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!!!!!
Friday, 4 November 2011
Thursday, 3 November 2011
Born Again Twat
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.
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.
Monday, 24 October 2011
This is just a lie!
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....
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Eerie Radio Silence...
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....
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....
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Summer's Here and the Time is Right....
....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....
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....
Friday, 22 July 2011
Think Of Me...
'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.....
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.....
Saturday, 16 July 2011
High Jinks to Low Camp
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?
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?
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