Chaos Thoery

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.

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 away 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.

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.

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, many 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.

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.

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 done that I am addicted to.

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.

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.

Old Skool

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.

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.

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).

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).

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 try 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.

Smells Like Teen Angst

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.

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 boccadillo and trying to sleep when it was broad daylight.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A totally unrelated note…

Happy birthday to Son One, six today! Love you little man xxxx

It's Happening

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.

I was noticeably shaken by this event and tried to put it behind me but I soon started seeing clues to my aging everywhere…

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 need for it as us older folk.

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.

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.

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.

Part-Timer

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 her house her 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 my roof she has to watch my 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”).

Anyway, one of my all time favourite programmes is Sister Wives. It’s a reality programme about the polygamist Brown family in the US. 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 Utah, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 work. 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).

Three Steps to Happiness

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?

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.

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, shhhh, they all say the same thing.

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.

Step One – Gratitude

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 Dallas, true story). 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.

Step Two – Positive Thinking

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.

Step Three – Action

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.

And there it is. Happiness summed up into three easy steps.

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 J

Lost

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Car Booty

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh, Grow Up

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.

So I am grateful for the parts of me that stubbornly refuse to grow up, they make life just a little more interesting…

Bodily Functions

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).

Naughty Words

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.

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 Pleasure Garden itself is rife with slightly naughty connotations (snigger).

Watching Neighbours

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.

Making Wotsit Structures

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.

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).

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).

Carry On Camping

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 have 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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.