Selling your soul

This week I have mostly been pulling my teeth out with my bare hands. Also known as listing stuff on Ebay. Dear Lord I hate doing that! I put it off until I have a clothes mountain that would make Oxfam weep, and such a time as I have 24 hours free to sit in front of the computer giving multiple pairs of skinny jeans the hard-sell. The world of Ebay is a strange one. Sometimes you can sit and watch, whooping, as some random secondhand item you're selling gets bid twice what you originally pay for it, and hotdang that's when you could drop everything and marry the blessed site. And yet other times, a pair of jeans that cost you £45 go to some jammy bugger for 99p, and you just know they're sitting behind their laptop cackling like a witch and rubbing their hands in glee. Which is why, as I'm wrapping their item up for posting, I'm cursing them and sending vibes that my beloved jeans won't even go past their knees. Of course, when the jeans are on the other leg (to mix your metaphors) and I'm the new owner of a designer jumper for the grand sum of £1.20, do I feel an ounce of sympathy for the poor soul who is willing me to get trapped in a sleeve and starve to death? Of course I don't!

The whole Ebay experience can be on a par with gambling. Seriously. The timing is everything; never put an item on so the auction finishes on a Friday or Saturday night. Even Monday evenings are risky, as people get too wrapped up in the soaps and forget they were watching your tshirt. And don't list an item for 10 days, that's just silly. Even 7 days and you lose the excitement of the countdown. That last 24 hours, when the item end time goes red! Ooh, sends a shiver down my spine that does. The thrill of having 14 people watching your Next flares, and pressing F5 every five seconds to see if anyone else has bid is a buzz like no other. *REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*BID DAMMIT!*REFRESH*REFRESH*REFRESH*

The pleasure of having made a few quid from selling stuff you always intended on wearing but never did, however, is soon gone when you get your invoice from Ebay for the items you listed, and realise you've made about £3 profit. In fact, next time I think I'll donate my clothes mountain to the charidee shop and go and buy a scratchcard on the way home!

Inflation..and some!

I took The Daughter to my best friends house this weekend; a 3 hour and 2 dvd car journey away. Aside from her not sleeping or doing as she was told, it was a good weekend. We went to a kite festival on the Saturday, and steered her away from the giant airborne sperm and cervix (I mean, really. Who buys a sperm and cervix kite?). And on Sunday we went to visit Peppa Pig World at Paulton's Park in Hampshire. For those not in the know, Peppa is an animated talking (and precocious) infant aged pig. She speaks like she's got a problem with her adenoids, is a bossy little madam, and has a little brother, George, who cries all the time. Her Daddy is a know-all, her Mummy works from home, and there are various other animal characters who make regular appearances including a rabbit who works at a museum, in a supermarket, at the recycling centre, drives a bus, flies a helicopter and works as a dental nurse. Inside the theme park is an area devoted to Peppa Pig, with themed rides and landmarks (landmarks? is that the word I'm looking for?) like Peppa's House and Daddy Pig's Campervan. The only reason we went there was to see the Peppa bit, but was she interested? Was she buggery. She was much more interested in the huge terrifying rollercoasters like Cobra and Magma which, unfortunately, were the ones that had 9 hour queues. As we stood with aching legs and a vaguely full bladder in the 30 minute queue for The Cobra, I amused myself by looking at the arms of the woman in front. She had the plushest, hairiest arms I've ever seen, like an Alpaca or a Mohair goat. While we were queueing, the thought seriously crossed my mind that I could surreuptitiously trim her and sell her hair.

To be quite honest, the extra money made from my black-market-arm-hair enterprise would have come in really handy after the amount I spent at that place. Fifty quid to get in, nearly twenty quid on lunch,  a fiver on win-a-teddy fairground stalls. Although, we did win a massive 'Hangry Bird' (as The Daughter calls them. To me, 'Hangry' is how I get when I have low blood sugar levels), a toy penguin, a 'Rabbid' toy and a cuddly starfish. I was awesome! The Fairground Gods were smiling down on me as I got that ball in the red cup!

I always used to feel a bit short changed when I went to theme parks as a kid, swallowing back the pangs of jealousy for the people eating their over priced burger and chips as we sat and ate our home-made sandwiches and party rings. Similarly when I went to the cinema. My first cinematic experience was watching 'BMX Bandits' with an orange cup-drink and a 10p mix. But now? Well, it's not a night out unless you've spent £7.50 on a ticket, an extra fiver on 3d glasses, a fiver on a bucket of popcorn that costs about 6p to make and a bag of Revels with a 3000% mark up. Now I'm a grown up and the one PAYING for the days out and the cinema trips, I can more than see why my mum would rather have packed up some cheese butties and crisps than spend a small fortune on insanely overpriced chips. I'm dreading the time when I have to take both kids out instead of just one; if I start saving now I might just have enough for lunch at Alton Towers. Assuming I can get a Wonga.com loan for the entrance tickets!

Green fingers

I am, by my own admission, the World's worst gardener. In fact, it's much worse than that. I'm a plant killer, destroying everything I touch and I should be made to sign the POR (the Plant Offenders Register) for life.  I long to have a garden to be proud of; swathes of blooms welcoming people as they walk up the drive, colourful borders and hanging baskets that would make Titchmarsh weep. I look at my neighbours gardens and feel a pang of envy that they can keep things alive, where I am almost guaranteed to kill potplants within a week - a rare talent, you must admit. There are some things I'm fantastic at cultivating - clover, dandelions, and brambles are my speciality. Certain parts of the garden resemble a meadow, and a small part of the front garden is just impenetrable undergrowth ("I leave it like that for the wildlife!" I tell myself).

We have plants in our kitchen that are here by the skin of their teeth - alive only because they have learnt to survive by sucking up all of the moisture from the steam from pasta cooking in the saucepan. When the kitchen window is open you can almost hear them shouting "Nooooooo! We need that!" as the steam escapes. If you should happen to visit Chez Bob and find us with an abundance of potted  pansies and nasturtiums, it is all a big ruse. I am clueless as to how much water is too much - am I drowning the poor buggers unknowingly? And so, despite my best efforts, they all soon leave for the great floral graveyard (the brown bin) and off I go to B&Q to replace them. And this happens probably monthly over the course of the summer. And here's the killer - a while back I was keen on training as a florist! Brilliant. You can just imagine young Jane on her wedding day, walking down the aisle with a bunch of wilted brown lilies from 'Bobs' Blooms'.

A thought has just occurred to me - all of the Pets At Home fish I've had died, but the carrier bag full from my neighbour are still going strong (obviously they're not still in the carrier bag!). And all of the plants from B&Q I've bought have died, so....maybe it's not my fault after all! Maybe I just need to get carrier bags full of flowers from my neighbours and I'll be winning competitions in no time! I'll get my name off the Plant Offenders Register, you'll see...

Modern mysteries

Forget crop circles, alien abductions, the Bermuda triangle, UFO sightings, bleeding Virgin Mary statues and fairies. My head is whirling with a million unanswered questions and unsolved mysteries of my own. It's not the Loch Ness monster that keeps me awake at nights, it's a multitude of  minutae, a myriad worries, a tempest of trivia! This is by no means an exhaustive list, please feel free to add your own - or even better, give me answers to mine!

• Why can flies find their way into the house through a crack in a housebrick, yet when you leave all the windows and doors wide open, the dozy articles are completely unable to locate their exit? Even flapping at them with a magazine in the direction of an open door doesn't help.
• Why are children deaf to anything you ask them to do, but can hear the opening of the fridge/cupboard door from 10 miles away?
• Why won't Imogen Thomas  / The Kardashian's / The GoCompare advert man / all Big brother housemates (past and present) just shut up and go away?
• Speaking of The Kardashian's, why have they all got (some quite obviously made up) first names beginning with K?
• Why is it that when you've spent half an hour putting suncream on, getting your lounger, radio and book together, the sun goes in?
• And why is it that if there are clouds in the sky, they ALWAYS go in front of the sun?
• Why are hoop earrings physically impossible to fasten?
• Why do you always want a bag of chips after going swimming?
• Why is it, when you have to wear shorts or a skirt, do you either cut yourself shaving, or have a huge bruise on your leg?
• Why do fish from pet shops die with about two hours, but when your neighbour gives you a Morrisons carrier bag full of them, the bleeders just will not die?
• What is paranoia called when you know you're right to be paranoid?
• How do they know that blondes have more fun? Has there ever been a survey?
• Why does Barry Scott from the Cillit bang adverts always shout?
• Why am I the only one in this house bothered about cleaning?
• Why do I still have people as friends on Facebook when they clearly don't like me, and I'm not bothered?
• Why does cucumber give me the raging burps when it's 99.9% water?
• At what age is it deemed inappropriate to wear a bikini? Ditto mini skirts?
• What's the difference between Diet Coke and Coke Zero?
• Is it ever acceptable to gaffer tape your kids mouths up and shut them in a cupboard? Even if they're really getting on your nerves and it's only for ten minutes?
• Guinea pigs are just big rats, so why can you teach rats to do tricks but guinea pigs are literally the thickest animals in existence?
• How many animals is it acceptable to bring home before your husband threatens you with divorce?

It's no wonder I've always got a headache...

I wish I was..

Sometimes it's pretty crap being a grown up. If you were to stop and actually think about all the responsibilities you have, all the drains you have on your finances and time and sanity it would probably be enough to make a lot of people cry like a baby. I'm included in that statement by the way. And when you're a parent, it's even worse; you have to think about someone else ALL of the time, never stop worrying about their safety and get sick of the sound of your own voice repeating "Be careful/no, don't do that/stop wiping your nose on the curtain!". Even when you just have pets instead of children (I say 'just', but having a household with a scarily high pets to people ratio, I can tell you it's hard work), you still have extra costs, worries of what to do with the little buggers when you go on holiday because they haven't evolved enough to be able to open a can, concerns over them breaking their legs and having to sell your house to pay the vets bills, and a ton of extra cleaning. But what, I wonder, would my life be like if I was someone or something else? I know it's not good to wish your life away, because then you never appreciate the good things that you do have, but what if....?

If  I was a child... I could watch all of the thousands of toy adverts they put on the kids channels saying "I want that for Christmas!" to everything, and live with the eternal optimism and belief that - if you don't smack your brother round the head too often - Santa will bring it.  I could march up to the parents of my friends, and without an ounce of shame, invite myself to their house for tea. I could gawp obviously at fat people, people with pink hair, people with giant warts, and use my 'Toddler Tourettes' in a loud voice to point out their 'differences'. I could use 'I'm tired' as a covers-all excuse for behaving like a ratbag. I could talk constantly about boobs, bums, willies and poo as though they were the most hilarous things in the entire world. I could have a piggy bank full of coppers and think I was rich. I could throw a huge tantrum every time I didn't get my own way, shame the crap out my parents and lap up all the tuts and glares from old people and it would be ok. I could decide one day that I'm only going to eat raw carrots and toast. I could trump, pick my nose and have my hand down my pants to my hearts content. Although, I know plenty of adults who do that too!

If I was a cat... I could take a crap anywhere I like. I could shamelessly waft around peoples legs when I wanted feeding or a fuss, and then ignore them after I'd got it. I could catch frogs and then sit back and watch as Mummy tries to chase it out of the garden, whilst shrieking because frogs frighten the bejesus out of her. I could fall asleep on the trampoline in the sunshine for ten hours, come in and have some food, and then go back to sleep again. I could wait until the owners are about to go to bed, and then start my mad half-hour, doing the wall of death around the lounge. I could go to sleep next to them on the bed, purring that loudly that they have to go and find earplugs.

But then, if I wasn't a grown up I couldn't drink, or drive (not at the same time I hasten to add), couldn't stay up til whatever time I wanted watching rubbish tv, couldn't spend hours mooching around town or go and people watch at the gym. And as I'm never going to be a child again, or a cat, I guess being a grown up will just have to do. Although, just for shits and giggles I might go out and sleep on the trampoline for ten hours and start giggling everytime somebody says the word 'bum'...just because I can!

It's not what it looks like!

After being mightily cheesed off for the first few hours of today having been awoken by the milkman and his stupid electric hairdryer on wheels at 4.30am, and then kept awake by the cock down the road, I have mostly been spending my day relaxing in the sunshine and thinking about Pareidolia. As you do. Pareidolia is, according to the wisdom of Wiki, a "psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant.". The Daughter does it all the time - "That cloud looks like boobies!" or "My half eaten sandwich looks like a bum!". A perfect example is the backdrop to my blog - a photo of the spud I found that looks like a  heart. 'Why have you been thinking about this Bobs?' I hear you ask. And I shall tell you. For the past 5 years, my daily hair/face wash has been dominated by a knot in the pine on our bathroom door. At first it proper freaked me out and I could see how all of those people who've seen Jesus' face on a slice of toast and Elvis in a damp patch in the bathroom must have felt. To see it from my perspective, you need to tip your head upside down as though you're washing your hair. Well, go on then!

See! A face! To me it looks a bit like Morph - that plasticene character, or at night time when the light isn't so good it looks like Pete Postlethwaite. Cognitive psychologists will tell us that humans are pre-programmed to see human faces in things even when we're babies, which makes sense. And by a further stretch of the imagination you can see why people with religious faith - especially in the good ol' USofA - so often see the Virgin Mary in taco shells. I can't say I've ever seen the face of Our Lord in a crumpet, or Mother Theresa in one of the Boychild's dirty nappies. But I have seen a romantic potato, and this - what do you think this says about me?

If any of you tells me you don't see a carrot with a willy, I'll show you a liar! You perverts. If anyone can top that, I would love to know. Until then, I'm off to raid the salad drawer for radishes that look like nipples..

In all seriousness..

I can't pretend my kids don't drive me mad at times. This last week with The Daughter has been exhausting; she's acted like a five year old teenager and has reduced me to tears of frustration more than once. At the swimming baths today both her and The Boychild stood in the changing rooms reaching up to grab at my chest and were gleefully shouting "Boobies! Boobies!" for all to hear. That was after The Boychild had pooed in his swim nappy (for those not in the know, swim nappies are not really meant for a full-sized turd) and spent the entire time shrieking in terror. I'm not a perfect mother, nor do I claim to have a happy family 100% of the time. Families have rough patches, just like any relationship, but it's about hanging in there and gritting your teeth when you feel like you're banging your head against a brick wall. I read something today that puts all of the tantrums and trials into perspective; that Gary and Dawn Barlow's baby was stillborn a few days ago. I've not escaped loss myself, having lost my sister at a young age and having had several miscarriages, but to spend nine months carrying a child and all that that entails - as soon as you find out there is life inside you, you can't help but shape your whole future around it - and then to have it snatched away? Well, it's unimaginable. So when your little cherubs are driving you to the brink, take a step back and remember that every minute with them is precious; even the times that make you furious are proof of how much you love them.

It's in the genes

I openly admit to being a bit strange. Not all the time, and not in a scary way; perhaps The Husband would disagree when I'm glossing the bannisters at midnight, but I like to think of my oddities as endearing little quirks. Take my thing about seeds for example. Ever since I can remember I've had a thing about pips in food. Maybe it's another Old Wives thing about seeds growing in your tummy and having an apple tree or strawberry plant sprouting in your guts, I don't know. But anything with seeds and pips, no matter how small, freaks me out. Burgers with sesame seed buns, strawberries, grapes - all a no go area. Tonight I was tucking into a huge slice of fresh watermelon - which I adore -  but had to abandon it because I got overwhelmed by how may teeny tiny seeds there were and had spent about an hour whittling them out with my fingernails. And then there's my sleeping 'ways'. I have to wear something, even if it's as hot as an oven. Similarly I have to have one leg inside the duvet, as a preventative measure against things getting me. Don't ask me what things, because I'm not entirely sure, but having your whole body on top of the quilt is just asking for trouble. Don't say I didn't warn you. I also wear just one earplug - in the ear that just happens to be facing upwards as I nod off. Quite a sight for eyes, me at bedtime - 'jama'd up with one leg on top of the quilt and one earplug in. Control yourself gents!

The Husband is strange too, and is the first to admit it. He too has to sleep with the sheets pulled up to his eyes in case a spider crawls into any available orifice. He has to have a bowl of mandarins every evening, even if he's full, and exactly the same lunch everyday. Although sometimes I buy him different sandwich meat, just to throw a bit of danger into the mix. And don't even get me started on the silly things he says - "Is it dangerous to put chicken in toasted sandwiches?" being the latest example. So, it comes as no suprise that The Childbeasts are strange also. And I'm not quite sure how much of it is just the normal strangeness that afflicts the majority of children, and how much of it is down to having odd parents. If we were normal, would we still have a  daughter who can cry at will? Would she still have to have the same breakfast everyday (that is TOTALLY The Husband's fault) and have to say "Love you, na-night, see you in the morning" about 50 times before we're allowed to go downstairs? And would The Boychild still be a tiny bit obsessed with cats bums or shake like a shitting dog at the mere sound of the Rag and Bone man? Actually, I've just read all that back and the poor little buggers never stood a chance!