sceneofthecrime

Pissed Off of Blogblockdom

2012-01-28T06:36:00.000-08:00

Not sure if this will even post as my site will no longer allow me to be signed in - despite signing in 50 times. Blogspot 'help' is totally useless. Cannot get beyond half a sentence. Don't know if I'll be able to publish this as I cannot even comment on my own posts. I may just give up entirely and start again with a different name on a different forum. Just saying...

Now What's That I Call Never at Home Education Volume 87

2012-01-12T16:41:00.000-08:00

Today I saw.....

My hand waving goodbye to BOYS clutching golf clubs as I drove awaaaaaay from the house.

Frant Railway station despite the Sat Nav telling me to turn around where possible. And chums. And a parking space. Well I never did...

Charing Cross after many many years - this used to be my personal corridor. Didn't it miss me?

The Olympic clock ticking away our innocent lives.

A Tom Hanks-a-likey Australian swallow a whole modelling balloon. Then a bemused Brazilian (with very little English) and a stately Dane (with a slightly better command) padlocked him into a straight jacket and chains and he still managed to get his hat on. (He also dislocated his shoulder and escaped in 3 minutes...yeah yeah) - but the balloon and the hat!!!

Turnaround and more chums - Happy New Year! Did you see what he did with that balloon?

The National Portrait Gallery's child-confuser - the rotating door doodahs. Always a laugh. Brings to mind a certain comedy incident at Bluewater's John Lewis some time ago involving a splat of Minx on their too-clean windows. Forever imprinted....

Lots of wonderful photographic portraits and a very attractive tiled floor. Where to look?

Willies and boobies.

The time!!

Blue sky above a bitter coffee.

The Coliseum thingy on top goes round and round - I'd never noticed before...

Look more chums!

And Johnny Depp!!

Only joking...

Lovely lovely floors... and windows... and mosaics.... and curtains.... and curly things and...... wow!!! The Coliseum!!!!

And nice toilets.

The English National Ballet - Strictly Gershwin. I dislocated my jaw. Sharpen your elbows and get a ticket. Get A Ticket. The Man I Love! An American in Paris!! The Eiffel Tower dances I tell you!!! Even the conductor shimmies.

Tears a-sparkling as dazzling as the costumes. The costumes!!

Nice toilets. Posh ice cream. (The latter down Minx's top. White top. Chocolate.)

Rhapsody in Blue.... Summertime.... Get. A. Ticket.

Nice toilets and Minx's face looking exasperated. I can't help it I'm old.

Back onto the very attractive tiled floor for the rest of those portraits.

My hand releasing lots of coins for lots of postcards.

And Tudor portraits - we dun Tudors. Minx dun Tudors. Nose right up to the canvas and gasping. Teenage Engage! THAT is cool! (Nearly teenage... I have an Olympic clock of my own counting down my sanity.)

The inside of a lift-that-don't-go-down-there.

Smiling faces of people seeing us come out again helpfully pointing to the stairs-that-do.

One more circular tour of the doors for luck.

Two more then...

A firm yank. (No. Not Johnny Depp.)

The thingy that goes round on top of the Coliseum lights up at night too.

Charing Cross. Still seemed to be getting on OK without me.

Burger King. BK said hello at least.

Frant by night.

The welcome glow of the back door through the forest of neglect. (I did say welcome and not sinister didn't I? Oh good.)

Minx's face looking exasperated - left all the postcards on the train.

Boys. Throwing darts. Mostly at the dartboard.

My feet - up.

The insides of my eyelids....

Then I saw.... that balloon.... where the squeak-pop-ouch did it go?

.....haunting...

Never At Home Education Part 23

2012-01-10T02:57:00.000-08:00

I am not going to over-book ourselves again for the next 4 months. I am not.

Really really.

Really.

I said this in September I did.

I collapsed in December.

Now January is flaunting it's godless temptations before my still blinking-in-the-new-year-light mincies with no shame.

And February is slinking up behind that with dangerous disregard for the law.

March shouldn't even be out here yet - is that a lollypop in her pouting lips?

Be gone you flagrant sirens of certain destruction before I can form the outline of April rising to her feet with slow poison - be gone!!!

Oh may the gods of finding a clean top deliver me from this onslaught....

May they guide my weakened fingers away from the laptop keys of 'yes'.

But I fear it's already too late.... I can feel my head turning... my ears burning... my face gurning.... it's... it's.... ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....... farewell house - faaare theeeeee weeeellllllllll.........

......................................................

The Toilet-Floor Guide to Happiness from the Ever-Slinking World of the Grub

2012-01-07T07:45:00.000-08:00

This is the best start to a new year ever 'cos I haven't failed at any new ambitions. This is the way to go....

And I have started my patchwork quilt - the one I've been prattling on about for about um... 30 years. And it all began 'cos I couldn't be arsed to do my setteeful of folding. So I sat on it and started sewing instead. It's my new blobby project - every month when I feel too shit to move about I'm gonna grab me patches and get inertially happy. In a year I might even have something to show for my otherwise useless grubdom. But it's not a resolution. No no no.

I've also downsized my usual A4 Day-to-a-Page diary to a humbler A5 - I could put it in my bag.... I might draw pictures in it.... I will hopefully list less humdrums and be more disciplined in my witterings. Definitely not a reso. Less is... less shit.

I'm still knitting my don't-know-what strips of randomness. I like knitting. Am rubbish at knitting. So just knit. Because I can. Can't, but can anyway kind of can. Don't know what, don't know why, don't know how kind of can. 'Tis a decent philosophy.

I may not have actually started the Stat of Lib yet but am still excited about going thro' the bag of greenness to make sure I have to go back to the wool shop. I know I will go back to the lovely shop full of lovely fluffy loveliness - I just have to waste a bit more time cataloguing shades of not-right first to justify my cape-flapping swish up their stairs rather than a guilt-ridden sneak. It won't be hard - I can always convince myself that wool is essential. Wool is essential.

But the most creative endeavour is my new song. I sing it when I'm putting shopping away in not the right place, and when I'm hurling clobber in the dryer that shouldn't be, and when I'm sticking hair gel in a mop that needs washing.... it goes like this:

..ahem....

Fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit

Fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit

It's very jolly and rolls off the tongue in skips and twirls. It's my new answer for everything. May you all join in when you have picked up the words - it fair speeds the day.

Come on kids...

Fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit

Fukit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit fuckit

Don't you feel better?

I only wish I'd been given a glimpse of this wonderful enlightened life years ago.... but you have to work at it to get to this height of lazy. Sigh....... I might even grown a beard and wear a duvet. I could charge a fortune for this.....

The R-Word

2012-01-01T17:12:00.000-08:00

As previously stated in relation to the popular compiling of bullshit promises, this year I am merely going to pursue my abounding badiness, smellificiency, fatiosity, bigly ungrammaticalitence, rudeorama and uncharitableables with the chuggessence I usually reserve for motorway driving. Rock on self-unimprovement. No wasting my talentlessness on ambition for me. Oh and I have just publicly announced on Facebook, I am going to knit The Statue of Liberty.

The last choice was a typically oppositional stance to my furrowed promise to never ever ever make xmas adventy calendar thingies ever ever again ever.

I unfurrowed, sighed, felt a wave of relief... and started planning next year all over again.

It started simply - paper snowflakes. Not another vein-pulsing over-ambitious attempt to create a whole miniature hanging forest of pagan delights like this year. Paper snowflakes. Not even opened out - they can do that themselves. In fact I could get them to make them by themselves. Now I'm using my noodle.

But then the noodle gets cocky and starts plotting while I'm not looking.

Then it starts bargaining with me. I do have a bulging bag of beads and bells and buttons and bollocks that I really should use up. All I need is a little more wire, string all the b's together in 96 random clumps (won't take long) and Bob's yer unc etc....

'Cept Bob is not my unc. I have 5 remaining uncs and none of them's a Bob. Neither do I have a Fanny for an aunt but I do have a twat of a brain which then led me to the wool shop to buy 3 different balls of blue wool - to make a background fringe for the beads of course. And some wire. Silver. 50p more expensive than gold. And then obviously I am going to either paint the lyrics for Fairytale of New York onto the leftover beads - or buy yet more beads with letters already imprinted - and it's still oh so simple.

But just to make it interesting I should now have the fringed lyrical bead garland spiralling in a more pleasing display.

And naturally this should be entwining a towering female figure.

So I evidently need to go back to the wool shop to get some more green wool as the accompanying bursting bag full of leftover green wool doesn't contain any of the right oxidized copper shade in order to knit an impressive Statue of Liberty around which the beady Shane words can shimmer.

So there we have it. A glimpse into the circles of my mind....

I think someone was indeed tossing in a stream.... my stream of consciousness.... Maybe I should start drinking again and regain unconscousness....

As previously stated in relation to the popular compiling of bullshit promises, this year.....

The C-Word

2011-12-22T02:50:00.000-08:00

It's getting closer.

It's in the trees! It's coming!!

Should I go shopping?

Or just shove a note up the chimney on C-word Eve?

Yeah that'll do ....

Wot Goes Around.....

2011-12-20T02:38:00.000-08:00

....comes around.... like germs in a house with four blinkin' children. Having said, Minx manages to avoid most lurgy by staying in her bedroom away from flying snot, coming out only at night to feed.

I should try that.

Have decided that I'm not going to make any New Y's Ressies this year as I broke almost all of my last year's 48 or so within the first week. No - this year I'm not going to set myself up for grand failure - just keep pootling on with my low-level failures without remorse.

I'm not even going to promise myself to get back into blogging properly. It's like giving myself a big red button to not press. If I don't put it there, I can't sabotage myself. So I'm wishing for a non-achievey kind of new year, where fat, sugar and caffeine are still on the menu and growing up is still not a concept for discussion.

In terms of family life I shall remain as ever just the chauffeur with the car that doesn't work. That is my position in life and I am ever-moulding my lardy arse in the dent of complacency. Join me if you will. It's a delightfully undemanding place to view the world.

So I'll not raise my glass to the New Year particularly - that might momentarily halt the development of my bingo wings for badness's sake. I'll just keep on not keeping on in my own sweet and slightly insanitary way and wish you all a very whatever...

It's been real....

It's been an honour...

It's been....yeah...

Rock on mediocrity... I loves ya!

Yee-haw!!

2011-12-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

Madame has been reunited with her washboard.

And is getting ideas.

Thbleughhhhh...

2011-12-14T05:05:00.001-08:00

Just checking...

I'm sorry I appear to be repeating myself myself...

2011-11-04T21:11:00.000-07:00

Yes - turning into my mother. Like we all do. Won't bother quoting Oscar Wilde - you know the script.

Just kind of apologising for the last post - going over all this 'I'm crap but happy' malarkey again. But at least it got me rebooted. Not that this may be desirable.

But what of the next generation and our duty to inspire them to greater heights than we ever reached? What kind of motherly idol should I be trying to emulate? (Sorry - cliche alert!! Deduct three points...)

Should I have urged my 'good at' football Cheetah Boy to switch teams - to leave behind the boys who are never going to impress anyone and go with his disenchanted coach and the cherry-picked boys he's devotedly played with for five years to form the basis of a new improved squad elsewhere? It would mean sticking with the newer boys he thinks are rubbish, but remaining loyal to his best mate, not cherry-picked by the old coach. C Boy had no doubts at all - he's staying put. Even if it means losing the whole of his beloved team bar this special chum. It does show a certain strength of character (I know - cliche - I KNOW). Friendship over ambition. Surely a quality of which any parent should be glowing.

Mind you..... he ain't the most positive coach in the world. And despite the dramas and rumours of the past week - it probably won't even happen - but C Boy has hoisted his flag.

And I have saluted it.

And as for Minxie-babes.... She's back on the ice - and stronger than ever. And along come the Kent Opens - our 'home' competition. But due to a printer with a headache and a mother with blancmange for brains, we didn't (OK - I didn't) get her entry in on time. Her class was full. I got told off a bit - but then she moved on and is happy practising her funky moves for the Xmas show instead. Then all of a dirty great sudden I get a text saying someone has dropped out of her class and she can have the space. She looks a little startled and pouts 'No I haven't been working on my routine now.' Lulu-Cheese chirrups in with 'Oooh you'd get all nervous for nothing - it's not worth it.' 'No mum I just want to watch this year.' my gal reiterates. This is fair enough considering the summer break. But I'm all stewy. Can't help thinking she's just thrown away an opportunity. Is this how I've brought her up? Where's HER ambition? Or am I trying to live my life thro' her? Oh what are you supposed to do? I would save me £25....

I saluted her flag.

I ain't no Mama Rose but should we chuck in the occasional prod? Just to remind them we exist maybe? A grown-up and thoughtful hand on the shoulder.......?

SO not ever going to happen in this house. I may be turning into my mother in the 'take your jumper off inside or you won't feel the benefit' bracket but I don't ever remember her screaming 'Oh for fuck's sakes do I have to do fucking evderything!!!' at me aged five for taking my time to put a seat-belt on. (Bad example that - they didn't exist when I was five. Deviation.) Wankendom.... I ain't no Ma Walton neiva. I seem to swing from screeching 'I didn't bloody wake up the whole bloody household before bloody dawn and bloody drive at break-bloody-neck for an hour and a bloody half with the howling bloody banshee bloody brothers for you to mope a-bloody-bout for ten bloody minutes whining about your bloody blisters so get back out bloody there and bloody practice you ungrateful bloody brat!!!' to hopeless shrugging when one of them's bleeding volcanically from the head down.

But you know wot - they're all still alive and contentedly busy my lot. Despite sibling slaughterhouse activities they're all pretty damn happy. I may be scooped out, slumped in fetid slime and demonically warped like a pumpkin that's been left in the fireplace for six days - but am also pretty damn happy. But should I share my 'Crap is Good - Good is Crap' philosophy, or do I have this duty thing to be inspirational and gaspilicious?

Cheetah Boy's current team have been playing much better than usual lately and he's been scoring and making goals and making his normally horribly honest father all gushy and hair-ruffley. His natural golf swing is apparently much better than poor Roving Blade's life-longily-blood-sweating one. And he still doesn't give a knackers about reading and writing. Why should he when he can plainly hit the right button for Nat Geo Wild? Carefree and free-range.

Minxie and some other Home Ed chums (including our lovely nutty Lulu-Cheese) have been swept up by their enthusiastic Youth Theatre chappie to do an Arts Award thingie, and not only can she do ice skating as part of it (how jammy is that?) but the Trinity Theatre have been asked to have some involvement with the temporary ice rink in Calverley Park this December.... guess who's filling in that blank? Their latest play went screamingly well last Monday - a disturbing and scary show, mentioning Macbeth alot, featuring lots of fake blood, performed in a church (albeit deconsecrated, on Halloween - rock 'n' roll reckless! Was also in the School of Shock horror film-making gang. Teen Group's going strong - she organised the food for their Halloween party herself. She's even got the bus back to our vampired neck of the woods from Tunbridge Wells all by herself without falling asleep and ending up in Brighton. I'd say she's doin' alright!!

Little Rock Godling started at the Trin Youth Theatre too - and landed 'the lead role' (well... first name on the cast list) within two weeks. Learned his lines without any trouble, (causing suspicion that he may actually be able to read.... but obviously won't admit it in case I get over-excited and MAKE him read stuff), and was such a natural star in his show that I couldn't speak. And thankfully couldn't whoop. All in a day's work for him it was. (OK - cliche-addiction is hard to crack - oh doh!!!) He even managed one morning's football training without pretending to be a rogue robot dinosaur alien in jelly-flavoured quicksand. We're forging ahea.... No we are marching ever onwa- dammit - the boy dun good.

I might not mention Thuglet just now. An ex karate teacher I know was seriously impressed with his kicking action this evening. His brother's left knee was not so enamoured. I'm losing my voice, patience, marbles yelling at the child to cut it out. His hit rate is 100%. Maybe it's something to boast about. It's all I got!

Anyway - like I dun said - they're all busy and happy so wot's the grief dude?

I've even booted Old Mother Hubbard up the jacksie with forward planning by stocking up with inhuman quantities of chicken burgers and oven chips just in case it really does snow. Wot wiv his lordship larking about in America for a couple of weeks, I'm not venturing forth for to catch a mammoth if the land doth be coveredeth in that bastard white shit.

I'd say we're all doin' alright.

Unfortunately, so are the mice.

Mr Roving Blade when are you coming back to be all manly? Or at least put your buttercup pinny on and sweep up the floor for me? I'm so busy being Chauffeur of the Year I'm too bleedin' exhausted to be the sweet parlour maid too. It's becoming a bit of a thing.... My maternal qualifications are proving to be heinously fabricated.

Bollocks. Unmasked.

Hey... I reckon I've finally discovered my mumsy role model! .....Just popping upstairs to sit in the window....

Mother!!!!

MOTHER!!!!!

Born Again Twat

2011-11-03T20:16:00.000-07:00

Just decided as I'm still breathing that I would attempt another posty type thing - obviously not a real post. Still not back in the saddle. Bottom seems to have got too big for that anyway. Back in the bloody saddle indeed! As if I even know what that means. Just a stupid stream of words. My fingers tap this shit out without my brain even noticing. For a while everything I did was being simultaneously translated in my head into Blog Post Speak - which is really sad. Even that phrase I've just thrown in 'simultaneously translated' now rankles. Cliches. This stuff just rolls out when I start trying to communicate. I hate the way I prattle on - but hate more the stuff that seems coherent. Like I'm just spouting uniform phrases for easy consumption. So prattling on it shall be - even if just to avoid being anywhere near slick. Easy consumption! There goes another one! Thing is I will never be slick so floating into cliches is just lazy and naff. So just in case anyone thought my absence was due to completing a cool creative writing course or summink - get a hold of yourself. So, point one: I hate the way I write.

Now for point two: I hate the way I draw.

I've whinged on before about how I once thought I was 'good at art' but more recently realised I was always crap. Well - here's some more... A couple of weeks ago a few of us had a session with Shadric Toop - Brighton artist. Six kids (two of mine) and three adults in all. The previous week I'd finally gone through my big old portfolio - and chucked away tons of drawings and paintings etc - things that in my head had been good ('good') but were SO not in real life! It was fun dumping alot of the old schooly things that were still polluting my stash. And I just decided that of the 60 or so remaining sheets of life drawing from years back I would get it down to 20 and that was that. And I did. Got rid of some that even I thought were quite good ('good' - ????) - but I just loved clearing out anyway. Funny how there's about 3 bits from my Foundation course - and nothing at all from my degree course. And very very little of anything since then. But in my head I was Mrs Art's-my-Thing. Now my rank old A1 black portfolio is out in the rain waiting to be bound up and binned - and I've got everything I've reprieved wedged into my ancient sticker-stained A2 maroon cardboard folder. I've probably kept more things from up to the age of 10 than from after. But it feels right. (For now - will probably thin it out more in another couple of years!) It was the first time my paper recycling bin was ever full. Such a glow from hurling this ballast away. ANYWAY - back to the drawing session with Shadders - surrounded by others who either weren't sure of their abilities or were pretty certain they've never been able to draw - there was me wondering if I was gonna be a star or a plank. The others were very kind - lots of 'ooh it looks just like him' etc but when I protested and redrew things in a 'worse' quicker way - a less drawingy way and said 'I prefer that' to the others' perplexion (I just made that word up I think - I like it) - Shads understood my pain. He quietly said 'I know what you mean' - and so I've had another Damascus moment.... You can be good at something and totally crap at the same thing at the same time. Being 'good at' something is limiting in itself. Being 'good at art' has been a cage for years. It's coloured my opinion (oops another cliche) on other 'art' for years - instead of just thinking if I like something my brain tries to determine if it is 'good' first. And it totally stuffs up your own creative attempts. If you do something crap (like pretty much everything I now feel) it stops you doing anything again. If I tried to shoot an arrow and missed the target I'd still be thrilled I'd even let it fly. If I try and draw something and miss the target I kick the door in.

Point three: talent is pointless. Talent is transitional. Fleeting. Nice but dull. Fervour, enthusiasm, diligence, passion, bravery, naivety, fun - all way more important.

And success? (This might be point four but I'm being so prattley that I've really lost all sense of cohesion and don't give a fuck....) Success is for losers.

There you go....

I'm now happy to be crap at writing and drawing. Two things I always wanted to be good at. I've never cared less about being good at cooking or making curtains but I've done both and got away with it. I'm hopeless at knitting and love it. Split the eardrums of my children with my horrendous singing and laughed at their agony. So now I'm gonna carry on splurting out ungrammatical and futile blog posts and start drawing again - like I've just landed from the Planet Dickhead and have never heard of Winsor and Newton.

Freedom!!!!

Didn't Picasso say something about it taking him 80 years to learn to draw like an eight year old? Ohhhh... ish.... So I'm the new Picasso me I am! Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm not!!

PS - Trying to find another word for 'dickhead' which I love so much.... No thesaurus matches found. Tried 'twat'. No matches. 'Cretin' - disappointing results... Just banged in 'idiot' and got this:

Notes: an idiot is a stupid person with a mental age below three years, while a moron is a stupid person with a mental age of between seven to twelve years

See even a total flaphead like me can learn summink every day. Feels GOOD being rubbish.

This is just a lie!

2011-10-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't really got a new post! I just had a spare 2 minutes and decided to announce that despite a major season of despondency surrounding my continued questioning of my own futility, I AM going to get my blogesque head back on and DO SOMETHING soon. I am also going to write and illustrate 2 series of very different books, knit an entire landscape, reshape my undulating curves (flab), learn how to download photos, ...- oh I was just about to list alot of very ambitious things including sprouting wings but then guess what - I got talked to again. I didn't have to inspect every single Match Attax album entry this time (so 5 minutes ago) or settle a finger-clicking dispute (2 mins ago but a regular headache) or thumbs-up/thumbs-down the devouring of a chocolate croissant despite a lacklustre attempt at dinner (1 min ago - twice...yawn) but I had to look sympathetic in the face of a nearly-teen with a funny tummy.... All I need now is Lord Whassisname - oh Roving Blade I think he was called - to come down and demand to know why the washing-up is still yet to be achieved, is the kettle on and why do those children still exist.... And anyway I need a wee which is my usual brake when things start to get interesting. If I sit here any longer I might start enjoying myself... or wet myself - whichever comes first. So I'm off - but I'm still on this earth dear people really I am. Just drowning in my own filth and stymied by my own dementia. One day I'll sprout those golden wings and take flight - or is it take those minging sprouts and catch a cold.... oh something.... If I do something - anything at all - it would be a bloody miracle....

Eerie Radio Silence...

2011-09-25T15:09:00.000-07:00

Been very quiet ain't I?

Not even had time to read any blogs of late and feel totally cut off from my beloved cyber world. Missing my therapy!!!

Wondering how to make time again to come back - tried clicking my heels three times - needed a plaster.

So.... plotting......

Fantasizing about brewing up some sleeping potions for members of my family so that I can find time again. Any friendly witches out there with some good recipes?

Hopefully will cook up a useable plan soon - even if just for the reading.

.... hmmmmmnnn....

Summer's Here and the Time is Right....

2011-08-10T16:49:00.000-07:00

....for bunting in the streets.

Maybe not.

Today was my first venturing out into the outside world since coming back from our camping misdemeanors. I wasn't ready. And Mr Roving Blade was worried that we might come into contact with violent faceless hoodies causing a ruckus.

We were heading over to a church hall in Tunbridge Wells. The Teen Group thing. I wasn't worried about louts. We herd our louts - hooded, lilac be-wigged or pink-tinged-bedly-do'd - into the bean-bag room upstairs while we slurp tea beneath the reassuring life-size crucifix downstairs, dodgeing missiles from the mini-yobs, the most likely to be in hoodies in fact.

I was way more worried about opening my mouth and family-only gobbledegook splurting out. It's been a long time since I'd mixed with 'others'.

But I was not the only one to come back from Hesfes and take two weeks to recover. Another of my kind was looking wobbly. She had nearly turned back the car halfway there.

It's just too soon.

I'm still wondering whether to post up my experiences of life on an East Anglian airfield, flat, featureless and unsheltered, surrounded by a faded-fortuned industrial estate. Following the scrawled signs from civilized roads to the designated wasteland, we were still hopeful. Down to 15 mph through ever-more depressing out-of-business units and we were beginning to fret. 5 mph. Up a gravelly (not like stately home gravelly, shit gravelly) lane that was to surely lead to two-toed slack-jawed Deliverance-land we were on the verge of splitting the tyres in a sharp u-turn when we spotted cheerful bunting. We perked up. Bunting! It's all alright. And lots of people with pink hair. Our people. We entered.

Three weeks later, I'm still not sure we made the right decision. I kept getting asked how we were enjoying it. Mr RB had a great reply: 'I'm still processing.' I really still am.

I need another lie down now. I've been 'up' long enough. Since dinner. I got up for dinner after a lie down when I got home. It's been a big day - a church hall and sitting in a park wondering where all my children were and not being able to tell cos the park is full of OTHER kids. Bloody summer holidays! And bed-time for boys beckons. You wanna talk about rioters? I'll need another lie down after that.

If I re-emerge tonight I'll prob just switch on the telly and see what satellite town without its police force is burning bright. See who's raided the local Poundsaver as I heard today. I'm not sure these are disaffected youth.... Poundsaver!? That's middleaged put-upons surely looking to slip a six-pack of Imperial Leather into their Asda maxis. Every little helps. Or wha'eva. But, we pondered in the park today, surely now the whole of the country will follow Bluewater's lead and ban the wearing of hooded tops in public. Fire Dad argued that this problem had been fought for years, by the likes of The Sheriff of Nottingham - and Robin Hoodie! But it does lead to... what of urban cyclists masking their faces with scarves? 'What about cowboy hats?' interjected Fish Dad? Mmnn... this could escalate to sporting sinister-sized sombreros. Not too much of this in Tunbridge Wells as yet. But what indeed of the burka? The French banned it but the police are not allowed to touch the face coverings - the women turn up at court for wearing it and are turned away when they refuse to remove it for the hearing. Wot a laugh! We could have such fun with this. I'm surprised there isn't a mass movement of burka-wearing just for the sheer spectacle. Can't be too hard to source I reckoned. 'Go to Burka King!' exploded Fire Dad. But on a serious note kids.... he did make a very good point about youngsters stuck in towns with no wilderness. No contact with the 'real'. Not even stars. No sky at night to strike awe. I think he has a very sound point.

Drawing me back to the windswept flatness of the Suffolk airfield.... On the first night I had to concede that despite the lack of pretty landscape, there was indeed a 'big sky'. The evening campfire stargazing was the highlight of each shivering day. 'Shooting star!' 'That's an aeroploane.' 'Shooting star!' 'Nah that's one of those paper lanterns powered by a tea-light. Heading straight for that field of dry corn.' 'Shooting -' 'Satellite.' ..... And as we all know it's wrong to wish on space hardware..... But it's one of those things you do when you're on holiday like watching the sunset, going for an evening walk, capturing someone else's wayward lantern and torturing it over the campfire and letting it go and retrieving it several times until it finally finds the will to escape... that you never do when you're back home. The other evening I was feeling particularly tired and tearful and Mr Roving Blade dragged me by the hand chirruping 'I've got something to show you! Come on! We said we were gonna do this...' And outside he pointed above and declared 'Look at that! See how insignificant you are!'

He was trying to help.

Do you think it would help the socially oppressed looting hooligans of the inner cities?

They're already quite good at getting a fire started. It's just another technique. We foraged for wood and kindling for our evening's flare. They have their own methods. We had the continuous sound of distant (and not so distant) bongoes, they have the pummelling of batons on a riot shield....

Perhaps it is an inevitable explosion born of frustration. The chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots. Although I'm not sure checking your Blackberry for the latest rioting hotspot are the last-ditch desperate actions of a Have Not. Blackberries don't grow on trees you know. Maybe if they looked up instead of down at their little beeping boxes? 'Shooting star!' 'Run you moron that's my molotov cocktail.' But it's social interaction of a sort.

Is it the sort that people worry Home Educated kids don't get?

Can't wait for the first Home Edder to be arrested - all of a sudden that would be the answer to the whole riddle. We would be the scapegoat to be hounded out of existence for sure. Call me cynical but hey.... just try and take a child to A & E and tell them you Home Educate! The horror and suspicion on the uniformed faces.... You're lucky to be allowed to bring them home again. Stepping outside society's 'norm' - we lay ourselves open to be viewed as the cause of all society's ills. Luckily not everyone reads The Daily Mail. Have we retreated or struck out on a new path? Escape or adventure? Deserters or pioneers?

Escape...? Retreat...? Aren't they supposed to be 'holiday' words? Why are 'holidays' so damned exhausting? And what is it that I seem to keep ending up in East Anglia by strange twists of fate. I do not know why. When I got home after a week of unremitting wind and flatness, I staggered upstairs and gorged on the view from my bedroom window. Trees, undulating curves, colours.... Dennis Potter's phrase 'blue remembered hills' always floats into my mind. And we have a perfectly wonderful sky here too. It was blue the day I left, and blue when I came back. I think East Anglia only does grey. I live in a little secret pocket of wonder. If I can't hack Rougham Industrial Estate could I ever turn back to the smoking decay of old London town? Can I possibly place my mind into a hood and understand what the mad 'uns are thinking?

When I lived in Sarf Lahndan all those years ago I sometimes thought I heard the sound of the uprising. I'd be convinced my street would be suddenly aflame with torches throwing the shadows of the imagined pitchforks (or car bumpers..) appear as giant city-eating monsters. Was probably just a few Henrys falling into dogshit on the common. It was Clapham after all. I really don't want to be there now either way.

It's making Hesfes seem like a pleasant alternative.

Amazing how a new turn of events can put things into perspective. I'm now not so much shuddering at the memories of sub-zero tent survivalism as fondly recalling bashing bits of copper water tank with a hammer long enough so it curls into a submissive shining bowl, watching (through my fingers) Minx and Lu-Lu Cheeeese on stage in the cabaret re-enacting meerkat ads and murdering Justin Bieber in all my best wigs, constructing a rocket-stove from catering tins I'd made other people raid for me from the rubbish skips and managing to get it alight - for a whole minute, feigning interest in children's creative activities but in the face of circus skills fleeing like a rioter into the rag-weaving marquee and not only getting to sit down and make a ...rag-woven... thing.. but manage to find myself next to the Mighty Grit and meeting the gorgeous triplets! Oh there was more! Actually there wasn't. That was it for the good stuff. But in the face of having my habitat burn down around me by the concrete jungle's guerillas, a fieldful of lurky teens in ripped tights and day-glo wands with their earnest elders clad in dog blankets is almost inoffensive.

Almost.

Until I remember the toilets....

How I'd long for night to fall so I could just dodge in between mine and Mr RB's cars and find sweet wild relief.

On the flip-side, I did smell of my own wee for a week. I think it was my own.

That Mr Bragg kept getting in my head out there....

I was a weaver
I was a stove-builder
I was black weesmith betweeeeeen the cars
Beat our the copper bowl
Foraged for wood and coal
Back for another wee between the-e cars....

I clung to the outskirts of human acceptance until about Tuesday. From then on I quickly degenerated into a squatting grotesque caricature of womankind, grasping amongst sticks and roots, no longer inclined to wash, staring fearfully at the fire, pointing and grunting at raw cup-a-soup and last seen beating my chest and disappearing into the outer scrubs of the grinding industrial badlands, heading south, with a bit of gaffa tape stuck my hairy clawed foot.

Thankfully, something like The Incredible Journey, I made it back to the fruit-filled arms of home. But it has taken two weeks to dare to step back into the world of humanoids again. And what has civilization to offer me?

It's not just Babylon a-burning baby. It's not just Tottenham, Birmingham and Manchester. It's the likes of Maidstone, Chatham, Croydon.... Tunbridge Wells next on the list surely!

Come on Rougham! Raise your hoods. Just one more tea-light lantern!! You can do it!!!

But I expect you've got more pressing things to do. Like watching the skies. Much better idea.

'Shooting star!!!'

I'll get me blanket....

Think Of Me...

2011-07-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

'Twas the night before Hesfes and all was.... a bit too damn quiet. Cos I'm the only idiot still up. Not quite packed...

5 pairs of wellies between 6 of us.

3 pairs of complete crocs - 1 of which are an undesirable colour (white) for a boy (hand-me-downs from big sis who's nicked mine). Possibly have the makings of another 2 pairs.... if I had the gene that DID things instead of THOUGHT about doing things...

5 sleeping bags.

1 properly strung and undamaged guitar. Forgot to get my old one done up. Mr RB's old one seriously battered. Will be fighting over our one decent one. Mr RB will win. I'll stick with me shaky eggs and washboard - if I can be bothered to find it tonight. I won't remember in the morning. Not sure where me thimbles are..... (teaspoons aggravate my arthritis.)

1 spare wheel still in boot as Kwik Fit didn't put it back properly about 3 months ago - and I haven't got that gene.... It's buried under layers and layers (sedimentary, metamorphic, igneous.....) of filth and crisp wrappers. Will need special tools to unearth it.

Taking 4 bikes. Bike rack carries 3. Not being good at maths I said yes.

Hoping just 3 pairs of pants will be plenty for Little Rock Godling. He'll probably just stick with/to the 1 pair anyway. Think all his others may have disintegrated.... possibly whilst still on him...

Maybe another 2 sessions of reading and I'll have finished my book. Do I take it anyway, plus a replacement - or just a new one and finish the other when I get back - or take it and hope someone else will do the same with theirs and swap....? Hmmmmn - Minx might be near the end of hers.... Will she want to read all about Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe's trials and tribs? Double hmmmnn.... I am waiting to get my mits on her Caitlin Moran book - it might just work...

Really should be in bed. Kids all excited and couldn't sleep - did 'the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll wake up and it'll be...' old pat. Maybe that's why I'm not in bed yet. Just prolonging the agony... My optimistic half is quite buoyant about the whole tents-in-the-rain camaraderie stuff. I'm sure the monkeys are gonna have a ball. I've got my tribal members around me. It's just that other side of my face that is looking like a lemon's just stuck its tongue down my throat.... If my Mr Roving Blade is proved right with his bad weather and badder tofu forecasts.... I may as well just stick my head in the fold-out camping stove right now. He's unbearable when he's right!!!

But, as Trish @ Mum's Gone to... would be delighted to hear, I've packed the duck tape so I'm sure I can handle any dodgy situation that presents itself. Thinking up plenty of ways to use the sticky silver wonderstuff already. 'What's that kids? Muffled noises? Where's Daddy? Oh.... he's a bit tied up at the moment...'

Feeling quite ready for bed now.

(Poor Mr RB.... He's a sensitive little soul. Misunderstood. Doesn't deserve such a dreadful family. Musta dun sumfing reeeeaallllly eeevil in a former life.)

Did something pretty bad in this one - married me.

Think of us kindly when we are gone.....

High Jinks to Low Camp

2011-07-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

My lot have been having a right old time of late. Dog Boy's been taken to Goodwood Festival of Speed by a pal and his dad the other weekend, and went to The Open yesterday with his dear golf-crazed pa. Although not as well organised as ..whatever that other championship at Wentworth a few weeks ago where they got full-on Lee Westwood and Luke Donald action, they did see Bubba tee off and got a blast of Phil Mickelson. And even if they didn't waste much energy on conversation, it was Father/Son stuff.

Last weekend was Thuglet's fifth birthday. We had larks in the park after an illustration workshop with Alex Milway (of Mousehunter and The Mythical 9th Division world) with cake and the fastest ever 'HappyBirthdayToYouHappyBirthdayToYouHappyBirthdayDearThuglethappyBirthdayToYou NOW BLOOOW!!!' rendition ever due to gale forces, followed by golf with Dad in the morning, endless loops of Despicable Me on DVD, more cake and no pants on the actual day and THEN the family (or half a family as I didn't ask my half) on the Sunday for over-soaped (over-soaped! my kids!! that's funny!!!) water-slide antics down the slopey bit in our garden. I filmed the motley slippy contortionist sibs and cousins being cinematically exuberant for over 20 minutes (that's some sentence - sorry - couldn't have put it better - I mean I am incapable of putting it better cos I'm tired and need a wee) - and then deleted it instantly. Didn't get the World's Bestest Mum Award. More cake?

Minx has been loving the Trinity Youth Theatre's latest stage fighting and puppet-making activities and has now thrown herself into their new fanzine. On Thursday she and a couple of other bouncy chirrupers got the gig to interview Phill Jupitus before his set and then her bounciest chum (the lovely bonkers Lu-Lu of a previous post) even managed to wangle a couple of free tickets to the show afterwards thanks to their wink-wink connections. Not only that but their wink-wink connection-in-chief lifted some crisps from the bar and organised a reserved table with their drinks on for the interval! Alright for some eh? When they came out Lu-Lu Cheeeeese (her full title) babbled 'OMG it was soooooo funny he said the 'c' word about 30 times!' I took her firmly by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes 'Do not tell your mother!' We were locked in collusion. And then we both told her mother.

Just trying to think of Little Rock Godling's special somethings lately.... Poor love does get overlooked. But he enjoyed the illustration thing. Gods I really must pay my little mad professor more attention.... Well he has been very busy making small strange robots to keep Daddy company when I'm upstairs asleep. Maybe I should cobble together a robot mummy that actually knows he DOESN'T LIKE SWEETCORN....

Ah well. We've been Out & About more than In & Chillin' for so long I've forgotten how to work the washing machine. But there is no time for contemplation....

......IT'S ONE WEEK TO GO BEFORE HESFES!

All the glitter and sparkle of our lives starts to take on a sinister glint.

In case you're not au fait.... it's camping. With other Home Educating types. For a week.

In an airfiled.

Somewhere not exotic.

Or near a beach.

Mr Roving Blade is squirming in horror at the mention. He's already expressed the torture of 'having to spend a whole week with THOSE people'.

'Why did you agree to come then?'
'I didn't.... I wasn't thinking.... splooglebrmmptingmush...eeek... '
'Just think, once we're there, the kids'll disappear and we won't have to entertain them at all! It'll be fine!'
'....ingmimbingmomblblblsprnggglshshhhh... be chained to the gas stove all day.... what will Dog Boy eat???? ...bimblebimlbbpffffflnggg...sob...'
'It'll be fine! Bring your golf clubs. Look up local courses. Bugger off every day and come back with chips.'
'....ahuahuahuahuah... tofu.... sandles.... teepees... bastards..... uhhhhhmmmmnnnnnggrmbl....! '
'Come on.... It'll be fine. We'll grab the guitars... you can take lots of pictures... make fires!! Now we're going round to J's on Monday for tent erection lessons and we've got a week to see what we can nick from everyone else. We just need lots of blankets and quilts and crisps. It'll be fine!'
'....oooooooooooooooooggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...uhuuuhhhh ....uhuuuuggggghhhhh...'
'It'll... be... fi...ohhhhhhhggggghhhhhh sob sob sob.............

His wild-eyed terrified anticipation has finally dented my hair gel. I'm not worried about being scummy or not sleeping. That's a normal state of being. It's not the four savage monkeys despite the eating/other people seeing what we're eating I fear. It's not even the erection dramas to come. It's having this old woman and stroppy teenager rolled into one large loud problem of a personage....... And it not being Mr RB...... It may just be me.

It's gonna be fucking awful isn't it?

We're getting into practice. I've not fed the kids all day, it's pissing down and all the boys are out in it just in pants, I really need a wee but can't face dealing with the slimy mud-splattered floor of the downstairs toilet and Mr RB has indeed buggered off. OK he's working but I don't think he was entirely displeased with driving away from the house.

Come on!!! Scruff of neck time. It has been another mental week/month/purgatorial stretch so maybe looking ahead to a week of not driving around late for something screaming at my watch, heroically averting small people entering shops burbling about their (already half-inched) birthday money (well what do you expect? He's only five and I'm skint) and having every straight-from-the-freezer dinner accompanied by The Simpsons on full blast could be considered a meditational retreat.

Even if there might be bongoes and cous-cous.... We can DO this thing!

Well - I'm planning on bringing my washboard and thimbles - and plenty of Kellogg's variety. We'll BORE them all into submission yeah! We may not be home-grown. We may not be articulate. We may not know how to do a boating knot. We may not have African drums hanging from our nipples but we can sing all the words to Spongebob, shoot the washing off the line with Nerf guns and wear stupid baseball caps.

Has anyone ever been ejected from Hesfes for 'normal' behaviour?

Surely bringing a washboard is normal?

Who? What? When? Why?

2011-07-08T18:31:00.000-07:00

Yeah!!!!

Never heard of ice-skating.

......... or ballet, or tap, or modern, or latin/ballroom, or streetdance, or horseriding, or pottery, or any of the previous gymnastics classes, or previous drama classes, or previous anything..... Nope. Everything's fine. I'm wearing a tight leopard-print top. I've bought a new mascara. I have a bag of neon balloons to blow up. And nothing's gonna get in my way....

I'm now just looking forward to a less manic summer with less time on the road shouting at bored boys and skipping the less funky Lady GaGa tracks on the one CD that's currently going round and round and round and round on my car stereo and making less stops at garages and being less pestered for softmints and fruit pastels at every fill-up and maybe having more coins in my battered purse at the end of it all.

Maybe after the summer I may idly suggest an evening's patch session and see what I get.

Probably a pair of blunt rusted blades on a pair of too-small boots held aloft.

Til then I'm simply swanning around in total denial wearing lots of mascara and leopard-print. Yay me!

And yay another recycled email to my ever-positive pal.

Yay laziness........

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.............

Yay the soft buzzing of zoning out altogether.............

....mmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnnn...............

Join in if you know the words....... mmmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnn.....

Teenage Unengage

2011-07-07T17:55:00.000-07:00

I'm being a lame slut and recycling a series of emails I've been sending to a chum about my latest crisis. Well - I say crisis - such a drama queen. The Thing is.... my Minx has SUDDENLY decided to give up ice-skating.

There - CLANG!!! - are you all in tears? No? Oh. Just me then.

Told you I was a drama queen. I was inconsolable all yesterday. And still knotty today.

So here's a mish-mosh of my rants to my chum who, poor thing, happened to be there yesterday morning when I was being all pink and sobby, and who has been sending me all sorts of wonderful positive replies. I just thought I needed to rant a bit more and inflict it on blogworld instead of on some poor soul who has to actually put up with me in 'real' time. But when it came to 'composing' (ha ha) - I thought 'pffffffff' I'll cut and paste me rants I've already done. See? Lame slut. I did try and change the names to blogworld names - so look... effort made alright?

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

I'm probably feeling extra guilty cos we've been really going on about money lately - and altho' I've never said anything about the skating itself I have had to say we can't all eat in the cafe on Thursdays in future (cutting out all cafes is my latest attempt at saving some cash) - and she was coming out with the sort of things we have said (albeit about other subjects) in the past about money, appreciating things etc etc - and the 'stopping for 6 months' thing sounds like something I would say - and have in the past about things (like bloody horse-riding) but have NEVER said about ice skating!!! Ah well..... I'm sure none of that last 'sentence' makes any sense but hey....

Hopefully it is just a blip. I hate thinking that all that effort over the last 3 years or so is 'for nothing' cos she's enjoyed every second of it, but I can't help thinking that it will just turn into a vague memory if she doesn't pick it up again, and that she'll probably regret it in later years and wish I'd pushed her!! Does that make sense either?? But as Mr RB and I were saying just last night, the reason we don't send our kids to school is because we don't want them to be wasting their time and energy being made to do something they really don't want to be doing - so by the same token I don't feel I should 'push' her into carrying on just now.

She's finding her way with this new 'teen' group which is lovely - but I'm wondering if it's having a knock-on effect of 'conforming' somehow - although none of these kids are especially conformist themselves! I think the biggest thing that got me going today was the wish that I was really good at something and had the opportunity to pursue it! (Cue the violins....) But my lack of a true talent that makes me so envious of someone who DOES have something - and then throws it away!!!! - eeeeek!!!!! (So - I think I've just realised that all my dramatics this morning is basically me being a princess about me me me - as usual eh?)

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

It's funny you should say that cos I don't think I DO know what's right for her.... I just think it's very odd to SUDDENLY decide to stop something you've been so passionate about for so long. If she'd been waning for a while I would have had a clue but it was a real BANG! We thought it was just cos she was overtired the other night (Tues night) after a silly sleepover-y weekend. I was expecting her to be grumpy and tired on Wed morning but she wasn't grumpy - just quiet so I thought once she got back on the ice she'd be ok again - but she seemed consciously resolute in her decision.

I now think it's unlikely to be the other teens opinions as they're a good bunch all with their own interests. I'm now wondering more if it's 'getting in the way' of her and Lu-Lu being totally joined at the hip. The other day she mentioned starting ballet again (ie with Lu-Lu at her ballet school) and I said NO. She's stopped and started with ballet etc (and many other dance things) so many times - and let's face it - gorgeous as she is - she's not built to be a ballet dancer! She's athletic - not a neat precious little stick thing!! And I know all this stuff the kids do is supposed to be for their enjoyment etc and we're not supposed to be getting too serious about it BUT - ballet????? I really thought I was done with all that poncey stuff!!!! No nail varnish.... perfect neat hair in a perfect bun..... not a stitch out of place.... AAAAARRRRGGGHHHHH!!!!! Please no!!!!! Now does that sound like Minx to you? I just can't bear the idea!!!

Ballet rant over now. Sorry!

Actually no it's not - going back to the money thing.... ballet uniform, shoes, tights, lesson fees - and for what? She'll give it up again within a term. And her Dad says it'll just bugger up her feet anyway!

Ok I'll step away from the ballet bollocks now for good.

I know at this age friends really do come first - and she's got great friends. And we love Lu-Lu to bits. BUT - what IS this obsession with all being locked together wearing the same clothes saying the same words laughing the same liking all the same things....... They may as well BE at bloody school wearing a bloody uniform!!!! I want her to be HERSELF. And this is the problem - do they know who they are at that age? They do when they're younger it seems - and then something happens at this age and they go all cliquey and seeking acceptance or something. Then we spend the next 35 years trying to work out who we bloody well are again!

I'd love to have a perfect answer to this 'difficult age' thing. To be able to allow your children to be themselves all the way through would really be something - but it appears we're up against a too-strong urge to fit in with their peers. Fight it and you're evil. Let it go and you watch your fantastic little firecracker turn into a wet blanket!

Sigh........

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

Yeah I hope so!!!! She was even saying stuff like this herself - the needing to 'miss' it a bit. And she is permanently tired at the moment. Permanently eating, permanently tired, resolutely not going to bed at nighttime - and then totally inert in the mornings.

She's just like her bloody mother!

But I'm only growing outwards - she's still growing in all ways! Even Shark Boy this last week has kept complaining about being tired and suddenly 'not well' - and then just as suddenly running around the garden again - and then 'not well' and floppy and complaining about aching legs. My mum says that 'they' say there's no such thing as growing PAINS but I know a friend who as an adult felt so exhausted and unwell without any actual illness, and after 2 weeks of lurking in bed she discovered she'd grown a couple of inches. I can't remember all this growing lark at all (but I stopped growing at 11 so not a great example) - but it must take it out of you if it happens in spurts surely? And gods knows being a 12 - 15 year old girl is simply hideous!!!! So I think a little slack is called for.

But it's just that little nagging voice that wonders if being 'nice' is also being 'lame'. In the long run - will she turn round and say 'why didn't you MAKE me??'

And then, obviously, I shall be forced to slap her.

And guess what - it's nearly 1.00am and she's just come downstairs again after a bad dream!! I've told her to do some puzzles to switch her mind around. Doesn't this girl ever SLEEEEP???? (apart from the mornings.... )

She was like this as a baby/toddler tho'. Still going strong at 2.30am every night. Think I may as well just teach her how to pull a pint so she can just work in nightclubs for a living. There - problem solved!

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

So - there's a new post slapped up on-line with no editorial standards applied. (Like spot the difference.... ) Now I just need to work out what to bloody do next.

If anything?

Anybody out there? Did you give up stuff that you loved as a kid and now wish you'd kept up with? Were you left to your decision or berated? Do you wish somebody else had intervened with sage advice? Would you have taken it if they had? Blah blah blah blah blah.....

?????????

Oh and sorry if I've offended any ballet-lovers out there but.... pfffffff..... I'll go and watch a big proper one but don't make me do kids' ones! Once they get past about 8 years old they have to be really really tiny and be really really good at it or else it's all a bit bovine.

Sorry but.....

Just saying.

Smells Like....

2011-07-02T05:14:00.000-07:00

What the hell is a teenager?

Is it strictly a thing from the age of 13 to 19?

Don't they kind of start at about 10 these days?

Are you really still a teenager at 19?

Can you be a teenager AND an adult - is that allowed?

In this higgledy-piggeldy world of Home Ed where we pride ourselves on having kids of all ages mixing it up and getting along, where do we stand on 12 year old 'teens-ishes' hanging out with 18 year olds offering lifts?

As it was correctly pointed out by a 15 year old - 'Technically an 18 year old has more right to be in the Teen Group than a 12 year old.'

Yeeeeeeaaaahhhhhbut... Uhh....

But it was also this 15 year old who invited the 12 year old into the Teen Group, cos they are also friends.

And they are.

And it's fabulous.

And the 12 year old is going for a mass-sleepover tonight with this 15 year old, and other 13 to 16 year olds.

Should the mother of this 12 year old be happy she'll be in good company - or panicking that allsorts could happen?

Don't think the 17 and 18 year olds are going to be there.

Does that mean 'oh dear, no 'adult' supervision' or 'thank fuck for that gods knows what they've got in their funky rucksacks.'

Hmmmmmnnnnnnnnn..........

Well.......

OK. I'm pretty happy about my 12 year old at the sleepover tonight. Her 15 year old friend is fantastic. And all the other teens I know going are all lovely. And Minx seems pretty relaxed about it all. And they're in some log-cabin thing in the hostess girl's parents' garden so hey....

And I am glad the older ones aren't going if I'm honest.

But..... I remember what I was like at about 15 or 16.

I remember a weekend away with my same-age friends - and older 'teen' friends - ostensibly on a 'retreat' in a little house thing on the grounds of some monastery. Monks and priests about but not in our house. Now who were the ones with the bottles of Martini and Piat D'Or in their duffels?

Of course it was. Us 15/16 year olds.

Maybe it was even just me.

Sighhhhhhhh.........

I don't like this boot being on the other foot business. Not cos I've gone all hypocritical and old. But because I was such a pain in the arse when I was young. But I still think that maybe I was such a pain in the arse when I was young cos my parents were so untrusting and uncool so I had to assert my rebelliousness just because! What if they had been really cool and I had nothing to rebel against? Would I still have been a drunken fuckwit in a monastery?

So I'm trying to be Cool Parent and trust in my offspring to not be a total fuckwit.

Am I having a laugh?

Nice Cup of Tea and a Bubble Bath?

2011-06-25T08:06:00.001-07:00

I'm so easy to please. Simple pleasures.

And extra special when someone else makes you the tea and someone else runs you the bath.

........ Aren't they?

Ooh I'm in two minds..... I like my tea Just So. Coffee is good, (very good), but I can pretty much take it as it comes. As long as it's black. And I'll eat pretty much anything as long as I didn't cook it.... except meat.... and stew. I'm easy to please.

But tea, although I seemingly, unflinchingly, take it as it comes, is a much more delicate operation. This is because I like it delicate. I say 'black tea please' but I really mean very light barely brown tea please. I should say that shouldn't I? (That's my problem - saying exactly what I mean.) But I invariably gush 'oh that's lovely thank you' when I'm presented with something that would strip paint from the vapour alone. I then persist in drinking it, cos I don't want to be a bother, but using my sensory shut-down skills - by-passing the tastebuds and getting it straight down my throat without allowing any stewed aroma to hit the nasals. Then breathe. It's a strange talent to list but I'm very short of talents so......

And as for the bath - it has to be too hot, too bubbly and too full or it's such a massive disappointment I want to cry but obviously I don't complain. Not audibly. Barely audible. (No I just take a few steps back on my self-worth-o-meter because you should be grateful and if you're not then you're evidently a failure as a human being and anyway you've probably been solely responsible for the arctic meltdown by this meagre temperature alone you smacked-arse-faced princess.) And if I haven't personally scrubbed the bath out beforehand myself then ohhhhhhhh....... Am I really getting clean in here or is it too heavily contaminated by boy-ness? Or man-ness?? Shudder. Yeah but like you know I mean..... how many times is my bath the leftovers of Mr Roving Blade's post-golf soak? But I'll jump in just the same. Happy to get one at all. I'll just add a bit of hot. Won't wash my face in it. And have a very quick shower afterwards. (There goes another baby seal you heinous witch.) Oh and it has to be uninterrupted............. !!!!!!

High maintenance? Me? Nahhh - I'm so easy to please me I am I'll take it all as it comes. (And so you bloody well should.) How can that be high maintenance for anybody? I ask you!! (Such a diva.)

Now my little heart's just skipped a beat as Minx came in here with a cup of tea for me. I'm the luckiest mummy on the planet I am. I said thank you all coo-ily and refused to mind the Little Voice that noted it was in the stripey cup and not the spotty one and questioned whether she'd used just the one tea bag for both of us and was mine the first dip as the second seems to spurt brownness quicker and had the kettle freshly boiled....? I just smiled. I am so proud of myself.

And it was lovely. Maybe a little stronger than perfect but it was a bloody good stab. I'm getting better at this life-is-what-it-is-and-be-happy lark I think. Yes I is.

And now.... it's Saturday afternoon. I don't have to take anyone anywhere - (for a major bleedin' change). I've been in the kitchen all day so far clearing up yesterday, dealing with today, 'helping' Dog Boy make fairy cakes cos none of them got more than one at our Sports Day last Thursday apparently (the concept of sharing still not quite grasped in this house) which effectively means MAKING fairy cakes (out of guilt most likely and brewing up more guilt for using too many ingredients again) and clearing that up too and then immediately being asked what's for lunch.... And despite it being in the afternoon and I should be finishing the folding...... I have already cleaned out the bath and heated the water and have bloody well fed everyone so I have.

So..... I'll make myself another tea, perfectly, despite my imminent pelvic floor collapse. And then I am going to indulge myself in some perfectly-produced too hot too deep too foamy luxury in a perfect sparkling tub. Fully aware that I will be yelling 'yes but don't eat them all!!' and 'in the cupboard by the larder in the tin! Under the battery tin! On the HIGHER shelf!' and 'why can't you ever take turns nicely!!!' and 'just give me five fucking minutes for christ's sake!!!!!!' every 45 seconds but hey..... Focusing on the perfect right now I am. I AM........ And then I know I'll have to spend another 25 minutes lying on the bed in the wet towel thinking cool thoughts to calm my pounding over-heated internal organs..... And then I'll need another cup of tea to summon up the energy to re-tackle the folding. And then they'll want dinner. And then I'll start feeling guilty. And then I'll get cross. And then I'll shout at someone that the folding's in the way. And then I'll cry. But it'll all be worth it - won't it?

Simple pleasures....

Take 'em while you can. When you can. However you can.

Don't listen to The Voice....

.....(do you mean the one that is now telling you that you have spent so much time on the 'pooter that you cannot possibly justify the running of the aforementioned bath?).....

Yes that one.

NOW can we go????????

2011-06-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

I did it folks. I lasted nearly FOUR hours at the football club's Family Fun Day. In the place of many-crossed ley lines and much home-woven tofu knickers. FOUR BLEEDIN' HOURS!!!!

'Don't forget the prize giving ceremony starts at 12.00' said the text.

'Under 10s - 3.30pm' said the list stuck to the wet marquee.

'Stop swearing.' said the kids.

£1 for five minutes on the bouncy castle. Each. OK. Choose your next two options very carefully. 50p for seven shots at wobbly coconuts. A much better idea. Let's do it again. Still have three hours and 20 minutes left to kill. 50p for four balls aimed at paddling pools.... oh you get sweets even if you miss. Sweets??? YESSS!!! Two please. That's lunch then. Right - let's put the coconuts in the car......

Ooh it's nice and warm in here.... SLAM!

Just three hours to go. And that's with my new phone not connecting to the internet as promised in the sales pitch a month ago. That little (paid for) perk lasted about two hours after I left the shop. I just had some paper and a biro to amuse myself. That would've been just dandy if it wasn't for small boys who wanted a running commentary on what I was doing.

'You're BOYS! Go and PLAY!'

'Girls play too. I want to stay with you.'

Some might consider that sweet.

I'm not some.

Just think of all those things you could do in three hours....... If you were at home.... Or anywhere ELSE......... Just think of all those grumpy chinny wrinkles you'd not have if you were ANYWHERE ELSE in the damned world.......

Get a grip. At least I don't look as old as HER! Ha! God she looks rough. And OLD!!!! Euughhhh!!!!! Ha ha haa!!!!

Yes you guessed it - I had dressed as a leopard-printed, fringed-shorted, jaunty-capped retard from the Planet Mutton. And yes I did have nearly up-to-the-brow shimmery green eye-shadow. I had to. It's my job to piss off the good people of Brownsville and I take my duties very seriously.

When we did eventually manage to drive away - (I tried my best not to screech the tyres - wouldn't want to attract attention now would I?) - we were down £10, an unearthed packet of squashed prawn cocktail crisps and several points on my soul but we were up 4 coconuts and a trophy for the football star. Thank the gods. If he hadn't come away with a trophy after being stuck for that long in the village of supersmugosity I'd've been forced to trample my baby blue brand-name trainer in someone's organic mung-bean cake.

This is perhaps a little unfair - there are only a few of these types in amongst the football crowd but it just seeps in this stuff. I know it would have only been a matter of time before I would have heard complaints about the gingerbread men on sale not being multi-racial or having to be re-labelled gingerbread persons and have the correct quota in wheelchairs.

But it's done for another year! Breathe out slowly.....

And my little dynamo Dog Boy got The Manager's Cup - for being fast, strong, having an excellent attitude and being brilliant, particularly in the last six months. That's what the man said.

Yay!

The funniest bit was the trophy for top goal-scorer. It all went a bit quiet. I'd overheard another team's award-winner clasping his cup for scoring 49 goals - and it being quite a close run thing. Our team's top scorer had piled up a staggering.... six. Ah well.... There's always next season eh?

Somebody bring me a tissue...... and some eight inch patent red stilettos.

With Our Luck....

2011-06-18T03:51:00.000-07:00

The Bad News: bloody parking fine in the customer's car park of the shop in which I was a customer. Can't be bothered with the details but they ain't gettin' no money off me!

The Good News: got a bike! Free! Off my mum. Been in her garage for a few years.

The Bad News: cost over £50 to get new wheels and inner tubes and someone to do it for me 'cos I'm a lazy trollopp.

The Good News: got the year's Bike Care Plan ('cos I'm a lazy trollopp) for half price as I was too slovenly to pick it up when I should've and they had a special offer on the day I finally showed up.

The Bad News: it's still in the garden being rained on as I'm a lazy ..... and not going out in the rain to get it.

The Good News: my boys (big and small) who'd been off camping in France for that interminable footie tournament thing are back alive and ....alive.

The Bad News: I have to do the Fathers Day Family Fun Prize-Giving Hell instead on Sunday (as per bloody usual). Mr Roving Blade has done his footie duty he thinks. He also reckons that as it's Fathers Day he can do what he likes. Unreasonable.

The Good News: my Minx won The Ice Bowl Trophy (Level Two) at the End of Seasons Competition up at the rink last Sunday - yay Minxie!!! She looked so beautiful!!!

The Bad News: no room on the cup for her name. Have to give it back to get an extra plinth stuck on.

The Good News: she then went on to win the last monthly Spin Spiral Jump Competition they do at Skate Club which meant she also won the over-all SSJ Champion of the year. Another cup! And we get to keep this one. (Note the use of the word 'we'.)

The Bad News: another parking fine for having my back wheels over onto a long and empty taxi rank outside another branch of the same bloody shop as the last parking fine. Have decided that close association with Iceland is bad luck and will avoid them now forever.

The Good News: free kids meal deal at rink this week. Not that they ate it.

The Bad News: rain stopped play for this weekend's planned 'Pre-Solstice' rampage on Bexhill's beach today. Did I mention the gale force winds....

The Good News: I get a longed-for day in. (Apart from having to pick up Minx from ....somewhere later.... I must text her..)

The Bad News: I really need to change the beds and now I have no excuse.

And to finish - The Good News: will step away from the 'pooter now and give you all a break from my tediums.

Go and watch The Supremes on YouTube instead.

Supreme

2011-06-18T03:09:00.000-07:00

We all need more of The Supremes in our lives.

Just saying.

Life is so short put the present time at hand
And if you're young at heart rise up and take your stand

Gonna slink into me gold sequinned batwings and get back on YouTube......

Don't you feel the wind blowin'?

Arse

2011-06-11T06:16:00.000-07:00

Yup. I'm still on my arse. It's lunchtime and I'm still on my arse. I've drunk all the coffee and eaten all the biscuits. This is my arse day. Should read 'birthday' but 'arseday' is more descriptive.

Planning to sweep lots of crap from my new desk - I mean update the scrapbooks.... obviously. And book-i-fy the collapsing A2 portfolios stuffed with kids' creative masterpieces so I can destroy (or helpfully pass on) those bleedin' folders. Also have a disgusting mouldy A1 portfolio crammed with my old artwork. I recently sorted out my old notebooks/sketchbooks and realised how crap I always was - going thro' the contents of this old beast will probably finish me off BUT I'm sick of it hanging around and a Fresh Start is The Thing. SO - well I'll do it in a minute.

Wish me luck. Delving into one's past isn't always advisable. In fact, this house move has unveiled hibernating personality disorders. According to Mr Roving Blade I have 'tons of crap'. My crap is boxes and folders of 'stuff' I've made over the years - or stuff with which to make new 'stuff'. This is what I've got to show for my time on earth. Cracked boxes. Now Mr RB has lots of photographs of places he's been and the people with whom he was there. He looks at the pictures now and mutters that he doesn't even remember doing any of it. Cracked memories. This is what he has to show for his time on earth.

What's best? Boxes of 'stuff' to trip over? (But it proves I existed! Shows I tried!) Or pictures of things you can't remember? (But it's evidence of adventure! He had a life!)

Should I clear this desk after all....... To half pursue another creative dream...... Fill up another box of STUFF..... to clutter up another corner of my world...... Is there any point?

Looking back at my old 'work' (ha) - I don't really feel great. I'm no Picasso. But should that matter? Should I just give up 'cos I'm not Good Enough? I did that with music.

What if I did that with parenting? Somehow I just keep plodding on with the washing and making toast. The kids are still alive. I don't care if I'm no Fanny Craddock. They don't expect anything better! I've brainwashed them into thinking good housekeeping is a cover for devil worship and not to trust other people's mothers if they have nice houses or tasty dinners.

But being a domestic goddess was never part of my identity anyway. Being 'good at art' was! When I was three. Up to about 17. That was when I went to art college and discovered that I was not special. Surrounded by 'good at art'ers. Idendity crisis. Being a weirdo as a kid was fine if you had your own 'thing' that got you thro' - like being 'good at art'. Now what? All the other art college kids were better at being weirdos too. I started dressing like a secretary to be different.

Ended up working in an office later - and dressed like a tramp. Now I'm a responsible mother thing I dress like a toddler.

Now - I'm just good at arse.

But then what a sudden turnabout - just got a text from my beloved. The back story: In France. Camping with 10 boys from Frog Boy's dopey football team. Entire weekend of football tournament. It took them about 12 hours to drive to the campsite yesterday. I'm the only absent mother. Waved them off yesterday morning after screaming row about taking blankets as well as the sleeping bags. He said he had no room in the car. I asked when was the last time he'd gone camping? I shoved blankets in. We glared. And now - the texts:

Lost the first 2 games... Woeful x

Lost number 3

I try to be helpful and reply: Oh! Have you got decent weather? Anything positive to focus on? Pissing down wildly here! x

Comes the response: Good we need the rain! Weather is lovely, didn't sleep last night, fucking frozen, uncomfortable and guy in next door tent snoring all night. Needed 3 wee's so must have got a chill, no showers and only hole in the ground bog, feeling miserable and tired, you're coming next year!!!! xx

My sensitive answer: Oh no I'm not. I've got life. So .... short of blankets were you? !!!!!!!!! And snoring - awww! Poor thing! Rain's stopped. Think I'll run a bubble bath..... x

God that's cheered me up! I'm gonna do some marmite sandwiches and clear the damn desk! Yay me!!!!

Just got a new text. Unrepeatable. Beside myself with mirth now!!!! Never had 'good wife' as part of my identity either.

Up (to no good) and Out (to lunch): Never At Home Education Part 73

2011-06-02T17:14:00.000-07:00

Groaning at the moaning.... I can't just leave it like that can I? Wot an old misog. Maybe I should knock up a list of the wonderful things I've done lately to balance the books:

* Dark spooky arm-clutchings in Chislehurst Caves. Tales of old Druid sacrifices, murders, hauntings and wartime toilets punctuated with lantern confiscation and mad thundering drumming to conjure up a feel for the bombings. Bit of screaming (me).

* 16 Go Mad on a bumpy twisty bike marathon round Tonbridge wild bits. Undecided whether I should've reported the saddle to the police for indecent abuse.

* Collaring a fisherman in Hastings to get an eyeful of his catch and hear about the GLUT (yes GLUT) of cod in the sea they're not allowed to bring ashore cos Brussels says so.

* Punch and Judy festival (and covert photographing) in Covent Garden and random soakings in the fountains outside the Festival Hall. No we didn't bring spare clothes.

* Rebelliousness in the face of parent meetings. Parent meetings? In Home Ed world? Apparently we have to have meetings so everyone can have their say about the problems with the new Teen Group. There are no problems. Three witches (one me) refuse to hold the glow-in-the-dark dinosaur to have the right to uninterrupted speech. But we urgently need a meeting to discuss the matter of the teens having taken something out of a cupboard in the upstairs room two weeks earlier! (One of the witches had already popped upstairs and sorted that out however about 45 minutes ago. Took about four seconds.) But she hadn't even brushed a warty fingertip atop the dinosaur! The outrage!!!! (I had wondered why only one person said hello when I breezed in late. She must have then been therapod'd up. Pfffttt.... Diplomacy by Diplodocus! I ask you....) Still, quite pleased to be given an opportunity to behave 'like children' - as I found out today we'd been tarred. Love it!

* New dramatic routine's first public performance in the inaugural Spring Challenge Cup at Romford Ice Rink by my Minxy-babe. No tumbles but she did forget to do the jump at the end. Duh. Looked gorgeous tho'. Shame about the mother-daughter role-reversal moment: amatuer Mooncup spillage antics in the medieval toilets (me), resigned spare tights supply (very lovely grown-up clever slightly embarrassed fabulous indulgent Minx.)

* Larks inside and out at Penshurst Place. Frequent showers didn't dampen the spirits. Just the french bread.

* A charcoal burn and impromptu (for us) camp out at a friend's woodlands home in wild green Kent. A response to all the 'Forest Schools' postings of late - this was 'Forest Home Ed'. Including making lethal weapons on a sapling and foot-powered pole-lathe and choking in quilts of smoke emanating from the chalk and charcoal graffitti'd kiln. Rounded off with squashing in like dirty sardines (smoked) with the stinky urchins in a borrowed teepee kind of thang in which we created out own weather and got slightly damp around the edges. Yet entertained splendidly by comedy owls.

* 5 Go Mad in a rowing boat at Dunorlan Park (Tun Wells) - round and round in circles until CanWeGetAKitten Boy gets the hang of it. He did - yay - and so we finally caught up with 6 Go Mad in another rowing boat. (4 Stay Ashore and pretend they don't know us.) No sinkings despite the distraction of that old boy I'd accosted last summer and his remote controlled last-warship-out-of-Hong-Kong thing terrorizing the waves. 11 Got Out Alive. No mean feat.

* First bug safari of the summer - lots of traumatised mini-beasts and happy grubby small people. Giant freak (me) setting off a hoppede from the startled big leggies - (but were they grasshoppers or bubble-bath'd froghoppers eh?) from their hopperopolis (or metr-hopolis). Proper frog-catching always gets the girls tho. Bless my Frog Boy.

All interspersed by the usual gatherings, ramblings, frolics, birthday bashings, youth theatre theatricals - with stage fighting and gruesome make-up shenanigans, football tournament penalty shoot-out pain, Mad Science poppings, heroic tiny boy stabilisers dumpings (yay Thuglet!) and cross-country rallyings in our rattling tin can from each totally non-academic adventure to another. Valiant in our filth and ignorance. Like they said in The Commitments: I'm black an' I'm proud. We are. Well the blackness does come off in the bath - if we bothered to run one. It rubs off on the sheets though. Works for me.

In fact in reply to someone's post on our Home Ed emaily thingy yesterday about the lack of dusting activity I quoted old Quentin Crisp: 'After four years the dust doesn't get any worse.' And then I likened this attitude to Home Edding: 'We've been H'Edding for about four years. The boys couldn't read when we started - and still can't. See? No worse!'

Having said all that, Minx came back from the shops last Saturday with two keystage something-or-other workbooks - one in science and the other maths. Like - !!!!!!!! ????????

Where did I go wrong????

But the main achievement has to be Little Rock Godling's new word tonight: Weirdful.

Sums us up.

I'm prouder than ever!

(Ok - don't look at the sheets.)

Down and In

2011-05-31T16:19:00.000-07:00

Madame doesn't appear to have anything to say for herself of late. Despite being very busy she can't think of anything to report. This doesn't usually stop her but she is floundering in a flappy unhappy way in an unremittingly boisterous mosh-pit. Having craved a day IN she is now in need of getting OUT. And will no doubt moan about that too. If she bothered to speak. Lots of fun been had over the last couple of weeks but it seems to have taken its toll on the energy levels so now we're currently cruising at the height of slug. Aspiring to the dizzies of moth she wearily raises her pink peepers a notch but it's all too damned exciting. Time to curl up in the soft folds of her puckered stomach and dribble droopily a tad longer. Hopefully things will perk up soon. She is bored with unperk. Probably just needs those bloody vitamins again. When she can be arsed to rejoin the human race she may just apologise for the lack of gumption displayed but for now...... thbleugghhhh............

Dammit I just spat on the keyboard.

Again.....

Up and' At 'Em!

2011-05-17T01:12:00.000-07:00

Back on the line.... hello world!

We dunnit - we're all in.

It's chaos but lovely here. Funny how I fought moving to here so fiercely as I wanted to move closer to stuff we do but when I finally got here - I got all cooey. All the boys were still at Nanny and Grandad's, Minx was already banging nails in the wall up in her room and Mr Roving Blade had disappeared to score some chips. I wandered round the garden all peaceful-like (after the day's intensity) and spotted a smoking tree (deep red one) and silver birches and rose bushes and yellow dangly flowered thingies (must look this stuff up) and found I had a little bitty tear in my eye as it all felt wonderful. I even felt a bit guilty that I was being unfaithful to the 'old' house. It may only be 800 yards up the same road but I feel like I'm in a wholly new area. It's so beautiful!

Back to earth..... Priorities keep switching. Things are missing. Things appear in odd places. Things get pulled from a box to be stuffed straight into another charity bag. The panic packing was truly mystifying. Ooh what's in this shoebox? Nothing! Who packed that???!!!

But we are here. We are here. We are here. We are here......

The monkeys have carved out a bike track already that goes all the way around the house. Thuglet has a wild new vista of places to wee. I have built-in wardrobe and can see AND REACH ALL my clothes - for the first time EVER!!! (Funny sight but hey.... ) The Aga isn't an Aga but is a Stanley and after a couple of scared pokey sessions we are now on grunting terms. I can do part-baked baguettes and jacket potatoes and pizza - hey! I have the biggest ever airing cupboard which is so exciting I can't tell you. And a larder!!!! The perfect place to wedge suitcases. I can see donkeys and horses from my bedroom window. Although I was a bit freaked out the other night when I thought my white garden chairs were moving about - turned out to be them donkeys. Eerie things in moonlight are white donkeys. What else..... ?

Ohhhh - lots of STUFF. You know what it's like. There's still a mountain to climb - I mean that literally - the men came to pick up the boxes last week so we've pulled everything out. So now we have towers of STUFF to find homes for. It's the usual thing - a bigger house but less storage. So you know.... I have a stereo, tool boxes, a sack of percussion and four sleeping bags on the dining table. Stacks of empty baskets in every corner - they must've had things in them in the last place.... And a tub full of 'man' things - bits of dishwasher, knobs off things, assorted big screws and light switches etc. We all know we don't need them, but are too nellified to throw them away. Someone's dad might just know what it all means and think of it as treasure. Well..... we have a shed. However full it may already be with a lawn mower, drum kit, an inherited flowerpot cityscape and someone else's motorised golf trolley blah blah blah.... We've got a queue of half-ful paint pots ready to jump in ahead of all those bikey bits. Think we got a bit over-excited when we saw Sheddy. Think Sheddy's gonna blow......

But it's all fab. Even if we do get the occasional bucket of sausage skins left on the doorstep. 'The shop's shut - so I'll leave them here.' Thanks. That's what you get when you live in the farmhouse of a real actual working farm wiv a real actual farm butchers shop. Shame my kids only eat cheapo Richmond sausages really. They just won't entertain them real actual fat sausages that might just taste of something.

And we even saw people peeking around the old house. 'Did they look scared?' asked Mr RB. They didn't look very happy. Last night I spotted someone's chopped off the yew's big bough that stops big vans getting through the gates - we never thought of that. That's Mr Tree you unsentimental bastards! Poor Mr Tree.

So wot wiv all this work to do I haven't got time to sit here gassin'. Just got all perky when I'd seen Mr RB had built me little table for the 'pooter when I'd got back from a day of crazy bike-riding adventures. (Sitting on a nice padded chair - heaven.... ) He now has a ready-made office here so our time-sucker can be on a proper desk. There's another one in the sun room next to the tumble dryer (still getting used to that) that I imagine I will skip down to every morning and draw pictures on. Obviously when we've got everything straight I will. Obviously. But first things first - I waded through my 479 e-mails last night and announced my return on Facebook. Next job is to embark on the blog world catch up - let sleeping bags lie I say. My people are calling!!!

Deep breath. One blog at a time eh? Now who's first?

What Am I?

2011-04-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

I'd quite recently come to a peaceful understanding with myself. I had laid to rest the ghost of trying to be clever. The faithful may recall I had my Damascus moment driving through the Ashdown Forest just before my brakes failed. That wonderful revelation. I am NOT clever. And I don't need to be. Despite the subsequent drama in the hedge I felt much happier for it. And yesterday's book purge was a liberating result of it. True freedom.

Today I came to another peaceful understanding. I am not big. I don't mean in the arse department - that's another planet I've no wish to explore. I mean I'm still not quite grown-up or reliable or something approaching just yet. I thought I'd cracked it yesterday - being all smug about my clutter flutter. But then I find myself untying, rummaging, disordering until I again held in my pesky paws my five most rued flings.

Not Plato, not Jung, not Illych, not Shakey Will, not Gombrich, not wisdom, not art, not enlightenment. Nope. They were just in the way. Not a flicker of regret.

Back in the fold came Heidi, What Katy Did, A Taste of Honey, Whip It and No More Sad Refrains. I sighed and hummed and knew I'd done the right thing. I felt like a squirrel who'd found her lost nuts.

So I may not be big or clever, but I'm happy.

And I also realised something else. There's a common link with these five books. They're all naughty little girls. Not naughty as in bad. Naughty as in went their own way despite the expectations.

Came to another peaceful understanding. I like being a naughty little girl. Naughty is so the new good.

I also pulled back out A Hitchhiker's Guide for Mr Roving Blade who'd been wobbling too. He'd only thrown out about three books anyway hadn't he? Ahh but the blindness of the smug..... Mr R B had fooled me into thinking he'd not really bothered to slim down. Found scores of his rejects out there. Humbled!

Happy and humble beats big and clever anyday.

CDs tomorrow.

Just gonna chuck 'em all in the damn box and tape it up so I will. Enough with the thinking already.

Who Am I?

2011-04-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

Drew the black sack shrouds of goodbye over my identity today. About 40 years' worth of 'me'.

I 'did' the bookshelf in the bedroom.

I summoned up the courage last night as I was slopped in bed too tired to reach out and flick the light switch. I surveyed my history. The wall of book spines. The tapestry of my journey so far. I dared to wonder what I would cast aside the next day. I realised that I was feeling ready to cut the umbilicals. But would I?

Armed with boxes, packing tape and an OHP pen for the chosen, and the fresh shiny bin liners for the runners up, I set out on my mission. The far right corner for the Definitely No. The near right for the Probably No But I'll Put You Here For Now. The far left for the Definitely Yes. And the near left for the Ooh I Love You But I'm Just Not Sure I Can Cos I've Got To Be All Grown-Up About This And Live My Life.... Oh But We'll Always Have Paris.

It took all day. And I was very brave. Some had to be leafed through over and over before I could make the final decision. Some were straight out. Or straight in to be fair. Have I turned your pages or even peeked at an end-paper in the last year? Even when the answer was 'Yes You Bloody Did!' I still passed some over to the far right corner. I had a little debate with each one.

So hard to see disappear under the shiny blackness were the childhood copies of Heidi and What Katy Did. But their not being on my bookshelf anymore has not altered my childhood, or adulthood. I have still read them. I still 'have' them. I just can't smell them anymore.

Equally emotional were all those big art books that have defined me since youth, through Art Student days, to Frustrated Arty Type Stuck In A Crap Job years, all the way to Someday The Kids Will Need These fantasies. They are beautiful - but weigh alot. This is a major factor in my selection now. I kept a few of the thinner flappy-backed ones. In fact I even pulled the heavy cover off one and just kept the floppy insides.

Novels I've read - see ya. Novels I haven't - I'll get you out the library. Apart from two which slipped in. I kind of know I'll never read Birdsong but.... And ...... OK.

Poetry sashayed in - but only the thinner books with bigger typeface (and shorter verse).

Self-help and 'inspirational' - were flipped through, reminded, thanked and slid onto the farewell mountain. I can't waste too much more time reading stuff that tells me to DO stuff. I get it.

Presents - all very lovely. Oh you shouldn't have etc. Each one buzzing with guilt waves. I don't expect anyone to keep anything I give them just because. I'm just glad I thought of something at the time, managed to wrap it up and didn't get it thrown back at me immediately....

!!! Sorry Mum but I've got a thing about The Complete Works of Shakespeare. A breezeblock of tiny print on tissue-thin paper. And if that's not difficult enough to read, footnotes all over the bloody page. And if that's not heavy enough, it's in a box too. Minx suggested I take it back to her. Nope. That starts a conversation about oh gods all sorts like: everyone needs a Complete Works of Shakespeare, it reminds her of my actor brother now incapable of a live performance of anything bless him, it was a bargain on QVC, won't the children NEED to know this stuff, is Jack Russell Boy reading yet.... Oh no no no. 'And anyway...' I replied 'Nanny doesn't like Shakespeare.' ??? I frowned back down on the tombstone in my lap. Bye bye Will. If I fancy a spot of misidentification in tights, I'll get a little paperback of just the one play. But chances are, I probably won't.

And that compilation of The Darling Buds of May and its sequels.... Sigh.... The Darling Buds is actually my favourite book. I first found it in our bookshelf when I was about six and devoured it then, and several times over since. It was a lightweight book despite being a hardback, it smelt musty, it had a crispy dustjacket with a jolly picture and it felt perfick in my hands. The next one, A Breath of French Air, had the same qualities. I lapped that up too. I sought out the remaining three from libraries. They were enjoyable but didn't 'feel' the same. Then some years ago Mum bought me 'The Pop Larkin Chronicles' - all five in one volume. It annoyed me. I don't need all five at once. I don't like the stupid title. I even had to remove the cover as I hated the brash picture too. And it was probably published on the back of the diabolical telly series that nearly destroyed my soul BUT on a previous clutter clearing session (probably the last time I moved) I did the sensible thing and chucked the two brittle favourites and kept the new thing. Today I flung the charmless block and didn't even waste a breath.

The truly heartbreaking partings were a couple of oddities. A Taste of Honey - still so vibrant, and written by Sheelagh Delaney when she was 18! I've had this copy since I was 18. I only need to glimpse the slim broken spine to get sucked straight back in. And Whip It - re-named from Derby Girl after the film came out. I've only had this a matter of months but it's in my heart. I first read it twice back to back and have indulgently dipped in again whenever I needed a hit. For the road I inhaled the interview at the back with Shauna Cross, savouring the wisdom of the Your Own Voice-ness. I had earlier tossed aside the manual called Creative Writing tutting that I didn't need rules to hold me back. Reading these two Own Voices was the real thing. I soaked up as much of the dialogue of each every time I pondered, put them down, picked them up again.... These were the most inspirational books on the shelf. But in the spirit of the authors, I decided to leave the baggage behind and find my own way.

I tied up at least a dozen sacks today. I piled them all out in the Drum Room. I feel good!

The books aren't my identity - they're just my footsteps.

What hurt much more was putting all Mr Roving Blade's keepers into a dozen boxes. I had only used four. OK five including the two outsized arty ones that made it through but had to wait for a bigger box to sneak into. He only cleared out a handful. He took about three and a half minutes to know his own mind. I know he doesn't collect much else - just some music books and CDs - whereas I have boxes of art materials, things I've made, things for making, things in the making. But I felt purged of sin somehow with my battles of the day. Rather holier than thou in fact. Next week I shall no doubt be sobbing with regret at my foolhardiness while he calmly peruses the shelves for something soothing, but tonight - I feel as light as an old cheap holiday novelette.

Funnily enough I still appear to be me. In fact, maybe more so.

'No More Sad Refrains' - the title of my Sandy Denny biography, after one of her songs. I let that one go too.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mustn't crumble now! I've already called 'Sense' to come and take it all away. Never a charity so aptly named eh?

You think?

Cardboard Necktie

2011-04-24T16:53:00.000-07:00

I forgot to take a picture of my rampaging devilings in the garden this morning hunting for their bounty from The Easter Bunny, so I took a picture of the old measuring jugful of little coloured choccy eggs in the fridge later on. It's next to a couple of other half-eaten bigger ones and a carton of actual hens' bottoms eggs. And this was about it for the whole fridge's contents. Wot wiv all this packing lark melting our sentient abilities, neither Mr Roving Blade or I had remembered to go shopping for the past few days. So not for us the half a pig or a whole salmon resting on a bed of spring vegetables followed by a selection of chilled naughties like in them ads on telly. Mr R B and Minx set out with bows and arrows to ensnare something for the pot. The garage was open so at least they could grab some toilet roll and more bin liners (essential for moving house).

I'm lucky that Mr R B is jolly clever at rustling up edible things from seemingly bare cupboards and the unpalatable tat one can drag from a garage shelf. Left to me we'd just finish off the chocolate stuff. Well, I had a go.

But to blow my own dented trumpet for a moment, it is a testament to my homely talents that the house has turned to utter shit while I'm busy trying to stuff a 4-bedroom house into a couple of boxes. Not just the usual shit state. It is inhuman. This proves that I must normally keep pathways of access through the filth as, now my attention has focused on the insides of brown cardboard, the rest of the house is trying to swallow us up.

But I'm not doing very well at whittling down our clutter. Well - I've filled umpteen black sacks with STUFF but seem to just uncover MORE STUFF. How does this work? Like trying to dig my way out of a pirate's sand necktie (like I saw on Mythbusters on Discovery earlier today) - not that I was shirking mind. I can flick through a set of A - Z Technology, A - Z Maths.... with one eye and swivel the other onto someone being buried alive for our viewing pleasure without any noticeable halt in my proceedings. In fact I thought I'd cracked this Home Ed book collection lark. Out went Religions of the World. Away went Natures Great Events. Along with half the Usborne Spotters Guides only listing pondlife curiosities Not Found In Britain. But just as I think I've cleared an escape hole, it fills back up again and I am once again immobilised. Up to the choker.

And I haven't even peeked inside the painting, modelling, collaging (what?), drawing, things to make things out of.. baskets yet. Gods help me!

It won't be the dis-engagement of broadband that'll be responsible for weeks of silence. I'm taping myself into a large box with a big sticker on the outside: Do Not Open Until Xmas.

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

Just leaving a narrow slit for pizza delivery. Don't want to be having any Blue Peter and a stiff tortoise moment. Crack of dawn Easter Bunny-a-lympics dun nearly knock me out as it is. Will sleep well tonight. In my box. Always will revert to my slow-paced shell-clad self eventually. The bunny may bring the sugar rush, but doesn't the sneaky-pants win in the end?

Wake me up in time for The Wizard of Oz.

Castaway

2011-04-24T01:18:00.000-07:00

Apparently the huge beast known as Sky can't just flip yer internet access over to a new address just like that you know. Even if we are even keeping the same postcode. Apparently it takes several light years to de-activate and another ice age to re-activate. Apparently we shall be sans broadband for 4 or 5 weeks. Apparently the modern world doesn't apply to stupid people who move house and upset the system. Apparently.

Think of us cast adrift in the murkies of having to talk to each other instead. We won't even have the telly set up until a week after we've moved in - it's a boy thing. We have a flatscreen thing that requires men. Men with special tools. Apparently. So if Man Utd screw up and Chelsea fly - I'll have to make do with my brother's Facebook commentary. At least I saw Torres score before we are denied my electonic babysitter. (The baby being me.) That was a momentous um moment thing.

So.... no telly, no e-mails, no blogs.... no Wii!!!! (Oh gods I'll be forced to communicate with the Little Rock Godling! Help!!! I don't speak interplanetarywillyspeak.) And everything else that could fill the gap in the entertainment market will be stashed in boxes until we decorate. Suppose we'll have to decorate.

Or I'll just have to get to grips with this stuff on my phone. But with an average of about 50 e-mails a day on the Home Ed lists alone - this is most tiresome. Maybe I should just start running round the garden again and get all 'in the zone'y. Run Forrest Run!!!!!

Promise me you lot wot I read won't do anything exciting until I'm back in the mix? I promise I won't. (That's a bit like me giving up oranges 'for Lent' as a kid. Never liked oranges.) I'll just be floating off with the tides hoping for a nice little island full of coconuts and ready-shelled prawns. And a side order of Sag Aloo.

Best just get back to the packing. I keep trying to box up the chavvies (old meaning thank you) but they always manage to escape. But if I let them roam free they might look inside the charity bags and then I'm in big trubs. Unless I tape them into the charity bags? Now I'm using my noodle.......

Little Rock Goooodliiiiing! I've found some more Easter eggs! They're in this bag.....

Christ On A Bike

2011-04-23T04:01:00.000-07:00

Little Rock Godling on a bike.

What? Ok - Last week I drove another 45 mins up to the football pitches for some footie tournament thing with the brakes a-grindin' and arrived pitch-side to see Jack Russell boy's been subbed, the other team score and then the final whistle blew. Joy. 'You missed my wonder goal' he said. 'They all played really well' enthused his chum's mum. 'Really?' I gurned. What parallel universe are they all living in? Well.... maybe I just missed a miracle. Then they discover they have one more match. Ok, I shall see this amazing transformation of the dopiest team on earth for myself. Just then J R Boy spotted some other little mates on their bikes through a gap in the hedge so we bounded over and they ended up watching the final match with us. Embarrassing. Dopey United play like their usual hopeless selves. The dream is over. But as a consolation we end up spending the rest of the day with this less dopey gang, having adventures round a lake, sharing bikes and kicking a football at geese.

This is no ordinary football by the way. This is THE ball. The object of many discussions. A treasure to be kept in turn for a month by several loonigans. This hallowed orb came from the sea. After the glorious return to the wild of the leopard shark the other day dahn Hastings (pron. 'Astings), we all watched a man in a rowing boat appear from the horizon and slowly approach until he was near enough to bestow upon the first child to reach out, The Ball. And then he rowed away again. The Ball is a 2010 World Cup football. The one that buggered up the whole tournament if I recall correctly. It was too light and too round apparently and everyone played like a spaz but J R Boy has coveted one ever since. He is a connoisseur of footballs. He declared this ball a trophy of the highest order and now - it's a pain in the arse. The other boys' mum spent half the afternoon wading into the lake to retrieve the bloody thing, each time declaring 'It wants to return to the water! I'll burst the damn thing myself soon.' But despite the denial of a miracle of a decent match earlier in the day we did witness one of a different sort: Little Rock Godling finally 'got' riding a bike. Praise Be!!! And now he's off. And a few days later we even have a bike for him thanks to these boys' big sister being too big and their dad and his puncture repair kit. Yay!

On different wheels, the blinkin' car had to go back in to sort the brakes again. And I'm back in the little courtesy go-kart. Suddenly all low down and the gears are down there and the handbrake's the other side and oh.... No wonder the Formula One driver's get obsessed with their set up and don't want to be in the 'spare' car if it was set up for their team-mate. Brain-sieze time. But now I've got my high up ol' bone-rattler back and .... I seem to have got used to the other thing. Keep grabbing Minx's knee instead of gear stick. This makes a funny noise. On the way home the other night we saw another silver Fiat Multipla with hazards on by the side of the road. Minx chirped 'That's normally us!' It was a bit like an out-of-body experience.

But aaaahhhhh..... the Easter holidays! Hmmmnnnnn..... Lovely holiday traffic - obviously everyone deserves a break but do it when I'm not trying to get somewhere. I've had to revert to wiggly road and mind-bending junction hopping routes to avoid sitting for 3 hours just to approach the Dartford crossing. And it's a major army manouevre to find a spot in the park where we can kick a ball without kicking someone's head in. And another thing - (used to call an ex-flatmate Anna Notherthing as she could moan for her country) - you can tell just by the state of the toilets at the ice rink that it's the holidays. Surely when we are en masse we should show extra respect - but mob rule dictates that we become way more scum-like. Moan moan moan...

But we do find our places of relative peace still - places with no rides, no burger joints, no nuffin! Perfect. Where we can just run riot like the outsider filth we are. Dirt, sweat and sunblock - the smell of summer.

Not everyone is so delighted by our behaviour. Our beloved Streetdance teacher has had enough. At the last class over half the time was wasted by the 'princess' element whineing about 'it's too hard' while he was trying to convey the notion of 'trying'. And this week a couple of the kids again decided to come and go as they pleased or sigh or scamper over to the window to god knows what.... and poor Nick finally broke. Our next class will be The Last. I don't really blame him but us 'hardcore' groovers are despondent. Haven't even broken the news to J R Boy yet - he was staying and Nan and Grandad's (yes I know I've reverted to the old incorrect spelling - what are you my mother?) house playing with the Jack Russells and big cousin. Nor sure how he's gonna take it! It does make me wonder about freedom of expression versus some sort of discipline tho'. I can't help thinking that if someone is giving you their time and imparting their knowledge that it's simple respect to listen and try to do what they're showing you. Is that Draconian of me? I don't think so. But hey.... what do I know. I'm OLD!!!!

(SO old. One of Minx's pals ran up the other day laughing 'There's this really old woman in a pink jumper on the rope swing. It's hysterical!' Minx went to see. Said she was about my age.)

No respect this lot. Especially my own lot actually. Re-dyed my barnet at the weekend. Came out a bit orange I'll admit. Minx described me to her 'Teen Group' friends as 'an orange headed freak who swears alot'. Then she called me an Orang-utan in the car as the air blast was making the front bit stick up. Mr Roving Blade declared I looked like a ventriloquist's dummy. Family loyalty. Not a phrase I'm familiar with.

I'll get back to me boxes. Packing up. Moving in a week. Started in the boys' room. Oh yes. I'm hard me. The philosophy is: if it don't fit, it ain't coming. Can I walk the walk?

Would love to free myself from the ballast and soar higher - but the comfort element? How comforting is it to be drowning in crap...... Comfort indeed - following on from an odd discussion the other day about the 'comfort' of having Jesus stuff around the house like when a child. Suppose it is Easter and all that but.... not sure this really washed with me. My line of conversation seemed to lead to Bruce Forsythe - and I can't remember how it did but it did. My mum hates Brucie. I love him - 'cos he's Brucie! My comforts from childhood.

So...... Jesus or Brucie?

Maybe it'll all come down to whoever does the best wheelies.

New Regime..... Reclaim the Goddess, or is that Gothess?

2011-04-15T11:00:00.000-07:00

Mr Roving Blade and I have made a pact. We both want to lose weight and get all sexy again. He made me weigh myself - in front of him!!! How's THAT for trust in one's marriage? Horrified to discover I am the heaviest I've EVER EVER been. A stone and a half heavier than a couple of years ago - the last time I weighed myself. Knew I'd been wearing black alot. It's a tedious cliche but I desperately want to get back into my favourite jeans which I tried on again 2 days ago. Not even past my hips. You'd never know they were mine. Apart from the knee holes and biro. It's TIME.....

One might think that a stone and a half ain't that much but I am a midget. A stone and a half is SUCH MUCH. I want to go along to the next set of streetdance classes and not cry at my reflection. I want my thighs to start living independent lives and not melt into each other. And I want to trot after an escaping football without turning purple.

I refuse to list what I eat (or what I've not eaten) or catalogue my miserable scales visits. I will not count calories or moan when I see thin people eat ice-cream. I am going to be very grown-up about this and not bore everyone around me. Apart from this post obviously. I just want to believe I'm already gorgeous and sexy and hope reality catches up with me.

But - some action is called for unfortunately. I used to do about an hour of stretching every day - up to a couple of years ago, when we rearranged the living room. A bit like the impossible task of trying to go to sleep diagonally on someone's floor in the old days, suddenly doing my stretches on a different part of the carpet and facing the other way was all it took to for all excercise to cease immediately. And I stopped breast-feeding. And Mr RB and I started getting along better than we had, meaning my stomach-knots relaxed somewhat. Followed by my stomach folds. And Xmas hit.... and seemingly never stopped. All in all - I am now a blimp. Half an hour on the pedalo yesterday with the boys just woke up muscles long since retired. Need to get them back to work - or I may as well give up to blobdom forever. Black blobdom.

So - after the weigh-in we did a couple of stretches, dodgeing the mobile phone cameras held aloft by Minx and her sleepover chum who'd just come-to on the settees - bloody cheek. Then we squidged into the trainers, set the timer for 10 mins and set off on our cross country run, round the garden. Quick thinking changed the plan to 10 laps instead of 10 mins. My arse is wobblier than blancmange on a trampoline. Kept remembering that line from an ex-flatmate's Callanetics video: 'You too can have a perfect peach!' Couple of trifles maybe. After 3 torturous laps round the garden we decided that 5 would be plenty. Slipped in a quick golf swing lesson for me. Another lost ball. Still, felt all rejuvenated and did a couple more laps. Twisted my ankle down a rabbit hole but felt all smug. Even threw a couple more stretchy shapes. 10 mins pinged. Time for breakfast. Bugger - still have to eat and all we have is crap. Porridge - I am just SO glowing and 10lbs lighter already so I am. May even reward myself with a day off tomorrow. Only joking. Think peach.

All hail the sex goddess that shall be ME ME MEEEEE.....

Hmmmmmmnnnnn....... Later I came back from a Mad Science, park, football boots shopping, girls drop off, diesel run and general runaround (make that a general drive-around) and ........... reached straight for the vitamins and headache pills. No sign of renewed energy yet. Mr RB's gone for fish & chips and I need a good lie down.

Think I'll just dye all my clothes black.

'Ere Pete, I can see your 'ouse from 'ere!

2011-04-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

So we're packin' up, headin' out an' makin' a fresh start ......... 800 yards down the road.

Been allowed after all. Quite remarkable seein' as how we rang up again today demanding they come and fix our boiler AGAIN........ But hey.

It's not exciting. We'll be a bedroom short. There's a damp wall which I guarantee will never be fixed. There will be farm workers wandering about around our hedgey borders all day and a butcher's shop 4 paces from the back door (until that moves off to the next village at some time unspecified). It's still bleedin' oil fired heating. I'll have to work out how an aga works - if at all. And I'm not sure if there's a shower - despite there being 2 bathrooms. Odd that. One pink and one avocado. Ooh - bagsy the avocado one! And we'll drive past our old house everytime we go anywhere - which'll be weird.

BUT.....

..... like tonight, the monsters can rampage about as late as they like outside and noone will be tutting over the fence about bedtimes and school-in-the-morning etc. And that lack of tutting in my book is worth a million sets of nice curtains.

Now all we've got to do is work out how to get down there with all our crap.

Bibbety bobbety boo ....... !!!!!

Intelligent Life on Other Planets?

2011-04-10T17:26:00.000-07:00

Well...... here on Planet Smokingun it's all a bit of a ping pong match. One day this and the next day that. But hey - one day I'll be a real grown-up I'll make sense of it all.

Meanwhile, what's this purple pile of poo being pushed from one end of my kitchen counter to the other? Oh yes. Bloody census. To be returned by March the what? Phffttt.... I know if I was doing me family tree stuff the old census reports play a part and that but..... do I trust the government, any government with whatever information I might impart? Nope. Do I give a flying fuck if the purple pages get covered in gravy before I get round to opening it? Nope. Could I give it to Little Rock Godling to make paper aeroplanes out of? Hmmmnnnn......

There are other things on my mind. Like have the agency we rent through dropped a clanger? We were told we had first dibs on the house down the road which, although I still can't get excited about, we have tramped through and have said yes to - as long as they fix the damp wall in the dinosaur bedroom. But we are told that there are two other people interested, one very much so. We rang the next day to accept but heard nothing back. Rang the day after and were told we'd know by Monday. So my current address is still: Limbo.

And as for this house. We have pushed the poor old boat to its very limit. Half the downstairs is now a Rubber Boot Only Area. I'm not talking saucy here - I'm talking very unsaucy wellies. I'm talking a lake in the utility room. A lake under the utility room - seepage under the lino and out into the hallway. Under the hallway carpet and into the kitchen. And eventually to the sea.

Am also hanging my head in shame about my car. Or Plan B as it is now known. The very nice people at the garage have solved the mystery of my repeated brake failure episodes: Fuckwitism. Plan B has been such a frequent visitor there lately - no part of its anatomy has been neglected - but they could find no reason for the brakes to 'go all spongey' as I put it. Until Friday. I'd only just driven away from the garage itself - missing my turn and pootling off down a twisty track with just a vain hope that I would eventually link up to the main road later that day. Vain a hope it was as the relevant pages in the AA East Sussex book were missing. Of course. See - I did stop to do grown-up map peek. Decided that it was fun anyway so off we set again. And then...... always on a bend - me brakes went all spongey. Did they? Kept going... Oh yes. Am I sure? Let's just see.... Oh yes definitely. So I spongeily drifted to a stop - just as I approached the nice sign saying I had indeed found the main road. Well that was something. A very nice mechanic from the garage came out to swap the courtesty car for my smokin' heap and we were off again. Ha! I thought. NOW they'll see!

Yes they did.

Conclusion: I've been driving with my hand-brake on. This causes the brakes to overheat, get upset, refuse to work under these conditions and take up smoking.

Poor thing. And I've been kicking its arse, calling its parentage into question and worst of all piling all my stinking children and their dubious wildlife discoveries inside it's belly and deafening it with Now 74-77 til I'm surprised it hasn't driven itself off into the English Channel.

All things eventually lead to the sea. The car, the house, my mind. In fact we all headed down to Hastings on Friday (in the little courtesy car). Never At Home Education Rides Again. Hired out our fave Electric Palace Cinema to watch a film, eat cakes and dance and then bomb down to the beach, scooping up chips and a stranded starfish on the way. We had quite a mariney biological kind of day with all the fishy skeletons and bits of crab they found and the leopard shark that one dad caught. This rather cross little shark curled up and bit him a few times and then he said 'Who'd like to hold it?' I laughed - thinking it was a good joke. But he was serious. It was Alligator Boy himself who carried it back to the sea for a majestic setting free scene. 'Cept he sort of plopped it in the shallow bit upside down as the wave went back out and it flapped about really really cross now. So he picked it up and lobbed it. Ever seen a leopard shark fly? We did. Not as emotional as one might hope this Back Into The Wild stuff. But as I'd already missed the starfish's joyous return to the waters 'cos I was in the chip shop, it had to do. Tried to take a picture. Got wet.

I think it was the sea's way of saying 'Oi!' as I seemed to spend most of my day facing away from it, engrossed in big conflabs. There has been an outbreak of 'democratic debates' lately and I had stated from the off that if anyone passes me a purple hat or a juggling ball for me to take my turn to speak then they could shove it up their ballot box. I can not hold my tongue and hold up my hand. If I can't interrupt someone who's windbagging with an unnecessary wise-crack then I don't wish to take part at all. The passing of the permission-to-speak-uninterrupted flag is just an opening for people to yabber yabber bollocky bollocks in circles for hours and I haven't got those sort of social skills that can keep me quiet for longer than a hesitant utterance and a half. It may be called Tourette's Syndrome or something...... Fuck it. (I mean if you want to spurt forth into verbal oblivion write a damn blog eh?) But last Friday we had a good old chirpy ding dong - when you blurt out your pennyworth while someone else is still blurting theirs and everyone chimes in with their own bing bongs, finishing each other's sentences - it's way more constructive. Proper talking that is. Got it sorted.

So now what's this other leaflet on my kitchen counter then? The referendum on the voting system! What larks!!! Just reading it exhausted me. Still - seems like a giggle. Anything to get the vote-counters in a flurry. Serves 'em right for being so keen. So we could vote, go to bed instead of sitting up watching swing-o-meters, get up without anybody waving on the telly, set about our usual business - probably for days and days - and eventually get to hear about the result when we've lost interest. Hopefully much less No News to avoid. Got to be a good thing surely? Or would the No News just go on and on and on and on....... Well I never watch, read or listen to the No News anyway. That's why I'm so well informed about everything. And probably why I can't keep my mouth shut. (Or my car running. Or my house in order. Or my children in line.....)

Back to the census thing, Leopard Shark Boy asked me what it was and why was I so grumpy about it. Tried to say the right thing - you know.... family tree, historical interest blah blah but couldn't help myself and babbled on about not trusting this or any government. 'But what about David um...' he's thinking. He's not holding a purple hat. We start prompting 'Cameron?' 'No....' 'Nick Clegg?' 'No...' 'Tony Blair?' 'No... David um.... Beckham?' 'He's not a politician.' 'But what if he was?' 'Well.... as soon as he'd put a suit on I'd not trust him.' 'Why?' 'Well.... as Groucho Marks once stated that he'd not want to be a member of any club that would have him as a member, I'd not trust anyone who even wanted to BE a politician.' (This makes perfect sense to me but I'm faced with a nine year old blinking. Decide to try again in a more sing-song explanatory way.) 'I just think that politicians are all um...-' 'Bastards.' he interjects.

That's my boy.

Heart or Head?

2011-04-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

Head or heart?

You Really Had Better Duck

2011-04-03T11:13:00.000-07:00

Another phrase that so cheers me up, especially when used in conjunction with searching for a house:

23. Beggars can't be choosers.

Oh no you di'n't!!!!!

I May Have To Punch You

2011-04-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

Phrases that fill my stomach with stew. I hate stew. Just the word makes me think spew. For that is what I did last time I was made to eat stew. You can call it casserole but that word makes me think asshole. Stew is stew is spew.

Back to the point. I hear these sentences spewed out all too often. I will punch the next mouth that lets them out.

1. The kids'll love it.
2. You can't miss it.
3. Can I just make one tiny comment?
4. Recipes the whole family will love.
5. Ooh you've got your hands full!
6. Just a short hop from .....
7. Easy to follow fully illustrated ..... A child of 4 can do it.
8. Just ringing for a chat.
9. Well I hate to interfere but .....
10. What you want to do is .....
11. Are you busy on Sunday?
12. If, like me, you're one of those people who .....
13. Just tell me what days you're free.
14. That reminds me of a funny story .....
15. Everybody else seems to like it/can do it.
16. Well at this age they will be .....
17. I know what you're thinking .....
18. It's simple .....
19. When I was your age .....
20. Could you be a poppet and just .....
21. Well you know my opinion of Sondheim!

Sorry - that last one kind of slipped out. Family thing. Dear Ma. Still there is one thing that unites us and that is a deep loathing of Mothers Day. So Gawdblesser for that.

I do hate being told what to do. And other 'people' telling my offspring when and what to do in order to bend me into whatever it is I'm expected to be doing. Bloody nonsense. Don't patronise me by pretending I deserve chocolates and flowers one day a year and then try selling toilet cleaner to me for the other 364 days. I will still be picking up pants and wiping bottoms and de-scumming cups tomorrow. Don't be making me feel resentful that the world is still real. And I eat chocolate all year round thank you. Don't need you to tell me when it's permissable.

And if any braindead fuckwit EVER thinks I'm going to enjoy a Michael Buble album in this or any future dribbling lifetime then they'd better run like buggery before I ram it up their fetid casserole.

22. The perfect gift for Mothers Day.

..... is no stoopid Mothers Day. Be nice to me all year round please.

We Are Not At Home To Mr Can't.... We Are Not At Home....

2011-03-31T19:20:00.000-07:00

Here's a weird one.

Well, we'd made a pact not to panic about the house thing (you know, like the whole eviction homelessness deal) until April. We've been counting down the days until The Panic can officially start - and Friday April the 1st is like, tomorrow. I'd been holding out that if we just believe, a perfect house will simply fall into our laps. Believe!!! Bloody belieeeeeeve!!!! Manifest darling, man-i-fest!!!!! Uhhhhhh.....

I've been moonfully whispering that on Friday I shall be compelled to put my dreams away. The hopeful house-hunting would become a blindfolded pin-stabbing and a hung-headed acceptance of scum-encircled fence-heightening. Sighs all dramatic-like. Hyphen-addiction is a proper condition OK?

There's been so little to get perky about on our New Home-O-Meter. Everything that's 'nice' is either way out of our price range, or way out of our current life/activities/friends' range. Or gone already when we ring up. Or won't allow children. (Probably wise actually.) We would either have to dig up some buried treasure, or just bury the children, or continuously circle every house in our 'magic triangle' desirable zone for a knob in a suit taking pictures, OR..... make one of those Fresh Start thingies.

Sounds all exciting does a Fresh Start. 'Cept I've done it before - plenty - and this time I'm digging my heels in. It's taken a good couple of years' effort to get to a 'place' where the kids have got friends I allow into the house and who's parents allow them into theirs, and for me to fit with a gang of grown-ups who don't look at me in disgust or pity everytime I spurt forth. Now this is something rare and beautiful. We have found our tribe. If not our right shack. Mr Roving Blade was gunning for moving to Essex. All his best clients are round there, Chelmsford's got a ice rink with extra fun fun fun activities for all the family to enjoy, cheaper property, good access, friendly natives...... I mean like The Only Way Is Essex right? And 'Oh I love the geezers! It's all about the geezers innit?' (What? You've not been watching my favourite telly programme? You're ah' of orda!) Yeah Essex ticked all the right boxes but........ Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!! Sumink's just not right. I got my tribe man innit dahn 'ere like. But we need a new cave!!!!!

It must be Mr RB's inner Nomad showing his face. He's got a new book he has: Warriors, Nomads & Settlers - Discovering Who We Are & What We Can Be. He did the test on me - albeit at a rather stressful time when I was trying to get 4 hopeless hooligans ready and out the door one morning for a dayful of antics. He's asking me double-edged questions while I'm shaking a small boy into his trousers with one hand, filling 5 water bottles with the other, sourcing particular tracksuit bottoms with the left eye, x-ray spotting a missing trainer with the other and zipping up my boots with kinetic mind control. 'How determined/dogmatic are you?' 'What? Dunno. Say 3. Under the settee, have any of you cleaned your teeth, no it's probably in the machine, have you found your library books yet?' 'How adaptable/indecisive can you be?' 'Oh I dunno, where you bloody left them, about a 6 or 7 maybe, well we'll just renew them then, no 8. 9!!' How inspiring/over-dramatic-' 'Get out of my oxygen, you look lovely, mop that up, stop pinching, get in the car, dogmatic? Look I'm not a bloody octopus!' 'Why don't you ever answer a direct question? You just can't be honest can you!' 'What did you bloody say?' 'You're not concentrating. I answered all these questions straight away' 'It's not about speed I'm THINKING!!!' 'You're just trying to get round it but you have to just be honest.' 'I AM TRYING to be honest not just say the first thing like you do and then pretend I'm all cool and sharp when you're just a fly-be-night shallow reactionary who changes his mind after every different conversation' 'God you're so negative!' 'No I'm not!' 'Just answer the damn question.' 'What was the bloody question?' 'How argumentative can you be?' '2!' Anyway I came out as a Settler which I fumed about the whole the auto-pilot drive to gymnastics, while I negotiated my usual parking space, as I ushered the urchins into the gym and rearranged their spewed socks and shoes into orderly stacks, nestled into one of the 3 comfy perches and got out me knitting. Oh yeah I AM a Settler aren't I? Obviously I quickly realised that the Settlers are by far the superior personality type. We are the engaging, flexible, compassionate, artistic ones. We won't just bugger off or twat you if you disagree with us. (Oh no - we're way cleverer than that!) Anyway, I'm not keen on the Essex idea alright?

And then today we have the landlord's agents round to sneek a peek at the ruins of a once fine building we have joyfully trashed, and instead of having us arrested, they offer us the soon-to-be-vacated larger farmhouse 800 yards up the road.

W T F ? ? ? ! ! !

The day before Panic Day a house indeed falls into our lap. So why am I saying NO NO NO NO NO!!!! Huh?

Mr RB is jitterbugging with joy. Essex is forgotten. He likes it round here! But then he's not the one driving an hour and a half to the bleedin' ice rink, and an hour and a half back, twice a week. And 45 mins to our hall/swimming/psycho play centre meets..... Half an hour to our gym/museum/drama/parks..... Half an hour in the opposite direction to the other gym/football/other football........ 45 mins to the nearest friend.... Like every bleedin' day. (It's an hour to the nearest family member which is not disastrous in itself but babysitting would be a tad easier if we were a teensy bit closer......) And a spot in our 'magic triangle' would seriously cut down on time and diesel, for most of the list anyway. And would also reduce my ritual subjection to Now 77 Disc Two on endless loop. I mean come on!!!

The house up the road is apparently bigger, nicer, one bedroom short but with an office and a conservatory (like wassat?). But we would still have to actually MOVE stuff. I think Mr RB imagines rounding up a couple of burly nephews, piling settees and mattresses onto a skateboard and skipping along the leafy track with a bluebird on his shoulder.

But it is a house. And tomorrow is Panic Day. It's a bloody HOUSE - for US! And I'm STILL complaining!!!!

Time for a reality check. Or should that be a realty check? Is I being a spoilt brat or is I got a flyable point? I just don't know my own mind anymore..... Adaptable/indecisive??? Bloody confused.

OK - pros and cons:

We would lose - a minute per trip and a bedroom.

We would gain - a roof over our heads.

Written like that it looks a fairly simple matter doesn't it?

Doesn't it???

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

All this talk of ideal homes....... Reminds me of another gem from my best telly prog: Mark and Lauren are moving in together (yeah right....)

M: What do you want a table for? Nah I wanna keep my flat as it is. Like boisterous.
L: Boisterous? Nah it's depressin'. It's like a broffel's house. It needs a woman's touch.
M: Ughh it'll look like a bloody doll's house in a week wiv yer pink barfroom and and.... dining room table!
L: Yeah wait 'til I start wiv the flowers.... and pictures...
M: WE ARE NOT HAVIN' PICTURES!

What would he think of my shelfful of bonkers horned-obsessed pottery or our photos of paint-smeared odd-shoed naked monkeys? I utterly must invite them round!

* * * * * * * * * * *

Woke up the next morning to the sound of 'There's a great place in Deal. 5 bedrooms, by the sea, and right near some of the best golf courses in England.'

Pretended to still be asleep.

Middle-age Grumpage

2011-03-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

Everyone with delightful elder daughters I've asked for help so far have pulled that face (the 'don't-make-me-go-back-there!!!-face'), offered up a dish of horror stories and then kindly added 'but they come through it'. HOW MANY YEARS? HOW MANY YEARS DOES IT TAKE??? When will I be all wise and calm and philosophical???

I'm not known for my patience. When I discovered I was pregnant with Bump Number 2 I was quite furious that I had to do the whole 9 months thing. 'But I've done it before! Why can't I just pop it out now and start from there???'

'But they come through it.'

I'm really not sure I did. And that is the problem.

Skipped from teenage mutant non-speaking shirker straight to middle-age deviant shrieking berserker. I even screamed the f word at the 2 small boys today in MY MUM'S HOUSE. THAT'S how grown-up I am. Mind you I did believe that one was ripping the leg off the other with the push-button reclining mechanism of a demon armchair. Thuglet was wedged behind it trying to retrieve a hurled shoe screaming like a Tudor heretic on the rack while big bruv was blankly cruising the controls and completely ignoring all sources of yelling. I thought a couple of high decibel fucks were most definitely in order. When the phone rang later this evening I knew it was my mum checking that I hadn't driven them off Beachy Head.

It was well past time to go. Much Lego to retrieve and we were still missing 2 magnetic bees and the special self-sealing bag they live in and one mini Mini. AND I still had the doorstep challenge to endure - like the old Crackerjack ending I wobble hopelessly with bagfuls of books and DVDs and wrapped up sausages and French sticks trying to make a bolt for it before another cupboard door opens. Then I spiked up further in the car when I realised that mum hadn't changed the little carriage clock on the shelf so I wouldn't be getting home 'til 8.00pm instead of 7.00pm and I still had 5 beds to make thanks to the reappearance of the nitty noras. Sigh.... Tossed in a few more sulky fucks for the road.

Poor Minx doesn't really stand a chance does she?

Teenage Rampage

2011-03-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

I need help.

I've always joked that she was born a teenager - but now.......

Mr Roving Blade thinks we should come down hard on her unacceptable behaviour. That seems like fighting fire with fire. Never understood that phrase actually. But it's a bus stop along from smacking a small kid for smacking another kid.... 'Don't do what you just did and to show you not to do it I'll do it.' Er...... When it's mental teenage horrificness - are we really only able to be horrific back? What does this gain? Headaches and doors off hinges.

I've had enough already. She's always been volcanic but the last 3 days have been unbearable - and she's still 11. And it's just Day 3. I've got years of this now. I know I have. I remember it well from my own eruptions. Just shoot me now.

I'm remembering the small grey silent stone child that I used to deposit at school and the brittle grey stone bitching harpie I used to pick up. She turned quite human for the last few years. And now.... now I have a spitting amazonian spot-riddled obstreperous screeching warrior gorgon dervish beast screaming into my face until her voice cracks.

And I'm the 'understanding' one who sits (at a respectful distance) on the pummelled settee in the middle of the night when she's come downstairs to sob.

When I caringly suggest she needs to get plenty of sleep because she's growing so much at the moment she turns even blotchier and blubs that she doesn't want to grow any more. It is true that most of her friends are tiny. People always think she's older than she is. And she wants to be OLDER than she is. She's always trying to pull away and go off somewhere ELSE. But she doesn't want to grow any BIGGER.

It's a crap age. It's crap being a girl at this age. I remember one very lovely lady telling me about some groovy wooomany moony ritually woolly bollocky book that was supposed to be all beautiful and at one with the universey but it's just not gonna cut it in this house. When she first asked me about periods 'n' stuff I told her it was shit. I really did. I did feel a bit guilty and tried to be a little more groovy wooomany etc but I can't keep that nonsense up. I read about some types who do white dresses and grandmothers in circles and no dads or brothers allowed in the big tent and bowls of red flowers and all that hippy shit and I just thought they sounded like wankers. The truth is this age is hell and you cannot pretend it's all wonderful just because you stick a candle in a puddle of tofu. It's just pretend. Your daughters will still hate you.

I'll probably have to go and knock on her door in half an hour or so and see if she's either trashed the joint or is huddled up in a muffled shaking hysteria. Don't know whether to wave a white flag or wear a helmet.

So there it is - I have up to now always managed to find an excuse to wander off when friends start talking about their elder daughters, sticking my fingers in my ears and blalalalalaing until I was safe. But now I need to start probing. Examining. Researching the evidence. Trouble is, I usually find other people's advice to be laughable. Certainly anything to do with child rearing. 99% bullshit. How will I know what's good and what's bogus about the teenage lark? I really don't know if anyone has any answers at all. A bit like the cure for the common cold. Everyone's got their own twaddle to spout but....... hey - right now any twaddle any of you may choose to share would be bigtime welcome!!! I'm desperate!!!!

H * * * E * * * L * * * P * * * !!!!!!!

Smacked Arse

2011-03-18T16:49:00.000-07:00

Minx to Me: I'm bored.

Me to Minx: Go and write your book then.

Minx to Me: I've lost it.

Me to Minx: You can't've lost it! I've just blog-bragged about you!!

Minx to Me: Thbleeuuggghhhhhh........

Me to Minx: Bloody kids! No discipline! No pride in one's work!

Minx to Me: What are you doing? Is that chocolate? I thought you said we didn't have any? You're always telling us not to lie!

Me to Minx: Shut up and help me stuff these binliners full of the boys' toys in the back of the car before they see them and if they ask where any of it is tell them you saw the fairies playing with it in the back garden last night and they must've forgotten to bring them back and while you're at it text Daddy that Mummy's wasn't well today and couldn't go shopping so can he do it on the way home and not to expect the kitchen done 'cos I was looking up houses and go and get me another chocolate from the herbal tea box.

Minx to Me: I don't want tooooo...... I'm bored and I'm so tired I need to just lie on the settee for a while. And I'm staaaaaarving.

Me to Minx: Honestly child where DO you get it from!

Smack

2011-03-08T17:37:00.000-08:00

Minx to Me: Can you think of a girl's name beginning with 'H'?

Me to Minx: Whatcha doin'?

Minx to Me: Writing a book.

Me to Minx: Uhh really?

Minx to Me: Yeah shall I read it to you so far?

Me to Minx: Uhhhh OK...

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

Minx to Me: Whatdya think?

Me to Minx: It's brilliant. But like how come you just go and like DO it and it's like BRILLIANT and I'm supposed to be the one making you pick up a pen on pain of death and like I'm slumped here glarin' at shite on the telly 'cos I'm like too exhausted to move and you just go and bloody DO it and it's BRILLIANT and I'm so crap and you're so fab and I just want to give up on life altogether and be staked out to a tree to feed the crows..... and you just DO it!!!! You couldn't have made me feel more shit about myself if you'd planned it. I'm going to die miserable and leave you nothing to think kindly of. I'm as obselete as a discarded nail clipping. I'm using up your oxygen for no reasonable return. You have hammered the final nail in the coffin of my self-worth. I am futile. I am already a corpse. I am a fetid pustule on the arse of death. I am withered. I am nothing.... Did I say that out loud? Yes it's brilliant darling.

Minx to Me: Well I thought I'd take a break from the film script for a while.

Bloody 'ell!!!!!!!!!

Me to Minx: Shouldn't you be in bed?

Can't Touch This!

2011-02-24T12:03:00.000-08:00

This ol' Hole In The Wall is apparently a Grade II Listed Building. Which makes me start laughing again. Mr Wrecking Ball will not be permitted to play after all. So all we need now is a fool and an ever-pouring wallet.

Meanwhile we are just arguing about town versus country. Minx trotting down to the shops and getting on buses on her own versus noone tutting over the fence at the boys still mud-sliding 'til the owls start swooping.

It is a difficult one to call.

The ding-dong will be ding-donging for some time yet.

Let you know when we get a final resonating BO-O-O-O-ONG!!!!!!!

Oopsie...

2011-02-23T17:32:00.000-08:00

'Are you sure we didn't get a letter?'

'Yep. Oh there's nothing in that pile I went through that the other da- oh!'

Whadyasay?

2011-02-22T16:44:00.000-08:00

Latest News:

The Smokinguns are being evicted from their hovel.

Apparently.

A letter has been sent they say. But no letter has arrived. Just a snotty e-mail to Mr Roving Blade. Will find out more when he gets back from faraway shores in the morning.

Do I get my pitchfork? Or hang out the bunting?

Both I think.

Crunchy on the outside and chewy in the middle.

Well well well.......

The funny thing is, 'they' have decided to sell it. This is very funny. Very funny indeed. Now this ol' shack is in a nice enough spot, has a warm 'vibe', if not actually warm radiators, looks kinda cute in a crumbling triffid-coated red brickish kinda way but...... nobody with more than one brain cell is ever actually going to agree to throw money at it. The words bottomless and pit whisper from the damp dark depths of it's cracks and mouseholes. Maniacal laughter echoes up from the dilapidated drains and spill out to grab your ankles if you dare go 'out back'. Sinister swellings and shadows rise up to usher you into its deepest suffocating embrace. They have sent us rosy-cheeked boys in their shiny new suits to survey the decay. We have sent them back ravaged wild-eyed and gibbering madmen.

So I can only imagine the next tenants will be the wrecking ball and his delightful rumbling family. And maybe a neat little line of tiny dollshouses will stand to attention on hard-won tarmac before handkerchiefs of clipped lawn, where once we'd frolicked in the muddiest of puddles surrounded by molehills and rabbit poo.

Maybe it's not so funny for the poor old house itself. And where will all the old ghosts go? Would their footsteps make a sound on fresh laminate flooring or would they be all on the wrong level anyway..... chopping them in half maybe? What will they do with the bats? Will they use all the old beams as charming garden dividers? Would they then feel like they're swaying like they're still attached to an old ship like they do up in the bedrooms. I've always convinced the children that this old boat has stood up to a good 250 years' worth of thunderstorms already and won't lay down and die for this one. How many 'olds' did I slip in there? I can't help it. This place is oooooooooold. Thunderstorms are one thing, the developers army are something else... I can't think who else would take this place on.

And so for us all, a new chapter looms.......

.....looooooms.....

..............looooooooooooooooooooooooms.............

.................................loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooms............

No It Doesn't Work

2011-02-21T12:37:00.000-08:00

I found the boys' floor. Wish I hadn't. Filthy it was.

I sellotaped every games box we possess. Even threw some of them away. But they were quickly rediscovered.

I shouted at hooligans smothering every inch of floor-space in the living room with freshly sellotaped-in games. Wondered what was the point of my existence. Did this aloud. Very loud. Hid away and did it quieter. Just the soft sound of chocolate caramels being sucked into submission and faint sobbing.

I noisily tipped frozen things on a blackened metal thing and slid it into the oven thing and then pulled it all out again when the frozen things had turned into burnt things. Then just as noisily tipped these brown things onto chipped round things and called it dinner.

I did all this in arctic conditions as our boiler had screeched and ground to a standstill again so that I had to turn off every switch I could find. Then I picked up an unopened white envelope from the stained kitchen counter that had been slapped down there a couple of days ago with a hurried sneer. Well, I thought to my grumpy cold self, I may as well open it now. I couldn't get any more pissed off.....

WHEN will I learn?

If It Works......?

2011-02-20T04:23:00.000-08:00

And so I did manage to predict exactly what would happen. Blogged in jest..... Set in stone. From the cyber dimension to the concrete one. .....Or is it? Let's not start that again.

I had mapped out my non-productive evening to the minutest detail. Once I'd got the mini men things to sleep, of course I conked out myself and, as feared, had noone else in the house to slap me conscious again and ...... that was that. I did wake up at nearly midnight, got one leg out of the covers, and zonked again. Regained slits of sight in the wee small hours with the lights still on, my glasses at an Eric Morcombe angle and a vague sense of guilt. Sorted out the light and the glasses. Silenced the nagging by flicking the over-ride button of apathy and went back to numbland.

Now one might think that this extra sleep would have me springing out of bed the next morning all perky. Ohhhh no. Early nights always do me in. Crawled out of the pit late and wasted the rest of the morning being all zombiefied. Surveyed the devastation around me with an uninterested eye and staggered out of the house to pick up Minx - late. Despite my outta-time-keeping I stayed there while Minx pretended I hadn't arrived at all and had a cup of tea and a natter with MY friend (chum's mum) for another hour and a half before heading over to my mum's 'for lunch'. Well, it was already half past one but I reckoned I could remember the way.......

Not bad for me. Negotiated all the twisty turnies in the torrentials with Streetdance 3D Soundtrack blaring. Never take a big straight road when several pot-holed snakey ones will do. And certainly never listen to anything serene and pleasant. No No No. Journeys should always be an adventure extremo of the eyes, ears and clutch control thigh.

I knew lunch still wouldn't be ready when we got there. I know my family.

But we're definitely going to leave while it's still light.

Got home a little before ten.

And dribbled off to sleep with the boys again. My life is so exciting. And yes, predictable. Like my rambling.

But this time I do have someone else in the house to wake me up and make me a cup of hippy dippy, scatter chocolate mints before me leading the way back to the crunchy duvet-smothered settee and insist that I watch Carry On Camping with her. Albeit peering through pillars of Lego. Yay for family life after all eh? Yay for unsinkable daughters.

And now today I really do have the boys' room mountain to climb. And the living room jungle to chop through. And kids to feed? Damn. I wonder if I ignore it all for long enough it'll all sort itself out. It worked for breakfast - Little Rock Godling just made scrambled eggs for us all. Well apart from Minx - she's still in bed but it's only twenty to midday...... Maybe she'll wake up hungry enough and make us all lunch. Stranger things HAVE happened.

Maaaybeee if I manifest my day's desires strongly enough - they will occur. Rules of the universe like. OK - I need some big black binliners to float up to the boys' room and devour it. Then I need all the Lego to leap into the blue box with happy little yippees. Pasta would be good. Everlasting sellotape to finish the scrapbooks all neat and like I don't do it in real life. Cushions and blankets to drape and decorate the settees of filth so we can sit in them again without fear. Firm believer in what you don't see doesn't hurt you. And moles, mice and carpet mites Be Gone!!! That humming sound is me imagining that suckky thing..... um ... hover? Haver? Oh Hoover! That's the one.......

Sighhhhhh........ Now I shall just sit back and wait. I'll let you know when we're done.

Excuse me now as I've got some important scratching to do. I'm sure I bought a newspaper the other day..........

More Pinny Smoothing Moments from The Smokingun Hearth

2011-02-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

Hubby is away - drumming up some work from the shores of Dubai again til Wednesday. Two-Jack-Russells-and-a-Big-Cousin Boy is away at Nanny and Granddad's livin' it large til Tuesday. Minx is away at chums (and Doing Youthclub) til tomorrow. And so it's just me and my littlest 2 picklies. I can relax a bit and be all mumsy and.... liked. Doughnut/gingerbread man. Comics with the best freebies - an inflatable hammer and 3 little cars with launchers. A Comic Relief car nose - even if it is impossible to fix on. A baaaad cheapo DVD with a dinosaur on the cover. Popcorn smothered in icing sugar. And pizza. Ohhh yeahhhh - 2 kids are like SO EASY!!!

It's nearly bedtime and I'm getting a bit overexcited at the prospect of A WHOLE EVENING TO MYSELF. Once I've got them to sleep that is. But - The Choice????!!!!

The Bath. The Book. The Tree. The Tutenkhamen Cushion Cover. The Piano - (on DVD I mean....) The Piano! - I could you know - we got headphones on it we have. The Song. The Cabinet. The Previous Life Bags/Boxes. Reggae night on BBC3 (or 4). The Scrapbooks.

Oohhhhh......

But...... being such a blissful 1950's model of domesticity, I kind of have to hide some stuff first. Non-stick baking trays with pizza bases welded on. I'm such a Nigella. Cereal bowls encrusted with concrete (or this morning's Weetabix to some). Every cup I possess all ringed with brown. A mountain of boyness in their room we have to squeeze past. A carpet of Lego in the living room along with about a dozen not-put-away-after games and cushions and blankets and probably creatures.

Think I might just go to bed.

Well..... noone's going to wake me up tonight when I've fallen asleep getting them to sleep. And noone's going to make me a cup of tea and show me something they taped off the telly earlier cos they thought I might like it. And nooone else is going to sweep away the memories of my culinary triumphs.........

Ahhh well..... Even if I just pull the newspaper I bought out of the shopping bag it WOULD be a triumph. A newspaper? Yes. You see I told you I had got all overexcited.

Bite Size

2011-02-14T17:50:00.000-08:00

I resolved to write shorter posts from now on.

Don't Panic! Don't Panic!

2011-02-10T18:15:00.000-08:00

This is a very lazy way of writing a new post but I thought I'd just copy an email I sent out tonight on our Home Ed list onto my New Post space to play around with - but it's getting late and I'm a lame slut.

It follows a trip out today at The Museum of Kent Life where we had a Word War II Day. Some of us dressed up - I did me best. I wanted to go as Lilli Marlene (and being a fictional character I could do WHATEVER....) but the weather was eeeuucchhhh and so Land Army Girl it was. Well - kind of. More like a glam-er 1950's version - not a stitch of khaki in sight but a very nice headscarf that once was an impulse-buy skirt. Make Do And Mend me. Minx was also a Land Girl. So were several of her friends. And well.... let's just say there was plenty o' headscarf action out in the fields today. I tied an evacuation label onto Thuglet's cardigan but he wasn't impressed. Probably something to do with the information on it: 'Please look after this strange alien being carefully. Do not feed it after midnight. Answers to the name of Monkey Pants. Thank You.' Soon hoisted by my own petard, I found myself wearing it for most of the day. This and a large metaphorical dunce's cap for asking THE most stoopid question of the day addressed to Mr Potts of The Home Guard. Not quite ready to share this Special moment with you just yet. I'm rather tired and emotional. (Read as 'thick and embarrassed'.)

Anyway - I splurted this e-mail out tonight in reply to someone wondering if, further to the WWII collages that the older kids had been doing at last Monday's Hall meet, they might like to do some more stuff in a similar vein and perhaps do a page each and bind it all up in a big book. Just thought I'd explain that in case anyone was in danger of believing I'd had an original thought.

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

'Ere chaps

I had an idea this evening after our WWII day at Kent Life - but it's probably not viable..... But here comes a bit of a stream on consciousness kinda thing (bear with....)

When my lot ask my mum or J's mum and dad about what they got up to during the war there's always loads of stories. I grew up with talk of The War as an everyday subject as it was just my parents' childhood - our kids have it as an odd conversation here and there and it seems so exotic in a weird way but they love hearing about it - like their grandparents were involved in a 'famous' event or something. When they ask J or I about it we seem to get slightly muddled with the stories already and tell them to ask Nanny and Granddad etc themselves. If it was left to us the stories would get fuzzier and in turn THEIR kids are going to get the family stories even more vague probably....

My Not Viable Idea was to invite some of OUR parents along to the hall one day and get them to tell some of their stories - but I immediately thought the better for it - knowing how difficult it is to extract any of my elders from their comfort zones etc (and like - no way should anyone I know who's met me as an adult get to meet my mother and tell me I'm so like her - No. Way.) BUT what if (hang on - I know this is going to sound like 'homework' but believe me when I say I am the LAST person to suggest THAT sort of thing - BUT) - what if the kids gathered some of their own grandparents' stories (even if their grandparents would be too young - they'd still be 'closer' to THEIR parents' tales) - and shared them in the hall one day? Whether orally, or with an object or photos or clothes or their own drawings etc - or even songs?

It struck me recently that when I was a kid, there were old people who could remember WWI - and now there aren't. It won't be that long before anyone who can remember WWII will be gone - and it's OUR personal family histories that will be fading. My grandparents - adults, parents themselves during The War are gone already. My dad's gone and we've kind of lost contact with his side of the family - and that side of our history. My mum's only a couple years off 80 (but don't you dare tell her I said so even though obviously you're not ever going to get the chance) - so the time for gleaning this personal stuff is really running out. My memory is so appalling already that I want my kids to capture as much of this stuff as possible while they can.

Much as I loved all the workshops today I wanted them to last longer and ask for more anecdotes - and share snippets of stuff I remember hearing etc. Obviously they are timed with gangs of children in mind and not grown-ups who love lingering and waffling - or asking really stupid questions (sorry about my blonde moment with the Home Guard chap - it came out wrong honest!) But you know what our lot are like when they start gassing and swapping tales themselves - chips off the ol' blocks in fact. And they might even listen to some of our yarns too. This h'educashun lark ain't just for the kids eh? I reckon it'd be a good laugh too.

So whatdya reckon? Any takers?

If anyone does want to get more 'down on paper'y - the big bound book idea of these stories could be a fabulous thing..... Now my mind is drifting off towards a time capsule thing again........... somebody stop me - I need to go to bed.

PS - Daddy is getting a bit pissed off with London's Burning. I say play it LOUDER!!!!!!! That'll teach 'im to call me Hilda Ogden this morning.

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

So now you know I don't save all my twaddle for just blogs - I spread it out good and thin. Like the wartime butter ration. Oh and the London's Burning bit was about our latest (somewhat unpopular) attempts to get some recorder/percussion jam sessions going. Yeah - jaaaaaaazzzz. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed making such a horrible noise.

I'm off now to have a little think. Just a little one. Well, there is a war on you know.....

Who's Children Are These?

2011-02-08T19:19:00.001-08:00

Lord 'elp us I bleached and scoured me bathroom tiles today. Must've been inspired by My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding's scrubbers! What are they like? They must reek of Cillit Bang them girls. I had to sit on the back doorstep for half an hour to calm the choking and stinging eyes. It's very unhealthy this housework business. And 'cos me shower curtain was in the wash (which was why I had the stoopid idea to attack the revealed tiles) I never quite got round to having a shower either. As soon as it was hooked back up - it was lunchtime, and another washing load on the conveyor, then I have to appreciate the new tenants of Ant-O-Sphere for longer than any over-9 mind can cope, put away all the Ben 10 figures while the freshly cleared space behind me quietly fills with dinosaurs, when Mr Roving Blade came home and got out his extended hose...... Then I have Carwash II going on outside which naturally leads to a queue for the shower. By which time I decide I may as well stay stinky and just jump under the jet before I go to bed - so I'm all clean and ready for the ice dash in the morning.

But somehow I never quite got round to that either. Mr R Blade had allowed a wiggly snotty small boy in with him tonight, leaving me back in with the wigglier and snottier smaller boy. But that's fine. He had a shower after all. And I even washed his barnet - having cut it tonight. The poor lamb probably needs a cuddle! He won't care if I pong. He's full of snot anyway. If I haven't got my man's mighty nostrils to worry about, I'll not bother. Especially as he's offered to do the dawn raid. Result! Staying stinkypants and getting a lie-in. However, Daddy's chosen companion is the only small person to have evaded the hygiene game - again. He must take after his mother. Poor Mr RB. The hapless fool. A nightful of the rather fruity kicky twitchy hair-tugging sheet kidnapper. We'll all be in for an earful tomorrow from the over-tired pater. But the bad side-effect of not being in with Mr RB is that I sneakily take the opportunity to switch on the 'puter and soak up the blogs instead.

Somebody really ought to send me to bed.

Bringing me to a new list of Rules of the House now sellotaped to the wall. I don't hold with Rules of the House. It's just an invitation to break them. Makes them seem so idiotic they HAVE to be broken. Becomes a point of honour to break them.

Orrrr - maybe that's just me.

But THEY wrote them!!! Those simian hooliganesque offspring wrote them.

I think it started off the other day when I yelled at Little Rock Godling 'When you're all grown up and you have your own house I'm gonna come round and throw tons of crap all over YOUR floor and see how YOU like it!'

Then yesterday he came up to me, all angelic, and said 'When I'm grown up and have my own nice house I'm going to have rules.' 'Oh yeah? Like what?' 'No mess. No punching. No looking over your shoulder when you're on the computer. When you're not well you get to have TWO of your own choice films in a row. And no being annoying.' 'Would I be allowed in your house?' 'Yes. Um.... actually this is my house isn't it 'cos I live here.' 'Yes darling' 'Mmmnnn....'

And so to today's list. He dictated and Minx wrote them out for him. I suspect she abused her position. We have:

List of Ruels

No food upstairs
Wash your hands after you've been to the toilet
And wash your hand (just one apparently - sorry - butting in as usual) before you eat
Tidy up your own mess
When you take your shoes off put them together on the shelf (my sarcastic contribution - never thinking that it would get heard let alone written down)
No swearing (that's me buggered then)
No vilonce!
Go to bed when your told
Eat ALL your dinner! No saying 'I'm hungry!' 28 seconds before you go to bed!
No lieing!
Only hour (maximum) on the computer A Day

I thought I was going to have to go to casualty to get stitched back up. Other suggestions that didn't make it to the list were 'If you get a game out you have to tidy it away before you get another one out'. (Unattractive spluttering from mother.) 'If someone says you're in the way of the telly you have to move.' (With you on that one.) And Dog Whisperer Boy added 'Don't put down praying before you eat. I know some families that do praying before they're allowed to eat anything and it's really annoying.' 'Who does that then?' (I really want to know - I hate being caught out by that shenanigans too.) 'Well only one family I know' - and he reveals the culprits. That's OK - I think I pissed them off ages ago anyway.

The line about going to bed was what really flipped my lid as it fell from the lips of Minx - the WORST to-bed-goer in history. After a couple of hours of flat refusal she then makes cleaning her teeth last another 45 minutes at least. Then she'll need another wee, have a nosebleed, realises she hasn't planned her outfit for the next day, or pretends she's been asleep and had a bad dream, or complains about the mouse noise, or the owls, or the bats, or the wind, or the rain, or says it's too hot/cold/dark/light/hard/soft...... or (most commonly) just comes back down moaning she's NOT TIRED and CAN'T GO TO SLEEP. Thank fuck she doesn't have homework to not do until bedtime. (Can't reveal what stubborn retrobate used to do that.)

She is the best contraception I've ever had.

If I were to write a list of things I wish we'd all do or not do it would be way cooler. No squirting bleach at things that don't look any the better for it. Yes sitting on the back doorstep pointing at ants. No cooking stuff that noone says Thank You for. Yes eating stuff straight out of packets. No looking closely at anything in this house. Yes hiding under duvets. No questioning your mother. Yes go and ask your father. That should have read: 'Um....go and ask your father' - no 'Yes' about it at all. Obviously if we moved house - to a clean one - we would suddenly have a whole ream of rules. No sellotaping lists of rules to the nice decorated walls would probably be the first.

So we shall see how long this nonsensical tablet of commandments of theirs stays up. I know who'll be the one to rip it down.....

No swearing?

And only one hour on the computer a day?

Bollocks to that.

Born To Be Wild. Very Nice.

2011-02-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

Mr Roving Blade found a folded note on the floor in my Hole. That's not my pelvic floor. That's long-since collapsed. I demonstrated that very clearly the other day when a nice smiley doctor chap cheerfully shoved a camera up my special lady private boudoir place. Yoooowwwlllll........ This wasn't a new adventure within a loving relationship. This was one of those things you're supposed to be grown-up about. Not good at that sort of thing me. It's not nice. But hey - it turned out to be quite a social event. There was about half a dozen other people in the room. One to hold things, one to learn things, one to smile at you etc. The best one was the lady who does chirpy chatter to take your mind off the nice smiley man sticking a camera up your boudoir. She was SO good at her job that we were quite a double act and I started to worry that my hearty chuckling would ping all that stuff out my 'place' and smack him on the head. But obviously those days are way behind me. Not that I did that sort of thing for a living. Just for a laugh. Anyway, my failure to ping just made me chuckle more. Possibly hysteria. But at least I was there. Hadn't been a dead cert that I'd actually turn up. Could think of better things to do. Being married to a photographer wasn't an advantage here although, bless him, he did offer. I tried to protest that despite not being in very high demand in Bangkok these days I still wasn't convinced I'd have room for his zoom lens. He disagreed. He is not a nice man. SSssssssss......... Anyway - I was quite proud of myself in the end. I did grown-up. Hang on - let's drag myself back to the plot of this blog. What am I like?

Yes - back to the folded note and the floor. I meant the floor of the place where I do my washing. Wildcat. The note was a to-do list of Minx's:

Things to do today

Get up. Get dressed. Brush teeth.
Go to ice-skating. Go to Streetdance.
Get chocolate bar. Go to library.
Go home. Eat chocolate. Watch Whip It or Blades of Glory.
Do more funny videos of E.

'She's inherited your love of lists' mocks Mr R Blade.
'And she's inherited your allergy to folding' I scowl, looking at her jumble sale shelf.
'Some of us were not born to fold'
'I wasn't BORN to FOLD!'

GGgggggrrrrrrrooooowl!!!! Surely there's more to me than that? I'm frowning as I resist the urge to correctly re-align Minx's original creases on the page.

Well maybe her life ain't so constrained. It's not a bad ol' list - it's a bloomin' nice life! Maybe her disdain for neatness will keep her from being crushed by domestic drudgery in the future. She can fly! Go wild. Be whatever she wants to be. The whole world is hers.....

Smoothing over the last flap I read 'PRIVET'

Bugger. In more than one way.

Still - it'll have comedy value in a few years' time. I'm saving it for my scrapbook. The stuff that goes from something the kids are so proud of, to horribly embarrassed by, to (hopefully) nostalgic about. But it's also nice and flat. This helps. Now what to do with the 500 paper aeroplanes that Little Rock Godling is constantly designing, creating and lobbing at breakables? More active crease-making - but all wild and wonderful. Now how come, with my reknowned folding prowess, can't I make paper aeroplanes?

Maybe it's because they don't stack nicely.

Who'd've thought I'd be so ruled by Nice? I am horrified by this discovery. It's really really not nice. Not nice at all. And I start thinking about 'folds' and it slowly becomes far from nice imagery. Folds of fat. Folds over and dies. Folds as in a breakdown. Benetton. Eugh. Hhhhhhhsssssssttttt!!!!!.......

I WAS NOT born to fold.

So I shan't.

Well - I will but you know what I mean.......

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oh god - I've got bloody Kenny Rogers in my head now singing 'You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run. You never count your money. When you're sittin' at the table. There'll be time enough for countin'. When the dealin's done.'

There is only one solace at such a time. And it's this:

It's in your head now.

Enjoy.

There - I'm not nice after all am I?

Miaowwwwwwwwwwwwwww ......... Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...................

Never At Home Education Part 3 (I think - I don't do maths..... sshhhh )

2011-02-04T20:46:00.000-08:00

A week in the life of.....

Last Friday. The courtesy go-kart's power-steering started working again. Hooray for an easier drive down to Hastings than it was for the previous night's wrenching down from Gillingham. Just £3 for 24 hours parking right on the seafront. Words, breath, thoughts blown away by bracing (fucking bracing) British coastal winds. A bun shop widow of pure dribbling delight. Bags of buns procured. Cosy little cinema with lush red flippy seats. Taken over by a horde of Home Ed vagrants. Table suddenly covered in cakes, crisps, biscuits and .... special salmon fried rice to die for - who brought that? Lots of MmmmMMmmmMMMMMmmmming. 'Oh T you're SO lucky!' 'Oh yeah everybody loves his cooking! Noone loves my hoovering, tidying, washing do they?' True. Bless her. But it was bloody delicious. The Thief Lord thoroughly enjoyed by little thief lords and ladies. Fancy dress basket discovered, raided, trashed. Fancy dress dancing 'til it was time to be thrown down the stairs back onto the street. Remains of the table top falling out of backpacks all the way back down to the beach. Chips. Shivering. Slabs of something very very sweet. Cold bottoms. Stones with holes in 'em. Shoes with holes in 'em. Wind-blasted faces. Gangs of rioters. Very very sweet ones. Back in the car. Wet trousers. Pink faces. Cold chips and extra body-weight of flotsam. A good day. And Daddy did the evening football run. Even better.

Saturday. Pick up Minx's chum. Raucous fun. Tiger Shark Boy back from football. Mud-splattered superstar. Man of the Match this week? Ah well.... Can't hog the limelight every week eh? Think that sea air still in my veins. Hide upstairs and pass out. Dance moves. Plots and plans. Unbelievable noise level. Daddy trips up the step and drops Minx's dinner all over the floor. She doesn't see the funny side of it. Everyone else does. Greater unbelievable noise levels. Hide downstairs and pass out. A bit of a day.

Sunday. Back on the beach. Brighton this time. Had done the chips on the walk down from the mind-fuck car park to see Holiday On Ice with big 2 and chum. Lots of 'Ooh' and 'Aah' and 'Where's the Starbursts?' Wonderful show but well..... maybe not as jaw-droppy as last year. At least I didn't cry this time. Still - cool stuff. Ice is cool right? Then back in the smackness of the coastal breeze. Donuts, candyfloss..... Stones with holes in 'em. In between the piers. Amazing light. May as well have pissed into the wind as suggested time to go home. May as well give in and watch the sunset. Seems like all the birds in Britain have gathered for the ritual too. Stunning swooping displays. One minute like flung pepper in the sky and the next they're water-skiing at the speed of fright. (Mine.) Realising I'm not the only one here facing this direction with my phone camera aloft. Even the kids have stopped jumping the waves and are doing the same. When the sun finally flops into the sea there's a round of applause. Looking around me I spot lots of happy daydreamers starting to shift. There's a shared sense of lazy achievement. Glad we all stopped for a bit. Minx bounds up and says the birds over the old pier are 'like pepper in the sky'. I do 'Wow - that was exactly what I said to myself!' 'Well, I am your daughter.' The pier that still beats is all lit up now. But we're still not going on the amusements. No. I said No. Come along. Got a long drive...... And a long queue at the mind-fuck car park to pay £11 for our dalliance. It would only really take 20 minutes to get home - if it wasn't Brighton with it's Sunday evening home-time traffic, but due to courtesy go-kartage I have to go home via Edenbridge 'cos I can't fit Minx's chum in the car in the morning. I expect the coach-load from Gillingham got home hours earlier. But she gives me a box of seashells chocolates to say thank you. She's 12! Not only does she speak to me - she gives me chocolates! A big day.

Monday. Tunbridge Wells. Gymnastics and more chips in the park. Lots of kid politics tho'. Lots of adult wonderings. Discussions. No solutions. Finally decide that sod 'em - they'll have to all work it out for themselves. Another tea? More streetdance moves decided and practised. The crew's name changed from Sunday night's decision. Who's in the crew? Politics and dancing. Tiger Shark Boy scoots off for a sleepover. My car's ready to pick up from the garage - yay! I send the man to do it. Remove layers of Starburst wrappers first. 2-way texting with sleepover household. They're all watching Streetdance 3D (but without the 3D 'cos it's useless) while we catch up on the first Got To Dance semi-final. Seriously dancing obsessed our lot. Tiger Shark Boy homesick. Awww..... 'What's your postcode?' text. I tap it back but protest that I really ought to do the getting - and also our house is invisible. Noone ever finds us. Text beep. TSBoy's chum's dad only used to work with the chap who used to live in our house. 'We know where you live!' Freaky! Interesting day.

Tuesday. A day off! A what? We've switched skating to Wednesdays. This does leave Tuesdays vunerable. Could bomb down to the forest for a wild gathering. But it's a day off! Gingerbread. Robots. Chinese lantern? It's a day OFF - put that DVD on. All the seashell chocolates have been devoured. But - what a result - the trays from the box are sturdy and now we have seashell moulds to make MORE chocolates! Go shopping. Buy chocolate. And needles! Hooray! Achieveful day.

Wednesday. Gillingham. Crack of dawn ice-skating lark. Buy thermals. No Streetdancing this week. Running fortnightly now to ease the general Home Ed purse but now we have such a huge crowd - not sure if this discipline will hold out. We're all howling to get back on the floor. Can't get enough. However, back home - conk out on settee. Dance in my dozing. Clattery noises in kitchen. Run away upstairs. Dig out pictures of WWII from photo books. End up reading them. Reading in the daytime? Outrageous. Hiding place discovered by beautiful mermaid bearing seashell chocolates. Yes! Suddenly remembered I'm supposed to be knocking up a roast tonight. More gravy adventures. If something that doesn't move can be classed as adventurous. Start sewing a new needle case stupidly late at night. Channel 4 on low - discover a new band. I must remember to look them up on YouTube. The Go Team. Sound fun. A long day.

Thursday. Tun Wells again. Drop off big 2 at the theatre for Horrible Histories - The Rotten Romans. Swamped by schools parties being ordered to stay in their crocodile. Scruffy Home Ed gang in the middle. Kids 'hanging'. Adults clutching take-away tea. Then I bomb over to a bang-tastic percussion concert with the small 2. Another sea of schools parties. Another tea-clutching/rabble babble Home Ed oasis. The chap who does all the talky bits does his best in the face of this unruly sect. He asks all the kids in the room how many times do their teachers tell them to listen. 'Never!' we all yell. 'Millions I hear you say' he replies to the uniformed ones. Later he addresses all the adults - who might not like things to be so noisy. 'Nah we love racket!' Bless him. He did very well. Look up O Duo (www.oduo.co.uk) - they were blinkin' brilliant. Dive into the sweet shop for change to top up the car park. Wouldn't give me much change tho'. Need to time this exercise to nearest second. WWII reference book snatch at the library. Over to car park. Up 3 flights. Come on! 'Can I press the green button?' 'Can I take the ticket out?' 'Can I put the money in?' 'Hang on! Not yet! NOT YET!! Now! NOW!!' Dump books. Down 3 flights. Hurry up. Back to the theatre for the next show with full compliment of sproglets. Horrible Histories - The Awful Egyptians. And a well-earned little kip for me. May I add I wasn't the only one. Run baby run back to the car........ and no parking fine for overdueness. Phew. Extra chum back again. No ice skating tonight tho'. Knee injury. Should be sympathetic but inside my head the world cheers. More dance moves worked out however. Hoping the ceiling will hold. A busy day.

Friday. Drop Minx and chum back over there (Edenbridge) in time for bus to somewhere else (Rotherfield). Suddenly find 2 hours to kill before more gymnastics (East Grinstead). Or....we could be really really early for a change? Nah. Hobbycraft (Copthorne). Lots of tutting at prices. Lots of debates. Find a clearance bin. In Hobbycraft? All hands on deck to carry as many A1 sheets of watercolour paper and tracing paper for 29p each. Perfect for next Monday's WWII collage gig. And big bag of non-air drying clay. It's clay right? It dries. In air. It's cheaper than air-drying clay. Wot's the problem? Cough medicine. For Tiger Shark Boy's viral-related asthma-like cough thing. A regular event. He doesn't have asthma. But when he gets a cold he gets The Cough - which doctors always say is asthma. The inhaler does help tho'. But when he hasn't got The Cough, he doesn't cough. Or wheeze. I once asked to go along the our doc's asthma clinic. 20 questions. Answered NO to all of them except just one. 'Does he cough after running around?' 'No. Except when he's had a cold and he gets The Cough.' 'Oh classic sign of aasthma. Next!' Anyway - just as I'd agreed to the suggested cough medicine in Boots today the assistant adds 'As long as he's not got asthma'. 'Funny you should say that..... why?' 'Cos if he takes a cough suppressant and then has an asthma attack he won't be able to fight it off' 'Do what?' We had a nice chat about it - she has an allergic-related asthma so knew her onions. No doctor's ever told me about cough medicines being cough 'suppressants'. Weird. I only buy them as a psychological tool anyway. I thought coughing was the body's way of getting rid of the problem, and that the medicines were just to ease the throat or something. Well.... bought a blackcurrant linctus with no child-proof cap. Thank god. Always have to get the children to take them off for me anyway. Gym done but skipping football tonight. Back home my beans-ful Tiger Shark Boy goes downhill. Duvet, cuddling and animal programmes on telly. And again I conk out on the settee. Wake up to see a vision of Roman romance - or Mr Roving Blade in a towel - asking if I want his water. A sleep and a bath? And a take away! Not to mention a little sauce later. The gods must be smiling. Apart from the soundtrack of my poor boy's barking. A mixed day.

A typical week?

Pretty much. Actually didn't do all our usuals. Coughs, injuries, keeping knowledge of certain events to myself...... Already thinking I'd better remember more To-Bake Baguettes for list of to-do's for next week. 'Cept I always bring most of it home again. Usually just find chips somewhere. There was a request on our e-mail list thing recently about sources of good materials. 'Save your wallet for the cafes' I replied. Should have added 'and car parks'. And plasters.... And diesel......

And garage bills.

And tomorrow? Back in TW. Chinese New Year lantern-making. And samba shaker-making? Under The Sea theme for The Year of the Rabbit? Don't look too closely. Don't do thinking. Just go along for the ride....... Shame that Lantern Parades necessarily require darkness. By then I'll definitely have Homing Pigeon Head and be craving Primeval. At least no football for The Cough Boy in the morning. A lie in!!!!

Mmmnnn bed....... I really ought to hit the pillows and get some proper night-time sleep stuff. Little wonder I'm always nodding off in the daytime. This blogging business is almost as obsessive as the kids' dancing. Just thought I'd escape my latterly Me-Me-Me-Moaning and go back to logging the kids' up-tos. The reason I started this blog in the first place. Trouble is - ramble bambling on and on and on........ Well - you don't have to read it....... I don't want to. Just gonna hit that ol' Publish button and move along....

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz............

Beecher's Brook - I mean BOOK

2011-01-27T18:44:00.000-08:00

As you may have gathered I do like to place one or two obstacles in my way of a good clear run.

As in - The Book.

Yes I'm sorry to mention this again but it's been on my mind. I do like to say things like 'I'm writing a book' even though I'm evidently not. The thing is - I'm BREWING a book. Designing it. Visualizing it.

And that is somewhat the problem.

Not only am I 'writing a book' but I am also illustrating it in technicolor, constructing a complicated pop-up fandango, planning out the several sequels and, more than likely, printing, packing and distributing the bloody thing too. No sweat.

Well - no sweat 'cos it's all talk. Or all think.

But yesterday I had a funny little idea scoot into my mind. What if I just WROTE ... THE ...BOOK? Huh???

No no no!!! It needs pictures - PICTURES!!!!!

What if I just Wrote The Book with some simple black-inky cartoons?

Huh?????????

Oh I dunno - it's just not my vision. Isn't that a cop out? Hasn't that been done before? It's not special......

Then today a couple of our gang were babbling about my latest rant on our Home Ed e-mail list thing - 'Oh you should write a book!'

'Funny you should say that. I sort of am. I mean I am. Yes. Sort of....'

'About Home Ed?'

'Oh yeah! Yeah.'

'Are you really?'

'Um well....yeah. I mean.... yeah! I've got a title and everything. Only........ it's going to be a big fully colour pop-up extravaganza. And well..... well I haven't quite managed to do all the drawings and stuff yet but........... oh are my chips ready? Mmmm-mmmmm-mmmmnn........ '

And off I go. Delving under the comfy covers of the day to day. Not writing a book.

So what the blinkin' blinkins SHOULD I do? Compromise and possibly finish a project, albeit a bit disappointing? Or reach for the stars - tempting fate to keep me in the gutter?

I need a plan. And a big stick. And a carrot. And a pencil. And a massive great kick in the arse. I might go and see if any of this stuff's in the fridge..... No No No. I know what I've got to do. I've just got to actually DO it. I think I'm close.

Closer.

.......Really trying not to add 'To the Edge'. Shit. I'm so predictable. The Great Procrastinator's refuge - crap gags. Everytime. I'm like Roger Rabbit when he just has to blow his hiding place 'cos his urge to yell 'TWO BIIIITS!!!' in response to the 'Shave and a Hair-Cut' TAP-TAPPITY-TAP-TAPPing of his enemy was just too great. If I feel the obvious joke just bursting to get out I will always lift the cage door, and am then immediately leaden with remorse. If I could harness my wasted energy such as this and focus on something that would truly fulfil I'd be ..... well.... probably in bed - stacking up the zeds. Preparing my rested brain cells for an early morning's gallop. Firming up my footing for the big jump. Fly baby fly!!!!

But what am I doing instead? Watching the forest grow around my tower. Asking stupid questions in some pretence that I'm being pro-active when I already know the damn answers. This is the therapy side of blogging. Seeing a counsellor is a device which makes you ramble on for about a year until you're sick of the sound of your own voice and it dawns on you that what you really need to do is stop talking and start doing. Blogging is the cheaper alternative. And it works every bit as well. So here goes. I'm not going to witter on about The fucking Book anymore. I'm just gonna DO IT.

OH YES.

Yes.

Just see if I don't!

!

Special Status Revisited

2011-01-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

Update on the wheatbag. Despite the previously mentioned needle scarcity I never lost sight of the achievable dream: to actually finish something.

It was to be a long wrappy-round-the-neck wonderful warming luxury. That's why I made it so damned BIG. It was born of 2 long sleeves from a dress I'd decided I hated, had dyed red, still hated, chopped off to be big top, and hated more but kept 'cos it was soft and a nice pattern and now a lovely red. Sewn together they looked kind of obscene, like really unpleasant baggy trousers, but I still had faith. Filled with oats and rice they were weighty, impressive, but this sadly exacerbated my slapdash sewing. But I had not given up. I had plans. In my head I worked out a great way to strengthen the joining seam without unpicking anything. And in my head it looked fab. All I needed was a little chunk of evening time in front of the telly and I would fulfill my ambition. I would finish something goddammit - and there would even be an extra treat at the end of the curling devotion, so damaging to my already aching shoulders - the finished product would be the cure for the labour! A heated embracing and pain-easing collar of joy. One might go so far as to say a triumphant circle of life type thang.

The evening came. The kettle boiled. My moment. So I lifted the giant soft red patterned sausage off the back of the kitchen chair where it had slumped for over a week, as gently as scooping up a sleeping baby. And then, as my slippers seemed to be filling with tiny snowflakes, I am once again slowly slapped back into the real world.

The recent noticable increase in mouse activity?

Puzzle solved.

Happy fat little rodents on the rampage again, fueled by a plentiful supply of fresh oats, obligingly dangled in climbable reach by a total fuckwit.

There. Just in case you thought I was in danger of alienating my audience by an unheralded dose of success, I bring it all back home in the nick of time. Phew..... Business as usual - The Grand Failure. All delivered beneath the familiar inpenetrable crust of adjectives. Under which I hide my head in shame.

But not for long. Will have to speak to the garage tomorrow to find out more on my buggered driveshaft. Drive shaft. Boy Words - no idea. Only when they've fixed that can they test my brakes. Because obviously me saying 'the brakes don't work' is a bit too Girl Words. They need to prove it. In fact the question dear Mr Roving Blade passed on to me from the garagey boys today was whether 'I may have just thought the car felt a bit odd 'cos the drive shaft had gone.' 'Would that affect the brakes then?' I asked. 'No.' 'But the brakes didn't work.' 'Well they can't test the brakes 'til they've fixed the drive shaft.' 'Ooo-kaaaaay..... but the brakes....didn't....brake.' 'Well we'll speak to them again tomorrow.'

'Yes dear. YOU do that.'

Don't Care Was Made To Care

2011-01-25T19:26:00.000-08:00

I do my best thinking when I'm on the road.

'On The Road'........ sounds romantic.

Not in my car it isn't. The bratskis take turns (sort of) with the CD choice (never mine), always an argument rising, a foot in the face, and a really unpleasant smell of..... um ...... children. Mixed with rotting food and whatever's come off their shoes. Or maybe what's in their shoes. I'm really not one for feet in general. I know they're very useful. But I'm glad they're located as far away from the face as possible. That's evidently gods' will. Mr Roving Blade was fishing for a pedicure tonight. Says he's not flexible enough to reach his own plates. Ever the dutiful wife, I ran like buggery.

Ah now, this has just been the perfect example of what I meant to write about - the way my mind drifts off when I'm supposed to be concentrating on something else. Like driving the car. And yesterday, following an etched-in-brain route, I had one of those eureka-esque trains of thought. Can't remember getting on the train but after a while I was stirring about in one of my usual ponderies:

'Why have I never really got anywhere?'

I've had my opportunities. I passed my 11+. I went to a grammar school. We were all told in our first year there that we were the cream of the crop. I remember squirming with narrowing eyes. 'Cream of the crop'? Funny..... Sounds like they're about to make us do something really crap. They did. Being there full stop was crap. But we were constantly reminded how we were the selected few. Weren't we lucky? Then they graded us at the end of the year and the little godlets went into the 'A' stream, the useless gits went into the 'B' piddle, and the heathen deviants went into the stagnant depths of 'C'. Nice work. University and a future for 'A's. Office dunce for 'B's if they can possibly aspire to such heights. Piss off 'C's you're simply an embarrassment to the school but if you can actually read then follow the sign that says 'free milk tokens' and this might just keep you out of the gutter for a while you leprous fuckwits.

'B' for me. Invisible. Tedious. Ripe for angst teen poetry and weird gothic biro doodles. Result? Art college.

Another great leap in educational fortune surely? Well now - I was good at wearing black, getting drunk, raiding skips, staying up all hours, waking up where I shouldn't've, running up an overdraft and being stared at by nice people. All that was perfectly executed. The 'art' bit was slightly lacking. But that was just a teeny detail and I'm all for impressionism me. And expressionism yeah. Anything for an ism and another coat of mascara on top of yesterdays'. No need for pride or details at all. Pride? Does not even compute.

And as for a career. That's for people who did stuff at college wasn't it? Proper stuff obviously - not art. No. I'm now over-qualified for shit jobs - 'we are concerned that as you have a degree you may get bored'. (That's a real rejection I really received.) But not actually qualified for anything at all. The only solution is to apply for shit jobs and lie. That sums up my CV.

So there I am - on the road - wondering where I went wrong. But I just can't put my finger on it. I COULD have been GOOD at school and been an 'A' princess and trodden silken paths to academic Achievia. No - I really couldn't've.

2 reasons:

1. My brain ain't wired that way. The only reason I passed my 11+ was 'cos I was sneaky and answered all the wordy questions first before indulgently allowing my one remaining open eye to rest on the numbery ones. I had therefore removed the pressure and panic and treated each mathsy conclusion as a bonus. This approach was the clever bit - not the stuff I wrote down. It worked. I was patted on the head. Tick. But the actual academonics? Nope. Tock - you're out.

2. I didn't give a fuck.

What if I'd 'knuckled down' (what?) at college and been all brilliant? What if I'd even done some actual 'work'? Why did I never know what anyone was talking about? Why had I never heard of any of the artists they all knew? Or the theories? Or anything at all?

2 reasons:

1. I'm just not that good. Being the best painter of stripey people at play group and the best drawer of big brothers' album covers at school did not make me stand out much at a college full of 'proper art' enthusiasts.

2. I didn't give a fuck.

And so to my working life. I never had the balls to go for a decent job. And I always pissed off every boss I ever had.

2 reasons:

1. Yes I was too clever for most of the jobs and was very very bored. Or if I had a difficult one (by difficult I mean operating the switchboard as a temp - I don't mean high powered nuffink) I would make myself ill with anxiety. The humiliation of being discovered as not clever enough for a shit job!

Am I clever or not?

Oh god - the light dawns! I never was the cream of the crop and I bloody knew it! And I just thought I was a 'different' clever all these years. The classic misunderstood genius. Oh how the truth hurts.

But then again, was it Reason Number 1 the REAL culprit? Orrrrrr, was it YOU REASON NUMBER 2!!?? Has my whole life been a total prolapse because of my innate Can't-Give-A-Fuckness?

And the grand solution to my decades-long circling seeking is YES! It's Number 2! My life has been a big Number 2 because of Number 2ness. It has always been my problem. Since The Voice first spoke. Come in Number 2. Your time is up.

But this in itself was not the big eureka. The big eureka was my brain's reaction to this revelation. My brain, The Voice, I ...... realised that ........

I didn't give a fuck.

I finally got it. I finally got 'me'. I really never gave a fuck about being clever - just never wanted to be pointed at by teachers, art lovers or receptionists for NOT being clever. I didn't want to be them, or like them, I just had a different notion of what was important and their stuff just wasn't. To me. And I didn't want to have to explain this 'cos that would be boring and pointless. And that's it. That's really all it is.

It was such a wonderful feeling to have peeled back those layers and find my little pickly self.

And it was in the middle of one of my favourite roads - through the yellowy open part of the Ashdown Forest, on the way to somewhere fun, with my little pickly offspring - all arguing and kicking and smelling. Ahhhhhhh....... I had Found Myself. And liked it. I mean me.

It was only a couple of minutes before I drove into a hedge.

Me brakes have gone again. I had to swerve across the road into the path of the on-coming car in the hope that the hedge would slow us down if the brakes didn't. It was either that or cruise out onto a road where you can't see what's coming round the left-hand bend. The other car did have plenty of time to see us and slow down, which they did. In fact they stopped up next to us for half a second to glare and gawp all cross and horrified before shaking their heads at us and driving on. Good stout English couple. Glad we got rid of them. EmBARRassing!

But a little later, awaitin' my nice AA man, I wondered if a woman with a carful of kids drove into a hedge before my eyes, would I wag my finger and clop off on my high horse or would I pull up and ask her if they were OK? Would I ............ give a fuck?

Yes I would. For that, I would.

But for another's judgement on education, high-browiety, and worthwhile employment, I ... would ... not.

And despite my current status as bright orange courtesy go-cart totin' liability, I am very happy with my own head.

It's MY head.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

Does Elvis Talk To You?

2011-01-20T19:02:00.000-08:00

Madame has a headache.

This is of course entirely the fault of her Inner Voice. It won't bloody stop yapping.

It's always been the same Voice - naturally - but I mean it has always had the same questionable motives. I can remember at age five The Voice planning disruptive yet undetectable random acts of dissent to perform when I got to Big School. Maybe clapping under the desk when the teacher's back was turned may not seem so dangerous now but when I was five it kept The Voice happy.

There is a file of our lives somewhere, held as ransom against future deviances. Mine will have concerned scrawls across it from toddlerdom. I wasn't especially naughty, I don't think, but The Voice didn't have much patience with adults' nonsensical requests. I remember a 'test' thing once, must have been only three or four, when the 'doctor' chap asked me to place all the little dolls housey things he had in 'the right place' while he yabbered to my mum. So I did. The dog in the basket, the cake in the oven, the cat under the table, the vase of flowers on the table blah blah blah. 'Done it.' Yabber yabber yabber....... 'I've DONE it!' 'Pardon? Oh yes.' Then he UNdid it. He messed up my house. 'Now do it again' he said all brushy-offy and carried on yabbering to my mum. The Inner Voice probably didn't know the word 'wanker' at that time but was definitely thinking it. Hmmmnnn.... What to do for the best....? The Voice knew a verbal protest would have been futile. Knew those doctor types. Children are to be peered at and scribbled about. So, in a silent protest, I placed the cat in the oven, the dog on the table, the cake in the basket and the flowers under the table etc etc. 'Done it.' 'What! No. You've done it all wrong.' He didn't understand my humorous yet superior stance. He started talking all patiently to me like I was stupid. This just made my innocent blood boil but I still didn't crack. The Inner Voice just took notes on the idiocy of the adult. Especially doctors.

The Voice still holds firm this opinion. Not just doctors, although believe me I could list a thousand affirmations over the years. It has a problem with any hint of authority in general. This explains my utter lack of an employer's good reference. Even I wouldn't give me one. It also explains my utter lack of success of any of my great creative plans. I would have to employ myself to carry out these projects. And without a decent reference from any former boss, including myself, I'm afraid I cannot concievably offer myself any position I may have at present and will unfortunately be unable to place me on a waiting list for any future opening. I hope I may enjoy more luck with an alternative conciousness and who may be better equipped to fully appreciate my talents. Now if I would be so kind as to remove my delinquent self away from my presence as I'm detecting an unpleasant odour ...... like singed fur or something.

In quieter moments I do wonder if The Voice was the fittest survivor of many weaker sibling voices. Like baby birds of prey, did it somehow smother its rivals, maybe devouring them while they were looking the other way? Is this how our individual consciousness is developed? Would a parallel me in a parallel dimension share this Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my parallel mum? Would they have a Different Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my same-dimension mum with parallel Voices? Before I ever knew I could form a choice, was choice performed by variant Voice victors? Would an other-dimensional Voice be so bloody annoying? I want to go to bed. WHO SAID THAT? HOW DARE YOU. I AM YOUR VOICE. But I'm really tired. YOU WILL GO TO BED WHEN I SAY YOU DESERVE IT AND NOT BEFORE. I want a New Voice. I'm getting too old to stay up all night playing on the computer instead of getting some beauty sleep and then I could be all perky in the mornings and maybe even write a book or something. YOU? WRITE A BOOK? WHAT ABOUT, FOR THE LOVE OF TUPELO? Um.... me and um.....we. WHO IN THIS DIMENSION WOULD WANT TO READ ABOUT YOU, YOU PITIFUL NEVER-BEEN? DROP AND GIVE ME 20 MESS UPS ON THE DOUBLE. But it might just, you know, give some other people out there some kind of hope that someone like um me could like...... do it. YOU? WHAT IS YOU? YOU MEAN ME! HMMNNN..... YES. I'D LIKE A BOOK ALL ABOUT ME. BUT I DON'T WANT YOU TO WRITE IT. YOU'RE TOO BLOODY UNRELIABLE, ALWAYS LATE, NEVER FULFILL YOUR POTENTIAL AND EVEN WHEN YOU TRICK SOMEONE INTO BELIEVING YOU'RE SOMEHOW WORTHWHILE YOU ALWAYS FUCK IT UP BECAUSE YOU ARE PERENNIALLY SUBVERSIVE FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO SIMPLY SEE THE FLIP SIDE AND ARE CRIPPLED BY YOUR FOSSILISED INGRAINED INSUBORDINATION. NO I'M NOT LETTING YOU WRITE IT. You mean I haven't got the job? NO PISS OFF YOU'RE MAKING MY OFFICE LOOK SHABBY AND TAKE THAT BLOODY CAT OUT THE OVEN.

It was you who put that bloody cat in the oven. I just want to be normal.

OI! SHUT THE DOOR ON THE WAY OUT. WERE YOU BORN IN A BLOODY PARALLEL DIMENSION?

I wish.......

Say it Again.......

2011-01-19T12:28:00.000-08:00

OK - I think I've got it pretty well pinned down - it's just that the rest of the world hasn't quite got the capabilities to understand my explanation of it.

I'll do me best........

What goes up must have a better view but may not appreciate this and so must necessarily come back down all the same and, evidently, also goes around. It then naturally comes around, except when you are waiting for it, and if you don't look at it, it might just stop for a quick quantum fag until the speed of lighter fuel runs out. Upon which particle of truth we can depend on the perpetual lack of boiling supervised water - because of its rapidly changing from a liquid to a vapour, thereby disappearing before our microscopic lenses, but is nonetheless simply moving from our understanding of reality in three dimensional space into an alternative dimension, because as we all know energy cannot die so there must be an ever-expanding universe of steam powered mass fuelled by the unquenchable thirst of the basic human need for habitual refreshment. This is known as the Rosie Lee Principle. It also explains what we once thought were inexpensive sets for Doctor Who in the 1970's, when the producers of the series were in actual fact replicating somewhat effectively the moisture-rich veil of the Cup O. T. astral clusters of this atmospheric phenomenon.

Now, you're probably wondering about the authenticity of my research. If indeed Einstein couldn't prove that the moon continued to exist if noone was looking at it, then I challenge anyone to prove that I have made any of this up. After much concentration over the course of many meditatively worshipped and most emphatically actual moons, I transcendentally and humbly became aware of the magnetic nature of the primitive human psyche to subconsciously draw information being projected from another reality by an alternative version of oneself with a higher-developed cranial wave-force. This still throws up the question of whether the particle-splitting nature of parallel universes allows the sharing of conscousness, whether partly in 'real' time or on a sliding scale of a warping 'time-share' basis, and whether indeed giving anyone, even yourself - or another spectrum's version of your'self' - a piece of your mind is in fact a solid idea. If, by any cultural notion, an idea can ever be described as 'solid'.

This also begs the question of, if you have messed up bigtime in this life, would you somewhere/sometime/somehow otherwise be considered a prophet of inspirational creativity in that otherwise free-from Earthbound-concensus of opinionated 'world'? A potential circling (and at the same time shapeless in a non-gravitational sense) deeply conclusive redemption?

That's pretty much it. If anyone has any questions on these revelatory theories, or on quantum ping or dwarf planets in the greenhouse equation, then do not hesitate to take the BBC to court. I shall be in my quarters contemplating the exciting new discoveries of midget gems in the sweetie tin.

Thank you my fellow devotees of the spiritual and tangible correlation of sugar and the mental well-being of the female breeding organism. I wish you all a very good night, or indeed, any time-sensation of your own choosing.

And in addition of course, any pain-relieving tablet of your own choosing.

Footnote to the above: hand notes are infinitely preferable to the untrained eye than the scrawlings of the cheesey foundation plates. As correlated and confirmed by Professors Peep and Toe.

Maths.......Huh! What is is good for? Absolutely nuttin'......Say it again.....

2011-01-18T16:45:00.000-08:00

'But you'll never need this in REAL life' I used to wail at my maths teachers.

And then I go and watch BBC's Horizon - 'What Is Reality?'

Now my head is throbbing with wild notions of parallel universes, lots of me's out there doing different things, perhaps even being successful - (it's my fantasy, I can type what I like here........) Real things like a single proton of light being in 2 places at the same time, but only when you don't look at it. (Like me at ballet class show the parent day, I was fab, until looked at. 'You look like a wet dish cloth' the scraped-headed one bellowed and that's one reality I hope was not bounced about the universe.) It's Red Dwarf stuff. But Kryton or Holly always managed to explain it perfectly well. Clever professors can't, even using pumpkins or tennis balls. One silver-bearded dome-head was describing his widely accepted theory that we are all just a hologram projected from the edge of a black hole and when the interviewer stuttered that she thought she understood he got very cross 'No you don't! You don't understand it! None of us do!' I think all of the clever bods agreed that we don't have the human language to understand 'reality'. It was the chap up a lighthouse scribbling his hieroglyphic mathematical equations all over the windows that made me really 'ping' (in the lightbulb sense - so apt for the location). He was glowing with love for his equations - 'this one tells us all about ..... (god knows), and this one tells us all about..... (blah blah)......' For him, the only language to attempt to understand reality is the language of mathematics.

It all seemed rather beautiful.

But you can't ever use this in real life.

Can you?

Damn you BBC......

I shall go to bed now and work it all out and let you all know the answer tomorrow.

I shall let you know if the moon still exists when noone's looking at it. Einstein couldn't prove it did. Just give me a couple of hours.

Back to Life......

2011-01-11T09:05:00.000-08:00

She wanted the sewing machine.

At our Hall meeting yesterday we made wheat bags (with oats actually) and while I sat, head bowed, and sewed mine up by hand, Minx collared the clever lady who'd brought her sewing machine. 'It looks real!' So today she wanted my needlesome beast to be dug out.

Sewing machines are instruments of mental destruction. They suck hours of your life without ever giving anything in return. Except knot galaxies and scary humming.

But we travel under the firmament of Autonomous Education. She wants the sewing machine. I must make it so.

I knew it was a bad idea. I think she's done. She's busy making a small boy squeak, (well he was just 'there'), ignoring the nest of purple thread, broken needles and the dead spiders we'd brushed off the now abandoned bastard. And I've stomped off over to the computer to make an adulty phone call. 'Cept I couldn't. Had notions of gathering a group educational discount thingie from some on-line 'fun' reading organisation. Failed. Changed my mind. But the sewing machine's still out so I'm staying over here. It'll take me another half an hour to shove that bloody thing back in a suitable nook in my 'utility room' (big cupboard). This place is known as My Hole. It's where I spend most of my time. There's enough space for me to turn around - and maybe squat while I look for/hide things. Things that once suggested I had a creative streak. Now are obviously obsolete as I have no business trying to make anything. My purpose in life now is to pick up crap that others drop. Either to wash or stuff in the bin. Sometimes to slide into a bursting bag that I call My Scrapbook. Potentially it is. Potentially my house is a home. But reality shows it is simply a ear-melting example of what some clever scientist was explaining on telly last night - something about the universe's natural state is chaos. We try to order it but buildings fall down when left alone - they don't build themselves, and gardens go wild when ignored - they don't weed themselves, and children try to kill each other...... Well they do here. I think there is also a theory that children, if left, will educate themsleves. Mine have doctorates in violence. I'm with the scientisty man. Here, King Chaos ever surely reigns.

I made a stab at cool orderliness yesterday at the Hall. I attempted to make some bread. Been given a selection of flours by an emigrating friend. Ridiculous idea to keep in my house. Me and cooking don't go. But after not quite finishing my wheat bag, (a bit big), I had the urge to appear grown-up and enthusiastic. Even coralled some willing young helpers but I misread the instructions and added stuff when stuff didn't need adding, and then tried to rectify this by adding different stuff to get it back to the state it had been in before. Sigh..... One of the girls, I think she's about 10, decided to take control. I was sidelined. Shamed. Washed up - in both senses. But still game, just as we had got all used to the smoke and smell, I opened the oven to see a beautiful golden loaf. Redemption. Pride. Fall. For the other side of this beauty was a blackened rock. Not to despair I cut into the object and smiled ever harder as it out oozed a slow creeping pale viscous vomity goop. I still didn't give up. I ate the bits that were in between meteorite and porridge and said 'Mmmmnnn!' convincingly. But I had lost my audience. I am an embarrassment to my children. Hey - always a silver lining eh?

Later on I thought I'd be all strikey-while-the-iron-is..... what's an iron again? Never mind - I resolved to finish the wheat bag that very day. Used a whole 1kg pack of oats. Still room for more. Topped up with an expensive bag of Fairtrade wholegrain organic brown basmati rice (the emigrating friend's supply again - obviously). Still a bit floppy but sod it - gotta save something to eat. Sew it up while the going's good for gods' sake. But my needles have gone missing. Nowhere. Needles! Loose! Unearthed Minx's sewing box. Her needles also missing. What's with the Needle Goblins? Needles man! Like sharp and pointy. At large! Eughhhhh....... Maybe they've just gone the same way as my marbles. Wheat bag closure denied. Back to the kitchen then. Oaty rice mountain on the floor. My floor. My filthy floor. 'FOR FUCK'S SAKE WHAT LITTLE SHIT DID THIS?!!' 'I'm - on - the - phone!' hissed Mr R Blade. '....Oh she's fine. Yes you just say when's good for you and we'll just fit right in. We'll be no trouble.....' That's our invitation to Arizona buggered then.

Back to My Hole.

.......But wouldn't it be great if when they're ready to fly the kids could cook and sew and hammer and fish and drive and weed and build and ............. be all useful and practical and self-sufficient and ...........

They're good at racing games on the computer.

I'm not. And I can't cook. Can't sew. Can't speak mechanical. Can't really do much that's very useful. That's a grammar school education for you then. Finished off with art college. Possibly the most undovetaily combination. Going from 'Do what we say the way we say it when we say it and don't argue' to 'So.......? Ok! I'm very interested in what you...... Yeah.... I don't like it.... ' My squashed-up rebelliousnes was patted on the head and then flicked away and has been ricocheting off the mountains ever since. Let me know when it hits a target. I'll come out My Hole and celebrate with a chocolate digestive.

Mr R Blade keeps 'offering' to send me on a nice cookery course. Grounds for divorce. I don't threaten him with latin dance training. And meanwhile the small dirty things keep asking me when I'm gonna finish on the computer. Can't they see I'm clinging to the keyboard for dear life? I'd really like to to hide away with a scribbling book and my knotted wheat bag all heated up round my poor broken shoulders. But it's not time to think silly creative thoughts. That sewing machine needs putting in its place. And so, it seems, do I.

We foolishly create the castles and the sea just sweeps them away.

It's the natural order of things.

Gotta laugh!

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

2010-12-31T19:55:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-21T19:50:00.000-08:00

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.........

2010-12-18T18:05:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-12T08:16:00.000-08:00

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..

2010-12-07T11:55:00.000-08:00

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.....

2010-12-05T16:34:00.000-08:00

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...?)

Snow Show

2010-11-28T04:27:00.000-08:00

Has anybody actually got any snow out there, or are THEY just threatening it for something to talk about. I'm bored of it (yes Mother 'bored OF it' ha ha haa) already and we haven't had any yet. Apart from that bit that's just suddenly started flittering past the window - DAMN. I'm in a grumpy enough mood simply being cold and surrounded by children who think I'm interested in juggling and dinosuar contortionism.

Explanation of latest grump: cold, can't get on with the things I want to get on with, can't be bothered to get on with the things that I have to get on with, too many things that I want/have to to get on with, no energy, no gumption, no interest.... and another sore lip. To sum up: miserable git.

And I've drunk my coffee which means that I'm supposed to switch off now and go and 'do'.

But I keep getting distracted by hopeful little moppets squeaking about snowflakes.

Eughhh I hate bloody snow.

Then again....if it snowed, then I would have the perfect escape hatch from doing things. We'd be trapped in again and therefore excused from outside life. Not excused from inside life however, but it would still slow down - like driving past a road accident - to look through the windows alot and tut.

But...... we're out of biscuits. And proper coffee. So all in all it had better not bloody snow. Plus I am waiting for an appointment for some consultant type to peer up my lady bits. Probably best to get that out the way sooner rather than... But if it snowed I wouldn't be able to go. And I don't want to go. Not that they've made the appointment yet. Somebody rang me to ask if I could do Monday. Too much to reorganise so I asked what about Tuesday. 'I'm just booking Monday now' 'And you can't move on to Tuesday until you've filled up Monday?' 'Yes' ............. I'm assuming she never did fill every slot on Monday as I haven't heard back. Suppose I'll have to wait until Monday actually passes by and wait for the next appointment I can't meet to be offered. Don't you just adore medical administration? Even more useless than educational administration. Third in line are shoe shops who can't order in a non-shopsoiled pair of something until they've sold the unsaleable ones 'cos Head Office says so. Are office workers marked at birth? Worker ant, soldier ant, worker ant, soldier ant, unimaginative blinkered box-ticker with no communication skills? Yes, administration for you. Next! Taking that further..... what the bloody 'ell did I look like as a baby? Life of unachievement and chaos for this one. Hmmmnnnn - art college. That should bugger it up for the rest of its life. Aspiration with no talent - perfect. Next!

Maybe up in Cloudland the Snow Monkeys are waiting for all the forms to be completed and triple checked by Head Office before they're authorised to drop a flake. They're probably waiting for my appointment to be set. So I don't reckon it's ever going to snow.

For now, I've drunk my coffee (instant but I can't really tell the difference) so I'd better go and DO something. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm. Next job, the bogey hankie mountain.

.....Trudging through a Winter Wonderland.......

SOMEBODY tell me!

2010-11-22T16:49:00.000-08:00

Just forgive me everyone for being so totally crap at catching up on my essential blog reading.

When I finally catch up on my non-essential advent fairy bullshit, and my totally non-interesting Xmas 'net shopping, I may attempt to get back to normal. Who am I kidding? I may attempt to get back to the familiar abnormal. But when my bloody children, (for whom I am surely making myself sick and anxious and angry and blog-starved), FINALLY learn how to GO TO BLOODY BED and BLOODY S T A Y T H E R E, I might just calm down. I might.

I now have just over a week to sew on stupid letters and stupid buttons and stupid bells and stupid tassels to my stupid bunting and I haven't even made all the stupid tassels yet, or threaded half the stupid buttons on to stupid wire to make stupid buttony beads to punctuate the stupid bunting flags with the stupid tassels on. All this to day-by-day slide onto the stupid cord which I still haven't even measured and checked if I have enough, which I will tie onto the stupid hooks which I still haven't checked if I have any, to the stupid oak beams which will probably be impossible to penetrate with the stupid hooks anyway.

And what did I do tonight whilst still waiting for damned children to go to bloody sleep?

Scribbled out next year's stupid bloody ideas for stupid bloody advent.

There really is something wrong with me.

But I adamantly refuse to fix it.

There must be a cure.

Drugs.

Tranquilizers for the kids. Tramlines of coke for me?

This is all a pathetic reaction against the fact that I cannot cook or keep the house clean or know what an iron looks like. I could just buy Spongebob chocolate calendars but no. I have to prove myself to be some sort of Mother Supreme by doing insane little secret makey special stupid bloody advent surprises every stupid bloody year and spend the last couple of months leading up to stupid bloody Xmas with an average of 2 hours of sleep per night. Then, of course I am such a delight to live with that my children will always cherish those warm Xmas memories for the rest of their disturbed blighted lives.

'Tis the season to be sectioned.

Damn - you know what - I could have just done at least 20 bloody button loops instead of spewing my guts all over the keyboard.

Forgive me everyone ........... but I'm gonna hit publish and get me tassels out.

Who Knows Where the Time Goes........

2010-11-17T11:59:00.000-08:00

Across the purple skies.......

Bless you Sandy you knew wot wos wot.

I can't put my perpetual startled expression and whiney 'That CAN'T be the time!' so poetically. Suffice to say - I don't seem to have time to scratch my arse at the moment. Told you I wasn't so poetic.

Too many things in my head - well passing thro' the space between my ears anyway. My Dad used to say if a thought found its way into my head it would soon get lonely and leave. I may have said this before. Not only do stray thoughts pass through like misty trains (is that more poetic?), my memory for them, or what I have/haven't said already, what I have/haven't done is completely lost in that mist.

All I do know is that I'm not keeping up with myself. And I'm a bit tired. And a bit ponder-y. And it's that time of year again - I bring it on myself I know. But those Advent Fairies of mine have got less than 2 weeks to produce 96 delightful little secrets every morning. But it's also that time of the year that I get tireder. I don't like the short days - the early darkness seems to make me think that 'productive time' is over - and I get all slumpy and cardigany and just want chocolate on a permanent drip. I think I am a permanent drip.

But now it's bedtime for annoyingly bouncy boys. Time for more Gary Larson cartoons (Little Rock Godling's favourite). The Far Side indeed. Been there. Never quite made it back. But snakes in pinnies and poodle-head hunters are a blessed relief from bloody children's books. Obviously apart from the one I am writing (when do you do that then Mrs? Oh ... when I'm asleep). Off I go. Wish me luck. I'll be back downstairs in about 2 hours with Ken Dodd hair and pins and needles having fallen asleep halfway thro' a sentence with 2 monkeys draped across my head.

Up the wooden hills to Bedfordshire...... down Sheet Lane to unremitting insanity.

Night night my lovelies......

I must find the time to bloody blog again. Orrr.... Did I do that already?

Bewitched, Buggered and Bewildered

2010-11-01T18:04:00.000-07:00

We had fun!

We had fun in The hated Village of Hairshirt Hypocrisy I think I've mentioned before.

We made cakes. It's what nice people do.

Not overly certain if nice people also bundle straight into the hostess's kitchen demanding teaspoons to finish decorating their offering but I think we got away with it. Fairy cakes of varying sizes (due to scavenging cake cases of varying sizes from the bottom of the rusting tin whilst swearing and blaming the government), gratuitously smothered in orange and green goo with a liberal and democratic smattering of Skittles. They looked just darling nestling in amongst the pumpkin soup and carob brownies. I thought so. Didn't look so good smeared on the cream cushions I'll admit but the horrified faces were just SO right for Halloween. Just the right spirit.

We did that demanding stuff for no good reason thing too. What's that phrase? Something By Menaces. That's what someone cleverer than me said anyway. We had quite a gang of kidlets all looking dead spooky-cool banging on doors like Special Branch. And Thuglet - slightly grumpy face squidged into a fluffy dinosaur 'bonnet' thing and a tail. Boldly accessorizing a nice cardigan. Very funny indeed. And being The Village....... one of the delightful little spooklets politely asked of the proffered cake 'Is it vegan?' Not 'Cake - yay!' or even 'Where's the proper sweets?' like any other kid. Strange how noone but me thought this was hilarious. Quickly converted my gutter-emptying guffaw into a stage cough.

Back at the party, all my boys were a huge hit on the dancefloor. All those Michael Jackson moves impressed the locals. Money bloody well spent those classes. Damn fine show. Damn fine party to be sure. Little Rock Pumpkin won Musical Statues and Musical Cushions. Probably due to something by menaces too...... Those Skittles are really kicking in now. I think I'm getting signals that it's time to go home.....

Slipping into the car a little while later, it all kicked off. Of course. 'You stole my lolly!' 'No I saw your lolly fall out your bag into a puddle. A really muddy one!' 'Haven't you got enough bloody lollies in that freaky ghost head already?' 'That was my FAVOURITE lolly!' 'I'm NOT having this all the way home!' Devil Mother turns up the stereo and knocks her horns awry. Now looks even more demonic. 'Give - me - MY - L O L L Y !!!!!' 'AAaaarrrrggghhhhh!!!!!' ....variations on a theme carried us all the way home. I always notice that the more fun my Monster-Brats have, the more bastard-like they are afterwards. Every time. The Hammer Car of Horror.

By the time I'm slunking into my own settee like an empty treat bag, back in my own familiar smells and sticky patches, I felt the urgent need for cucumber and carrots. We'd consumed so much carb, sugar, E numbers, MSG etc over the weekend I had to balance the books somehow. One carrot stick did the trick tho'. Back to business...... Chocolate eyeball anyone?

It's almost as exhausting as bloody Xmas.

But without the new slippers.

Cute Traditions for Cute Families....... what am I thinking?

2010-10-31T04:20:00.000-07:00

SATURDAY 30th OCTOBER: In between being That-Woman-Who-Barely-Contains-Her-Bile-And-Hisses-At-Her-Small-Child-Through-Clenched-Teeth-In-Sainsbury's and That-Perfect-Smiling-Devoted-Pinny-Smoother-Encircled-By-Perfect-Smiling-Rosy-Little-Faces, there had to be a little work. I won't burden you. But there was more hissing. Possibly a little shouting. A sprinkling of screaming. And the merest hint of bi-polar implosion. But we made it through our 'traditional' (????????) Halloween family love-in. We got big pumpkins, we got little pumpkins (oh yes they bloody are - 'squash' is not for the likes of us). We got sweeties. We got a deluded madwoman determined to make this a Lovely-Bloody-Evening-For-Everyone!!!!!! Bit more hissing......

This IS our damned tradition. At least I tried to initiate this lantern-lit garden sweetie hunt last year. They all want to do that Trick or Treat lark. We don't have neighbours. We don't have many invitations either. Following Daddy out the back gate and round to the front door, (leaving Mummy just enough time to grab sweets, a wig and scary lipstick to answer the knock with a cackle), just wasn't going to cut it this year. Last year I managed to sell Minx for the night to ToT with a chum in her street. Result! This still left 3 boys. On a roll we sold them to Nanny and Grandad while Mr GPants and I scarpered to see Steve Earle playing over in Croydon - (scary enough). I lovingly prepared separate decorated bags of sweeties for each and quietly asked Grandad to hide them all in their garden and let them go out with their little carved lanterns to seek them out. Caring and Creative Mother Rewards surely a given.....

So did you go out in Grandad's garden with your lanterns last night?

No Grandad had his torch.

Oh. Well did it take you long to find all the sweeties?

Nah. Grandad hung them in the tree by the front door.

Hung them?

Yeah. He hung the Tesco's bag you gave him in the tree.

Oh...... Good ol' Grandad.

Cut to this year and the cute sight of 4 excited little moppets scuttling through the back door, swinging their lanterns like it's 1967 down the Kings Road.... Their mission: find all 5 spooky picture bags full of sweeties - pumpkin, spider, skull, bat and ghost. Just one each!!! Just ONE!!! How many skulls have you got there? No I'm not relighting that damn lantern again. Just put the bloody thing down, find the friggin' sweets and let's get back inside for the 2nd half of TV Burp. Oh and have you all found your extra secret treat thing too? Well where did you put it? Yes I know you don't like the popping candy ones but there's a normal one for you - oh just go and look near the fence. Yes it bloody is! On the post! Oh for gods' sake THERE! COME ON!!!

Back inside, ready for my shiny pinny-smoothing moment..... 'Mu-um! You KNOW we don't like these ones!!! Sp - sp - spl - spleugh.... '

Still working on the multi-coloured striped jellies. Think I'll pour them down their pants.

But tonight it is ACTUAL Halloween night and I have managed again to sell Minx to her chum AND secure an invitation to a ToT party for the boys. Yes, MY boys.

I'll let you know......

Been a Long Time Been a Long Time Been a Long ohhh you know.....

2010-10-29T12:35:00.000-07:00

Dunno what I've been up to all this time. Seems like about a year since I've switched on the damned 'puter. Don't know what I've got to show for all my busy-ness. But I'll think of something. When the kids haven't just put 'The Middle' on telly. Maybe I'll just have a peek at my diary, except that my pen ran out the other night and... oh yeah I think I kind of got stuck on last Sunday. Or maybe it was the Sunday before that. Either way..... But I had cyber-scribbled a little list of 'things' that must have meant something. It went kind of like... plums, spiders, toes, sewing box, mooncup, Match Attax, Essex and it rounded off with a question: Why are all my favourite songs about murdering your lover?

These little insights into my own brain are not enlightening.

I'm off again. Got to put tealights into horrifically mutilated pumpkins. Oh yeah - we did pumpkins! I remembered something! I also made pumpkin soup. It was OK. Not as good as my friend's pumpkin soup that she even brought on our last nature walk thing of the year (god was that only yesterday?) - in a big pot, with lots of cups for everyone, carefully wheeled about in a pushchair all day til we found a suitable lunch log. That's pumpkin soup dedication. And the chap who does all the knowledgeable talky stuff's dog did all the washing up too. I have to do my own washing up. And fish out slimy seeds to put in pots to grow our own next year (yeah.... I'll SO do that). (Really ought to fish out slimy fish from a totally opaque bowl. Yeah.... ) 4-way pumpkin scraping and scooping and souping and slurping is enough slime for one day. And 4 mini ones to make into lanterns for garden sweetie hunting tomorrow night too. What am I like? I swallow all this 'traditional' stuff whole. We never did pumpkins when I was a kid. I never tasted a pumpkin til I was prob in my 30s. I did make a spider out of pipe cleaners and a cotton reel once 'cos I saw it on Play School. I scampered into the lounge that afternoon with boinging it on a bit of elastic shouting 'Bouncy bouncy weeee!' to find a priest standing there with his arms raised blessing the house. Something to do with the then fashion of having a mass said in the warmth of the parishioners' houses. Thankfully this phase didn't last long. I know my mum was probably bullied into it somehow - really not her cup of tea that sort of thing. Way too sociable. But she did have a soft spot for this old boy (the priest man). Thinking back I reckon he was the only one of That Lot Up The Road who remained sober for very long. There always seemed to be a trail of staggering men in black. Very often from our house. What was I talking about? Plums, spiders..... Don't recall anything about drunk god botherers. Oh - Halloween memories it was. Think it's time to go. I'll try to have a think about something more coherent while I'm extinguishing the fire I'm about to start over on Mantlepiece No 2.

Coming darling.... Oh actually I think we've got the same problem as Birthday Season. I wonder if Minx has started smoking yet.

Got any matches?

Why not? You're 11 already!

Ta Ta and thanks for all the peas...

2010-10-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

Wot wiv all my ranting of late, I forgot to announce the recent demise of ....What-was-its-bloody-name.

The fish thing. Minx's fishy. Fishy..... Hhhhhh....

It did have a name to start, which has slipped my goldfish bowl brain. But being a fish of very little brain itself, it soon began to gather as many pseudonyms as ... well, me. (I have a diff mon for every blinkin' thing I do. Easier that way. Leave no trail....)

It got fat very quickly. So obviously got called Fat Fucker. It kept pretending to be dead - always floating upside down near the surface. So I started calling it Harold (as in And Maude). Little Rock Godling called it Max. Which was quite funny as it was at its Max weight. He also called his own fish Max. When Thuglet finally got 2 tiny minnows to go in the orb, he called them Max too. Minx called it many interesting girl kinda names. So interesting I can't remember a single one. Mr GPants called it every name under the sun. He was the one who had to keep scooping it out and feeding it peas. It spent its last few days back in solitary. Just him and the peas. With a bit of plant stuff for entertainment. (A bit like childhood of old really). This then earned him a new name - the Cooler King.

And now The King has left the building.

Last Sunday, during a break in the torrentials, Minx skipped out into the garden and dug him a little grave, laid him to rest and scattered flowers. 'Done it.' Back on Facebook. Sorted.

We all felt compelled to make it into a bit more of a ceremony. Got to give the little sod a proper send off. I've presided over many a fishy funeral before. Student days. We had a viking burial, a funeral pyre, a trebuchet-style launching.... Come on. Crocs on. All stood round. 'Anyone know a fishy song?' LRG put his hands together all holylike. Dunno who's house he's got that from. Must've been on Spongebob.

Mr GPants started 'Who shall have the fishy...' ohh-ooh good one! 'On the little dishy...' Altogether now - 'Who shall have the fantail when the boowat cooms in?'

LRG sweetly sang '12345 once I caught a fish alive...' And Thuglet sang 'Happy Birthday'. All very fitting. Then we took pictures of our feet around the graveside. Then we started fighting over the camera. Then I went inside and slammed the door.....

One down, 4 to go.

One for the Toad

2010-10-09T18:58:00.000-07:00

Coming home late the other night I was beaten through the back door by a toad. A real beauty. Don't get rated on their looks too much do toads. I think that's a shame. Our friend was big and gorgeous. Got Honey Badger Boy to scoop him up in a big bowl so we could take a picture before Mr GPants escorted him to the other side of the 'Fuck! He's jumped out!' Ah well. It was outside again at least. Keep meaning to look up those nice amphibian people I mentioned before and be all Citizen Scientisty with my latest sighting. Yeah - like, tomorrow...

The toad theme is echoing somehow. The show on near Xmas this year at our nice cosy theatre is The Adventures of Mr Toad. Now I like to take the little sodlets to see a show at Xmas, and I like to do followy-uppy things so something about a toad seems perfect right? And we're getting a schools rate discount. So what's the grief?

I fucking hate The Wind in the Willows.

So I'm busy texting the friend who's organising it. Minx, at their house, has said she wants to go, so I feel guilty enough to ask the boys what they think. Stupid. 'Right, does anyone want to see a show with like people dressed up as a toad and stuff?' Really stupid. This sounds cool to small boys. Bugger. At least Honey Badger Boy screws up his face and says 'Nah'. Was a bit worried there as he's the real animal-obsessor. Safeish ground tho' on the 'show' front - it's inside, you have to sit down, and it's usually a bit crap. Why did I ask the small ones tho'? They say 'Yes' to everything.

Mr GPants comes back. Thoughts pop up.

'Do you like The Wind in the Willows?

'No I fucking hate it. Posh boys shit.' - with added wanking hand signals.

Bugger. I text back 'Can Minx go with you?' I tell the boys 'Shame.... all the tickets have gone.'

Did I dun good or is I a bad bitch? I did consider it see? The make-up might be cool.... But I faltered at the point where I imagined me handing over money. I stumbled when I thought about luvvies in latex and tweed. I choked when I heard the first throaty jolly lines in my head. No. I can't do this.

I really can't do Wind in the fucking Willows.

Nor can I do Enid bleedin' Blyton. Or Alan twatting Bennett. I sometimes wonder if I am English at all? I also hate Wimbledon wankin' tennis. And The Last Night at the poxy Proms. Especially Pomp and cocksucking Circumstance. I hate David dickhead Dimbleby. Alan titface Titchmarsh. Both these last 2 could be described as 'toady' - no way! My toady was lovely. The English language is weird. The English are weird. Especially things considered 'quintessentially English'. Instant repulsion. Back to my hate list then... Chuffin' Chaucer. The bloody Boat Race. Blue pissin' Peter. In fact most of Radio knobbin' 4 is wank - even the bits I like (the dour pauses and tweety bird sounds whenever they do an OB). Not interested in the rancid Royals at all, or the arse-roll newspapers they appear in - whether they're 'toadying' (no!) to them or issuing poison. Nor do I have any time to waste (sliding further down the slimy scale) over the likes of Damian h'wanker Hirst, or Florence felchin' Welch or anyone from a shitty gritty Soap or or ANYTHING. I don't even like The chirpy bastard Beatles.

So what'cha gonna do? Slam me in the stocks outside the Albert Hall and pelt me with roast beef, yorkshire pudding and builders' tea whilst Vera Lynn sings The White Cliffs of Dover in a tin hat?

I'm gonna stay in my little 18th Century English farmhouse and be all English in my own way. I'm gonna drink Columbian coffee; eat curry, pasta and pain au chocolat; listen to Country & Western; wear clobber made in Asia somewhere; start that Stieg Larsson book and watch Match of the Day.

Having a laugh at the idea of the Commonwealth Games tho'. Mr GPants can't really believe it's still going. Just the word 'common-wealth' makes him ramble on about our dodgy history shenanigans til we're praying for Billy Bragg to crop up somewhere for some light relief. He thinks it's all a bit 'we are still the British Empire'-y and especially rubbish 'cos most of the winners wouldn't win if it was the Olympics. Not sure what I think. It's nice the competitors get a chance to do their stuff I suppose. And at least when someone English wins they now play 'Jerusalem' instead of God Save the cakkin' Queen.

I know it's still got god references but.... it's William Blake. Now I like him.

Hey - we have an achiever here!

2010-10-06T20:05:00.000-07:00

Obviously not me. But you knew that already. No - it is my Minx. She has passed her Level 2 ice skating test after SUCH MUCH dragging of bladed heels in the Field Moves department 'But I hate them! They're boring!' Every bleedin' lesson she got them wrong. On the wrong edge, arms all wrong, bottom sticking out instead of knees bent and she can't count..... Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!! Then last Thursday we squeezed in an extra lesson and she finally gets it right! Yay! Wednesday's test will be OK after all. Tuesday's lesson - Wrong Wrong Wrong!!!!!!! Oh fuck she's crap. But today..... bottoms up! Got through! Worth getting up at 4.30am for and driving for an hour and a half in teeming rain for and hanging around the coldest place on earth for another 3 hours for? Oh yes. Especially as none of that applied to me. I did wave her and Daddy off at about 5am - or something - nagged about leg warmers and a thicker jumper, then went back to bed. I know where I truly belong.

I also know where I truly don't belong. It is getting more and more clear that I do not belong in a Michael Jackson-style Street Dance class. I am becoming more and more lost and unbalanced with each week. I have now resorted to being the disruptive element (disruptive elephant would be more accurate) in the back row who this week finished on her knackered knees in tear-streaked hysterics at her own ineptitude while everyone else was perfecting their moonwalk. I did resist performing my own signature move - the moon. Only because by then I couldn't use my arms effectively. All that pointing, dragging and grabbing ...... I just can't be taking this seriously. Everyone else looks kinda cool but I look like ...well, exactly what I am: a slightly plump uncoordinated mutton-as-lamb fool. Normally I don't care. Don't go in for mirrors much in this house. The dance studio is ALL MIRROR!!!! I do not belong there!!!!!!!!!

Dancing is not for the post-birthers. I have said it before. It is some kind of chemical reaction that occurs when things that are really too big to be anywhere near your lady bits get squeezed out from there and leave your entire body suddenly incapable of cool moves ever again. I'm sure David Attenborough must've done a programme on it - the natural cycle of doing dancing to attract a partner so you can do procreating and when you've done that, the dancing reflex is lost immediately. No longer biologically necessary.

I think being cool is very much over-rated anyway. As is cleanliness, appropriate humour, sympathy for illness, nutrition..... This family is never going to get on Blue Peter.

To prove my point I shall list our latest fun and games - (Oh the funny things they say!!!!!! Just don't repeat any of this to Social Services.) Here goes:

I may have previously mentioned my Little Rock Godling's aversion to hygiene. I asked him the other day 'When did you last have a bath?' Shrug. Rest of family unusually quiet. All thinking. Nope. No bells ringing. 'When did you last change your pants?' I can hear the wind whistling down the old chimney. Dim echoes of ghostly ticking. 'Hmmmnn ....' A minute later I've got him on my lap and despite his history he is still unbelieveably edible. 'Oh I'm going to eat you all up.... but maybe when you're clean.' 'Yes' he replies 'Or I'll be itchy butt flavour.'

Last week at my mum's we were playing 'Tell Me' - (where you spin a dial thing and it lands on a letter and you ask a question and then you have to give an answer beginning with that letter - family funfunfun...) The letter was 'u'. The question was 'Something you would find underground'. Hmmmmmmn...... Minx came up with 'Uncle Brian'. Gallows humour from an 11 year old. That silent hysteria again took hold. The sort of laughing that you do when you're really not allowed to. The sort that hurts your stomach and ruins your mascara. It may have been 4 years now but my mum was really not ready to see the funny side. Which of course made it way more funny. Ow.

In the park yesterday one of the mums was looking out for another's little girl when she needed a wee. The toilets were a hike. 'Would you do a wild wee?' Blank look. 'Like in the bushes or something?' Frowning now. 'Um.... when you and mummy go for walks in a country park say, and you need a wee, where would you wee then?' 'In the stinging nettles.'

And I can add another Vom Notch on the side of my car. Same seat. Different little friend. Same journey (the big one - the ice rink at dawn's crack). Same 'Woof-Splatt!' noise. The same reaction. 'Open the window, give him a wet wipe, we're running late.' I'm gonna get a reputation. A different one!

And before you know it it's bloody dinner time again and I just can't be fucked.

As I said, it's all over-rated.

And the childishness doesn't stop when we finally get to bed. Thankfully I can't recall how the converstion got started but it led to a new puerile game: substitute the word 'spunk' for the word 'love' in all your favourite song titles. Here are just a few:

Spunk Me Do
This Guy's In Spunk
Spunk Hurts
Baby Spunk
SpunkChild
How Deep is your Spunk?
Spunk Letters in the Sand
Hot Spunk
Yummy Yummy Yummy I've got Spunk in My Tummy
Spunk Me Spunk My Dog
Ever Fallen in Spunk With Someone You Shouldn't've Fallen in Spunk With........

There were more but it was late...... memory not what it was. Thank fuck. But none of these titles match up to Little Rock Godling's lastest list of his songs for his band 'Skulls On Fire':

I've Never Been Nine
Skull On Fire
Dirt Case
I Don't Have to be the Biggest Wanker

He's going to go far that boy. I hope he'll remember his old ma for all her love and support when he's swathed in groupies beside his LA pool. 'And this one's dedicated to my dear mother' ........... I can't begin to imagine where it can go from here. But to be honest, with parents like us the poor little sod doesn't really stand a chance.

I can already hear the stadium ringing with the chants of 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'

I'll be bursting with pride. That's MY wanker up there! 'Wanker! Wanker! Wanker!.....'

Oops..... * * STOP PRESS * * I've made an error on LRG's song title No 2: this should read We Are Skulls On Fire

I hope this now makes perfect sense.

The ill-informed researcher in question has now been dealt with in accordance with the rules of the house. Back to the poo mines for me.

Rampage Scrampage Dampage Jampage Stampage Drampage Trampage.......

2010-09-27T18:25:00.000-07:00

A Rampage of Home Ed kids. A Trampage of Home Ed parents. A Scrampage of all who see us coming. Perhaps. Needs work.

Updates: it was definitely a badger's skull we found last Thursday. At Kent Goes Wild last weekend in Dunorlan Park they had a fox, a badger and a rabbit's skull laid out alongside. I shall never again confuse the species. The badger specialists even demonstrated the singular nature of the badger's hinged jaw - the only mammal with such a variety. And it has a funny mohican crest which apparently doesn't do your car much good if you hit one. Doesn't do the badger much good either mind - the car will still win. Thuglet and Little Rock Godling tried to befriend the aged stuffed badger on display - which simply revealed the hasty job the nice badgery folk had done of sticking it's brittle front leg back on earlier in the day. Badger bodgering. Time to move on.

I got quite close to a tank of slow worms. Made 'Mmmmnnn' noises. Trying to be cool. I really don't like things without legs. Funny considering I spent most of my early adulthood completely legless. Got talking to the nice amphibian people (I mean people who like amphibians, not green gilled gurgling types, this is Tunbridge Wells darling. Disgusted they may be but not seeking revenge on Earth for crimes against algae and the betrayal of that Marina bint.) Ended up filling forms about when and where we'd seen frogs and stuff. And then reptile Boy pipes up about the snake skins found in our garden a couple of years ago and is asked to identify them from their jars of scale-suits. Adders then. We got adders. Oh joy.

I kept up Perky Parent for a remarkably long time. For me. Reptile Boy had one of his football chums with him so I had to pretend to be human. I'd arrived at their match with easily 7 seconds to spare before the final whistle blew. Clapped, said 'Well done, jolly good' and scooped them all back in the car with minimal muddage on boots. Parental devotion see. Driving past the back of Dunorlan I spotted space in the car park so swerved in sharply, expecting excited little faces. Got startled whiplash wobbly heads and choking noises. Still.... it's a park. They're boys. That's what cool parents do isn't it? Parks and stuff. Get out the fucking car then! 'Let's go and spot some terrapins!' Small boys are so easy to please. The bigger boys did well. Kept their disdain well reigned.

But terrapin-free zone. No terrapins, no Aquaphibians....... But we did capture a remote controlled boat enthusiast. Friendly species. The enthusiast wasn't remote controlled. (Not obviously.) His boat was a replica of the flagship of 6 vessels sent to patrol Hong Kong in the last days of British rule. It was the last one to leave British Hong Kong waters, escorting the Royal Yacht Britannia. I love finding people like this to yabber away to, picking up stories along the way. Aren't my children lucky to have such a outgoing mother who feeds them such nutritious experiences of the world around them? .......................... OK. Maybe they weren't as delighted as I with my armfuls of colouring-in pages and wordsearches and Junior Nature Recorder Packs, but we did come away with prehistoric sharks' teeth and a belemite. And balloons. Happy small boys then. And a dirty old tennis ball to kick. Happpy bigger boys then. Promised food. Got back in the car.

Now obsessed with mushrooms and toadstools. Gap in our Usborne Spotters Guides there. And not one on spiders. I need to know this stuff. Trawling through lists of Fungi books. Still reading bed-time tales of slimeys and creepies. Spend every Skate Club cafe time glued to sticker books on croakers and crawlies. Every episode of Deadly 60 digitally preserved. Will our wonder of nature ever ebb? Never did nuffink like all this at school. Even outside the kids' gymnastics class today all the grown-ups are swapping mushroom books - and bags of freshly foraged King Alfreds. We never stop us.

And adventure seems to find us. After gymnastics we all descended on yet another park, like we do. And sure enough, as we watched, a couple of tent-y things pop up, a football goal appears, the bicycle-powered smoothie gang are back - I swear they are stalking us. I downed about 3 in the other park on Saturday. Knocked back another half a dozen today. Then they lay out this obstacle course thing. The kids are circling them now. Light dawns. It's the good Christian Teen-Savers. They set up in parks and warn kids of the dangers of drink and drugs. We nicked all their freebies last year. Here we are again then. This time they got their guinnea pigs to don these Beer Goggles - that fuck up your vision - and attempt the course. Watching my Beckham-esque Reptile Boy stumbling though cones, swinging at missed balls, staggering into the ball pit was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. Until one of the dads did it. Then I really thought I was going to wee myself. I refused to put the Spaz Specs on - would've brought back way too many memories.

One of our mums did make a very good point however that it was kind of fun and that maybe that wasn't quite the message the Good People were hoping to get across. Hey kids - get pissed and you can do stuff like this! As opposed to being thrown out of cabs, slipping over in your own wee, trying to right yourself like a upturned beetle in the gutter, flinging your arms around someone else's boyfriend and vomming down his leather jacket, singing Danny Boy in a strange front garden, convulsing for 3 hours over a stinking toilet, waking up in a cupboard with no clothes on covered in unexplained gashes and bruises next to a dribbling beast in a pool of sick having mysteriously spent £600. You don't know where you are, or who you are. Your brain is banging down the walls of your skull trying to get out. You have compound eyes. You crave salt 'n' vinegar chipsticks and coke. This place is a rotting shit-hole. There are pieces of pilchards on toast on every surface. You realise you are at home all along. And you are late for work. About 3 days late for work. You need a drink. But I s'pose this might be a tad tricky to set up in Calverley Gardens for the afternoon.

God I am glad I didn't put the goggles on. Haven't sung Danny Boy for years.

And I'm so glad I don't drink anymore. My night-time vice is just herbal tea now.

Still makes you wee yourself tho'.

Some things never change.

Another Fine Mess. Absolutely fine.

2010-09-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

Another day, another wilderness. That's the Home Ed way of life. Whether you take that literally or metaphorically - you know I don't care. Just this morning I'd checked the list of creatures we'd clocked on our last Bug Safari - a fair crop as usual. I am still refusing to go back to the lake to capture a pair of ex-not-so-ninja terrapins (apparently quite a population these days of these once discarded little charmers), despite daily pleas. Then there was last week's Woodfair World of Wonder. And this week we had Wilderness Woods - more bugs to spot, ponds to dip, frogs to terrify.... And my lardy arse just got lardier.

Bigger ones got to make a fence post - looked like it was just waiting for a vampire to saunter along. Little ones got to go into the scape of Xmas trees and shake 'em and see what poor little creatures fell out onto a sheet, scoop 'em up, show the man, drop them somewhere far, far from their once happy home, and tread on 'em. And grown-ups got to wander about, build dens - or in my case - plop down at the play area spread those buttocks a little wider.

I often warn 'Be careful what you wish for' and for YEARS I have wished to sit on my arse and yabber away to grown-ups without chasing small children with outstretched arms and outstretched mouth. I have now reached that hallowed place in my blessed life. And I am consequently hunch-backed, fat-arsed and ache all over.

I had taken an extra little chum with us and so found myself the meeting point for 5 busy nearly-humans. Rarely were any in the same vicinity as each other - so naturally it was me who had to be the constant. This also left me open to other bods asking if I could keep an eye on so-and-so while such-and-such and look out for that one while this one was..... Upshot = one lardy lazy lump. 4 (or 5?) hours later I finally wobble to my forgotten feet and round them all up to go and see the camp the 2 big ones (Minx and chum) had been working on all day with some friends and their mum and dad. We pass a couple of school-uniformed things on the way. Get to the camp and............... it's been totalled. Utterly destroyed. Hours of effort and joy strewn to the four winds. I now have ranting savages where I once had bouncing sprites. Roaring log-hurling required to appease the wronged gods of 'fair'.

Back home then. Not stopping for Mc Donalds on the way. I've ruined their lives!

2 days later - here we all are again. Food-stuffed rucksacks, macs round waists, back in another tangled woods. The objective is to get to some spring, say 'Ooh', pick berries for eager fruit leather experiments, eat picnic, find our way out again - and not step in any dog poo. But we are a band of outlaws. We don't do things by the book. What we do is follow the kids off in random directions - get pinned and punctured in brambles and holly whilst squeezing thro' grape-sized gaps in nature's knitting and sliding into streams with our boots on - albeit scrambling out again without them. Oh we 'ave a laugh. Hours of it.

We did eventually find the spring. Well, the kids did. The grown-ups were busy unzipping bags of food like we were extras on Tenko. Rocks, slippery slopes, water - yeah yeah whatever kids....where's me Twiglets....

We didn't find any berries, despite the rest of the country being laden, but we did spot hundreds of mushrooms and toadstools. And this was the religion of the day. This fungi-pointing has been a bit of a grower of late. We've done the 'Look!' bit (Bug Safari), which led on to the 'We should do one of those walks with a fungi fun guy' bit (Wilderness Woods), to the latest phase which is 'Someone's got a book!' This does also explain the speed of our excursion today. I did say HUNDREDS of mushrooms and toadstools. While the spotters peered and flicked through pages, the leaders would plough on which meant much yelling to get a fix on their coordinates. But gathering around a delicate lilac-coloured mushroom and discovering it's edible was always going to be worth it! A Lilac Bonnet was it? In one ear and out the other with me but when I'm in The Now I'm right keen. Also proper fairytale toadstools which I always get excited about and yet forget their name - Fly Agaric they are! I SHALL remember! And King Alfred's Cakes - so fab. Our lone Dad had his sparking kit and got it alight - I love this stuff!!! We also found another frog (always a draw), a badger or fox skull (not hanging from a tree like a warning or anything - that would be Devon), 2 abandoned shelters, a half-buried motorbike, lots of poo and plenty of happy children.

What would be the collective name be for a gang of mucky semi-wild gobby beautiful Home Ed kids?

There's a challenge.

And the collective name for a gang of mucky semi-wild gobby beautiful Home Ed parents?

Need a book to identify these species. And get the clever latin terms to boot.

Thinking caps on chaps.

Oops....

2010-09-19T12:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, still basking, the Super-Muvva-Glowy thing suddenly realised she'd forgotten one of her closest friend in the whole world's birthday.

Fuck.

Back to being the useless old slut of habit then.

* * * * Sorry C!!! * * HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! * * * *

And it's not the first time. I probably didn't need to tell you that.

I'm just crap at birthdays. And that other thing that begins with C that dare not speak it's name. I gave up the C-word cards many many years ago. And noone notices. Maybe I should just make a national announcement that I shall being doing the same with the B-word.

I know that just lame but...... it will save on text apologies. All apologies are lame really. Sorry.

Being organised ahead of time doesn't help at all. I've got piles of cards that were bought in advance but they still don't get sent. I'm too self-absorbed. Too busy lamenting about the ones I've recently forgotten to remember the next one around.

I used to make all my cards. I now buy them in bulk from that discount place. Even lowering my standards hasn't helped. I need to dump standards altogether I think. Like I dumped my standards of many things I once considered pride-worthy. Like......let's see now...... vocabulary, nutrition, hygiene, parenting..... Yes pretty much everything.

* * Sigh * *

Are Happy Birthday texts good enough? I'm happy with that but I'm weird about birthdays. Just wonder what normal people think about this?

Maybe I should find some.....

Does anyone know any?

I did it!

2010-09-18T02:39:00.000-07:00

THE Most Unorganised Fuckwit on the Planet just shepherded about 150 real people into a popular annual event - some on a Free Entry basis and some on a Discount Entry basis (thereby needing goats and sheep style catagorising) - all by myself - and nobody tried to kill me - and I didn't cry.

This is big. This is a very big thing indeed. Sod birth and death and marriage - I made a phone call. To a real person. Who I didn't know. I made a PHONE CALL !!!!

Recap, nutshelled: (It's a big nut. Like me. Deep breath...)

Last year, out of the blue, I snapped up the phone on an impulse and rang a very nice man at the Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum - just down the road from me - and asked politely about a possible discount for a gang of Home Edders for their annual Woodfair. 'Free Entry on the Friday!' the jolly man kindly offered. On a high, I posted it up on my Home Ed lists and waited for the gush of grateful and praising replies. Got about half a dozen 'Think we're free' s. Still on a high from my phone-phobe victory, I was luminous with pride. I had proved myself worthy of being called a grown-up. At last. Then it dawned that on the date of the Fair, I was going to be in Cornwall. Bugger. Handed my baby over to someone else. But text updates reported that the numbers had crept up to an astounding 50 or so happy Fair-goers. Cool!

And that was that. I had done my bit.

'Are you going to ring Bentley again this year?' sliced through a serene bug safari earlier this summer. 'Er....(shit!) .... oh... yes of course.' (Stupidstupidstupidstupid - the phone thing! The PHONE!!!!') And so it went on for a few weeks... 'Have you rung Bentley yet?' 'What day is it this year?' 'Have we got the same offer as last year?' (Pick up the bloody phone you twat and sort it....it's just a phone for gods' sakes.....you did it last year.... sort of...)

So I did. (Thinking back, it was about this time that I started using deodorant again after 11 years of abstinence). Again very politely enquired about a possible discount, very kindly offered Free Entry on the Friday. I even tried to talk him out of it. 'But there was about 50 of us last year!' 'That's fine'. Blimey. Posted it up. Double luminosity. Then got about 170 enthusiastic 'We'll be there with bells on!' s. Blinded by sudden adulation, said 'Hooray! See you there!' to everyone. The pink clouds parted, the miniscule brain beeped. Shit. Panicked. Hid. Wrestled with The Fear. Eventually phoned again. Very nice man at Bentley obviously trying not to panic too. 'I'll have to contact the Fair Organiser'. He hid. I found him. Struck a deal. The first 75 get Free Entry, from then on a discount. A perfectly OK discount. Not a 'Star Home Ed Organiser of the Century' discount - but come on! Posted latest news up. Hid. 2 nights ago the penny drops as to why so many enthusiastic takers-up had not confirmed that the perfectly OK Discount Entry was perfectly OK: my initial Call to Free Event post had been cross-posted by someone, but the Whoops I've Fucked Up and Now All You Lot Have to Pay post had not. Plop. Visited by The Fear's big brother.

That's why my children had to witness my Scarlett O'Hara-with-a-yam stance this morning as I was cursing the gods of public humiliation for sending such a GLORIOUS sunny autumn day. 'Why isn't it pissing down??!! I don't want anyone to actually come!!!!'

But they did. And so did I. Smeared in fearsome wode and the blood of previous foes, I dealt with the angry mob bearing flaming torches and pitchforks with the bravery of Boudicca against the Romans. You should have seen me!

Actually you would have seen a pitifully apologetic middle-aged meerkat (with more than medically safe layers of mascara) waving a piece of paper about in front of delightfully understanding crowd of very nice parents and their little poppets. (I need that Adjective Anonymous number again.) The only enemy in the pack was the huffy lady at one of the tills being all puffed-up and silly. After my imaginary battles of the previous few days I speared her with no remorse and moved on.

And so, dear friends, allow me to bask in the glow of overcoming a Major Fucking Obstacle (albeit purely mental) in my pathetic little world.

Bask B a s k B a s k B a s k ........

Thanks.

So we were in. Ice-cream to start the day. And sitting on lardy arse in the play area. I know this is how most people would finish the day, but as I have now proved myself to be SuperMuvva grown-up glowy thing, I can do what I bloody well like. Big 2 long-since scampered, I only had my wee 2 to worry about - relative bliss. So we 'did' the thing. Jumped on the mini railway, peered at lots of woody creations, poked some, bashed one with a big stick, dragged Thuglet away quickly, found medieval archery - yay! Little Rock Godling beside himself at hitting the painted knight target 'right in the peanuts!', and Thuglet impressed the nice medieval lady with his apparent duck-to-water action. (It's a weapon, of course he's a natural). Got talking, as I do. Found out where the phrases 'rule of thumb', 'keeping it under your hat' and 'cock-up' originated. Next thing I know words like 'Oh that's very interesting! We're part of a Home Education group - do you come out to groups and do demonstrations and stuff?' are spewing from my stupidstupidstupid lips. What IS wrong with me?

Managed to grab myself by the scruff and frog-marched myself away before I started brewing mead. Distracted again by small boys in a hand-carved dug-out on a very small pool, even let them loose with a mallet to make wooden horses (sigh....sorry - it's a blinkin' dinosaur), meaty shire horses sporting Night Fever flares, Bronze Age roundhouses to destroy, paint to make by smashing things into gorgeous mush, sticks to collect, special stick to drop and cry about, trouser waist-band to ping leaving wearer to moon at passers by for rest of day (this wasn't me for once), friends to gang up with - and chips to smother in sugar (separate tales from reunited big 2). And back at the play area for the big finale - disappearing into the willow tunnels to swap dirty jokes. (That wasn't me either - for twice.)

But the BEST thing was, I got out of sittin' on the Group W bench for a double gymnastics lesson AND Mr GPants did the evening football run. Who knew Fridays could be fun?

Just one problem. Checking the ol' e-mails tonight..... 'So when is the archery?' 'Ooh archery? Put me down for 3' 'Someone say archery? Two please.' 'Fabulous. We'll come too.' 'I'm Spartacus!' 'I'm Spartacus!' 'I'm Brian and so is my wife!'........

Fuck.

I'm Spasticus.

Need more deodorant.

And way more mascara.

Oh and a brain would help.

Shoot them all down. Stamp on their graves. Blacken their names. This will make you feel better about yourself.

2010-09-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

Watched a few bio-pics lately. Always turns out to be a bad thing. Obviously any famous person you ever had any admiration for is a total wanker with no redeeming features whatsoever. This is fact. If you take in this shit that is.

Over the last year or so I have gained so much insight to the creative soul through films and TV dramas. I now realise that in order to create anything beautful or entertaining you have to be an alcoholic bi-polar sociopathic sex-crazed child-hating Tourette's explosive destructive sadistic savage with a penchant for dark green wallpaper. (I think such mournful tones must contrast nicely with dripping gin or something.)

So how come I'm not famous? I can tick most of those boxes. Not telling which.

If you were to swallow all that's put on screen about the people who got off their arses and actually made something of themselves and made lots of other people very happy you would never ever ever watch another Carry On film, or watch any comedy performer of the 1960s or 1970s at all, or read a Virginia Wolf book, or indeed Enid Blyton, or listen to Ian Dury, or Edith Piaf, or ANY country singer (!) or maybe watch, read or listen to anyone/anything ever e v e r E V E R because they are all bastards and you simply can't condone such unforgivable inhumanity.

I wonder what the actors/actresses in these films are thinking while the films are being made? They all seem to be doing their best but inevitably end up looking like end-of-pier painted charicatures while all the other actors around them can do all the clever actingy bits.

Surely possessing talent doesn't automatically begat monsterdom. But 'we' must be demanding it. 'We' only buy newspapers and magazines full of stories and pictures of celebrities being brought down a peg or two. It's the British way. We only pat you on the head and stalk you all the way to the pedestal so that we can put you where we can get a really good clear shot at you.

I'm not asking for a whitewash - just maybe a balance? Or even entertainment?!! Really too suburban of me. Obviously not intelligent enough. Have no idea what film-making is all about. Not a clue about tension and drama. Should go back to Janet and John books. Hang my head in shame for saying out loud that arty films are crap....

......Oh but they bloody are! All this from an ex art student who loitered around the 'film' department for 3 years. It's not sour grapes because I left there without the capability of focusing a camera - honestly. I have goggled and frowned and stroked my chin for hours and hours of my life in front a screen. And I've worn the arty film appreciation beret at so rakish an angle you would die. And I feel totally qualified to blow raspberries at all this depressing hash.

I used to be able to sit through anything. Just in case it had one good line or one nice edit. It could simply be called getting old this impatience thing. If a film doesn't engage me within 10 minutes and hold my pelvic-floor-impaired concentration skills throughout, I just switch off now. I'm like that with books too. No guilt at abandoning somebody's labour of love. Too many mentions of some bird's curly long hair in one chapter and I really can't be arsed to wade through any more.

So if it's not sour grapes on my part, is it rank prunes on the part of these film-makers? There was a hilarious programme on C4 years ago called 'Secret Lives' or 'True Lives' - the basic premise being to besmirch some icon's memory and call it investigative journalism. They did one about Errol Flynn, mentioning his autobiography (which I had already read and gulped at) and promising that their programme would tell the real truth. All the filth they spewed out on the show was plainly IN his autobiography. And they left some juice out. So daft it was kind of admirable that they had such front. But it obviously had to be presented in this way as noone would have watched something that sounded fair. The very idea.

I had a flat-mate once who only liked happy films with white picket-fence endings and roses round the door and I used to tease her for being so dappy. Her argument was that life was rubbish enough and she didn't want to pay to see horribleness when she went out for the evening - she wanted to float on a cloud of lovely lovey love for a little while before coming back down to real strife. And now I am at one with this scene. I've used up all my grim film tokens too. Enough with the rivers of tomato sauce and flicking the volume buttons up and down all the time cos one minute they're muttering by a ticking clock and then they're suddenly screaming death threats in a pounding fetish club scene. Yawn.

Yeah I think I'd better send off for a subscription for Family Circle.

But before I go too far down the road of the vaselined screen-dream, I shall issue a challenge to a British film-maker to present a piece that doesn't take place in a dark green council flat, or a cold stately home, or in the dripping bleak back streets of some evil city. Doesn't contain grisly childhood flashbacks. Doesn't start with promise and chirpy cockerney chai-iking and slump into confused bog of tedium within half an hour. Doesn't have a death/funeral scene - probably with a pale neglected child present. Doesn't have a contrived and confusing 'chase' scene near the end. Doesn't end abruptly with forgotten dangling threads leaving the viewer feeling they have just lost 2 hours of their precious life - time that could have been better spent watching paint dry. Ah I could go on - and I know I do.

Go on you arty tossers, make me a film I CAN watch. Or should I just stick to the olden days films.... Bio-pics of Glenn Miller or George Gershwin that were fast-paced and cheerful and inspiring and happy. Seems a totally mental idea now to expect to be transported to another world for an hour and a half (tops!) and leave with a song in your heart!

So shoot me....

And the Award Goes To.....

2010-09-09T17:21:00.000-07:00

ME!!!

The Award for Least Popular Wife of the Year that is.

As you may have deduced, we have a blinkin' expensive August, followed by a starting-everyflippin'thing-again September which requires lots of sobbing cheque-writing at the worst possible time. If we had a cheque book that is. So I have been on a mission to be the most frugal good wife a striving self-employed man of ever-disappearing means could have. You know, I still haven't replaced my favourite dark green shimmery eye-shadow after the conjunctivitus adventures! THAT's how seriously I'm taking my spartan role.

But...... remember the car? The one I just popped into the garage about 2 weeks ago cos I thought the gears seemed a bit tricky. Well, IT'S READY! And with a service to get it through the MOT (unlike last year) to boot. Good news surely?

Bye bye last little penny in the jar. Bye bye credit card which is soon to be taken away by the nice people to save it from further abuse.

Hello car who isn't worth half as much money as you've just had spent on you. Hello soup. For the next 6 months.

Sod off Xmas. We shan't be needing your services this year.

Hello Freezer of Hate to which our children shall be sending us.

Or is that just me?

Bad Wife! Staaaaaaaay.......within your overdraft limit! DOH! Bad wife!!!!!!!!!!

Euuuuhhhhh....... Someone woke up after I'd got that far the other night and that was that. Abandoned ship. Dredged it up again tonight and had Mr GPants reading it over my shoulder.

'Hmmmmmn'

I think that counts as talking to me.

Five minutes later he came back in all perky. 'I splashed out on something we needed today. Have a look!'

(Oooohh what could it be? I'm all tits and teeth. Has be been in the back room at Ann Summers?)

It's a digital thermometer.

Point those nipples back to the floor.

'Will it work?' (We've had these damn things before. Never work.)

His own happy boy nipples also slump. I've said the wrong thing again. He walks out.

From the kitchen I hear 'You certainly know how to ruin someone's life!'

I can hardly breathe in between silent cackles but manage 'And the award goes to ME!!!'

And tearfully (yes I am sniggering that much), I remember all those songs I have murdered over the years for him with a subtle change of lyrics. That naff one about my dad's dead and I never spoke to him - 'In the living ~~years~~ room'

'You make me feel like a natural ~~woman~~ yoghurt'

... what's that Bob Dylan one - oh yeah Sixteen Years - 'He ~~wakes her up~~ wanks her off'

Ohh - my special favourite - Circles of Your Mind. No lyric change needed. Just a timely pause.... 'Like the ripples of a coin. Someone tosses in a stream'

Ah there's loads that I can't remember until we get a Daddy Special CD in the car. It's not map-reading in our marriage that's the problem. It's not giving due respect to Todd Rundgren.

Firstly I would like to thank my family for moulding my early consciousness into the mis-shapen freak-form jelly I have then had to work with all my life. Thanks you guys. And my darling children. What can I say? You have taken me places I would never have discovered alone. Like Ward 3. And finally my amazing talented beautiful husband, Mr GPants. Without you I would have no joy. Everyone needs a dog to kick. And you are the perfect panting mutt to my shiny wedgey knee-high.

Thank you all! I love you!! God loves you!!! God elp us Get me off this bloody podium you skankhead. I've got a as-yet unblemished exhaust pipe needs this trophy shoved up it. Get out of my way........

Shame On Me

2010-09-01T18:45:00.000-07:00

Been sloughing about in my familiar fog of arsiness - '...house is horrible, want to do something nice but can't til house is less horrible....' ad infinitum. All that counselling and I'm still doing this? And add this to the '...want to earn money but have no real way of doing it.... useless...talentless.... sociopathic.... lazy.... zzzzzzzzz'

I can't even bear to be in the same shower as myself.

And then, just as I'm looking for an excuse to delay going to bed and getting a good night's sleep once again I channel-hop into a documentary about John Callahan - the paraplegic cartoonist. I had one of his postcards on my wall years ago. And this film was really engaging. I felt he was like John Lydon on wheels. Odd and spiky here and there yet actually very sweet. Looking at him I thought well he must have got his feeling back in his hands to be able to draw. Then I saw him drawing - with the pen pinned between his hands. And he writes songs. And strums at a ukelele on his lap. Blows a mean harp. And sings. Really quite beautifully. Really quite beautiful songs. And I felt shamed. Embarrassed by my self-pitying lack of gumption.

The title of the film was one of his songs. 'Touch Me Where I Can Feel It' - at least I think that was it was. I didn't even 'get' how much that meant until after I'd cleaned my teeth. I thought I'll just check that on Wiki - I couldn't find that but at the bottom it said he died in July. Blimey. I feel completely bereft now. And shamed.

I had the same feeling sometime last year when I saw the film 'The Diving Bell and the Butterfly' based on the book written by a man who could only communicate with the blink of one eye. Had to read the book. Read it in one night. Awed and shamed.

Every so often I need a kick up the arse. Just to remind myself of my luck. And lack. Lack of appreciation.

Now if I really did want to write that book I keep banging on about, well I just would, wouldn't I?

There Ain't No Cure for the Summertime Pinks.......

2010-08-30T11:35:00.000-07:00

Ol' Red Eyes is back. Back on the screen. Now able once again to spend hours with her cyber life without having to fling up her arms and scream like Bela Lugosi. Yes, the rabid conjunctivitus is finally ebbing away. Just slightly pale pink albino bunny eyes now. The occasional dab of a hankie. Old prescription sun-glasses that slide off the face put away again until the next foolish notion. Or the next re-infection. Yes she's back. And this time, she's mascara-free. If the red swollen pus-dripping blistering blood-eyed gorgon didn't scare you, Madame SG without her lady-disguise will send you howling for mercy. Look away. Look away now or so help me you'll freeze-crack in sheer terror.

Really, the last non-family member to see me without my face is still being fed with a spoon. That was New Year's Day um..... 199something. Poor boy.

And then, we were setting off for a friend's last BBQ on English soil. This is my husband's most glamourous and gorgeous sexy female friend. I have a massive spot on the right of my nose and the left eye of Satan's grandmother. 'Oh don't worry what you look like. It's not a competition honey' he says. The stupidity of the male can still silence me. But not for very long. Just long enough for him to duck.

It wouldn't have been nearly so bad if on the way the pharmacist hadn't winced in disgust and slapped that antibiotic ointment in my leperous hand. She sneered at my self-healing efforts of salt water and honey and yoghurt and tea bags. OK the teabags weren't chamomile. Nettle and spearmint aren't as soothing as they could be but the wayward eyeball cream was ferocious. I felt the left hand side of my face swell like a beachball and started sobbing along to the ABBA CD in the car. It was supposed to be feel-good sing-a-long to get us in the mood for cheery black sausages under grey skies. But knowing me knowing you darling can't you hear me the winner takes it all ain't it sad.... It's all too true, too true and I can't keep it in! I make everyone wait when we arrive while I patch up the streaks in my face powder and balance the sun-glasses back on my snotty nose. I emerge from the back of the car like a star. Feel like a twat.

By the way it wasn't my car. That's been sheltering in the bosom of the garage for some time now. Pleading to the mechanics 'Don't send me back there! They're maniacs!' But we shall be reunited soon I hope. And I will promise to not wreck another gear box and clutch this year. I'm not sure how many more light-hearted yet begging phone calls to my mum I am allowed in this lifetime. Still we got a ride in Mr GPants' 'nice' car. Only grown-up rubbish in it. A rare treat. Then we can send the traumatised little courtesy Punto back to its family. Due to the skanky eyes it's had more rest than expected, albeit shivering in the rain under flaps of bubble wrap held on with bricks and a watering can. It's lack of action in effect set it up as a sitting duck. One shattered back windshield later...... That Thuglet has one hell of a golf swing, just needs to work on his aim.

On the subject of golf balls ..... Being drawn into this house of all things creepy, crawly and growly and clawy, I was glued to a programme last night about crocodilians. (Get me.) And they demonstrated their speed of attack through the water using a golf ball as the illustration. It's all in the rough skin. And the related dimples on a golf ball reduce the drag by a half in comparison to an equal sized smooth ball. My mind starts ticking..... Still haven't rigged up our stream-lining experiments. Must buy smooth balls for Thuglet Woods. Wonder how fast my arse could fly?

Anyway, for all my previous whingeing about having a proper 'summer holidays', I then found myself in quarantine after all, blindly unable to enjoy it. The agony and the ecstasy indeed. Driven into the ground. Me and the car. All that tidying effort and now look. Filth returns to taunt me. Still, found a few weeping moments to work on my little pap mach tree. If I can't bear the real outside sunlight (what little there was), and only peek through dirty windows at my flittle butterflies, I can shrink my mind to gazing at a 2' tree instead. And shrink. And think. Tree. Branch. Twig. Blip!

A couple of days later I find myself bullied into the Summer Slam - a 'fun' free family fling in the middle of a park I normally get to sit still in. I'm not really ready to be out. I seem to be barking rather that speaking. I don't understand why people have to have 'fun'. Or why we have to queue to have it. And be surrounded by other people's children having it. I want to go back to my self-controlled shrunken mind-womb. But on picking up my missing football star from his chum's that afternoon I am bolted into an air-punching back-flip. There I sit with a nice cup of tea amid rows of neatly stacked ironed and labelled school shirts. Ha haaah.... I think I can just pick up the scent of my missing mojo again. Alarm clocks, bus stops, lunch-boxes, PE kits...... All can float past us social pop-outs. Not for us non-tow-the-liners! Yes, I can definitely smell it. The warm familiar hum of smugness. It may not be a pleasant odour to anyone else, a bit like a boy and his own farts, but it's so very comforting to me. (Actually it may be related to not bundling the kids into the bath every Sunday night. Perhaps I'd better hose them down soon though. If only for the sake of the courtesy car.)

But it's not like they're avoiding water altogether. Gorilla boy has been checking his little tank of £12.99 birthday money Triops every 10 minutes since he set it up. Been well over a week now and naafink. However, outside in the abandoned blackened slime-store previously known as our paddling pool it is teeming with life. The mini biologists have been busy. I no longer have a single mixing bowl or measuring jug left in the kitchen but they have incubators and observation podules all set up. One even made it onto the kitchen counter when the Chief Supervising Ecologist was worried the torrential rain would overflow their outdoor laboratory. No nice short-lifed educational little pre-packed shrimp things then. Houseful of mosquito larvae instead. Thank you boys.

Despite my reservations I did have to scrawl a name into a couple of footbally things this week and was worried enough about Little Rock Godling being abandoned for 5 hours among actual humans. He'd wanted to join in with a special Goalkeeping Day where big bruv was already signed up for the usual Skills Course. Now I regularly deposit Gorilla Boy on muddy pitches all over the land with no real concern but his younger skinnier surreal scarecrow sib? What would nice people make of him? Daddy flung them both out of the car and skidded off as fast as he could before anyone could catch his eye. He came back early however to check out the experiment and discovered that all the kids on the goalkeeping gig were as bonkers and cloth-eared as our own dear little muppet. He said it was as if they had gathered together all the little retard boys that the other players had told to 'just go in goal'. So Little RG perfectly at home, bless him. No offense to goalkeepers. Or to retards. Or even to LRG. Obviously huge offense to everyone else but hey......

And while I was indisposed Mr GPants had to do the ice rink run too and here's more bad news: Minx says he's more embarrassing than me. How can this be? I practice and practice til I'm fit to drop - he just turns up once in a blue and it comes naturally. I dropped to my knees and asked her 'HOW? HOW????' 'Mum, he calls out "Jazz hands! Jazz hands darling!"' God, he's good.

So now I am back in the 'outside world'. Even done a supermarket cruise. With 3 sugar-magnet boys. Trial by packaging. It's funny what attracts children really. I don't usually even blink before refusing most aloft prize hopes. 'Do you want this Mummy?' from the smallest in a sweet tone made me look. Tena Lady Pants. Pants! I didn't even know they did pants. Well I never! I'm looking too long and thinking too much. Snap out of it! 'Oh.... no thank you darling. Not yet.' .....Wow, they do pants......

And next week the world and its offspring crank into uniformed drill once more. I'll be back in the fray myself - albeit more like paintball than actual war. Way more fun but still exhausting. And The X Factor is back on Saturday nights for the next 6 months. Here come the winds of change. Blow the whistle - over the top lads, over the top.

Summer! What happened? Where did it go? They've all gone up a shoe size and down a haircut size. And I don't seem to have anything to do with it. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. And they all get a bit more mouthy. And a bit less blond(e).

So, adding another layer, what have I learned this Summer Holiday?

Well..... Be careful what you wish for (again), pharmacists are the devil's agents, ABBA are all too deep, I am a crap driver, golf balls can be interesting, no school is well cool, goalkeepers are nature's outsiders, butterflies are life's breath, the house will very quickly return to its natural wild state and perhaps even eat me, ignoring the garden is ecologically rewarding, they do Tena Lady pants now, childhood really is as fleeting as all those nice older ladies in shops say, less really is more and my sunglasses still don't fit. Oh - and the pride in my one talent, being the Most Embarrassing Parent, has been squashed.

To sum up the way Life just keeps on balancing things out, I shall leave you with a profound discourse from 2 enlightened Wise Women (ie Me and Minx):

M I don't like feet.
MSG They are quite handy.
M But hands are not very feety.

And the leaves start to fall.......

I must get a life

2010-08-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

I must not only get a life but keep me trap shut. This week's clutch control foot's day off is or was tomorrow - but of course when asked 'are you free tomorrow afternoon?' I say '..er...yes.' Now I've fluffed up all my feathers and am slumped like a fat vulture. All thundercloudy-faced. And only myself to blame - even more lemon-sucky.

I could have had a life tomorrow. That's a mind-fuck sentence for you. Mind-fuck lemon-suck.

But there was today afternoon. So I decided to mend things. And failed. Precious things. Easily broken pottery things I had made when I had a life! And now my last failure, which is kind of an outsider-possible-success (it really isn't but I just wanted to type in the word 'success' to see what it looked like ....looks like 'suck-cess' in my head) is now resting/balancing/drying/setting (whatever) in the spot where I want to continue to make my little pap mach tree - the thing that actually does make me happy (see - there is something). So, here I am on Mr G I-Work-From-Home-Now Pants' upstairs computer which is really clonky and irritating instead of doing the thing that makes me happy cos I've got to wait for something which didn't to be so past help I chuck it out. Well, by chuck it out I mean leave in a shoebox somewhere for 6 years. And I wonder why I have made such a mess of my life. Cloudy thinking. Thundercloudy clonky thinking. OK - thinking's the wrong word. Black thundercloudy clonky bloody anticlockwise antisocial lemon sucking then. In fact it's the lemon that's got tears in its eyes. THAT's how sour I am.

But there's always tomorrow morning. Maybe tomorrow morning I won't have a face like a smacked arse. I might not be waving a clenched fist at the world because it failed to invite me to it's party. And of course I may have even thought up that perfect idea for instant money-making - the one where I do fuck all with fuck all talent in fuck all time and earn fuckloads. It could just happen. Tomorrow.

Meanwhile I shall scour the sweetie tin for the last Quality Street (or Squalourty Sweet) even if it is the strawberry one, and count my blessings.

* * * * * * * * *

OK done that. Now have a strawberry-flavoured goop sucky face.

I know what I need. If you were to look at http://www.xtremefalconry.co.uk (dammit I'd hoped that would pop up as a different colour and be all accessible .....sigh...) you could peek at some pictures of most talontastic birds of prey. In particular you could feast your minces on a Bateleur Eagle called Talisman. She came to say hello to our gang in our 'new' hall yesterday - with some of her hard-ass chums. Now she's a feisty ol' gal who'd apparently been passed from pillar to post due to thundercloudy unsociable behaviour (that's my girl!) until the Xtremefalconry chaps got a hold of her. Bein' a venomous snake-eatin' predator an' all she is kinda supposed to be a tad aggresive like. But the chap yesterday explained how this type of boid sleeps nestled up against their mate (q unusual in bird of prey world) and how the male would start the day with a good 20 mins of so of grooming his woman - particularly round the back of her neck. Now this sends this puffed up scary bitch into a totally ecstatic trance. All her spikey-up feathers sleek down and she is immediately entranced. The chap showed us. There were about 20 women in that sports hall who all cooed and sighed at the same time.... 'I w a n t t h a t ......'

THAT's what this fearful red-eyed clown-haired old trout needs. Some sort of stupor-inducing tickling trick. Do me the world of good that would. Anyone know a good Bateleur Casanova?

We saw a fair few impressive feathers yesterday. A Peregrine Falcon, a Harris Hawk, a Kestrel, and 3 different owls. I LOVE owls. A 'baby' Asian something Owl, a Barn Owl (who clipped the top of me head as she swooped across the hall), and the most breathtaking European Eagle Owl. Just like in the Gruffalo. Little Rock Godling and I were totally enraptured. (Thuglet was.... well he's 4, Minx ducked out after the Barn Owl - not enough eye-liner or over-the-boot tights to hold her interest and Jack Russell Boy was too engrossed in being allowed into hallowed circle of bigger cousin and his Playstation at Nanny and Grandad's for an extra day to come - shame really as he would have been in creature-mad boy heaven...but he was in big cousin and small dog boy heaven instead.) And did you know that mouse wee glows in UV light? That's how clever little Kestrels spot'em. They have UV peepers and when the constant trickle of electic blue wee starts to puddle, they swoop on the halted dirty little suckers. Ha!

And every night the boy's 'stories' are library books about deep sea life, or reptiles or bug-eating plants (as well as blinkin' dinosaurs). And they want to KNOW all this detail stuff - how big, how old, what they eat, where, how..... and teeth in giant squid tentacles' suckers? Oh my boggling convulsions! Well, I'm learning loads. They're happy. And I've managed to hurl The Jolly Bloody Postman in the charity bag. God I hate that book. That alone makes me feel a bit slinkier-feathered. And to top ALL this - Minx has started to read A book! A real book. A novel. Yeeflippinhaw!!!

There now. All sleek and shiny again. Despite my fingers smelling of 3-day-old curry (another fabulous nay facksome leftovers dinner bonanza - ricotta and spinach pasta things left over from lunch with the least unappetizing bits of the above-mentioned curry). And you may have thought I didn't have a life! (What gave you that idea?) You've not lived unless you've had one of my dinners. Obviously you may not live if you do. But I can take it - constitution of a slut. I'm snake-snappin' screecher who just needs a little good lovin' now and then. The occasional goopy chocolate. And an upstairs computer where I can hide for almost 10 mins before small boys can find me.

Blessings indeed.

OK I still need to learn to button it when I'm asked if I'm doing anything tomorrow but I feel better already. What's another day out of my amazing life gonna cost? (Two pap mach branches and Nov 08 to Jan 09 scrapbook catch-up probably.)

Oh damnedy doo doos - I could've done that instead of sittin' here playin' tippety-tappety on the mind-suckin' 'puter.... Doh!

As some Scouse strummer once said - 'Life is what happens to you when you're busy sucking a lemon'. Or something like that.

Oh go ask a giant squid.