You know your day's set to go badly when it starts off with a yawn so big you pull a muscle in your jaw. Honestly, I felt like a snake trying to swallow an egg! We had some crazy weather today too; it started off cloudy and muggy and then the sky went a peculiar shade of greeny/grey - like something out of 'the wizard of Oz', shortly before it absolutely scythed it down with the worst thunderstorms we've seen it ages. The contents of our garage (including all 150 of the kids vehicles and my new mower - more about that in a minute) are spread out all over the back lawn drying, thanks to the garage flooding. I love a good thunderstorm me, always have. Although peering out the window squeaking "Did you hear that?! Look at that rain!" is entirely different to going out in it to do the school run. I set out this afternoon to fetch The Daughter in just a t-shirt (because I figured the less I wore, the less I'd need to get dry when it rained) armed with a brolly, and wouldn't you just know it? Glorious chuffing sunshine. All of those people who had come out wearing anoraks and expecting rain were now sweating into their polyester sauna-coats. And we had a moment of mirth when the boy from round the corner was riding his bike around the street, fell off and was practically submerged in about 2ft of standing water on the road!
Ooh, yes! My new lawnmower! You may remember that I mowed over the wire of the old one, thanks to "Oooh-Ooooh!" the neighbour distacting me. Well, despite setting the guinea pigs to work daily and having begged, stolen and borrowed mowers from family and neighbours for the past few months, my parents bought us a new one! To be fair my dad probably got cheesed off with having to bring his mower round here on a weekly basis. But it's not just one of those cheapy plastic things that would have been perfectly happy with. Oh no. It's an actual proper grown-ups mower - a Bosch no less! I eagerly set about mowing my front lawn, proudly taking my time (which wasn't hard because the bloody thing weighs a ton) so everyone saw, and hoping "Oooh-Ooooh!" didn't come out and throw me into a panic. In the back garden I quietly marvelled at how close I could get to the edge of the lawn without the blades hitting the paving slabs like an angle grinder, and the capacity of the grass collecting box. Cor, I really do need to get out more. Speaking of "Oooh-Ooooh!"... she recently fell and had a spell in a nursing home which nobody really expected her to come home from. But she did, and has gone from having hardly any visitors (and knocking on our door at 10pm because her kitchen light's gone off) to having crowds of people turning up daily. Now, the nice bit of me would think 'Ah, how lovely! They've realised how much she means to them and are turning up, en masse, to show her their devotion in her final days!'. Except the massive, loudmouthed cynic in me cancels out the voice of the nice bit by shouting "You know that they've spent the last ten years doing their best to avoid her constant bleating and pretending she's losing her marbles, and are now forcing themselves to spend half an hour listening to her talking about her sciatica whilst simultaneously casting their eyes about the house and earmarking what they want when she's dead!" And quite honestly, who am I to argue with a massive, loudmouthed cynic? Especially when it's right!
Thursday 28 June 2012
Sunday 24 June 2012
Old skool
Another few weeks and The Daughter will have completed her first year at school! It only seems a minute ago that I was spending a small fortune on her uniform and ...oh, sorry, it was just a few minutes ago as I've just done the uniform order for next year. Anyway. So yes, in September I'll have one at school and The Boychild will be starting pre-school. And this empty-nest realisation got me thinking about my school days, most of which I hated if I'm honest. Or maybe it's just that my raddled old baby brain is only holding onto the bad bits, leaving the good bits to go floating off into to join everything I learnt at University and the memories of where I left my spare car key. I remember some strange things about school, mainly the teachers and the people who left lasting memories on me, for good reasons or bad. Names shall be changed to protect the not-so-innocent and I apologise if you recognise yourselves in any of the memories that may follow. Considering it was *cough*overtwentyfive*cough* years ago, I probably remember my Junior school days with more fondness than any of the others. Like the time I went on a weekend barge trip with some classmates, my first time away from home without my parents. The teacher in charge (Mr B) amazed us by telling us he had 5 sugars in his tea, so, after asking him if he wanted a drink we made him a brew. With 12 sugars in. And stood sniggering at the other end of the boat as he drank it without flinching. I can feel the enamel peeling off my teeth just thinking about it. We made our own breakfasts, and one girl spread her toast with literally a two inch slice of butter because she'd never had to do it before. And the same teacher, Mr B, took one of my friends aside for 'a chat' at school to discuss her attitude problem. Bloody idiot! I'm having my mum up to school about this, as if I've got an attitude problem!" Indeed.
I remember losing out on the part of Jack, in Jack and The Beanstalk but the boy who was chosen in my place couldn't sing. So I had to sing his songs, offstage, with him miming along to my voice. This proved, of course, to be a ridiculous idea and after a few shambolic rehearsals he handed the part over to me. My career in theatre was short-lived as my little knees actually knocked with fear - you could almost hear the banging noise over my singing! Which brings me on to Mrs R, the choir teacher, who encouraged us to contort our mouths into all sorts of crazy shapes whilst singing. "Masticate!" she would shout, "SINGGGGGGG the words!". Even as an adult, the word 'masticate' has me sniggering. Then there was our acting headmaster Mr H who, when he got exasperated (which was fairly frequently) would slap his forehead and shout "Mamma Mia!"; like a red rag to a bull for a class of 8 year olds.
Senior school wasn't quite so fun at times, with lots of name calling and occasionally worse. I hadn't realised back then it is considered a crime to be tall and skinny. Had I known this I would, of course,have made sure I remained short and squat between the ages of 11-16. My first form teacher, Mr J, had a talent of being able to turn his eyelids inside out. And once he discovered it completely freaked me out, he would regularly enjoy sneaking up on me while I was concentrating on my work (or gossiping like an old woman about Mark Owen's bum) and appearing over my shoulder with his eyes all inside out. Oh, how I laughed! The teachers in the CDT department were a source of some laughter for us girls. There was one teacher who seemed to model himself on Shakin Stevens, albeit with an argyle jumper and rubbish highlights, who would surreptitiously gawp at the girls chests (although not mine, I didn't have one til I was about 25). Then there was Mr K, with the hair of a Trappist monk and an over-bite so big and wonky he could eat both sides of an apple at the same time. My best friend and I would write letters to each other in quite possibly the worst code in the world, full of bitchy comments about other friends and declaring our undying love for whoever it was we fancied that week. I still have a fondness for Jason Donovan and Bergerac all these years later. Sigh.
I hope The Daughter, as she carries on her journey through school, collects and remembers all the happy times and forgets about those times she had to do netball and hockey in the bloody winter with fingers so cold they're about to snap off. With a bit of luck she'll be pretty and clever and have 500 friends on Facebook. Oh, and not be tall and skinny!
I remember losing out on the part of Jack, in Jack and The Beanstalk but the boy who was chosen in my place couldn't sing. So I had to sing his songs, offstage, with him miming along to my voice. This proved, of course, to be a ridiculous idea and after a few shambolic rehearsals he handed the part over to me. My career in theatre was short-lived as my little knees actually knocked with fear - you could almost hear the banging noise over my singing! Which brings me on to Mrs R, the choir teacher, who encouraged us to contort our mouths into all sorts of crazy shapes whilst singing. "Masticate!" she would shout, "SINGGGGGGG the words!". Even as an adult, the word 'masticate' has me sniggering. Then there was our acting headmaster Mr H who, when he got exasperated (which was fairly frequently) would slap his forehead and shout "Mamma Mia!"; like a red rag to a bull for a class of 8 year olds.
Senior school wasn't quite so fun at times, with lots of name calling and occasionally worse. I hadn't realised back then it is considered a crime to be tall and skinny. Had I known this I would, of course,have made sure I remained short and squat between the ages of 11-16. My first form teacher, Mr J, had a talent of being able to turn his eyelids inside out. And once he discovered it completely freaked me out, he would regularly enjoy sneaking up on me while I was concentrating on my work (or gossiping like an old woman about Mark Owen's bum) and appearing over my shoulder with his eyes all inside out. Oh, how I laughed! The teachers in the CDT department were a source of some laughter for us girls. There was one teacher who seemed to model himself on Shakin Stevens, albeit with an argyle jumper and rubbish highlights, who would surreptitiously gawp at the girls chests (although not mine, I didn't have one til I was about 25). Then there was Mr K, with the hair of a Trappist monk and an over-bite so big and wonky he could eat both sides of an apple at the same time. My best friend and I would write letters to each other in quite possibly the worst code in the world, full of bitchy comments about other friends and declaring our undying love for whoever it was we fancied that week. I still have a fondness for Jason Donovan and Bergerac all these years later. Sigh.
I hope The Daughter, as she carries on her journey through school, collects and remembers all the happy times and forgets about those times she had to do netball and hockey in the bloody winter with fingers so cold they're about to snap off. With a bit of luck she'll be pretty and clever and have 500 friends on Facebook. Oh, and not be tall and skinny!
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Doing It Yourself
Despite my best attempts, the Boychild has not contracted the pox. I have foisted him on his sister as often as possible over the last few weeks, and taken him on every school run in the hope some of the germs floating around the playground will find their way up his nose, but no - it is not to be.He's obviously waiting for a more convenient time, like Christmas, or our family holiday. The Daughter has reached the 'the urge to pick at the massive scabs is just too great' stage, so I've stopped my "It'll scar!" mantra and just leave her to it. In fact I have to stop myself from reaching over and having a good pick at her head, so I'm in no position to say anything. It was the Boychild's 3rd birthday over the weekend and, as predicted, as soon as the sugar rush had subsided we had tears. From the over-excited kids, and nearly some from Mummy. He had yet another ride-on vehicle to add to the vast collection in the garage; there are now 6 between 2 of them, and they STILL argue about who goes on what! Now my baby is growing up and a proper little lad I'm trying to decide whether I feel broody or not. Sometimes my womb goes all lairy - like when I watch 'One Born Every Minute', but then other times my common sense gives me a stern talking to and I realise I'd rather pull out my toenails than do the sleepless nights thing again. The Daughter only just tolerates her brother as it is, so if we brought another into the equation she'd probably put herself up for adoption. Actually, that's not a bad idea...!
Having decorated The Daughter's room over the half term holiday, I'd been well and truly bitten by the bug and decided to spruce up the lounge. I managed to varnish the doors and paint the walls easily enough while the kids were elsewhere, and shut the cats outside while it was drying. I let them back in as I was moving the furniture back into position, not realising the moronic brindle one was behind the settee. She got stuck, and as I lifted her out by the scruff, she got covered in almost-dry paint and half of her is a lovely shade of Natural Taffeta.
After my decorating marathon had finished I popped down to Boots to buy the Tuesday magazines (girls will know what I mean - Tuesday is magazine day!) with my Advantage card points. While I was there I went for a mooch around to see what I could throw money-I-don't-have at and saw some tiny bottles of some Vichy skincare on the shelves. I asked the mahogany coloured shop assistant (I honestly took a sharp intake of breath when I saw her, her bedsheets must look like a month at Glastonbury) whether they were travel sized versions or samples, and after much fannying about, we arrived at the conclusion that they were free samples. "Help yourself" she said. And as the look of glee spread across my chops, I thanked the good Lord above that I had left the house with my Tardis handbag and did just that - to all 7 bottles! So tonight will mainly consist of me trying out my new free skincare regime and reading my free magazines. Anyone know how to get emulsion off a cat by the way?
Having decorated The Daughter's room over the half term holiday, I'd been well and truly bitten by the bug and decided to spruce up the lounge. I managed to varnish the doors and paint the walls easily enough while the kids were elsewhere, and shut the cats outside while it was drying. I let them back in as I was moving the furniture back into position, not realising the moronic brindle one was behind the settee. She got stuck, and as I lifted her out by the scruff, she got covered in almost-dry paint and half of her is a lovely shade of Natural Taffeta.
After my decorating marathon had finished I popped down to Boots to buy the Tuesday magazines (girls will know what I mean - Tuesday is magazine day!) with my Advantage card points. While I was there I went for a mooch around to see what I could throw money-I-don't-have at and saw some tiny bottles of some Vichy skincare on the shelves. I asked the mahogany coloured shop assistant (I honestly took a sharp intake of breath when I saw her, her bedsheets must look like a month at Glastonbury) whether they were travel sized versions or samples, and after much fannying about, we arrived at the conclusion that they were free samples. "Help yourself" she said. And as the look of glee spread across my chops, I thanked the good Lord above that I had left the house with my Tardis handbag and did just that - to all 7 bottles! So tonight will mainly consist of me trying out my new free skincare regime and reading my free magazines. Anyone know how to get emulsion off a cat by the way?
Sunday 10 June 2012
Bring out your dead!
What's been happening on Planet Bob of late? Well, last week was half term, and after our trip to Crich (not Cr-itch) we had a fairly sedate week. Until Friday, when I noticed The Daughter had a few tiny spots on her back that she wouldn't stop faffing with. On Saturday we got her out of bed to find she was riddled. The Pox had struck!! I ran straight downstairs to paint a big red cross on the front door and text the family and put them on Red Alert. At first she was very excited, and insisted I count her spots (nearly 60, rising to several million over the weekend) but since then - as the spots have spread to inside her ears, on her lips, right next to her eyes, on her scalp and all over her 'bits' - her excitement has waned somewhat and the fun has all but gone. I'm willing The Boychild to get it so it's over and done with, and have put in place CEO (Compulsory Embracing Orders) barking "Hug your brother!" at her in the hope her germs will spread. Coincedentally, I had a text from the Mum of one of The Daughters schoolfriends this morning. We shall call him 'E'. Apparently 'E' has chickenpox, and could I look after him for a bit tomorrow while Mum pops into work briefly? I was just in the middle of replying to said text when I bumped into 'E' and his Mum in Asda. Was it wrong that I was almost proud The Daughter had more spots than him? Nothing brings out competitiveness more than illness, and I made a mental note to give her an extra big hug for being the spottiest little urchin. Just before tea there was a knock at the door and on the doorstep stood 'E', wanting to know if The Daughter could go out to play. There then followed a brief exchange, whereby The Daughter pulled up her t-shirt to proudly display her pustules. 'E' followed suit, proclaiming "I've got more than you!", to which The Daughter trumped his efforts by proceeding to yank down her jeans and pants right there in the hallway. 'E's mouth dropped open, and he ran down the driveway, no doubt in a state of shock to tell his Mum he'd seen a girls bum. What an introduction to the world of women!
This week has also been the week where I have embarked upon a new exercise regime. My hour-every-second-day at the gym had kind of plateaud and I wasn't really noticing the benefits anymore. So I started a programme called the 30 Day Shred, having read a few snippets about it via friends on Facebook. Mainly about how much their arses were killing and how it'd nearly made them sick. My kinda workout!! Whilst waiting for the DVD to arrive I have been using videos posted on YouTube and bouncing about in front of the laptop (how very glamourous, I know) with the curtains shut so the pervy neighbour doesn't drop dead of a heart attack. Now, I consider myself to be pretty fit already but Christ on a bike!! Doing this on the days I don't go to the gym is literally crippling me! Going upstairs is ok, but coming downstairs I feel like a cow, my legs refuse to bend and all you can hear is me chuntering "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow" and then "For f*cks sake!" with relief as I get to the bottom. Sitting down to wee involves me holding onto the sink and lowering myself tentatively down onto the seat as my leg muscles pop like fireworks. But as Jillian Michael's keeps telling me from my netbook screen, "The ones that hurt are the ones that work!". Which is fine for her, with her bum like a shelf and abs like a plaited loaf. So the house is like something from 'The Walking Dead' at the minute - with The Daughter looking like a zombie and me walking like one. It should be back to school tomorrow, but the spotty one will be at home joined by the not-quite-so-spotty 'E', and me with my useless legs. Honestly, you couldn't make this stuff up.
This week has also been the week where I have embarked upon a new exercise regime. My hour-every-second-day at the gym had kind of plateaud and I wasn't really noticing the benefits anymore. So I started a programme called the 30 Day Shred, having read a few snippets about it via friends on Facebook. Mainly about how much their arses were killing and how it'd nearly made them sick. My kinda workout!! Whilst waiting for the DVD to arrive I have been using videos posted on YouTube and bouncing about in front of the laptop (how very glamourous, I know) with the curtains shut so the pervy neighbour doesn't drop dead of a heart attack. Now, I consider myself to be pretty fit already but Christ on a bike!! Doing this on the days I don't go to the gym is literally crippling me! Going upstairs is ok, but coming downstairs I feel like a cow, my legs refuse to bend and all you can hear is me chuntering "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow" and then "For f*cks sake!" with relief as I get to the bottom. Sitting down to wee involves me holding onto the sink and lowering myself tentatively down onto the seat as my leg muscles pop like fireworks. But as Jillian Michael's keeps telling me from my netbook screen, "The ones that hurt are the ones that work!". Which is fine for her, with her bum like a shelf and abs like a plaited loaf. So the house is like something from 'The Walking Dead' at the minute - with The Daughter looking like a zombie and me walking like one. It should be back to school tomorrow, but the spotty one will be at home joined by the not-quite-so-spotty 'E', and me with my useless legs. Honestly, you couldn't make this stuff up.
Monday 4 June 2012
Luvvly Jubilee!
This weekend is the Queen's 60th Jubilee, when most people get to spend an extra day off work queuing in Asda or visiting the DFS 'extra-20%-off-the-already-half-price-sale-that-must-end-Tuesday-but-starts-again-on-Wednesday' sale. This weekend has cost us a fortune so far. On Friday The Daughter had Jubilee celebrations at school, which involved Mummy having to buy a Queen's costume, stuff to make and decorate a crown, and a special Jubilee cupcake that we were meant to make at home. Many thanks to Greggs for doing such a good job for me though, and after a morning of The Daughter swinging her lunchbag about, it certainly looked home-made!
Today we had our first full day out as a family (The Boychild has had an afternoon sleep until recently, rather limiting our outings), and having winced our way through the prices of possible places (HOW MUCH to queue all day for slow-ass rides at Gullivers Kingdom?!) we finally settled on Crich Tramway musuem, especially as they were holding special Jubilee celebrations. After joining the rest of the Midlands at Asda to buy some travel sickness tablets for The Boychild (who gets carsick as soon as you start the engine), we set out. The journey was punctuated by The Husband pronouncing it 'Cr-itch' and then trying to make out it was a joke, followed by a bit of banter and then a row when he wasn't concentrating on the road and nearly knocked over a 100 year old stone monument.
Both the Childbeasts were impeccably behaved all morning, absolutely loving the Trams and not mithering for sweets. After lunch we went to watch a Punch and Judy show which was, err...interesting. All the kids absolutely loved it, but as Mr Punch started smacking Judy with a stick, and then Judy started smacking Mr Punch with a stick, and then the Policeman came and started smacking them both with a stick, all the parents began exchanging concerned glances and the man next to me whispered to his wife "This isn't very pc is it?!". Luckily the kids took it at face value, and Mummy didn't have to answer any awkward questions about police brutality. It was afternoon when the tiredness kicked in, The Daughter started her constant nagging for treats and The Boychild began to throw himself down on the floor screeching whenever we told him "No". Which wasn't embarrassing at all. So we decided it was hometime, after stopping at George's Tradition (the best fish and chips in the World) for tea, where The Boychild threw beans everywhere and waved his bean-covered hands at all the elderly women, making their shrivelled up wombs contract with joy.
Although we still have one more day of the Bank holiday left, tomorrow will be a Jubilee free day. Ok, it will be allowed as long as it doesn't involve me spending any more money. I think I'll go to the gym, I should be able to avoid handing over any cash in there. Although, I'd happily pay to see what happened on Saturday morning again. I was on the treadmill, half watching QVC and half listening to Boring FM (you have no idea how hard it is trying to work out to Richard Marx and Barry White) when someone switched channel and 'LMFAO's' "Sexy and I know it" came on. Watching the Muscle Mary's trying desperately not to lift their weights and grunt in time to the music, and everyone else exchanging smirks at them was worth the monthly fee alone. All I need is for them to be dressed in Union Jack lycra shorts tomorrow, and my life will be complete!
Today we had our first full day out as a family (The Boychild has had an afternoon sleep until recently, rather limiting our outings), and having winced our way through the prices of possible places (HOW MUCH to queue all day for slow-ass rides at Gullivers Kingdom?!) we finally settled on Crich Tramway musuem, especially as they were holding special Jubilee celebrations. After joining the rest of the Midlands at Asda to buy some travel sickness tablets for The Boychild (who gets carsick as soon as you start the engine), we set out. The journey was punctuated by The Husband pronouncing it 'Cr-itch' and then trying to make out it was a joke, followed by a bit of banter and then a row when he wasn't concentrating on the road and nearly knocked over a 100 year old stone monument.
Both the Childbeasts were impeccably behaved all morning, absolutely loving the Trams and not mithering for sweets. After lunch we went to watch a Punch and Judy show which was, err...interesting. All the kids absolutely loved it, but as Mr Punch started smacking Judy with a stick, and then Judy started smacking Mr Punch with a stick, and then the Policeman came and started smacking them both with a stick, all the parents began exchanging concerned glances and the man next to me whispered to his wife "This isn't very pc is it?!". Luckily the kids took it at face value, and Mummy didn't have to answer any awkward questions about police brutality. It was afternoon when the tiredness kicked in, The Daughter started her constant nagging for treats and The Boychild began to throw himself down on the floor screeching whenever we told him "No". Which wasn't embarrassing at all. So we decided it was hometime, after stopping at George's Tradition (the best fish and chips in the World) for tea, where The Boychild threw beans everywhere and waved his bean-covered hands at all the elderly women, making their shrivelled up wombs contract with joy.
Although we still have one more day of the Bank holiday left, tomorrow will be a Jubilee free day. Ok, it will be allowed as long as it doesn't involve me spending any more money. I think I'll go to the gym, I should be able to avoid handing over any cash in there. Although, I'd happily pay to see what happened on Saturday morning again. I was on the treadmill, half watching QVC and half listening to Boring FM (you have no idea how hard it is trying to work out to Richard Marx and Barry White) when someone switched channel and 'LMFAO's' "Sexy and I know it" came on. Watching the Muscle Mary's trying desperately not to lift their weights and grunt in time to the music, and everyone else exchanging smirks at them was worth the monthly fee alone. All I need is for them to be dressed in Union Jack lycra shorts tomorrow, and my life will be complete!
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