Saturday, 23 May 2009

Meet NB!

I thought it was about time you were introduced to the newest member of our family. No, I didn’t have a baby. Or buy a kitten. Tut. This is so much better.

Remember Silly? This is about her. She will die of shame if I tell you this story but, meh. It’ll entertain you and me for a while, huh?

Once upon a time there was this cute guy who used the same gym as Silly and shopped where she worked, so they saw each other fairly often. Both would stammer and blush a little, and I’m sure things would have progressed naturally but it was not to be.

Colleague decided that nature was too slow so she sidled up to him and hissed out of the corner of her mouth “For God’s sake ask her out, I’m sick of listening to her go on and on about you.”

Subtlety, thy name is NOT colleague.

Still it worked and he asked her out and they arranged a date. All good, huh?

Except the morning after the date, Silly was nowhere to be found. There was a note in her mother’s kitchen to please wake her for work (they live next door to each other). There was loud music coming from her flat, her car was outside, she was in but not answering the phone or door.

Babcia, Silly’s mother, called me in a panic. “I’ve called and knocked and shouted, and had to go to work but am still trying her phone with no answer and now I’m worried. She might have fallen and hurt herself, please go and check on her!”

Himself, Silly’s brother, called me in a panic. Cute guy “might have chopped her body up and stuffed her into black bags, go check on her!” (Note to self: ban Himself from any and all future episodes of CSI).

Me: She’ll have got drunk and is now sleeping off a hangover, leave her alone!

Them: She ASKED to be woken. PLEASE check on her. Otherwise WE will.

Me: (Mentally running rapidly through more realistic scenarios and deciding I was the least of the bad options*). Fine, I’ll go. Sigh.

So I go and knock on her door. No answer. I get a key from Babcia’s flat down the hall, and unlock Silly’s door, shouting her name from the doorstep. No answer. I enter and turn the music down. Shout again. No answer. I knock loudly on her bedroom door. No answer. Oh for goodness sake. Don’t make me do this, I really don’t want to.

I open the bedroom door. Waves of alcohol fumes waft past me, tearing my eyes and choking me. There is a lump, snoring on the bed. A filthy foot has flopped out from under the duvet. I tap the foot with my foot (ok fine, I kicked it. Gently. -Ish). A groan and then a tousled head emerges from the duvet.

Not SILLY’S tousled head. Cute gym guy blinks at me in genuine confusion. Ah. The devil in me takes over. I perch on the bed.

“Hello!” I chirp. “I’m a complete stranger arrived to transport you to your personal hell. It’s nice to meet you!” Then I bounce on the bed a little, just enough to watch his face turn green.

Another tousled head emerges – Silly’s this time – and the waves of alcohol fumes lift slightly for me to see various... uh… “accoutrements” scattered around the room. Various “novelties” if you will. Silly glances at her phone. “FIFTY ONE missed calls?!”

Laughing like a hyena, I retreat and lock myself out, making a note to one day blog about Silly and her Naked Boyfriend.

(*Considering the actual scenario, Silly is very very grateful that I went to wake her and not Himself or their Mother. So is Naked Boyfriend. Bwah-ha-ha!)

Naked Boyfriend bought breakfast for everyone at work as an apology, and made rueful jokes so…  we are keeping him. He’s cool. But he is now, and will forever be, Naked Boyfriend!

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

The One where I Lose My Mind

I lost my phone! Actually that isn’t as dramatic as it sounds because I lose my phone several times a day. The usual place it’s found is in the car, between the two front seats.

So, I lost my phone just now, had a quick look in the usual places and couldn’t find it. Not in the car. Not on “the side” (1), not in the car, not in my bag. Hmm. Not in the kitchen, not inside The Babe’s push along car or her play handbag. Hmm. Not in the fridge, nor the breadbin. Not in the bathroom cabinet.

Grump. Around this point I lose the will to continue looking. Himself is out so I shout Thing One to ask what my phone number is (2). And I called myself. As you do.

Straight away I heard the phone jingling away (Kate Nash “Foundations” since you ask. And yes, I do ignore the phone calls to sing along sometimes). Oh relief. It’s on my desk! I lift all the paperwork and… no phone. Hmm. Maybe it fell down the back? No. Inside my chair? On the windowsill? Behind the curtain? No? For goodness sake, the phone is really loud, it must be here somewhere.

Oh, you know where it was? You caught on quicker than me then.

Yes. In my pocket. Grrr.

(1) Himself thinks “the side” is hilarious. It refers to absolutely any surface in any room, and could refer to the mantle, a worktop or even a window sill. And yet *I* always know which “side” I mean, as does anyone else who puts things “on the side”. Do you put things “on the side” or do you actually NAME the surfaces?

(2) Oh come on, NO-ONE knows their own mobile telephone number. Most people don’t even know their home number!

P.S. Obnoxious Child (formerly known as Thing One) is smirking and calling me a doofus since I didn’t realise the phone was in my pocket. So I won’t tell you that as she was reading this she asked me “How do you call your own phone?”

Uh. On the landline? Doofus.

Saturday, 16 May 2009

OK, enough

I’ve about had it, ok? Just stop now. Really. There are limits. In no particular order;

1. Diagnosing Himself’s father with inoperable, terminal cancer was bad.

2. That cancer being far more aggressive than anyone could guess was bad too. We only found out a couple of weeks ago, and already he is going into a hospice? That’s just crap.

3. Lil Sis ending up in end stage renal failure is bad.

4. Taking her sight too? That’s crap.

5. Good friend turning up on my doorstep telling she has just had her first bout of chemo? Bad again.

6. In addition, minor things like a three week bout of conjunctivitis – for god’s sake this is ridiculous just un-stick your bloody eyes already -and a ten day stomach flu thing affecting us all… well that is pretty shitty too.

amy 7. But really, this too? Finding our beloved cat fallen and unable to rise. Calling the girls to her while we hold her, and stroke her and tell her how much we love her. And she purrs and curls her paw in my hand. And then Himself lifts her gently into her basket and takes her to the vet. And stays with her while she receives that injection because the fall was a stroke.

That is the shittiest of all.

See you on the Rainbow Bridge.

Friday, 15 May 2009

Interview with a Toddler


Hey Babe, can I ask you a question? “In a minute.………. hang on……. yeah?” (Hmm. This lack of respect thing is starting younger and younger).

Ready? What is something Mummy says to you? “Hug ME!” (Well. OK.)

What makes Mummy happy? “Me” (Awww! No false modesty this one.)

What makes Mummy sad? “Me” (Oh.)

Can Mummy make you laugh? How? “Not be horrible a me.” (Hurrumph)

How old is Mummy? “Years! A’ you finished?” (No pocket money for 5 years!)

How big is Mummy? “Bigger than me” (Ten years!)

What does Mummy want to do? (Wanders away, picks up some Top Trumps). “Play cards.”

What is my job? “Cleaning up mess” (Grrr.)

What is my favourite food? “Red” (Guess she is distracted now?)

What do we do together? “Dance” (That’s a yes then).

Are we the same? “Yes. I playing”

Are we different? “No. You playing”

Do you know I love you? “Yes”

What do you want us to do together? “Turn the TV on! Come on, mum, come on.” (I guess she has had enough.)

Sunday, 10 May 2009


The thing with regular blogging is that quite often you have absolutely nothing to say, because your life is either just that CRAP or you just have that much crap going on which is too depressing to write down. And the funny runs away and quivers under the bed lest you flog it and churn out even more crappy not funny jokes and the punctuation and grammar join it and become this huge Monster-Under-The-Bed with flailing furry arms that is called Snortimer. But Snortimer is afraid of the light so you can't even haul him out and use him as a teddy bear so what use is he?

But, you know. It's a BLOG. You have to write it.

So. Write, write, write. Type, tip tap type. Insert thoughts from my head here. My tummy is full from my dinner but I still need to eat one wafer thin after dinner mint. I wonder if the girls did their homework? I wonder where Himself has gone? COME BACK! I didn't REALLY eat that wafer thin mint. Yet.

The sun is out which is typical because it was piddling down this afternoon but now that the shops are shut the sun comes out, which is no bloody good because I can't go out shopping now can I?? Not that I enjoy shopping that much but it's my birthday/anniversary this week so Himself and the Rabble need to go buy me a card. If they know what is good for them.

It's the 16th Anniversary of my 21st Birthday, in case you were interested.

Oh and I didn't mention that the dog got sick and had an operation, but he is fine now anyway, thanks for asking. Stitches are out now and he is behaving as usual - lolling around as if even breathing is too much effort interspersed with periods of insane manic activity.

I still have nothing to say so will shut up now and go away before you notice that I am talking crap and oh why am I still typing just stop now please. Ok.

(Inspired post.)

Wednesday, 6 May 2009


Men are useless. Can I get a Hell Yeah, or will anyone dissent? {Counts hands} Motion carried!

I've never actually left my children before, apart from a single night when my father was dying and a brief two night stay giving birth to The Babe. They have left me, many times, to go to camps or sleepovers or whatever. Himself has gone on business trips and holidays without us. But me? No. So escaping with Posh and Ally was a surreal feeling.

I cooked meals and froze them, ensured there were enough clean undies, helped the girls plan their social lives ("What do you mean you are going away and leaving us with Dad? Right, I'm staying with my friends, you can collect me on your way home!").

And what did he do?

He went out on Friday and bought enough disposable plates bowls and cutlery to last the weekend.

He ordered takeout for every meal that he had to cook (read defrost and re-heat. I'd already cooked!). Even breakfast was at McDonald's!

He roped in his sister to help him on the only day he actually HAD the girls.

He neglected to do any laundry - in fact there was some unsorted clean laundry in our room which he covered with a duvet cover "to stop the animals getting on it". Why he didn't just fold it and put it away I don't know.

Oh, and he forgot to ensure the girls did their homework until I was actually driving home.


Tuesday, 5 May 2009

My Holiers!

We’ve had the most amazingly relaxing weekend! Even the children were perfectly behaved, adorable and entertaining. Of course, I didn’t give birth to 2/3rds of them which may account for that.

Posh, Ally and I – and our toddlers – had managed to sneak away sans husbands and older kids. We spent a blissful four days secluded in a secret cabin in the middle of nowhere, drowning our woes in copious glasses of alcohol and mopping up the remains with some wonderful food - and occasionally dunking ourselves in a steaming hot tub.

The Babe opened her eyes our first morning there and gazed around. “This is not my home.” she stated matter-of-factly.

“No, Babe.. we’re on our holidays,” I told her - whereupon she flung herself out of bed to find “my fwends, mummy” and the toddlers never stopped playing until they dropped, exhausted, into their beds each night, leaving us adults to enjoy the peace and quiet of the countryside.


Our last night there we were immersed in the hot tub, having reached that particular state of squiffiness that leads to intellectual  conversations – to whit, the difference between chauvinism and chivalry. I quote “Well, ya know.. wor ah mean is.. well.. yeah…” to which we nodded sagely, thinking the speaker profound. You know what that’s like.

I popped out to check on The Babe, patting a particular lump in the bed… that wasn’t her. Just bundled up duvet. Hmm. Is she here, pat pat? Here, pat pat? I turned on the lights – no Babe! I flew into the sitting room “There’s no baby in my bed!” I gasped. The other two looked at me – and we collapsed in giggles. Pushing and shoving we all ran back to my room, snorting and shoving hands into our mouths to stop the explosive laughter, as we found The Babe face down, snoring beside the bed, having rolled out in her sleep and not woken.

It was bliss. I highly recommend a girlie weekend away to make you lose your blues, at least for a bit!


Oh, the high life….