Oh Look - A Nice New Year. Hope I've kept the receipt somewhere.....

I think we got away with it. Noone mentioned parties, or enjoying themselves. Phew.

And I'm the last one still up which just proves that I'm the most cool. The sad thing is, I probably believe this.

Now, the other night I decided to execute a very interesting experiment. I wrote all my New Year's Resolutions (yes I've already conceded that I am sad) in the back of my 2010 diary, and then flicked to the front and read last year's list to see how many were identical. Result: Gone down from 38 to 33 - but plenty of time to add more. (I'm sure I did last year - recall having over 40.) And about 14 were the same. The rest being almost the same. And I can boil them all down to 1 really: get off your fat arse. But the ones that struck me most we last year's No. 35 - 'Remember to be ME' (missing from the new list) and this year's No.7 - 'Add another dance thing'. Dancing is big in my head lately. Realised it is a deep need! Not just something to embarrass the children, although that is an extra benefit.

Then I did something really strange today. I pulled down my 'pigeon hole' thing from the top of the fridge - where paper stuff gets shoved for a couple of years until I then stuff it into another holding cell to wait its eventual summons to enter the sacred grounds of The Filing Box, under the coats. Some hope. But get me, I also grabbed this purgatorial holding cell and by the end of the day I had got both bastards sorted. Oh praise be.

It took all day. Lots of interruptions obviously - wiping boy bottoms, stuffing chicken bottoms, sourcing tracksuit bottoms etc but even on a good run (like for most of The Sound of Music) I could only do about 7 minutes with my eyes open before I had to bang my head on the table a dozen times. How do people work in offices all day? Insane. Next year (bugger that's just happened) - The Hallowed Filing Box shall be raised from its dust tomb and cracked open. Whilst praying I didn't lay a curse on it last time. I really do hate filing that much.

Sorry - all this tedious shit is leading somewhere I promise...... In the wodge of crap I found this poem. I think it's a poem - it doesn't rhyme or nuttin' but the lines are grouped poem-style like, but I'm no expert. (Ah - No.31 'Stop rambling'.) I was given this sheet of wonder one time last year by my counsellor, skim read it whilst nodding and saying 'oh this looks very interesting', made a mental note to take it in properly when I got home despite worrying it was some kind of hippy shit, and then, evidently, poked it into the white oblivion above the fridge. And today, I actually read the damn thing. Blimey. So..... here it is:


Oriah Mountain Dreamer

(Hang on a minute - I know the title already looks like bollocks but Bear With here)

What if there is no need to change?
No need to try to transform yourself
Into someone who is more compassionate, more present, more loving, or wise?
How would this affect all the places in your life where you are endlessly trying to be better?

What if the task is simply to unfold,
To become who you already are in your essential nature:
Gentle, compassionate, and capable of living fully and passionately present?

What if the question is not
'Why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be?'
But 'Why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?'
How would this change what you think you have to learn?

What if becoming who and what we truly are happens not through striving and trying
But by recognising and receiving the people and places and practices
That are for us the warmth of encouragement we need to unfold?
How would this shape the choices you make about how to spend today?

What if you knew that the impulse to move in a way that creates beauty in the world
Will arise from deep within
And guide you every time you simply pay attention
And wait.

How would this shape your stillness, your movement,
Your willingness to follow this impulse
To just let go
And dance?


It says at the bottom that this is the Prelude to 'The Dance', 2001 Harper Collins, which having just googled it seems to be one of a series of books about relationships and being a wumman and stuff - I have no idea if these are fantastic or the usual torrent of wordy words - but I liked 'The Prelude'. And it all seemed very apt for the current 'I must be a totally different kind of person' list that so many of us compile.

So there it is.

I am still going to copy my NY's Res's into the front of my new diary - but I'm placing last year's No.35 at No.1 and the new No.7 into the No.2 slot. And just see if I'm not the coolest ever - all year long. Yeah baby......


Actually I've just realised I've already broken one of them - two of them - a combo of No. 4 and No.30 which was to become my new motto:

Go to bed and read. Get up and write (or draw).

I'm most definitely the last one still up and judging by the clock, this is very much not cool even a bit.

Bollocks.

There goes another one.

Those Hazy, Crazy Lazy Days of In-Between Jesus' Made-Up Birthday and the Made-Up New Year Thing

OK. So we didn't get any Marks Brothers films. Or Buster Keaton. Or Laurel and Hardy. It's Xmas you TV scheduling bastards! I want people falling off buildings and being run-over by trains. You gave us Jesus Christ Superstar and Chocolat. Both perfectly lovely but EASTER films dickheads. It's bloody Xmas and I want funny with no pathos. I have no brain left after the sure-fire burn of December. I want FUNNY! The only reason I haven't got violent is 'cos we DID get The Goodies. Phew!!! Thank god someone out there understands me.

Now it's supposed to be that nice bit in-between The Noisy Family Thing and The Noisy Friends Thing. The bit where you can watch whole films, eat shit and wear the same clothes for a week. The nice bit when you can catch up on nice things you don't normally have time for like...... scrapbooks and papier mache trees. But not if you've buggered your right arm building a stupid igloo. No. Obviously I still have to do the crap things like washing-up, wiping bottoms and emptying the bins. Oh yes. But not make a fuss. Fuss is not allowed in this house. Making a sling from a scarf and putting frozen peas on the swelling is considered attention-seeking. As is having a little sit down. Unless The Goodies is on. So Thank You Baby Jesus for pretending to be born so I could have a little arm-rest with Tim, Bill and Graeme. The Three Wise Men.

And despite my griping, I AM eating shit and wearing the same clothes as yesterday. My left arm is getting better at typing. And I have managed to see the beginning of Mean Girls, the middle of Transformers and the end of Clueless Some day I'll make sense of it all.

But we have a new problem. It's called New Year's Eve.

Normally we just sort of ignore it. We have in the past pretended to the kids that we are having a party with just us and dressed up. Even Fancy Dress. One year we went so far as a Fancy Dress Shop and let them choose something. They chose me a PVC nun's outfit. Weird kids. But I haven't got the energy for all this forced fun anymore. Now Xmas is one thing - we do as we're told, go where we're expected, eat what we're given, watch what's on telly and say 'Lovely' alot. Then we do this again on The Other Side. I don't mean in The Underworld. I mean Petts Wood. Near Orpington. OK it is The Underworld. Then we shut our doors and fester in our filth until bloody New Year's Eve rears its stinking pain in the arse and we're expected to be sociable all over again. It's not that we never get invitations. We have - really. It's more that we just don't believe that Fun is never-ending.

No.

We need to find a new family tradition for this deeply annoying 'celebration'. I'm happy to keep up with Father Xmas and the Advent Fairies (well, happy-ish). And I'm down with the Easter Bunny, and like totally chilled with being all Halloweeny, and even Valentinesy. These mostly entail Putting Sweets Somewhere. But the Now? My house is currently heaving with sweets. And I have no desire to open the door. It's cold. I've done smiling and worn tights twice this week already. Oh - I just hate fun.

Letting them stay up and watch Jools Holland? Boring. That won't cut it. We may remember the days of Andy Stewart and Moira Anderson but tell the kids that and it's as interesting as the orange in the stocking lecture.

Mr Roving Blade suggested cooking something special.

Duuuhhhhhhhh!!!!! With OUR kids? Stupid.

No.

Or a Games Night?

Fight Club sprang to mind.

No.

Gather round the piano for a good old singalong?

One of Little Rock Godling's compositions perhaps? I Don't Have To Be The Biggest Wanker, You Don't Have To Be The Biggest Wanker, We Don't Have To Be The Biggest Wankers medley in 6 part harm-o-nee.

No.


................................??????????????????????????????????????????

Think we have about 5 episodes of The Goodies on Planner.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Think we have a Plan!!!



All Nite Non-stop Goodie Fest! ....All Nite - ish.


It might just work...


* ! * ! * ! * ! * `! * ! *



Saved by the genius of a giant pussy!!!!! And not for the first time!!!


** !! ** !! ** !! ** !! **

Unparalled special status

How spazzy can I get? I've passed all the beginner classes and am now on a whole new level. Hang on - just had to retrieve my slipper that boinged off and got stuck under a chair a good 5 feet away in the dark. Where was I? Oh.

Back in business now I've picked the fluff-strands from my biggest tasseliest jumper out from between the keys. Getting good at picking these bits out of things. Lots of practice. I wouldn't normally bother but they look like pubes a bit. If you had black pubes. Which none of us do. Which just makes it worse. But it's my favourite jumper at the moment so worth the hassle. Where was I? Uh.

I'm supposed to be in bed but have dedicated my evening to catching up on some bloggy stuff instead. Bad idea to catch up with Grit. It's now morning. But I feel calmer in meself that I'm up-to-date with My People. Some of them. Will catch up with meself diary-wise tomorrow. The Bad Book has been neglected due to spazziness of the Advent Fairy kind. Got up-to-date - and even ahead of the game - with all that utter stoopidity last night. No more pins, ping-y gold thread or finger-fucking wire button loops. Just slide off pre-selected flag with accompaning button and serve chilled. Also have spare re-wired buttons to accommodate the daily flinging of personal button down the side of the bleedin' chairs by Ungrateful Small Bastards (official term). Not getting cross at all. Smile and slap pre-mentioned USBs round head 'by accident' with wrapping paper inside bit. Feeeels gooooooooood...... Eric Sykes is always with us in spirit.

But just how spazzy would one be to have already designed next year's mind-fuck December-blatter? Really really spazzy. And it's the third design this month. I think Father Xmas's robin has been spiking my mince pies with Stepford sap.

But it's pale in comp with my new injuries. All self-inflicted. Well - I know you're dying to ask........ Last Sunday (which was supposed to be cancelled but I forgot and got out of bed by mistake) - Thuglet twice flung his full weight onto my neck while I was in edge-of-chair-looking-at-the-telly-like-I'm-gonna-stand-up-soon-like-a-grownup-who-doesn't-sit-down-watching-telly stance which causes a whiplash-type sensation just like um whiplash. Shooting pain both times and lots of shouting with my PROPER cross face. I was so convinced that I was gonna wake up like Ann Widecombe (helped by a second night on the settee downstairs to keep Little Rock Vom-Monster company) that I wedged a hot water bottle down the back of my neck and stayed all warm and propped up til morning. Hooray - I can move my neck I thought as I stealthily hooked Thuglet's pain au choc towards my wakey-uppy coffee cup. Feels a bit scratchy tho'. Still felt a bit sore a couple of hours later. ' 'Ere babe - have I got a diggy-in mark where my neck-chain clasp was pressed against the hot water bottle? Can you have a look?' 'Fuck! What the fuck have you done?! You've got a blister the size of a £2 coin! Didn't you feel the burning you numptie?' 'Oh' The nice hot water bottle must have waited for me to fall asleep and then heat up the neck-chain clasp. Nice. Dr Roving Blade held his breath and burst it for me today. Felt the pus snake all the way down my back. Held off on having a shower for another couple of hours tho'. Low on oil in our tanker we are. Next approximate delivery date could be January 14th. Not stripping off 'til ration evening heating on. But what's another blister to me. It can have martinis with my thumb blisters. Created by shovelling snow with a heavy spade that's got no handle. And then deciding that shovelling snow into a washing-up bowl and then dumping out the way is more efficient. And then discovering that washing-up bowlfuls of snow make great igloo-inspiring ice blocks. And then laying the foundations of the greatest igloo ever built, big enough for actual human habitation. And then carrying on despite the tugging pain in my right forearm. Which by today now has a bulbous lump on it all squishy and agonising. But what's another lump? It can choose curtains with the bump on my head from forgetting I live in a dwarf cave after five and a half years.

But the oozing lip-volcano has cleared up now. And fish-scale gloop has stopped emanating from certain parts after a nice foreign man stuck sticks of silver nitrate up there last week. (I'm mouthing this like Les Dawson - and Miranda.... What? Don't you ever watch telly?) And the scab-mark of Zorro is fading a bit from my knee. And my singed taste buds have recovered from that carrot debacle the other day. And I'm sure the rest of my cuticle rips will have healed up a bit by Xmas lunchtime. And those gnat bite prints between my eyebrows are definitely less noticeable now.

In fact I feel a song coming on........

Tonight we resurrected the Spunk Lyric Game for Xmas songs. Not as cracker-ing as one might hope but it put a sparkle in my bloodshot eye. How about:

Little Spunky, Santa Claus is coming to spunk, Deck the halls with boughs of spunk, Oh spunk all you faithful (not much different to the original), Oh cum all you spunkful?, Rudolph the spunk-nosed reindeer, Let it spunk, let it spunk..., Last Xmas I gave you my spunk, I'm dreaming of a white spunk, Frosty the spunkman, I spunked Mummy kissing Santa Claus, In the bleak mid-spunk ........ oh it's just so childish! But they do say Xmas is for the children. Oh I've just lost me bloody slipper again.....

One last song to send me off to bed then....


* * Was Xmas eve babe ........ in the spunk tank ...... * *


Sing along now......

Oh the weather outside is frightful.........

Friday

Six hours to get from 30 minutes away back home. No we're not going to buy a drink or any lunch - we have half a titchy bottle left and a packet of Twiglets. Get in the car. We'll be home in no time.......

Tap tap tap - Excuse me but the lady behind you asked me to tell you that one of your back wheels has frozen up and doesn't go round when you move forwards. Just sort of smokes.

Are you eating something? I can see him chewing! He's eating something! Last night's burger that you left in the car? Eugh.....


Saturday

In the bowl darling - try to grab the bowl in time in future when you think you're going to hurl.

In the bowl! Not on me!! In the bowl!!!


Sunday

Cancelled

TV laptop bells-a-ringing

Ding dong merrily on high...

Last night was cabaret night. And Mr GPants and I were stepping out.

Just being in the car was exciting enough. Heading into the bright lights in our finery, high on heady 'fumes and mighty in crippling footsqueezers we wondered what was in store. The last time Mr GPs had seen a cabaret it involved glove puppets in Morocco apparently. Hand actions supplied. Yeah.... Anyway, back to the now... We hoped for dancing girls. Mr GPs hoped for no trannies. I hoped for plenty.

We got the girls. We got a can-can. Not as saucy as the waitresses but still - nice knickers.

We got a little bald chap in a nice tank top spinning plates. Took him about 45 minutes to set up for a 2 minute set. And then another 45 minutes to pack it all up again. He must love his job.

And yes we got a big glam singing trannie with the most astounding silver glittery shoes. A bit like a pair of mine I've got stashed under my bed, only about 7 sizes bigger. Not as impressive as the very tight leotard however. Not a trace of a bump. But hairy arms. Now my theory is, you wouldn't go through the bother of the Chop-Op and then not get round to waxing you arms. So his flexible friend had to be stowed away very neatly, somewhere. Well-wowed with those resonating bass notes then. Topic of the evening.

And YES s/he came and sat on my Mr GPants' lap. Bless him he took it well. I was hugging myself with glee. That box smartly ticked - tish!

And the little bald chap came back for another 2 minutes of juggling. Less to pick up this time. Just 5 balls and a hat. Much better. Do that next time little bald chap.

And one of the can-can girls came back too. She wouldn't. She might. Nah. Yes. Oh I say! She DID! Silver glittery nipples! I want some of those.

Shame the poor lass had to scramble back on later in her combats and hoodie to pick up all her discarded knick-knacks. Surely she could've sent someone else to do it. The little bald chap was free. But maybe she's had problems with this kind of thing before. Maybe a few too many special little items have been swiftly snaffled into some jugglers sequinned hat. Probably best left hands off eh?

But I really must say the true highlight of the evening was my Mr GPs all along. Elegantly pin-striped, a pencil-thin Clark Gable 'tache, a spot of Just For Men and a with naughty twinkle in his eye - my dashing rogue was just perfect. I even went so far as to declare I would change his name in my blog to something more fitting.

So it's goodbye Mr Golf Pants and HE-E-LLO-O-OO Mr Roving Blade.

Ding dong!


(Which reminds me..... any ideas on that leotard storage? Still on my mind. Don't really want it on my mind. Need closure. Let the bell end here!)

Doctor Doctor I Can't Feel My Feet..

That's because we've amputated your arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ok - so first up my alarm didn't go off. Lots of poking inert mop-tops with whispered panic. Violently dragging on socks and jumpers while their eyes were still shut. Trying not to wake up Mr GPants so he wouldn't tell me off for my alarm not going off. But he woke up and did That Face when I told him my alarm didn't go off. AND told me not to race just because we were late - with The Don't Race Face. Then he offered me the de-icer. 'I've got some. That's yours' I called sweetly as I raced - no I didn't... as I fluttered out the door. Squirted mine. Put it back in the boot. Decided I needed more. Boot now jammed shut. Fluttered back to the kitchen and grabbed the other bottle. Squirted more. Replaced it without detection. And away we scooted at last. Not racing. Not at all. Very difficult to race when you can only see out of one clear streak on the windscreen. ......mmmmmmhhhhh..... need more de-icer..... not going back...... just imagine The Face.

20 minutes on our way I don't think my brakes are being brake-y enough. Probably my imagination. Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh OK .....Mission Aborted.

Several hours later - and with mighty thanks to Jim Broadbent and his big warm truck, and his sage words about how crap my car is, I'm back home in my courtesy go-kart and coffee'd up at last. All nice and floppy. Mmmn.... It seemed like a good idea to rearrange the living room and get the xmas tree out. It seemed like a good idea to small people anyway.

Several hours later, once I (and I alone) had tidied, hoovered, rearranged the living room, I find myself cackling like an escaped lunatic in our out-house-'barn'-animal-shelter thing where we dump stuff not allowed in the house. Like Xmas. The hysteria inspired by a cacky space where the tree once lived. Until we threw it out last summer on one of our great purges. Not sure why I found this so screamingly funny. Could not stop laughing. Xmas tree denied! Hilarious.

Then our boiler decided we hadn't had enough fun yet. Put its hand to its brow and blanked out. Nice. Just as I thought my hands would never again regain feeling after expertly balancing the recycling box on the steaming tower of landfill bags. Structures that high are built to sway in the wind they are. That's science. If not art.

But all this to the merry tunes of the season. Mr GPants, grumpy about tinsel-time as the best, has (as odd as it may seem) produced another top xmas songs CD. Panic, near-death and brain-freeze all the sounds of Wizzard, Slade, The Pogues and Alma Cogan.

Gotta laugh.....

Pity the fool.....

That was a stoopid bloody post wasn't it? 'Ooh I bet it won't snow!' 5 days later and we were still in an igloo. But did I get all that lovely stuff done I dreamed about? Did I bugger. I forget that being in the house means being in the house WITH all the members of my own family, who are in the house with all the members of their own family, and this means....... well........ how can I put this nicely? I can't. We are not the Waltons. It's more like giant mutant bacteria on speed in the mosh pit at a Fishbone gig held in a crocodile-infested river when the wildebeest decide to cross from the ToysRUs bank to the Primark Sales side just as chimpanzee burglars on roller skates set off a couple of bombs and the elephant police come to search for clues in vaselined flippers and dalek hats. That nearly describes the interior 'look' we are going for this season. At what point in this scene I thought I'd get out my little pap mach tree is beyond imagination. I felt like a tiny mother bird squidged in the middle of a heaving mass of squawking open beaks. And if I raised my eyes to the heavens I was blinded by a blizzard of paper spikes. Who's bright idea was it to make pretty snowflakes? So now we had as much perplexing whiteness inside as well as outside the damned house. And wetness. My god the wetness. How much wetness 4 children can produce per garden excursion is knee-deeply astounding. My poor radiators just couldn't take the load. And so the sound of the washing machine door banging shut became louder and more floor-trembling with every slam of the back door. Well, when they bothered shutting the damned door that was. There was alot of door-banging one way or another - the washing machine, tumble dryer, the fridge, the oven ....... and what was that slam? Oh for fuck's sake they've bloody gone out again! More towels please...... More paracetamol..... Shame one can't quite slam the oven door behind one's head. I don't think it works with electric anyway. Would just have a hot pink bubbling noodle on my otherwise pasty white bod. Not good with magenta hair and flame streaks. I say 'flame'. It seemed better than 'orange'. I seem to have digressed.....

Ah well.....

What shall I wish for by accident next then?


Hey - I bet we never find a barrelful of gold under the old yew tree. Just think of the consequences that would bring eh?


(It might just work...?)