you like but grammar is subjective, I am
allowed to use colloquialisms, ok?). I would rather just be able to get on with
the job in hand rather than be repeatedly alerted to my shortcomings. Word can
be rather judgemental. So I am loving my new Zen Writer, it could be a new
thing for me (just need to force myself to switch off The Crystal Maze and I'd
be all set). But I really wish we could get a similar thing for all other areas
of life...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zen Driver, totally capable of wiping out all noise and
movement from the backseat, as well as the distractions of other drivers. No
kicking seat backs, no "are we there yet?", no annoying twats driving
so far up your bum they may as well hitch themselves directly to your tow bar
and definitely no "Mummy, he looked at meeeeeeeee!" . Just a nice
peaceful driving environment, bliss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zen School Run, available for both morning and afternoon
runs, attaches all necessary bags and boomf to each relevant child before
leaving the house in the morning (thereby avoiding the “Mummy you forgot my kit
and I had to do football in my plimsolls” whine), and extricates random sticks
and weapons without said child noticing and therefore avoiding an entire school
run of "but I neeeeeeeed my light sabeeeeeeeeeeer". Similarly Zen
School Run would also be capable of unpacking the two week holidays worth of
luggage at the end of the day, while simultaneously dealing with stereo cries
of "I need a drink", "I
need to make something", "My
foot hurts" and the ever present "he looked at me". Just
allowing you sixty seconds of peace in which to have a wee and stick the kettle
on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zen "it may look like I'm listening to you but really
I'm replaying Friends The One With The Candy Hearts in my head" complete
with automatic "mmmhmmmms", head nods and serious face where
appropriate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zen Life, only for hardcore Zenists. Completely and entirely
wipes out all of life’s extra "noise" as in news we don't need to
hear about, things we don't need to know about but invariably are told, but
more importantly random thoughts that plague our every waking moment, usually
about things we don't need to be told and news we don't need to know about. I
have had been suffering more than a few mental wrangles in recent weeks over
the Jimmy Savile saga, do I really need to know every detail? Why does news
really exist? Do we really need to know all this? Does it help the victims that
I know about it? Does it help me? If I don't need to know about it why is it
all over the news and why am I listening to it? I have spent many a long night
recently thinking about this very question. Surely I should really be asleep, or
the very least worrying about things that really do affect me such as what I am
going to feed the kids tomorrow and I really need to buy more toilet paper or
we're back on the kitchen roll again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is so much noise in our daily lives, and it comes at
us from all angles. Our kids, the media, family, friends, if only there was a
way to get peace when we need it and only focus on the stuff that really
mattered, maybe we would all be a little less stressed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep I'm loving my new Zen Writer, I just wish I could flip a
switch and have some peace in other areas of my life; when the kids are driving
me insane, be able to have them curled into me all sleepy and sweaty, not
caring about the news or the lack of bog roll, just focussing on how gorgeous
they are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Final edit: having written this post completely on my new
Ohmwriter, I am convinced. Although there is a sound of a drip at every
keystroke which initially was enjoyable but has made me need a wee, and I have got
so into writing that the Crystal Maze has now finished. Bugger. </div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-69823020752624744292012-10-22T15:31:00.003+01:002012-10-22T15:31:59.682+01:00Commitment Phobe<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve been checking my finances and I’m at the point where
literally every penny counts. The last time things were this tight there were just
the two of us, living mortgage and virtually bill free in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Spain</st1:country> and happy to live off the
free vodka we got at work and the odd baguette. Clearly I cannot feed my kids
on free vodka (even if I could get my hands on it) and bread, and I no longer
live mortgage free, so I need to find some way to add to the funds or me and
the dudes will be eating out (and by out I mean out of the in-laws freezer) for
the foreseeable future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before someone pipes up with “why not just get a job?” I have
two arguments against that in my circumstances. One, the job market is bad
enough for those who have been in employment constantly, and this does not bode
well for a graduate who has been technically unemployed for ten years. Two, and
most importantly, if I wanted a boring old job where I did the same thing every
day I’d be doing it right now. (Besides, I don’t want anything interfering with
my volunteering at the bookshop, I have found something that really means
something to me and when you find something that enriches your life to that
extent, no matter that you don’t get paid, you don’t let it go. Kinda like this
blog I suppose).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have known I wanted to write since I was five years old
and I found the tiny wing of some poor deceased creature (probably a fly, but I
believed it came from a fairy) in a bunch of grapes and wrote a book about it.
By book I mean five pages of an old exercise book, self illustrated, with
finger spaces. But I have also always known that until I do a JK Rowling or EL
James (which will happen one day I am sure of it) I need to make money some
other way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trouble is, I’m not short of ideas. There was the spray
on bra idea that I came up with The Dad about ten years ago, after I’d spent yet
another fruitless shopping expedition looking for the perfect strapless and
backless bra to go with a dress I had planned to wear. The idea is you put your
arms in the air (or stand on your head or lie down depending on which way your
boobs look best), someone sprays the stuff on you, which dries like a firm
second skin, when you put your arms down your boobs stay in place, then when
you have finished with it you simply peel it off and throw it away. A genius
idea in theory, the answer to the prayers of many women all over the world, but
we had no idea how to go about formulating the stuff (funnily enough neither of
us have any knowledge or experience in chemical plastics or textiles) and didn’t
know where to go to get it started. So we got as far as handwriting a non-disclosure
contract (a contract which I am technically now breaking I suppose, whoops),
before going back to our normal lives. For the record, if someone now brings out a spray on bra, I want it to be noted that you heard it here first.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there was the lottery. A three way syndicate where we
each put in fifty quid and asked for one hundred and fifty lucky dip tickets
from the bemused lottery assistant. We had a big envelope stuffed as full of
hopes and dreams as it was lottery tickets. The big night arrived and our
numbers came up to the tune of one hundred and ten pounds. Refusing to cut our
losses and run, we “reinvested” our winnings and lost the lot. It was a
washout, but had we won, we’d have been very smug millionaires (to be fair, I
expect all millionaires are pretty smug).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These were just two (of the tamest) ideas I have come up
with over the years to make money. I don’t want much. I don’t want big cars,
and I love the house I have. I don’t need expensive holidays and I like getting
stuff second hand, there is nothing like the buzz of a bargain. But what I do
need is time. I just need enough money to buy myself time to write and bring up
my kids. I don’t even care about being famous, I just want enough money to give
me the time to do what I believe I was put here to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So anyway, despite my creative cup runneth over with ideas
that I have no doubt could make money in theory, I have never followed through
with any of them (except the lottery, which had a one in 14 million chance of
winning, I don’t have the maths to say how much we upped our odds by buying 150
tickets, but I’d say not enough to make it a safe bet). And the reason why I never
followed through with them is because I am a commitment phobic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just never had the guts to take one idea, just one, and
run with it. Because I always worry that a better idea may come along. On top
of that, there are always plenty of people to say “Oh that’s impossible”, “normal
people don’t do things like that”, “you couldn’t do that”, “you’ll change your
mind and have another idea in two days” or (and here’s the biggie) “It’s
destined to fail”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I can argue against every one of their reasons: I like a
challenge, I’m not normal, I can do anything I set my mind to thank you very
much (except maybe win the lottery), yes I will have another idea and there is
nothing stopping me doing that one too, and none of us like failure. But I would
far rather be the person who tries and fails than the one who never tried at
all. So why am I not a millionaire by now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortune favours the brave, and my commitment phobia stems
from a simple lack of balls. And I can't afford to stay ball-less any more, it’s time I grew a pair. So I am going to start
committing to some of my ideas and you never know, one or two of them may well
take off. If anyone wants to develop a spray on bra, get your people to call my
people, I’ll commit.</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-19412331176002393072012-10-19T14:05:00.000+01:002012-10-19T14:05:28.603+01:00Retro Repost: Miss/Mrs/Ms? Just say Ma'am<span style="font-family: inherit;">Having laptop issues today, and yet again incredibly disorganised and haven't got a post in the bank ready, so here is a repost from about a year ago (ever so slightly tweaked) which kind of fits for me today. I am now volunteering in a free bookshop and never quite know what to call people, Sir? Madam? Or as is my usual way, avoid using any form of personal address whatsoever and just chat to people as if I know them: "Closing up now guys" I'm sure this is as irritating for some as the use of Ms is for me, but I'd feel far more awkward saying Sir or Madam, which I suppose explains why so many people don't bother these days...</span><br />
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Miss/Mrs/Ms? Just say Ma'am</h3>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I was having some problems getting into my PayPal account the other day, so I reluctantly phoned them to try and get it sorted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I could speak to an actual human being I had to get through the dreaded talking menus (“Do you need to speak to an operator?” “yes!” “Did you say… No?” “No, I said y…e…s.” “I heard… No. Is that correct?” “No!” “Did you say… No?”), I usually stay quiet not only out of principle but inability to get the damn thing to understand me. I got through the first few levels of menu with no problem; it then said “Please state your issue”. I was so thrown by having to describe my problem in a sentence that an inanimate object would understand that I got quite muddled up “I can’t log into Facebook… no eBay… no I mean PAYPAL, for Christ sake you’re not going to understand that are you?” I then had an agonising 10 seconds of Flight of the Bumblebee (seriously, could they have chosen a more infuriating piece of music?) before I was transferred to a lovely American man who said “The computer says you can’t log into your PayPal account, is that correct Ma’am?” So the computer understood me after all, that’s pretty impressive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thumbs up to PayPal because not only was my problem dealt with swiftly but I found the repeated use of the word “Ma’am” quite refreshing. Too many companies these days insist on first name basis, which I utterly despise. If you don’t know me, and are taking my money, please find the most respectful way of addressing me, at least by second name. “Ma’am” is a nice way to avoid wading through the Mrs, Ms., Miss minefield.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of years ago the European Parliament caused outrage when it requested all staff to use Ms. in place of Miss and Mrs. People were highly offended by being forced to use Ms., I don’t blame them, being forced to precede your name with such a horrid sounding syllable would piss me off too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we bought our apartment in Ibiza, the deeds referred to The Dad as ‘Don’ and me as ‘Doña’. It is a basic polite form. The Dad took great pleasure in the fact that he was ‘The Don’. I just liked that I didn’t have to address whether I was married, unmarried, divorced or whatever anytime I filled out a form.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s alright for men. They have it easy. They start off as Master, then at age 16 (or sometimes 18) it’s automatically Mr. Their marital status doesn’t even come into it, it’s a far more dignified process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t understand why it is different for women. Years ago, Mrs and Miss worked in the same way as Mr and Master. It was an age thing. Derived from the term Mistress, (nothing to do with the current more provocative meaning) Mrs denoted the woman of the household, Miss was the daughter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have stubbornly hung onto the title “Miss” for my entire adult life. I’m not married, I don’t plan to be, so why change it? But now I am well into my thirties I would like a more distinguished title, one that doesn’t make me sound like a wrinkly old spinster from a Charlotte Bronte novel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hate the word Ms with a passion. Not only does it sound horrid (Mzzzzzz) but it has weird connotations. They may as well put the dot in the middle and replace it with a question mark because Ms automatically makes people suspicious, is she a Mrs or a Miss? Why is she using Ms.?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 1.4;">Anyway. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon, although I am the ‘mistress’ of the house. It’s all so flipping complicated. So I kind of get where they were going when then brought out this Ms thing. I just wish they had come up with a word that didn’t make me sound like a defective bumblebee.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, someone could always buy me a nice title like “Lady” for Christmas. I've heard you can get them on eBay, which I'm sure is as official as it needs to be. I think "Lady" suits me and has a nice ring to it.</div>
</div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-29339760080639047402012-10-15T15:08:00.000+01:002012-10-15T15:15:45.090+01:00A Day For Everything<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Hurrah! You
probably don’t realise but it’s Global Handwashing Day today (and if it weren’t
for me, you’d have missed it tut tut). How bad must our hygiene as a planet have become
that we need to have a day dedicated to washing our hands? And I’m all for greater
awareness of personal hygiene but is a “day” really the best way to approach
it? Admittedly I have been washing my hands more vigilantly today so it must
have some effect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But there
are days, and often months, dedicated to pretty much everything and nothing
these days. Some of the weirder ones I have encountered in researching this
post include Get A Different Name Day (which could be potentially confusing at
register time at school: “Fred” “I’m Bob today Miss” “Er OK, Charlie?” “No I’m
Aloicious today”, just doing the register would take all day, genius), Barbie
Day (I’d be first in the queue with my leotard and legwarmers), Chicken Month (er?)
and tellingly, Make Up Your Own Holiday Day, which leads me to wonder in the
first place, who comes up with these things? Can anyone just throw their arms
wide and shout “I declare today to be International Toilet Paper day, dedicated
to the appreciation of having something to wipe our bums with”? And then what? Should
I give out free toilet paper? Offer lessons in bog roll origami? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The trouble
with all of these days lies in not just a lack of awareness of the day itself
but also, not a lot of clarity about what we are supposed to be doing with that
day. Global Handwashing Day, I presume we are all supposed to wash our hands
today more than any other? And given that tomorrow is World Food Day, does that
mean tomorrow we’ll be less clean than today (sod the handwashing, that was
yesterdays news, I’m stuffing my face with hors d’eurves using my grubby,
unwashed hands).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Some of the
days titles make their purpose fairly obvious eg. “No Smoking Day” (appreciate
the sentiment buuuuuuut…), Bring Your Dog to Work Day, International Steak and
Blowjob day (come on guys, don’t be greedy, that’s what birthdays are for). But
others are just plain ambiguous: Namesake Day, Women’s Day, Environment Day, Juneteeth
(this is to celebrate the abolishment of slavery, I would have had no idea what
“Juneteenth” were for had it not been for Google), Different Colored Eyes Day
(purely for people whose eyes are different colours on each side, pretty
divisive if you ask me). No, I like the days that clearly pinpoint it’s exact
purpose in the title; Everything Covered in Chocolate Day and Gin Day to name
two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I started
to compile a list of day’s that I would like to propose (first person to say I
have too much time on my hands gets a slap), but then I discovered already
existed:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">World Stay
In Bed Day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Which this
year fell on the 23<sup>rd</sup> September. This is to raise awareness of
people who are bedridden due to illness and not, as the title would suggest
(and would have been my reasoning), to encourage laziness on a worldwide scale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">World Egg
Day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A day to
appreciate all things egg related. Unfortunately we missed it for this year as
it falls on the second Friday in October (why do I not get to hear about these
things sooner?), but next year I fully intend to have some eggy fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tell The
Truth Day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I thought I
was being terribly clever in coming up with this idea. I tell the truth without
even thinking (sometimes even when it would have been better to lie) but some
people could certainly do with some help in that department. It falls in July, I could certainly have slapped a few Tell The Truth Day orders on lying twits over the years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Random Acts
of Kindness Day<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">OK so this
should be everyday but it would be nice if some of those miserly people who
wouldn’t help out their own granny could have a day where they were forced to
be nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are also
a couple of days that don’t already exist (shockingly) which I would like to
propose; Children Stay Silent Day, Everything is Free Day, International Shut
up, Bring Me Chocolate and Stop Complaining About my Choice in Telly Day and my
personal favourite, World Sex Toy Appreciation Month (to handily coincide with
Steak and Blowjob Day, well, there needs to be something in it for us girls eh?).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-2724942299993058312012-10-12T13:51:00.000+01:002012-10-12T13:51:36.036+01:00Chaos Thoery<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Suddenly
realised it’s been over a month since I last worked out. I’ve been winging it
the last few months, munching my way through all manner of naughty things, not
seeing a difference on the scale and therefore thinking that somehow my body
has miraculously found a way to process chocolate in the same way as salad. I
am by no means fat, but I fall in the slim but squidgy category and if left to
it’s own devices for too long my body starts to look like it’s wearing skin
that’s two sizes too big. So with Halloween looming and a potentially revealing
costume on the dressmakers dummy, I need to firm up after my weeks of
decadence, and need to find a way of getting my ass back up to where it should
be without having to suffer the indignity of ass bra pants. But although I have
previously had spells of high energy, getting up at 6am to work out now that
the mornings are getting colder and darker is not something I feel I can do
with any enthusiasm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So I need
to find a way of working exercise into my day to day life. And I’m not just
talking about walking more. I need to get the equivalent intensity of one of my
Turbofire or Insanity workouts into my day (because frankly, any less than that
and I’ll have to order the ass bra). So I have started doing bursts of running
on the walk to and from school (tried this a couple of times, weird how the
Son’s love to run <i>away</i> from me, but
as soon as I do it to them they start crying and complaining of having no
energy), lunges at the washing machine, butt clenches at the kitchen sink, pelvic
floors in the car and plenty of arm workouts while I’m working at the bookshop.
And there’s no reason why this won’t work. Generations of people managed to
keep in shape without lycra, workout DVD’s and hideously expensive gym
memberships. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then it got
me thinking. I could do this with lots of things I never get around to. Little
and often gets the job done apparently. Housework could be the next thing on my
list. If I managed to spread all these jobs across the day I would soon have a
very calm and ordered existence. And there lies the problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have come
to the conclusion that I am happiest when under pressure. This might sound
weird coming from someone who hates exams, had weeks of sleepless nights before
her driving test and has hideously disorganised cupboards (not to mention
drawers constantly spewing clothing like a drunken tramp after a bottle of
meth). But I have spent many, many, <i>many</i>
years beating myself up about how chaotic I am, desperately trying to become
the calm and unruffled person with the organised and ordered home that I long
to be. But I have learned that trying to fit yourself into a hole that is the
wrong shape is hard. And although I maybe flappy and dizzy and messy and living
in a perpetual state of chaos, it suits me because living this way makes me
happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have had
a run of days where I just don’t see how I am going to fit everything in, and
when that happens, as always the first thing to be left out (for me anyway), is
the housework. It is far more important to me to get the kids to their play dates,
get myself to work and my evening with friends and catch up with people who
need a chat than it is to get the house tidy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And it’s
not just housework either. My whole life; my finances, yet another piece of
household paper work through the door screaming “action me” and thrown
carelessly atop the teetering mountain that is my filing system and mummy
duties so often seem to end up feeling like a big tangle of necklaces that need
to be unravelled. But like a tangled ball of necklaces and bracelets, when you
sit down to attempt the impossible, with a bit of effort you manage it, bit by
bit. And with the neat pile of necklaces laid out in front of you comes the
biggest sense of satisfaction (no matter that they will get tangled again the
minute you turn your back). And it’s that sense of achievement, satisfaction
and adrenalin rush of getting something <i>done</i>
that I am addicted to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It must be
bloody boring to have a really ordered life. Where is the satisfaction? Where
are the adrenalin rushes? Without the struggles we can never really appreciate
life. And that’s how I feel about my chaotic life. I love it feeling like a
tangle because of the satisfaction I get from untangling things. I appreciate
my home all the more when it’s clean and tidy because it means I have sorted it.
I appreciate the moments when my to do list is a happy page of scribbled out
notes because I can see that I have got things done. But if your home and your
life are always neat and tidy, if you somehow manage to work a decent exercise
routine into your day, every day, week after week, year after year, I don’t see
how you could ever get a buzz from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I like my
chaotic life. And I can’t imagine anything worse than having an ordered life. I
like waking up in the morning and not really knowing who I’m going to be that
day. Messy or neat, flappy or calm, you decide. But I have to be organised and
get this exercise in for the next two weeks at least, because I really don’t
want to have to wear an ass bra.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-46912035908517801312012-10-08T14:49:00.000+01:002012-10-08T14:49:07.866+01:00Old Skool<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t
often use this space to have a moan. And I do like to retain my positive, sunny
disposition but having spent more time in recent weeks trying (and failing) to
find a single children’s DVD in my house that isn’t cracked, scratched or
covered in jam (or other unknown sticky substances) than doing housework and
writing put together, I decided it was time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Correct me
if I’m wrong but isn’t the whole point of progress meant to be that things get
better as time goes on? Why then, pray tell, do so many good things disappear
while the new stuff is just crap? Take the good old VHS for instance. So you
would have to stand around for all of five minutes waiting for it to rewind
(instant is not necessarily better), and it made some clunky noises (noises
which I find rather satisfying these days, electronic items have got so quiet
that I am forever burning my ear on the side of the kettle trying to find out
if the thing is actually working) but other than that, they did the job. And
the best thing about VHS is that the cassettes are verging on indestructible.
Even if a small child works out that if you stick a pen on the button on the
side the tape is revealed and can be unwound, you can always wind it back up,
the picture may go a bit fuzzy in parts but it’s still watchable. Not like DVD’s,
one game of frizbee (sadly a common occurrence in my house, and there is no
point putting them on a high shelf, this is just another opportunity for Son
Two to practice scaling bookshelves) and the bloody thing won’t even play any
more. If you get it to play at all you could be halfway into it when it suddenly
decides it doesn’t like it anymore and skips a few times before giving up
completely. The Dad and I did some sorting out in the loft of doom the other
day and we found two DVD players, both less than two years old that were inexplicably
broken. And I have two TV/DVD combi’s currently in use, which are now just telly’s
with useless extra chunks of casing. I had a TV/VHS combi that was still
working when I passed it on after ten years of faithful service. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I long for
the old days when, apparently, you could pop along to your local shop with a
basket over your arm and ask for half a pound of cheese (just “cheese” not a
million different varieties), a dozen eggs (again, just “eggs”) and a pound of
sausages (yep, just sausages), and the process of shopping took maybe half
hour, tops. Apparently things were more expensive. But you did not walk out of
the shop two hours later with an extra hundred pounds spent on a TV/DVD combi
(that will break after two weeks), a dazzling array of different flavoured
sausages and a Peppa Pig ball pool. If you were to go to the shop and ask for something
exotic like say, pasta, you might have a choice between macaroni and spaghetti.
The pasta aisle at the supermarket now is a perfect example of how ridiculously
overwhelmed by choice we have become. Not only can you get pasta in a million
different shapes and sizes, but you are also faced with those millions of
shapes and sizes in many different brands and levels of “luxury”. I do not see
this as a good thing at all. According to WRAP (Waste and Resources Action
Programme) we throw away at least third of all the food we buy (that’s nearly
half a ton per household per year). So, having access to all this choice does
not mean that we are enjoying the lower prices of the supermarkets, any savings
made are literally thrown away (or being spent on Peppa Pig ball pools).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A few years
ago, in a fit of nostalgia, I put Guess Who? on my Christmas list. When I finally
got it out of the box, excitedly rubbing my hands together, it was crap. The
boards are flimsy, you have to spend half an hour putting it together before
you can even play it, and the flip up faces are flimsy card pictures barely
held in plastic frames, the cards get lost, the frames fall off and get sucked
into the “missing things” vortex and it is frankly a shadow of what it once
was. Son One does not understand why I think Guess Who is so good, he never
experienced the glory days of Theo, Fran and Hans, when you could turn the
board over and flip all the faces with one flick of the wrist (try that now and
half of them fall off).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Thankfully,
while in the loft, we also found a VHS player, still working, despite
languishing up there for many years, and it now has a place in the Sons bedroom.
There were some baffled looks from them. Son Two kept saying “Wha’s tha?” while
pressing his scratched Wallace and Gromit DVD into my hands. “That is a piece of
history. Just you <i>try</i> and destroy it.”
I am waiting for them to ask for an Xbox in their bedroom. They’ll be getting
an Atari and will be happy with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-14113756641234327662012-10-05T14:03:00.000+01:002012-10-05T14:03:00.685+01:00Smells Like Teen Angst<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Science
boffins have spent years trying to work out why the most evocative of all the
senses is smell. And if you’re looking for an answer here you’ve come to the
wrong place. But I was reminded of just how strongly scent and memories are
linked yesterday when I was meandering down the washing powder aisle of Tesco, behind
an old man who was wearing beige slacks and a Marks and Spencer sports jacket, and
was suddenly overwhelmed by passion and feelings of hormonal angst. Not because
I have a thing for old men in M&S jackets, or washing powder for that
matter, but because the elderly gent (and source of my racing heart) was
wearing the aftershave of a boy I went out with as a teenager. On reflection, that
either says that the boyfriend had a questionable taste in aftershave, or that
the old dude had a young spirit. Judging by the slacks, I suspect it’s the former
of the two. However, I was positively consumed by how strongly all those
feelings of pubescent angst, desperate insecurity and awkward fumbly snogging
sessions came back to me in a split second. It was almost like I was right back
there, and it’s not often that I truly remember things so clearly. It’s easy to
remember how things looked, sounded or tasted, but very difficult to remember
feelings as time passes and memories get diluted by time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Smell has a
wonderful, almost magical capacity to transport us to another time and place.
The smell of stale alcohol always takes me back to working in a bar, the smell
wasn’t just in the bar but it would permeate my skin and follow me home. And
whenever I smell that smell I am reminded not just of where I was and who with,
but of how I felt; happy, excited and part of something really cool, then
arriving home, swaying slightly, eating a massive <i>boccadillo </i>and trying to sleep when it was broad daylight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Smells can
invoke joy and comfort, or can jar you back to a time and place you would
rather forget. There have been many studies done on how childhood memories are
anchored in smell and even in my limited experience I can understand why.
Thankfully, most of my smell memories are pleasant ones. Mum (who now lives at
my Nana D’s house) gave Son One a sleeping bag, and even after washing it, it
still smells of her house, to the extent that Son One said “I love my sleeping
bag, it smells like Nana”. It’s Max Factor make up and old school lemon
bathroom cleaner, the smell of my Nana D and now my mum, is a very comforting
one and when I smell it, I drink it in and revel in its soothing effect. Mum’s
perfume (Alliage) always reminds me of the excitement of staying up late with
my grandparents because she would save it “for best” and only wear it when she
was going out with my dad. And the smell of Dad just home from work; fags, day
old polycotton shirts, those old blazers (that looked like they were made out
of Shreddies and had leather elbow patches) and car interior reminds me of
feeling small and safe in his arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But of all
the most wonderful, most comforting and beautiful smells there is, there is one
that completely overtakes all others. And that is the sweet, damp smell of my
sleeping sons. They say boys smell (and they would be right), boys are gross
but, to me, my boys smell delicious (even though they are gross). And I hope
that that smell stays with me forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Looking at
a picture can remind you of a place you’ve been before, hearing a song you’ve
listened to with someone, touching or tasting something, all have the power to
invoke memories. But scent somehow has an almost apocalyptic strength,
eradicating everything you are doing at that moment and taking your entire
being back to where it was when you first experienced it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Slowing to
a stop behind the elderly gent pondering the distinctions between Persil and Ariel
(you can ponder all you like Sir, you will never work it out), the initial
feelings of passion began to subside and were replaced by the bone crushing
heartache caused by the original object of my desire. And with that I narrowly avoided
asking the old dude his name so I could rush home and write it on my pencil
case. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">A totally unrelated note…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Happy birthday to Son One, six today! Love you
little man xxxx<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-69534190300799538942012-10-01T12:39:00.001+01:002012-10-01T12:39:24.993+01:00It's Happening<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I had a bit
of a wake up call this weekend. The Dad came round on Friday night to help me
and Mum with the Star Wars Party prep (yes I succumbed to the party monster and
went all out with a Star Wars themed party and it was ace, what girl would not
want to be Princess Leia for a day?), and we were all sitting around making
masks, wrapping pass the parcel and sneaking sweets out of the piñata when One
Direction popped up on the telly with their song “Live While We’re Young.” And
whoops, out of nowhere I said “Oh pur-lease” I even shocked myself, I had no
idea where this grumpy old woman came from, but it really grated that it
sounded like they were saying that they didn’t think you can “Live While We’re
Older”. One Direction are cool and young, just like me, aren’t they? Why do
they irritate me so, why do I care? Then it dawned on me. I am getting older
and therefore my tolerance for young people jumping around having a good time
is weakening, I am no longer one of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was
noticeably shaken by this event and tried to put it behind me but I soon started
seeing clues to my aging everywhere…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After
nearly three hours of sitting on a hard floor cutting out 40 eye holes in Darth
Maul masks, and hundreds of black shapes (for the kids to stick on) The Dad and
I eventually stood up with a vast amount of creaking, groaning and seized back
rubbing, then settled gingerly on the sofa with an “aaaaaaaahhh”. Sitting down
with a sigh is another sign of aging, you don’t catch kids sitting down and
going “aaaaah that’s good”. They launch themselves at a sofa (usually from a
great height) and plop down in a tangle of gangly legs and arms. Not like us
oldsters who sit down slowly so that nothing pops or jars. And come to think of
it you never hear them say “Oooh I’m gasping for a cuppa” either. Kids might
want a cup of tea, but they never convey quite the same urgency or <i>need</i> for it as us older folk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I was
about 8 I remember my Great Auntie V refusing a cucumber stick at a family
buffet, “Ooh I couldn’t, cucumber repeats on me” she said gravely, I had no
idea what this meant, but it sounded serious. Then about two weeks later my
Nana D said exactly the same thing, again of a cucumber stick. I still didn’t
know what it meant but I was beginning to approach cucumber with some caution.
I soon started hearing of things repeating on all sorts of people, my parents,
aunts, uncles, their friends and now realise that things “repeating on you” is
another sign of aging. A kebab on Saturday night “repeated on me” for some time
afterwards, it was not a pleasant experience. Maybe that is why I have never
seen my Great Auntie V tucking into a doner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have been
looking for some new boots to wear on the school run (along with a coat – yes
it’s that time of year again, but that’s a whole nother story), and I have
become rather addicted to adding things to my watch list using the eBay app on
my phone. I quickly realised that every single pair of boots I was watching was
flat, boring and without any of the exciting, “trendy” features I would have
looked for in footwear as a youngster. Because frankly, I no longer want to wear
heels during the day (special occasions only), and I want my feet to be warm
and dry and free of aches and pains (and capable of propelling me at speed if I
need to chase after an errant child). Flat boots and a bright pink rain coat
are an obvious mark of someone dressing for substance over style. But style can
come with substance as I discovered yesterday. I was throwing out some clothes
and got Mum to try on some jeans and was really pleased to see that a few pairs
of jeggings fitted her nicely. She was very concerned that she would look
muttony, having got used to the flowy clothing of a respectable older lady, but
I think they look fab on her (as long as she doesn’t couple them with pointy
shoes, sequins or anything neon) and after wearing them for a few minutes we
realised that they also provided a nice bit of support for her knees, which is
a pleasant bonus that I wholly empathise with, having recently succumbed to a
knee injury after standing up from a kneeling position. You know you are
getting old when just standing up poses a notable risk to joints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I may have
a while to go before I’m actually old, but all the signs are there that the
process is well underway. And you’d think that I’d be depressed about it, but
quite the contrary. Being of a certain age has some massive advantages that
many people forget; always getting a seat on the bus, having young people help
you with your shopping, being able to say absolutely anything to anyone and
getting away with it, and my favourite, having perfectly straight, white teeth
that you pop into a glass of water at night and will remain perfectly straight
and white whatever you eat and drink, even if it repeats on you. Now that is
what I call living.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-33544424292774467882012-09-28T13:14:00.000+01:002012-09-28T13:14:05.686+01:00Part-Timer<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My mum has
been staying with me this last week and she has been less than complementary
about my choice of telly. But when I stayed at her house recently she said that
it was <i>her</i> house <i>her </i>rules and that her Freeview box was far too full to allow me to
spend telly time watching frivolous things like X Factor. She had to get
through her massive list of dramas: police dramas, spy dramas, period dramas (I
don’t know how she follows that many different characters, one episode of Dallas and a fence dispute between Paul Robinson and his latest Neighbour per week is quite enough drama for me). So when she’s under <i>my</i>
roof she has to watch <i>my </i>telly, and
is forced to sit huffing and puffing her way through my selection of cookery
programmes (“why is she doing it that way?” “Urgh, I hate ginger”) and reality
shows (“I don’t know why you watch this stuff, Downton is so much better”).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anyway, one
of my all time favourite programmes is Sister Wives. It’s a reality programme about
the polygamist Brown family in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>. For those who don’t know the
background, husband Cody has four wives (one recognised by law, three “blessings”
through his church). They were living in a massive home in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Utah</st1:place></st1:state>, each wife had her own wing which were
joined by a central living room. Cody rotates his time around each “family”.
They have since moved to Vegas where they could not find a home big enough so
each wife has her own house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At first
glance, it’s a bit alien to the “normal” way of living. But scratch beneath the
surface and for the women (yes, I said the women) it must be an idyllic way of
life. When I was “married off” I had a number of single friends who steadfastly
refused to give up their single lives, and I couldn’t understand it, surely
they were missing out? But I now totally get it. I am pretty protective of my
independent lifestyle, my evenings are my own, I can do what I like, when I
like, I can put my furniture where I want, and I am getting more and more
confident with “jobs” around the house (I fixed a long broken radiator the
other day with nothing more than a few minutes on Google, a claw hammer and a
screwdriver) and I love having my massive bed all to myself (except when the
kids come in with me which is mostly lovely although Son Two has got a mosquito
bite at the moment so it’s like spending the night with a large flea ridden dog,
scratch scratch). Every day I wake up and know that my happiness is entirely my
doing, and my path is entirely of my own making. Bliss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But there
are times when I miss having a man around. It would be nice to have a cuddle
every now and then, and sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I need a
man’s strength to help me get some massive piece of furniture down or up from
the loft, and those are the times when I really miss it. Having a part time
husband seems like the ultimate in luxury.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The wives
get to run their own lives, they only have to be wife for one or two nights a
week. Imagine that, you would know exactly what nights you needed to shave your
legs, the rest of the time you could relax in your own house; all your own, not
tripping over men’s stuff. And one of the best things is that these women are
all the best of friends. One of them stays at home and looks after the kids while
the others go out to work. I can’t remember who said it but there was a career
woman who once said, I don’t need a babysitter, cook or a cleaner, I need a
wife. A polygamous marriage would solve that. Shared responsibility for child
and husband care, the rest of your time is your own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Doubters
try to say that these women are restricted. But when you watch it you quickly
realise that it’s the women that are empowered. Poor old Cody lives out of
suitcases, and is more downtrodden than any husband I know, having four women
to nag him and is constantly trying to keep everyone happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was
one episode when the wives were asked whether they would consider taking on
more husbands, and they all looked at each other uncomfortably, shifting around
in their seats, explaining that having multiple husbands was not part of their religion.
But I think the reason why they were reluctant to go there is because they
secretly realise that they have it cushy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Women have
got wise to the fact that ultimately a husband is a massive responsibility and
I think being a Sister Wife would be a great way of sharing that responsibility.
I love having my freedom but I would happily take on a husband on a part time only basis. Kind of like a job
share.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ask any man
if more than one wife would be good for him and he will immediately say it’s a
great idea, a perfect way to satisfy his “high sex drive” (incidentally men,
just FYI, you all have “high sex drives”, there is no need to advertise it on
your dating profile or make sure you tell us on the first date). But ask a
woman and she will immediately say “no thanks”. Because we know that more than
one husband just means more <i>work. </i>And,
as far as the sex drive goes, it’s just like fixing the broken radiator, we don’t
need a man to do it for us (although occasionally having someone else to wield
the hammer would make a nice change).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-50752702138194486902012-09-24T13:15:00.000+01:002012-09-24T13:15:57.270+01:00Three Steps to Happiness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most
common answer to the question “what do you want out of life?” is “to be happy”.
Happiness means different things to different people but the many wishes (a
good job, more money, a nice home, family etc) one could make, all lead to the same
place for the wisher, happiness. But how do we get there?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You all
know I love self help books (I can hear you groaning, shut up), and I briefly mentioned
The Secret in one of my previous posts. A documentary about “The Law of
Attraction” and how to change your life by following it’s principles, The
Secret promises to unlock the power of the universe to give you everything you
ever dreamed of. Now, I love self help books, and will devour them at every available
opportunity, but I know I’m in the minority here and loads of you will not be
convinced by what I or anyone else says. However, if a self help book can help someone be happier, more successful, healthier etc it can’t really be a bad thing, whatever you
think of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I have been
living by The Secret for two weeks and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But I’ll
be honest, there is no real secret to “The Secret” or any other self help book.
In fact, having read possibly hundreds of self help books, I feel I am
qualified to tell you a secret of my own, <i>shhhh,</i>
<i>they all say the same thing.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The words
may be different but the messages are ultimately repeated over and over again.
So, to save those of you who aren’t quite convinced about buying a self help
book and taking the time to read it, or who just don’t believe they can work,
or anyone who’s feeling a little down in the dumps today, I can sum up the
principles of happiness, and therefore all self help (more money, better
body, healthier life, success) in three easy steps, one blog post, maybe ten minutes of your
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Step One –
Gratitude<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Before you
all shout “boring, let’s get to the good bit” this is the most important step
and if you skip it, you will never self-help yourself. If you have the money to
buy a self help book, the eyes to see the words, the education to read it, the friends
to gossip about it with, the car to go to the shop and buy it (or the internet)
you are already better off than millions of people. Once you start looking for
things in your life you can be grateful for you can find them everywhere (last
week I had a particularly ecstatic moment being grateful for the return of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dallas, true story</st1:place></st1:city>). It is only 11am
and already today some things I have been grateful for include: my bed, my
house, my kids, a great shower, cup of coffee, Raisin Wheats (made a nice
change from plain Mini Shredded Wheats), my Hunter wellies, Radio One, the rain
(because it’s watering my new container plants which I would normally forget about
and end up throwing the emaciated stalks into the bin, wasting money and
feeling crap for not being able to look after plants), central heating… I could
go on and on. Everyone is different and will be grateful for different things,
but we all have something to be grateful for, most of us have many.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Step Two –
Positive Thinking<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you
think it’s crap it will be crap. If you think negative bad thoughts, you will
feel negative and bad. I have read countless self help books and have had two
bouts of professional counselling and they have all taught me the same thing:
positive thinking is a massive stepping stone towards happiness. And it’s not
new-age bullshit either: “What we think, we become” (Buddha), “A joyful heart is
good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones” (Proverbs 17:22), “There
is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Shakespeare), “The
pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; the optimist sees the opportunity
in every difficulty” (Churchill). The ability to put a positive spin on anything
is a valuable skill that can be learned (simply through practice) by anyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Step Three –
Action<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Do something.
This one sounds like the hardest one but steps one and two make it easy. Just
do it, whatever you ever dreamed of doing, do it, try it, start it, write it,
draw it, make it, change it, don’t waste time waiting until you have more
money, a better body, a nicer house, the kids grow up, what is really stopping
you from doing it right now? Is it a genuine excuse or just fear? If you follow
step two you will discover there really are no excuses. And by the same token,
if something you are doing makes you feel bad, stop doing it, it’s that simple.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And there
it is. Happiness summed up into three easy steps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But let me
get one thing straight. I will never, ever stop buying self help books, or
saying how wonderful they are, because they have brought me comfort in times of
need and helped me see all the great things in my life. You may think self help
is a load of codswallop, or it's too new-agey, simplistic, preachy just plain icky for you, but it’s simply someone suggesting you be grateful, positive and take action. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-75873206558315286942012-09-21T13:10:00.001+01:002012-09-21T13:10:31.636+01:00Lost<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I
absolutely hate losing things. But to see my messy house you would think I
wouldn’t mind losing things, to the untrained eye that pile of crap on the
kitchen side is just a pile of crap, yet I believe I could list exactly what it
contains. Organised chaos is alright with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was
actually my losing something that started my war on the loft. It was two days
before the school term started and I was just getting round to labelling
everything (unlike super organised mum who has everything labelled and ironed
and ready to go by the last week of the previous term, smug cow) and I had
misplaced the funky iron on name labels I had ordered in a desperate attempt to
portray an organised image when Son One started year R (I won’t be ordering
them again, poor old Son Two will have to be satisfied with his name scrawled
across the washing label in an old Sharpie). It was in checking the loft for
the misplaced labels that I discovered the level of disorganisation up there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The other
day I lost Son One’s swimming hat. This isn’t just any swimming hat, it’s
special. Son One refuses to cut his long hair but it was affecting his swimming
so I said he must wear a hat to keep it out of his eyes. He agreed to the hat
on the condition that it was a Star Wars hat. So I lovingly sewed a Star Wars
patch on either side of a blue and white fabric swimming hat. He loved that hat;
you could see his little chest puffing up with pride when anyone commented on
it. No one else had a Star Wars swimming hat, it was one of a kind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The other
day Son Two and I swam in the big pool while Son One had his lesson in the
teaching pool. Swimming with kids is stressful, you have to take the same
amount of luggage as for a two week holiday (and Son Two is still in nappies so
that means extra supplies) and try and ram it into a locker far too small
before realising that said locker is broken and you will have to go through it
all again with the next locker along. But it’s afterwards that’s the worst.
Trying to squeeze everyone into a tiny cubicle because a couple of sixteen year
olds have decided to use the only two family changing rooms, changing nappy on
the bench in a cloud of talc left by the previous occupant, wrestling damp feet
into shoes and socks (with children complaining of feeling “sticky”) and then
(and this is the really hard bit) get kids to stop fiddling with the door lock
while you change yourself (why are they determined to reveal your nakedness to
the universe?). When you finally unlock the door it’s like letting the greyhounds
out of the trap, and you chase after them, hair dripping wet, all hope of
checking face for runny mascara in the mirror forgotten. I returned home
(mirror check revealed runny mascara as suspected). But when I took out the wet
swimming things I couldn’t find the hat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I tried to
remain calm. I emptied the bag again. I put everything else away. I checked
inside all the swimming costumes, inside the hoods of the towels, I emptied my
car, I looked under my bed, behind sofa cushions, everywhere I knew it could be
before everywhere I knew it couldn’t possibly be. I searched for over half an
hour until I had to accept that the swimming hat was gone. And this is the
point where my OCD kicks in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I started
to imagine the swimming hat lying forlornly on the tarmac of the car park,
maybe getting kicked about by some passing youth. Or I would imagine it in the
hands of some other child, who would not appreciate the love and care that had
gone into making that Star Wars swimming hat. Or worst of all, being
transported to the dump in a bin bag from the leisure centre, nestling amongst
used nappies and sodden plasters, where it will stay til the end of time. All
of these visions were a disturbing end to a much loved possession. To say
nothing of the look on Son One’s face when I had to break the news to him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And this is
what happens to me every time I misplace something. I don’t just mourn their
loss, but waste a considerable amount of time and energy thinking about where
they could be once they are sucked into the vortex of misplacement. It’s both a
blessing and a curse having such an active imagination. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I awoke
early the following morning after a fretful night and reordered a new hat and patches
in the hope that I could replace it before Son One noticed (which would have
been hard given that Son Two loves it just as much and has taken to wearing it
around the house when Son One isn’t around). It cost money but I would’ve paid
a lot more to avoid the inevitable upset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But I still
couldn’t stop my mind cranking out the visions of the lost hat. So in one last
desperate attempt to give myself some peace I went to the leisure centre and
asked them if it had been handed in. It hadn’t. I begged them to let me look in
the changing room and they reluctantly agreed. And there it was. Sitting on the
bench of the changing room where it had been all along, not on any of the
adventures I had imagined for it. Mystery solved and hat back in the right
hands, my mind was finally calmed. Phew, close one, I almost overreacted there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-88622302315262328462012-09-17T12:55:00.000+01:002012-09-17T12:55:57.256+01:00Car Booty<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Don’t hate me for saying this but there are only 13 weeks till Christmas. My palms are sweating as I type at the thought of not having enough money to pay for it. Not only that, I also have house maintenance to do ready for the winter. Even when I was still with The Dad we never planned or saved properly for Christmas, ending up spending money we shouldn’t and never really recovering from Christmas until the following June. But as part of a twosome that was nowhere near as scary or serious a prospect.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Now I’m on my own the weight of responsibility bears far more heavily. I’ve started getting organised; making lists of what needs to be done, not just for Christmas but to the house to see it through winter. And along with all the practical preparations, I also need to prepare financially.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I don’t have any spare cash to save so I need to find the money through other means. After totally freaking out at the sight of my loft a couple of weeks ago (a footprint the size of my entire house, waist deep in broken toys, scratched cd’s, reams and reams of paper, baby equipment, computer parts and precious memory boxes) I had to sit down and calm myself with a cup of tea and a fag. I am most definitely not a neat freak but I would like to avoid finding myself on an episode of Hoarders (on one episode they unearthed three dead cats, can you imagine?). It was like I could feel the weight of all that crap bearing down on me, to say nothing of how I will be able to dig out the Christmas decorations by myself (that’s if they have even survived being buried under all the crap). But one mans trash is another mans er… probably crap to put in his loft, so I did an impromptu car boot sale yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">My usual car boot routine goes like this: Plan car boot sale at least two weeks in advance, gathering all manner of crap and assembling pasting tables (and pretty table cloths), clothes rails and the like, while putting wildly inflated price stickers on everything and ironing piles and piles of clothes. Go to Tesco on the way to car boot to spend three pounds on snacks and drinks and to break a twenty to provide a float. Arrive at the car boot sale fully intending to make at least £200 (including a tenner for that pair of brand new jeans still with tags that you never quite fitted into but which are musty smelling from two years in the loft). Spend the next two hours refusing to sell stuff for below your starting price. Panic that you are not going to earn back the cost of your pitch. Start selling things for 10p. Buy a bacon sandwich to put something hot in your stomach and spend two pounds on a pair of neon yellow socks from the stall next door to put over your freezing hands. Panic that you are not going to get rid of anything. Start giving things away (harder than you might think). Realise that everyone else has left and you can’t feel your fingers or toes. Pack up 98% of the stuff you arrived with, dropping it off (including the unsold brand new jeans) at a charity shop on the way home. Go home, count money and discover that you made £2.46 loss for all that prep and five hours shivering in a field. But at least you have a new pair of socks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So this time I took a completely different approach. No planning whatsoever and zero expectations (except to get rid of as much stuff as possible). Sunday morning I calmly loaded the car with bin bags of baby clothes separated into age groups and bits and pieces which were bought at a car boot in the first place and never used, easily grabbed from the precipice of loft mountain. I dismantled my kitchen table and bunged it in, made myself a flask of coffee, grabbed a couple of cereal bars, rummaged around the house under sofa cushions and in the rubber seal of the washing machine unearthing coins to use as a float and set off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I laid my bin bags out on the grass and stuck an age label on each one. Random crap went on my kitchen table and I sat down with my book, cereal bars and flask of coffee. People were queuing up to have a rummage in my bin bags, and apart from one snotty lady who muttered “tut tut, bad presentation, the lady up there had the right idea” nodding towards a beautifully laid out baby clothes stall with not a punter in sight, everyone else said that my bin bags were genius. And that coupled with my pricing strategy (a pound each or whatever you want to offer) obviously worked. Some of the bulging bin bags were empty by the time I packed up. Lesson learned; people go to car boot sales looking for a proper bargain, not to spend £4 on a pair of second hand trousers they could get for the same price in Asda. After four hours I packed up maybe 40% of the stuff I went with, went home for a sandwich and worked out I had made £46 profit, a good start to my Christmas savings.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It barely looks like I’ve made a dent in the loft but with a little hard work (OK a lot of hard work, eBay is my next mission), I’ll have saved up for Christmas in no time and might even have a little left over to treat myself. And I’ll be able to put up my Christmas decorations without the fear of discovering a festering dead thing. One nil to me in the me vs Hoarders challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-77382224342340176352012-09-14T13:26:00.000+01:002012-09-14T13:26:18.160+01:00Oh, Grow Up<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We all grow up sometime, for the most part anyway. We start seeing bank holidays as an opportunity to do DIY rather than take road trips to the beach, and spending what little spare money we have (if it hasn’t already been spent on DIY) on mortgage over payments and children’s school shoes rather than bad fashion and booze. It’s all fairly boring really.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So I am grateful for the parts of me that stubbornly refuse to grow up, they make life just a little more interesting…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Bodily Functions<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Admittedly there is a time and a place, but in your own home, bodily functions can provide hours of entertainment. Recently a friend and I held a burp off while eating pizza. The kids watched in awe as we downed whole cans of Coke and tried to create the loudest, longest burps. The kids were crying with laughter and bursting with pride when Mummy performed the winning burp, proving that girls too (in the appropriate setting) can enjoy and execute impressive belching (thanks Big Bro for teaching me that particular talent).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Naughty Words<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I’m not talking about swearing, I mean the silly childish words that can raise a snigger in situations which really call for a straight face. Even as a grown mother of two I find it hard to go to the doctors and discuss faeces, penises or anuses (should the plural of anus be ani and penis be peni?) and prefer to use poo, winky or bum, and I still struggle to avoid a smile when I do. And sometimes naughty words pop up in unexpected places. I stayed at my mums recently and giggled for an entire day after finding a packet in the garage containing a “Drain Off Cock”. The images it brought to mind left me feeling slightly disappointed and bereft to find a boring old piece of plumbing inside the packet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I am currently reading Bill Bryson’s Notes From A Small Island, and he noted that Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens used to be called the Upper Pleasure Gardens and Lower Pleasure Gardens, but in recent years they saw how dangerous it was to have Lower and Pleasure in the same title so we now just have the Upper Pleasure Gardens and the plain old Pleasure Gardens. I don’t really blame them, but if you ask me simply <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Pleasure</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Garden</st1:placetype></st1:place> itself is rife with slightly naughty connotations (snigger).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Watching Neighbours<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It started hundreds of years ago with a media storm around kids bunking off school to watch it and yep I still tune in. And to those of you that are asking “my god, is that still going?” (I get asked this question a lot when I tell people I still watch it), yes it is still going, and no Bouncer is no longer in it (although Paul Robinson is still going strong). There is something comforting about watching Neighbours, it has none of the depression or angst of the UK soaps (all of which make me want to jump off the nearest bridge with all their moody weather, dark, dank streets and chavvy irritatingly depressing characters), even when it’s raining on Ramsay Street it looks sunny and happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Making Wotsit Structures<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">For the benefit of my international readers Wotsits are type of corn snack, much like Cheetos, only smaller. Turning a packet of Wotsits (never tried it with Cheeto’s, this could be a new avenue for me next time I’m on the continent, wow imagine the possibilities) into one massive long cheesy stick and poking someone with it is the most fun you can have with a convenience snack on a long car journey. In fact, I think making Wotsit models overtakes Eye Spy as my number one car entertainment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Ok so we all have to grow up, but come on, sometimes kids have absolutely the right idea. Every week I drive Son One to his swimming lesson and we park in the multi story car park. And every week he asks me to park at the very top. But being a sensible grown up I take the ‘sensible’ option, by finding the space as low as possible, as close to the door as possible, squeezing my mummy mobile in between two massive 4x4’s slightly parked over the lines, spend ten minutes trying to get out of the door without bashing the paintwork of the badly parked beast next to me, all to save valuable seconds walking from car to lift/stair well. But this week I finally gave in, and man, am I glad I did. I think I would go so far as to say the very top level of the multi story car park is the best kept secret in my town. Not only was our car the only one there (everyone else had obviously wedged themselves between two 4x4’s slightly on the wrong side of the lines) but the view was phenomenal. We excitedly looked over the edge and could see for miles around. It felt like we were the only people on the planet and ran about with our arms out in this huge space that for that moment belonged to just us. I don’t think I’ll ever park on a lower level again, even when I don’t have the kids with me (although I may not do the twirling around with arms in the air thing, there are some things a grown up really can’t get away with when not accompanied by children). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">You might tell me to grow up, but I will firmly say that you are missing out (before sticking my tongue out and poking you with my two foot long Wotsit).<o:p></o:p></span></div>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-25369065034066420532012-09-10T13:33:00.000+01:002012-09-10T13:33:12.005+01:00Carry On Camping<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I love camping. There’s something about sleeping under canvas, being freezing cold yet lying in a pool of your own sweat, trying to get comfy in a twisted sleeping bag and of course the inevitable wee roulette (do I absolutely <i>have</i> to go outside and walk for 2 miles through the elements to get to the toilet or can I hold off until the morning?) that I find really exciting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">So as the weather was fine this weekend, I decided the kids and I would camp out in the garden together. It came in a flash of inspiration. It’s totally free and what could be more exciting to a three and a five year old than getting close to nature and sleeping under the stars? I was a little nervous, I have only just got used to sleeping in the house alone at night, how would I fare being outside? But the kids were excited so I was determined to be brave.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I spent the daytime working in the garden. I have recently admitted to myself that far from the Barbara from the Good Life I had expected to be, I actually do not enjoy gardening very much. I can appreciate gardens when the weather is nice but the rest of the time they just seem to be a drain on resources and energy. Because of that my garden looks like the outside of a trailer park, discarded and broken toys litter the “lawn”, patches of rough ground, untended plants and a jungle burying the vegetable planters The Dad had kindly put in for me. So, in a bid to stop dragging down the house ceiling price of the road, I painted a couple of ugly walls, while the kids begged me to hurry up so they could put the tent up. Kids Auntie came round for a cuppa so I asked her to help them erect it, to get them off my back while I was otherwise engaged (covered from head to toe in paint, perching precariously atop a step ladder, sloshing paint onto walls).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The tent had been festering in its bag for well over five years, and, given that it was my old festival tent and all manner of unsavoury activities had taken place in there, it didn’t smell particularly fragrant. But this didn’t seem to put the kids off, who excitedly got all their camping essentials, bedding, cuddly toys, a Ben and Holly magnifying glass (I have no idea) and my bedside clock and set it up ready for bed. After supper I read them a story and told them to go to sleep and that I would be outside until my bedtime when I would come into the tent and sleep in between them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I suppose I should have added to the fun by staying in there with them. But at the end of the day I do need some time to myself to recover after a day unsuccessfully wrestling kids away from paintbrushes (and if I’m honest, I wanted to spend as little time in that stinky tent as possible). So I sat on the patio with a shandy and read my book. The children, unsurprisingly, did not settle. The tent from the outside looked like a cartoon bag of frantic cats. Son One eventually got sleepy, but Son Two (aged three) was far too excited to do anything other than play with his Action Man, loudly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I started to get cold. So I lit a fire in our barbeque pit perched in the middle of the garden table, which warmed everything upwards from my eyebrows. At this point I was really hoping that they would get bored and want to go back inside, so that I could sit on my comfy sofa and watch X Factor. It began to get dark, and I was totally unprepared, so ended up reading my book by the light of a Lego wind up torch. Eventually it got so dark and so cold that I decided I may as well go to bed myself. At 8.45pm. So rock and roll for a Saturday night.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I squeezed in between the boys and realised why it had taken them so long to fall asleep. It was bloody uncomfortable. The two cushions I had used as a mattress had separated so that my head was off the ground, as were my hips and legs, but everything in between was lying on bare ground sheet. And I couldn’t sort it out without disturbing the kids. I had the wee roulette (I gambled and won, darting desperately into the house in the morning to relieve myself) and wrestled with my twisted sleeping bag. At one point Son Two woke up and complained that he was cold, grasped me round the neck and fell asleep strangling me. Son One woke up at 5am and complained that he was wet from the condensation drips falling from the walls of the tent, went out for a wee then returned to declare “I hate camping!” before falling back to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">That afternoon Big Bro popped round for a cuppa, I proudly told him that we had camped out all night and I wasn’t even scared. “So did you like camping?” he asked Son One, “No. It was wet and horrible.” Son one replied. Still, least I enjoyed it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-69625053892426869492012-09-07T16:06:00.000+01:002012-09-07T16:06:06.721+01:00Retro Repost: Children's Party Hell<br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2765004891534943300" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: #515151; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 520px;"><div class="MsoNormal">Having had a very busy Friday, and having used up all my organisational skills this week trying to keep up my new school years resolutions I of course have not been organised enough to write a new blog for today. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Screaming at me from the top of my ever-expanding-at-this-time-of-year to do list for the last few weeks has been to organise The Son's birthday party (I am doing a joint one this year, why put myself through the trauma twice when their birthdays are quite close together?). <span style="line-height: 1.4;">So on that note, I decided rather than to leave you lacking a Friday blog, I would repost this one I wrote about a year ago (with a few revisions!)...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most parents dread kids parties, whether planning one: what if it’s not good enough? What if child hates it? What if child says he wants a pirate party but then 24 hours before the party decides he wants a fireman party instead? Or attending: what if my child won’t play? What if they are rude about the food or entertainment? What if they won’t even go through the door – I have spent many hours in village hall car parks coaxing son number 1 into a party he refuses to take part in because there are balloons, an unfortunate phobia for a 3 year old. Thankfully we’re over that one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Children’s parties are far more stressful than you would think pre-parenthood, on son number 1’s first birthday party we had 12 kids all with their parents (we served beer and wine to the parents to help them get through it – that was a controversial choice, possibly the rookie mistake of a first time mum) squished into our tiny flat, and I was so relieved that it was finally happening and going well that I drunk half a bottle of wine in an hour and was intoxicated and asleep before everyone left.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I realise I have created my own party monster. Son number 2 was due a month before son number 1’s birthday. Heavily pregnant and needing a project, I threw myself into planning the ultimate pirate party for son number 1’s third birthday. The Dad, as the appointed MC, spent a week making a pirate costume to wear and I made a little pirate pack for every guest including sash, eye patch and bandana, with the pirate captains hat for son 1. Even son number 2, only a month old, wore a stripy sleepsuit and a little eye patch. It took a huge amount of planning, and was meant to be a one off. Make son number one feel loved and special while dealing with the transition from only child to big brother. But of course the following year he wanted a Buzz Lightyear party. I’d made the mistake of setting the bar too high. The Dad got his costume making hat on again and we arrived at the party as family Buzz, the kids in supermarket Buzz costumes, us parents in slightly too tight white jogging bottoms and home made wings. I was terrified The Dad would take some poor kids eye out with his wings, fashioned out of motorcross body armour and a car undertray (mine were far more child friendly, made out of carpet tiles).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there’s the cake. For at least 24hours before every party I am stuck in my kitchen, sweating and stressed, coughing under plumes of icing sugar. For son number 2's second birthday I did Lightning McQueen. But I’ll let you in on a secret, <i>neither of my kids even like cake.</i> I do it because I love the artistic side of it, and the pleasure I get when people say, wow what an amazing cake! It’s all self indulgence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I wish I had just started with a nice simple soft play centre party and a supermarket cake. Minimal planning, no ridiculous costumes, no panicking because Lightning McQueen looks slightly boss eyed. Just show up, pick up the presents and go home. The kids don’t even mind. They always have a brilliant time at soft play parties. But when our parties are over and we can all relax at last and son number 1 says “Mummy, that was the best party ever in the world” I know I’ll be doing it all again next year.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Dad says he doesn’t enjoy the big parties so much, it’s all too stressful. You could have fooled me when he’s up til 2am the night before making pirate boots out of an old PVC skirt he’s bought from the charity shop. He says he would rather just play on the soft play with the kids and he really doesn’t care whether the cake is homemade or not (which is a shame because he’s kind of the only person who actually eats the cake).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every year I say I will just do a MacDonalds or soft play party. Easy and simple. But before I got the chance to suggest it to him he says “Mummy, I want a Lego City/ Star Wars/ Spongebob party this year.” And now Son Two is old enough to pipe up with "and I want Peppa Pig party". Yep, I’ve definitely set the bar too high. </div></div>Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-38990832173945821592012-09-03T13:17:00.000+01:002012-09-03T13:17:29.161+01:00New (School) Years Resolutions<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ooh I love
the start of the school year. It makes me want to sharpen all my pencils and begin
a new notebook. Even in the years between me finishing full time education and
having school age kids, I still loved the beginning of September for all its
crisp newness, the delicious promise of learning new things and stepping out on
a sunny morning in a shiny new pair of shoes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unfortunately,
this vigour and enthusiasm doesn’t tend to last. By the end of the first month
back (OK, first week) we are usually late, fed up and new shoes have been scuffed and ruined.
This year however, I intend to stay on the ball…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">1. I will
iron all school uniforms<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ironing is
rather pointless in my opinion. You spend hours getting the creases out of
things only for them to get all scrumpled up in messy drawers (and neat drawers
is a NYR I have tried and failed to keep many, many times, so it’s time to
admit defeat on that one). However, ironing school uniforms should be a bare
minimum, I really don’t want my kids to get the “scruffy” label (whoops, too
late) so at the very least I will endeavour to iron their uniforms instead of
relying on the rather unreliable cheap supermarket school uniforms “non-iron”
feature.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">2. We will
make it to school on time<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And not
dashing in five minutes late, apologising to the waiting teacher as Son One
says “We’re late ‘cus Mummy was doing a poo”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">3. I will
do Son One’s reading with him every day straight after school<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Instead of
only when I remember, and desperately trying to think of things I can fill up
his reading diary with on Thursday mornings. Playing with fridge magnet letters,
and reading “level one” on Angry Birds counts, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">4. Sons
will get dressed every morning in their bedroom, before coming downstairs, in
clothes I have laid out the night before<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">No more
rooting through the washing basket at 8.30am, desperately trying to find an
acceptably clean school t-shirt and kids getting dressed in front of Dora. And
while we’re on the subject, matching socks, <i>every
day.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">5. Now that
I know stain remover works I will use it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Rather than
sending Son One to school in greying, dinner stained t-shirts by half term.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">5. We will <i>always</i> walk to school<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And learn
more about the changing of the seasons, play games and discuss our day on the
walk. No more taking the car for the two minute journey because we are either
a) running late, b) thinking it might rain or c) feeling lazy. And the kids WILL love it rather than spending the whole walk moaning that their shoes are too tight, they wanted to go the other way, or they have "run out of energeeeeeeeee".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">6. I will
learn the rules of what is allowed in a packed lunch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I got told
off by Son One for putting a packet of mini Smarties in his lunch box last year,
as a treat, on his birthday. These are apparently contraband. A KitKat however,
is allowable. And I really don’t know the schools standing on crisps either. All
very confusing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">7. I will
not shout at the kids in the mornings<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I will also
be strict about not being allowed to take their light sabres for the walk to
school then having to face the inevitable screaming match outside the classroom
when I try to take it away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">8. I will
go easy on myself<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">No more
beating myself up for taking a tin of out of date butter beans as a raffle
prize and no more baking ‘til 3am creating a show-stopping cake for the bake
sale (this is <i>not</i> the Great British
Bake Off). OK, this one is definitely not going to last, especially when I
remember that the pumpkin carving competition is only weeks away…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><i>P.s. It has just dawned on me that I have now reached over ten thousand page views (and that's not counting my own)!!!</i> <i>Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for reading, liking and sharing this blog, please keep it up. Here's to the next ten thousand page views :-) xxxxxxxx</i></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6200473494682420380.post-45720674529417092172012-08-24T11:54:00.000+01:002012-08-24T11:54:10.920+01:00Mettle Detecting<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">The minute
the ex and I split I promised myself I would never, ever moan about how hard it
is to look after kids on my own. Because frankly, being a mum, not being a mum,
being single or married, stay at home, working, makes no difference. Some
people can’t have kids, so I’m lucky. Some people have a shitty, useless
husband, so I’m lucky again. Tough times come to everyone and you can’t compare
your own tough times to someone else’s, because how can you know?<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">(And by the
way, I hate the term “single mum”. It has such negative connotations. I prefer
“lone parent”. It has far more cowboy/girl esque grit about it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">So anyway,
this isn’t a moaning post about being a single mum, ahem, lone parent. But the
other day, I had one of those moments where I, like everyone, parents or not,
single or not, regularly do. There was a moment where I thought, I can’t bloody
well do this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I had had a
nice day writing while the kids were at the childminders. OK I’ll be honest, it
wasn’t that nice, and I didn’t do that much writing. In the aftermath of a break-up everyone has the odd time when you hear a song that reminds
you of how bloody good things were once, and the true meaning of that song
suddenly dawns on you, and you just sit and cry while listening to it over and
over again, howling into a babywipe because you are too wracked with sobs to
get up and find a tissue. Yep, it’s depressing but it’s all part of the
process. It doesn’t happen to me that often (I’ve got the cowgirl grit) but
after a highly emotionally charged few days and very little sleep I was in the
mood where frankly anything could set me off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">So I had
spent the day crying while the kids were at the childminders, and stuck in the
grips of the blues. I went to the supermarket with puffy eyes (and a noticeably
new grey hair, honestly, this break up has a lot to answer for) because I had
decided just to get one area of my life sorted. You have to start somewhere and
to me the simplest place to start was to just cook a nice meal for me and the
boys. They always eat well. I, on the other hand, have been living off
croissants by day and Cheerios by night. I’m so laden with carbs I could power
a jet engine with the amount of fuel I have to burn off. Sitting down with the
kids and a nice meal would cheer me up, I was sure of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">After my
healthy eating trip to the shops, I picked the kids up. It was hammering down
with rain. Son Two refused to get in the car because he was intent to play in
the rain, and then refused to get into his car seat. I eventually got him in,
not before I got a soggy bottom which had spent an added seven minutes sticking
out of the car door while I wrestled Son Two into his seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">We got home,
the kids settled themselves in front of the telly and I started my second
attempt at home made pasta. My first attempt was like chewing through a saddle
and I was determined to get it right this time. Son Two (who’s now nearly
three) wanted to help squidge the little rectangles into bows (we make farfale)
so I sent him off upstairs to wash his hands while I lost myself in the welcome
mindlessness of squidging pasta shapes. About ten minutes later he returned and
took his place beside me. We sat in relative peace for a while squidging away,
when I suddenly heard a drip. It appeared to be raining in my kitchen. I rushed
upstairs to the bathroom to find the plug in the sink, tap running and a
plastic Mr Incredible attached to the plug chain (presumably he was trying to
save himself from certain drowning). I gathered all the towels I could find to
mop up the water (with the help of Son One) and then dashed downstairs
remembering that I had left Son Two alone with the farfale. I turned the
downstairs lights off at the fusebox (thanks to my friend who phoned me up to
tell me to do it), put a bucket under the dripping and powered through. After
we had eaten, the boys started in with their tired mummmmmeeeeeeee whining. Son
Two had gone under the table and found an as yet unnoticed pile of cat sick and
had trodden in it. Son One wanted a drink. The kitchen was covered in flour and
every pot and pan in the house was dirty. There was a bucket in the middle of
the floor catching the drips. Every single towel in the house was sodden, and I
couldn’t hang them out to dry because it was raining and I couldn’t even put
them in the washing machine because my washing machine was broken (over the
weekend my well meaning mum had brought me some three hundred year old feather
pillows (I needed new pillows and couldn’t afford to buy any), attempted to
wash them in my machine and they split, filling the entire thing, including the
motor (if the billowing smoke was anything to go by) with feathers, and will
require a visit from the washing machine man (which likely will take weeks) to
fix it), my landline was ringing (mum wanting to know how the washing machine
was) and my phone was going ten to the dozen with texts from friends in need.
And this was when I had one of those moments where I just thought, <i>I can’t bloody do this</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">But tough
times are there to show us how strong we are. And when you’re on your own you
get a chance to really test your mettle. There is absolutely no not being able
to cope. The moment the thought crosses your mind you pull out the grit and put
some tunes on (to drown out the kids whining) and you just get on with it. And
the sheer satisfaction you get two hours later, sitting in the dark with only a
laptop for light (can’t turn the lights on until the ceiling has dried out),
when the kids are asleep, the flour has been cleaned away and the sodden towels
are at least in a neat pile, comes from knowing I did this, all by myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When the
going gets tough, enjoy it. This is a rare chance to prove to the world, and
more importantly yourself, what you’re really made of. Relish it and know your
mettle has been tested and found worthy. Big tick, smiley face, gold star for
us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17951160531929867945noreply@blogger.com0