Thursday, 5 December 2013

Another reason to be grateful I'm not your mother.

I know I don't look in any way old enough but it's true, I have a 17 year old (was the toast of the Daily Mail having given birth to him aged only 9) and one of the big things about having a child who has just turned 17 is that sooner or later they are going to want to learn to drive.

Well Joe decided that he wanted to learn to drive the second he turned 17. That sadly didn't happen. Having filled in all the forms to order his provisional license and sent the cheque etc they were returned to us. Apparently we had failed on the following points.

POINTS ON WHICH WE HAD FAILED
(I say 'we' I mean 'me' I was the one who was all clever and cocky: It's a government form, how hard can it actually be. VERY! Apparently!

1) Fill in the form correctly

This does not mean 'agree to fill in the form for your 17 then get involved in Coronation Street (worrying about Hayley and Roy) meaning you only do a half arsed job.  'Date of Birth' clearly meant his not mine. (Apparently Joe is now a 39 year old woman!) Here's hoping he can deal with being peri menopausal

2) Send your most recent passport

Ensure you check which passport you are sending.  Apparently the passport I sent was of a 3 year old Joe (I'm certain they all melted at the cuteness, I know I did when they returned it) and it did not correspond with the photo of the 17 year old Joe. (Still melted but only because I could only see his face and not hear his angry, accusing voice) Found the most recent passport later (sent it off, not quite feeling the melty love I felt about the 3 year old Joe)

3) Get a signature of a 'qualified' person

Hairdressers are qualified. FACT!   Bastards.


So we finally got the provisional through (What do they do at the DVLA? You send a perfectly lovely passport photo and your license comes back looking like you are no stranger to strangling prostitutes behind skips)

So we've got the license and we decide to look into car insurance.  Joe's been saving so has enough for a cheap runaround.  A friend tells us about a 1L corsa which is apparently the best car for cheap insurance. We go and have a look and it seems OK. It doesn't have tinted windows, it isn't lowered, in fact it's a very sensible car.

I call our insurance to enquire about the cost of getting Joe his own insurance.


After answering 12500 questions (will he ever give a lift to a friend whose Auntie owns a brown Labrador and has revolting piles?) She gears up to give me the price. I'm quite hopeful here. We've bonded. I'm going to her mothers for summer solstice and her and her husband and their three children are coming to us for Burns night (I've explained that my Dad is Scottish and promised he'll play the bagpipes and set fire to a haggis)

Insurance Woman Wendy:  I've got you a really great price here

Me: *in the style of Mrs Doyle :Go on....

Wendy: You're going to be impressed

Me *already impressed: Yes

Wendy: £3846 a year

STUNNED SILENCE

Mental Wendy: Are you still there?

Me:  What did you just say?

Mad Wendy: 3846 a year, that's the yearly cost however if you want to break it down you can pay a deposit of 1400 and a monthly payment of £366 a month.  (sounding like she'd just offered me the moon on a stick) What do you think of that?

Me: *SHOUTING  Just wait!

Lots of mad scuffling while I locate my Texas Instrument Scientific Calculator. (Slice of Pi anyone?)

Me: *SHOUTING LOUDER Wendy?  WENDY??? Are you a glue sniffer Wendy?Do you inhale lighter fuel on your breaks Wendy?  That's 5792 English Pounds a year! You can buy a house in Peterlee for that Wendy!  Do you hear me Wendy? PETERLEE!!

Demented Wendy: I'm still here Mrs Aspinall, there is no need to shout (She can forget Burns night, the horrible robbing cow!)

Me: *calmly now There has clearly been a misunderstanding Wendy.  This is a 1L Corsa!Vicars drive them Wendy, and librarians. LIBRARIANS!!!

Stupid halfwit Wendy: That is the price Mrs Aspinall.

I was about to shout a bit more but at this point Phil took the phone off me and hung up. This upset me as he clearly had no idea how close me and Wendy had become.  I was about to suggest we all holidayed together on the isle of Mann in June.

Anyway as a result of that, and many similar quotes we decided to insure Joe on our car (still expensive but 'Blimey' expensive, not 'JESUS CHRIST' (collapse and void your bladder) expensive.

So at this point he's had ten lessons and his instructor says he's doing really well; and he is. If we're going anywhere he drives us and he's really calm and confident. Unlike me, I'm a horrible driver (that in itself deserves an entirely new blog post). So as I was saying, he's a good driver so after ten lessons and on the advice of his driving instructor he applied for his theory test.

THIS IS WHERE IT ALL GOES HORRIBLY WRONG.

So today Joe had his theory test. I'd told him not to worry about directions because I was having a decent day (yesterday) so if he walked slow, I'd go with him. However this morning was a different story. I woke in complete agony (stupid fibromyalgia for those who don't know) and told him there was no way on earth I could go with him.  He was great about this (he's a really nice lad) and let Phil drop him at the station.

His test was booked for 10am, and he arrived in Middlesbrough at 8.30am. He called me as soon as he got there and I sent him very clear directions a friend had sent me. 

TURNS OUT THEY WERE WRONG. 

I next heard from Joe (who was following the wrong directions) at 8.40am. He was very angry at this point.

Joe: FFS (we all know what that means, but my parents read my blog so I can't actually say it - yes I am 39 but I get wrong if I swear!) I have no effing idea where I am. I'm in a field with a church in front of me.
Me: Are you sure it's a church
Joe: Well it has a steeple and it's a church so I'm FAIRLY SURE IT'S A BLOODY CHURCH!

At this point I could sense his anger so I re-sent him the directions I'd been given and politely suggested that he'd gone wrong somewhere. 

APPARENTLY THE DIRECTIONS I HAD GIVEN HIM WERE NOT JUST WRONG. THEY WERE HORRIBLY WRONG!

Another phone call:

Joe: I'm on the A66 (the dual carriageway that runs through Middlesbrough)
Me: Surely you mean you're near the A66
Joe: No, you fool! Your directions have sent me to the A66. I'm on the hard shoulder bit.

At this point I started to panic.

Me: Joe *shouting* JOE!!! Stay where you are I'll send you a postcode. Put it in your map thingy and follow the route.
Joe: OK just hurry up I've only got 55 minutes

At this point I did what I do best and googled it. I found the postcode within seconds and sent it to Joe. He text me back to say he'd got it and it had given him a route to walk

At this point I was quite calm and confident he was on his way (THIS IS PRECISELY WHY NOBODY SHOULD EVER BE CALM AND CONFIDENT ABOUT ANYTHING I'M INVOLVED IN)

Yet another phone call:

Joe:  Mam *getting angry* MAM!!! The app on my phone says I've walked 4 miles, you said it was only 15 minutes away
Me: I'm sure you're nearly there just keep following the map.  What are you near?
Joe: A railway track, and the A66.
Phil: *annoyingly interfering in the background* Jools.....JOOOOOLS (this is the way he pronounces my name when I've irritated him - all the time).....JOOLS...he's no where near the test centre, let me speak to him.
Joe: I can't, I have to cross the A66

At this point he was actually crossing the A66 Which if you're from the North East is tantamount to crossing a motorway. WHICH HE DID!

THINGS YOU DON'T EVER WANT YOUR CHILDREN TO DO:

1)  Play 'Mummies and Daddies'.In our group of friends this would involve drinking too much wine/gin and getting involved in a conversation which involves violent recriminations about the time Daddy looked at a picture of Linda Lusardi for 3 seconds too long or mummy bought a rug off QVC that really wasn't needed. (IT WAS NEEDED, IT WAS A WELCOME ADDITION TO THE HEARTH, DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT THAT ARSE TELLS YOU) N.B Sorry! I've just been defending that purchase for 9 years now!

2)  Eat food off the floor. My children, when they were younger were like rabid dogs, if anyone in our house dropped anything on the floor. Syd at 2 could sniff out an M&M at 60 paces. The dog would still be looking for it and Syd would have snorted it up his left nostril. Things like this are why we're well known at A&E (A&E staff: Hello Aspinall family, who's fallen out of a window/shoved something up their nose/eaten a wine glass tonight)

3)  Write about you at school.  When Joe was six he was asked to write about his 'special place at home'. He wrote about how he was asked to sit in his wardrobe at home when he was noisy. I had no idea about this until his 'open evening' when his teacher voiced concerns that he was 'FORCED INTO A CUPBOARD'.  When i asked the six year old Joe about this he told me he'd made it up so he looked interesting (would have been even more interesting if Social Services had taken cupboard boy into care!)

So back to Joe on his quest to get to the test centre on time. I ring him again.

Me: Joe where are you

Joe: I'm following the directions, I can't talk now, I'm in a bush.

HE'S IN A BUSH! WHY ON EARTH IS MY 17 YEAR OLD SON IN A BUSH?

There is clearly something wrong with him, why can't he just stick to pavements like normal people, instead of scurrying through the undergrowth like a demented stoat. (turns out this was also my fault read on...)

At this point it was well over an hour since he had arrived in Middlesbrough and he was not answering his phone.  I was getting a bit panicky when my phone rang; I was Joe

Joe: Mam, I'm totally lost. I've followed the directions to the postcode you've sent me. I've ran most of it and I'm now 8 miles outside of Middlesbrough.

Me: You can't be Joe. I sent you the right postcode.

Joe:  I'm in the middle of an industrial estate.  I've had to cross the A66 four times, it's a miracle I haven't been crushed by a lorry.

Me: Well I don't know what to say......(at this point Phil took the phone off me and spoke to Joe)

Phil: Joe what postcode did she give you (Joe tells him). (Stupid clever Phil-face googles it!)
She's given you the postcode for the TA testing centre, you're near Stockton, stay there I'm coming for you! (At this point they conspiritorily laugh -I make a mental note to blow my nose in their pants/socks before I put them in their drawers)

YES THAT'S RIGHT.  I'd sent the poor lad 8 miles out of his way by giving him the wrong postcode.
Phil spent the next hour driving round Teesside industrial estates looking for him.

Neither of them spoke to me for the rest of the day.....Needless to say I'll be paying for his re-sit!

Anyone need directions?









Sunday, 28 July 2013

The fear factor

I know we’re all getting older and there’s not much we can actually do to stop the passage of time however I’m not entirely happy with that as a fact. I should explain.  Phil is 12 years older than me and recently, in March, he turned 50.  50!!! Not 40 or even 45 but 50.  I am married to a 50 year old!  My husband is in his 50’s.

THINGS I IMAGINE PEOPLE IN THEIR 50’S  DO ·       

  • Book 5 day coach trips to the lakes with Saga. Stay in a hotel called the ‘Balmoral’ on the banks of Windermere, enjoy a two course meal every evening (soft foods/dentures) then retire to the lounge where Brenda Hetherington from Carlisle plays a medley of ‘songs from the shows’ on her 37 year old Bontempi organ. Go to bed at 9.30 because your 2 halves of stout have tired you out. ·       
  • Browse garden centres looking at rose bushes with names like ‘Diana’s delight’, ‘tender Marion’ and ‘syphilitic Geoff’.  Take two hours to decide which shade of peach will match your orthopaedic sun lounger. Go home because you are ‘gasping’ for a cup of tea.
  • Admire the Royal family.  Feel unable to catch a ‘glimpse’ of the Queen on the news without saying ‘Isn’t she marvellous’ or see a photo of William and Harry without thinking ‘such handsome young gentlemen’ ·       
  • Buy things from the ‘innovations’ catalogue which promise to make life easy now you are 50.  Who’s life wouldn’t be enhanced by the motorised tie holder, some glamour suspender tights (sensual and hygienic apparently!), a combined cigarette lighter and nasal hair remover or a ‘luxury’ wolf fleece.
So I’m already freaking out!  I decide to tell Phil I’m freaking out, because he’s bound to be freaking out too seeing as how he’s the one who has actually turned 50.

Me: (arranging face to look sympathetic, as if talking to a terminally ill labrador) Phil. I need to talk to you. It’s important.

Phil: (hardly able to contain the excitement in his voice) Right.

Me: I know recently you’ve reached a milestone in your life.

Phil: Have I?

Me: Yes, you know (lowers voice so as not to shock him just in case age related memory issues are preventing him from remembering his actual age) that you recently turned 50……..

Phil: Yep

Me: How are you, you know handling it?

Phil:  Handling what? What are you on about?

Me:  Handling being (whispers) 50

Phil: Fine, its no different to being 40!

Me: (getting slightly high pitched and hysterical) Oh but it is, you’re 50 Phil, 50!!! (shout the last 50 to shock him into realisation) IT'S BOUND TO HAVE HIT YOU HARD!

Phil: (walking off) I have no idea what you’re talking about! Have you been electrocuted again.?

THE ELECTROCUTION

 A few years ago the knob that changes the time dropped off our oven coincidentally the same week the clocks were due to change.  I attempted to reset the time by shoving a screwdriver into the hole where the button was (in the way you used to reset a casio watch with the nib of a biro). Apparently poking a screwdriver into the hole wasn’t the most sensible thing to do (apparently I should have remembered it was plugged into the mains) 240v threw me backwards across the kitchen.  I was obviously ok but for days afterwards I was a bit 'twitchy' and odd.  Because Phil is genuinely BLOODY hilarious if I behave in a way he believes to be bizarre he makes a point of checking I haven't given myself another electric shock.  I know! I told you he was BLOODY HILARIOUS!

Anyway back to the 50 thing.  There are two possibilities open to me here. Either:

a)     Phil is in complete and utter denial about the fact he is 50 in which case I need to tread carefully, once he realises, the shock could kill him (especially at his age) Or 

b)    He’s actually alright with it. He actually DOES NOT CARE that he is 50.

I realise I'm going to face the fact that it is probably the second one   I decide I will  join him in his carefree world and decide if he can face 50 head on with no fears I will try to conquer some of my fears. 

Now I know everyone has a couple of things they’re scared of wasps or heights maybe, but I literally have about 2000 fears, some of which are so severe they’re more like crippling phobias than fears.

THINGS I AM SCARED OF. 
  • Heights  (Vertigo)  - inability to move a muscle/overwhelming urge to lie on the floor
  • Milk (lactaphobia) - makes me both simultaneously shake/retch (a very attractive look) Have to hold breath and wear big/thick oven gloves to handle bottle.
  • Windfarms (Anemomenophobia)  - Big, silent, threatening/almost certainly going to come to life and take over the earth
  • Motorways/Dual carriageways (Amaxophobia) - Panic attack/bizarre nervous twitch which makes me throw myself backwards in the passenger seat while whimpering and clawing at my throat (yes I'm a dream passenger -7 hours to get to the Peak District because I refused to travel on any motorway or duel carriageway)
  • Bin juice (surprisingly no name) - Compulsion to put my finger in the inexplicable water that gathers at the bottom of the bin and taste it (What in the name of God is wrong with me?) 
I decide that we will have a day out to Redcar. In terms of my phobias it has it all.  Dual carriageway driving.  A massive Windfarm (in the sea of all places) Plus they have a sort of ugly vertical pier thing which is tall and high up and I was going to go up it! Plus as it was Redcar there was a real risk of getting stabbed or carjacked (not currently phobia’s of mine but I could consider adding them to the list)

We set off and everything was fine.  It was sunny, we had the music blaring (uplifting 80s pop). We stopped for lunch.  I was actually feeling quite calm and I hadn't even taken one of my special tablets that make me drool and my eyes roll about in my head like marbles (very much like the special tablets!)

Anyway we'd been on the A66 for approximately 19 seconds and I was secretly congratulating myself for being so calm whilst travelling on a dual carriageway....... I WAS ON A DUAL CARRIAGEWAY!!!!!!!!! The rest of the journey is what could only be described as hell on earth. I squirmed, panicked, flung myself about like a rag doll. While Phil shouted at me and threatened to leave me on the side of the road.  

We managed to eventually make it to Redcar an hour and a half after we had set off.  I was so preoccupied by the hysterics in the car that I forgot to panic about the windfarm.  We came round the corner onto the beach road and there they were in front of me, hundreds of wind turbines, in the sea.  I was going to have another panic but quite honestly I was fairly exhausted from thrasing about in the car for an hour, ,so I just looked at them.  Actually they were beautiful, not at all evil.  This was a break through.  I was standing here staring at them and I hadn't felt the urge to run away or fall over once.  Shored up by this triumph I decided it was time to face the tower of terror. 

We walked along the seafront with me taking the odd reassuring glance at the windfarm  towards the tower.  I’d already googled the details and learned it was 80 ft high and had 7 floors. I know to most of you that would be nothing but this is the person who freaks out at the top of a step ladder so for me 80ft was a really big deal, however I was determined to do it.  

There was a security man standing at the foot of the stairs so I stopped for a quick chat and to ask him some questions, nothing out of the ordinary I'm sure he gets asked them everyday of his life.

'Since this tower has been built how many people have fallen off the top'

'Whats the likehood of the glass barrier around the top shattering because a disorientated seagull has flown into it at the same time there is a particularly strong gust of wind'

'How sure are you that the screws holding this entire thing together are up to the job'

The security guard had a good laugh at my 'joke' questions. I was about to press him for actual answers when the lift doors opened and I had no choice but to get in.  Phil and Syd were first out of the lift into a small enclosed area, I followed them.  There was a door in front of us and to be honest I actually felt really calm.  As Phil pushed open the door I thought to myself 'this is easy this is! I can do this' before stepping outside onto the viewing platform.

OH SWEET JESUS!!!!

I was too high up! Too, too high up!  And I was falling! I needed to lie down! On the floor! NOW!

Phil and Syd had walked to the barrier to look at the view.  I needed to tell them to get back from the edge it wasn't safe but when I opened my mouth all that came out was a strange strangled noise.

I still needed to lie down but I had now manoeuvered myself so I was facing the wall and sort of hugging it, so lying down was proving difficult.  I tried to shout Phil again but what came out sounded like someone had just punched an ostrich in the throat (I'd imagine).

There was an indian family close by who had actually stopped looking at the view and started looking at me.  I couldn't understand what they were saying but judging by the laughter I can only assume they were finding my predicament in some way amusing.

By this point I had sort of turned myself sideways, I still had my hands on the wall but I was now bent double at the waist as I knew I needed to get on the floor.  I was also trying to shuffle towards the door to get back inside while making 'that' sound.

I was in this position when I felt an arm go round my back.  Phil, come to rescue me, thank god!  I twisted my head round (no mean feat as my head was quite near the floor by now) and came face to face with AN OLD LADY.

'Come on pet' she said, 'Are you alright?

She managed to prise one of my hands off the wall, which she started to rub.

'Come on, try to stand up, it's alright!. I was frightened of heights when I lived in Leicester'
 (Nope No idea either!)

Using my hand she then started to drag me away from the wall whilst loudly pointing out local landmarks (look! The chemical works/Redcar Racecourse etc). I was still bent double and clinging to her cardigan for dear life, as she led me past Phil and Syd, who were clearly finding this highly amusing.

I have no idea what this woman was up to.  She must have been able to see how terrified I was, yet here she was parading me about, like some kind of demented hunch back, 80 foot in the air. But.......and this was the truly inexplicable bit, I WAS LETTING HER!!!

Right enough was enough. As we passed the door to go back inside I just stopped dead and made a grab for it.  I was back inside and Phil and Syd had followed me. I literally couldn't get back in the lift fast enough.

All in all I think it was a success!












Tuesday, 18 June 2013

The perils of proactivity


Friday was my lieu day. Lieu days don’t come often so I always feel like I have to make the most of them. The thought of wasting them fills me with dread yet often I do exactly that, waste them completely, watching day time TV, playing candy crush and snoozing.

So anyway Friday was not going to end up being wasted like all the other lieu days past. I was up by 7.30am, and once Syd was safely dispatched to school I realised I was actually feeling quite tired.

I decided to have a glass of juice and a sit down on the sofa to watch a bit of Jeremy Kyle, but I would only watch one ‘story’. Today I would only find out if Darren (takes crack, been to prison for inappropriate behaviour with a jack Russell) had pinched the child benefit off his girlfriend Courtney (shoplifts, sniffs cilit bang) before sleeping with Courtney’s sister, Donna-Marie (dependent on night nurse and tempazam, touches herself in public)

Anyway I must have reclined further than I intended because next thing I know its half past eleven and I’m being woken by my mother who has brought me some eggs (She is always buying me eggs that I didn't ask for. Do I look like the kind of woman who is incapable of buying her own eggs? Am I likely to pop out for a dozen eggs, find the task too confusing and return with a tin of emulsion and a sausage roll?).

The lecture that followed took up the best part of an hour, during which I regressed to childhood, tutting and biting my nails, I even put in a couple of well placed yawns. I won’t go into all the details however the main points were

THE MAIN POINTS OF THE NAUGHTY/LAZY JOOLS LECTURE

      Days off are for cleaning/cooking/ironing/re-grouting your tiles not lying on the sofa looking at the ceiling/sleeping

      She had washed the windows, ironed two baskets of laundry (mine, whoops), prepared and stuffed a chicken and peeled 16 stone of potatoes before 7am this morning

      Despite what I think, you CAN tell my clothes are pyjamas, and I should get dressed as soon as I get up.

      I need to stop alternating between between being lethargic and hysterical because I’m reminding her too much of poor Andy (‘poor Andy’ was my parents neurotic toy poodle who was either sound asleep or weeing himself and biting people – they had him put down in 1978 – I need to be careful)

      My skirting boards are dusty, so are the tops of my picture frames (how upsetting for all my 7ft visitors)

      If I don’t ‘buck up my ideas’ Phil is almost certainly going to leave me for someone who hoovers her curtains once a week.

She only leaves once I promise to wash my paintwork down and repoint the garage.

Actually though, you know what, she does make a valid point. I have already wasted my morning by ‘being asleep’ when I was definitely meant to be ‘being awake’.

I should explain at this point I don’t live in a hovel. My house is clean, I hoover every day, the floors are washed every night, I clean my hob every day, bedding is changed every Saturday etc. However I could probably be a bit more proactive. Thinking about being proactive has given me a headache so I decide to take some paracetamol before I wash the paintwork down.

The ‘medical’ basket in my house is a thing of legend. People speak of it in whispered tones. It is, quite honestly, creaking with boxes and bottles of capsules and caplets. I decide that as my first job as a proactive person I will quickly sort it out before getting on with my other ‘useful’ jobs.

Two hours later and I’m sat on the living room floor and it actually looks like Glaxo has exploded. I started on the dining room table but it was too small (seats 8 comfortably – can only assume furniture ‘village’ is inhabited by smaller than average pixies) so I’ve moved to the living room. Now anyone who knows me and has read my blog knows that when it comes to flaws one of mine is that I’m slightly accident prone. A side effect of having an accident is that it brings with it pain. When you’re in pain they give you drugs. I have a LOT of accidents ergo I have even more drugs.


I have managed to sort them into 6 categories:

·         Painkillers

·         Sleeping tablets

·         Cold/flu/stomach

·         Anti-biotics

·         Miscellaneous

·         Possibly illegal/worth a lot of money

I really think with my medical box I could treat any combination of malady easily and successfully.  I briefly consider becoming some kind of modern day Florence Nightingale and taking to the streets to heal sick and needy.  I would obviously require some kind of ‘scrubs’ as pinafores/bust darts are only flattering if you’re size 10 or Doris Day (I am quite clearly neither)


PEOPLE I COULD TREAT BASED ON WHATS IN MY MEDICINE BOX

·         Gout ridden insomniac’s

·         Premenstrual hay fever victims

·         Arthritis sufferers with a fear of gravy

·         Paranoid Schizophrenics with trapped wind

·         Sunburnt narcoleptics

·         Dogs

About the last one. My dog hasn’t been ill, well ill enough to require a visit to the vets in 5 years (relax dog police, she gets her jabs) because I have been treating any illnesses she has had myself from the medical box.  I’ve measured my success by the fact that she isn’t dead!

So the medical box is tidy and I’ve had a tramadol and some benylin just to cheer me up before I carry on being proactive.

I decide the next job that needs doing is cleaning the grout on the bathroom floor tiles. Being proactive I decide that I will not use ‘traditional’ cleaning products I will instead take a leaf out of Aggie and Kim’s book and use ‘store cupboard staples’ to clean the floor.  I google a few recipes while catching another ‘story’ on Jezza. I get temporarily distracted by it. Klayden (silly made up name, snorts vim) has tattooed his face with a compass and indian ink, a week before his wedding to Chantelle (recently arresting for weeing in new look changing rooms, eats her own hair) so she is refusing to marry him and instead threatening to enter into a ‘relationship’ with Chantalle (similar name, puts diazepam up her arse). Jeremy is livid with this lot. Saying ‘Madam’ a lot and demanding people look at whose name is actually on the wall. Anyway back to being busy and practical.


I find an old Tupperware in the kitchen and add some bleach, baking powder and an entire jiff lemon (We’re all organic round here!)  I’m very impressed by the fizzing, something that fizzes that much must be excellent at cleaning. I have an experimental sniff and for all its bleachy and lemony, it doesn’t smell like it might actually ‘ZAP’ dirt. I need an extra ingredient. I have a good scout about and find a full bottle of white wine vinegar give it a mix and have a good sniff...AND GO BLIND!

I can’t breathe! I’m choking! I think the Tupperware is melting. I might have already killed the dog.  I try to run but I can’t see and run into the fridge.  I finally make it through the living room into the street. I’m not sure but I don’t think there is skin on my face anymore. I have just basically waged chemical warfare on myself.

That is absolutely the last time I am being proactive.


 

Thursday, 6 June 2013

Re-light my fire!


Lately I have started to become aware of a new phenomenon.  As new phenomenon go, I find this one a bit creepy.  A bit like dressing animals up in human clothes or naming your genitals ‘Big Roger can’t wait to see Priscilla!’

 
This latest craze is something that seems to be happening everywhere, between couples who have been together since Madonna was still a woman.

 

DATE NIGHT

 
That’s right!  Date night.  Going on a ‘date’ with your other half.  A date!  Imagine that!  Leaving the house, to go somewhere that isn’t work/the supermarket/the school run.  All alone. Without children, or dogs or children’s friends or random family members. 

 
As a lot of people I know seem to be jumping on the date night bandwagon I decided to do a bit of research into it.  The first thing I notice are the pictures of the couples accompanying the ‘date night’ articles.  These people are sitting on picnic rugs, and gazing into each others eyes, or leaning into each other in candlelit restaurant in a gesture that implies intimacy.   The last time Phil gazed into my eyes was to see if the stye I had was turning septic.

 

If what I’m reading is to be believed ‘date night’ will ‘rekindle all the romance we felt in the early days’.  The woman who wrote this article has clearly never met Phil.  The first time I invited him round for supper he brought me 8 cans of Stella and a pirate copy of reservoir dogs which had the backs of people’s heads getting up to go to the toilet every 2 minutes. Then he proceeded to pick every kidney bean out of the chilli I'd made before trying to shove his hand up my top.

 

However I’m obviously in a highly suggestible mood (I blame the cilit bang, I’ve noticed the fumes make me hallucinate) because the more I read the more I start to believe the hype.  I start to realise that I simply have to try a ‘date night’

 

I start to plan the date night (I have not told Phil about the date night.  I might not actually! I can’t find anywhere that actually says that you have to take your own husband on date night) 

 

I notice that there seems to be a certain format you have to follow if you want to have a successful date night.  If I follow the simple instructions I’ll be putting the ‘cherry on the top of the date night sundae’.  Somebody actually wrote that, they used those words. I consider explaining it to Phil in those exact words but I know he’d probably set the dog on me or leave me on the M1.

 

Laying the groundwork.

 
Apparently there is a lot to arrange, but first I need to invite my husband on said date night. I find him in front of the telly.  I sidle up to him in a way I believe to be seductive and he flinches.

When I ask him why he flinched he tells me he thought I was going to hit him.  HIT HIM! He thought I was intending to attack him!! Bash in his brains like Tracey Barlow! My first attempt at seduction and he behaves as if I have just come at him brandishing a lead pipe.

 
I decide he doesn’t deserve my subtle seduction skills and brusquely tell him that on Friday night we are going on a DATE and it will be ROMANTIC and he will ENJOY himself.  I take advantage of the fact that only seconds ago he was scared and use enough menace in my voice so he can’t refuse.

 
 
What to do on ‘date night’

 
Again I turn to the internet for suggestions.  Apparently the date itself doesn’t need to be a ‘date’ in the traditional sense (meal/too much wine/violent recriminations about the time he looked at your friend for 3 seconds too long) nor does it need to break the bank. I am encouraged to be creative and look for something fun and different.

 

The second website I find makes me laugh. I find each suggestion more hysterically funny than the last. I am literally hyperventilating with mirth and wishing I was only half as funny as the author of this article when suddenly I realise.



THIS IS A SERIOUS ARTICLE
 

Jesus! It really is! It’s serious, and it’s suggesting that once a week (prescribed frequency of date night) myself and my husband set some time apart and do one of the following:

 

  • Throw a slumber party and have dinner in bed. ‘Have each other for desert’ (have visions of Phil in tiny silver underpants, holding two glasses of ‘fizz’ and calling me ‘bee-yooo-ti-ful lay-deeeee)
 
  • Attend a concert. Dance together and sing out loud to each other. (Oh goody, I’ll get us Lindisfarne tickets shall I?)

  • Sit face to face and draw sketches of each other, really study each others’ features. (I’ve played Pictionary with Phil. I already have a low enough self esteem without spending the days after he reveals my sketch believing myself to look like a shoe with eyes)

 

Another article tells me to ‘surprise him ‘as this might lead to ‘sexy results’.  There is clearly something seriously wrong with me because when I hear the words ‘sexy results’ I think of Frank Bough reading the pools naked.  Anyway....

 
I am urged to:

 
·         Slam him against a wall and give him a ‘deep French kiss’ -This is out of the question as I know he has a lose filling which I’m bound to end up swallowing.



·         Send him a rude text – Is ‘sometimes on a morning your breath smells like a drain’ rude enough?

 
  • Leave your bra off and give him a sexy glimpse of breast.  If I leave my bra off he’ll get a ‘sexy’ glimpse of nipple – from out of the bottom of my top. 
 

In the end I decide to do what the most sensible website I find suggests and go for food and do an activity.  Within minutes we are promised to be giggling like romantic teenagers unable to keep our hands off each other.

 

So on Friday we’re having mackerel sandwiches in Morrison’s Car Park before going cow pushing.

 

DING DONG!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday, 19 July 2012

Morning has broken (Morning IS broken)

On a work morning my husband sets his alarm clock for 7.00am.  When it goes off at 7.00am he gets up.  Did you hear what I just said.  I'll say it again. When his alarm goes off. He gets up.

HE GETS UP!

Not only does he get up, he collects a clean towel and heads for the bathroom, where he has a shower.  Just like that! Straight away, he just goes and gets in the shower.

STRAIGHT IN THE SHOWER!

Then he goes downstairs and takes the dog out for a walk. On this walk he actually talks to people who are also up. The actual exchanging of pleasantries, whilst out with the dog.  Imagine that.

He then comes in, and makes himself some toast, which he eats whilst watching the news. He actually sits down, on the sofa, with toast, ON A PLATE, and watches the headlines.

Then he goes to work and its still only 7.45am.  Only 45minutes since the alarm went off.

I find this kind of behaviour very suspicious. It makes me uneasy. Even after years and years I still find this creepy. He is like a weird morning stepford wife, springing forth from his bed ready to get on with the day. Heading out all showered and dressed and CHEERFUL to stand in a field making PLEASANT conversation with other dressed people.

I believe these people to be freaks of nature.

So lets go back to the soothing 'ERK ERK ERK ERK ERK' of the alarm. As we've already established  husband is already in the shower before the 6th 'ERK' is heard. I have two choices available to me I can either: Get up or go back to sleep.  I bet you can guess which I do.  The snooze button is my friend.  I am however an experienced snoozer.  The alarm clock is too primitive for me. I already have pre-prepared a complex series of alarms on my phone.

The series of alarms allow me to sleep for a further 13 minutes, then I will allow myself a further ten minutes of sleep however this sleep will be broken into 5 lots of 2 minutes, where I will allow myself the luxury of pressing snooze 5 times.  Incidentally, it is during this complicated series of micro sleeps that I have my most vivid and terrifying dreams.

So where are we.  Oh yes.  Its now 7.23am. I have stolen another 23 minutes in bed.  I now have a major decision to make. 

DO I NEED TO WASH MY HAIR?

Last night I looked at my hair and thought the following:
  • Dear god I'm starting to look like Ian Beale
This morning, at 7.23am, without looking in the mirror I thought this:
  • Washing your hair too regularly strips it of its natural oil
  • It doesn't feel too bad (I assess this by how it feels on my head, not by actually touching it)
  • It won't look too bad if I tie it up
  • Thank you god for dry shampoo
(I did once have an unpleasant experience after running out of dry shampoo. I decided to sprinkle some talc on my hair and brush it through. However I clearly didn't effectively remove it from my scalp, and after getting a bit too warm at work, the talc mixed with my perspiration and I found that I had a thick white paste in my hair. I created quite a stir I can tell you!)

So having decided not to wash my hair I can get away with another 6 minutes of sleep/snooze/sleep/snooze/sleep/ snooze (3 lots of 2 minutes). When the 6 minutes are up I know I have to get up, shower and get ready. 

I go and wake the children (both completely normal, no leaping from bed, being all ALERT and weird) and start to head for the shower. 

Now this is where things get weird. I check the clock and it's 7.32am. I am sat on the edge of the bed, ready to leap crawl to the bathroom. I stand up and make my move.  I look at the clock again and its 7.56am and I'm still in the bedroom, still unshowered. I think very hard about where the last 24 minutes have gone and realise that I couldn't possibly have got in the shower as I had been doing very important things:

IMPORTANT THINGS I HAVE DONE DURING THE MISSING 24 MINUTES
  • Looked at my feet and thought about what colour I might paint my toenails next
  • Looked for a navy blue nail varnish that I remember buying in approximately 2005
  • Wondered if my excessive tiredness is down to having ME. 
  • Google the symptoms of ME and self diagnose myself
  • Notice there is dust in the back of my hairdryer
  • Pick the dust out of the back of my hairdryer
  • Wonder how much dust I would have if I'd saved all of the dust out of my hairdryer
  • Look out of the window paying particular attention to the sky
  • Think I spot a rain cloud
  • Google the days weather
  • Notice a new freckle on my arm
  • Take a photo of the new freckle
  • Look at the picture of the freckle and wonder if there was any point in taking a photo of it
  • Think about crisps
  • Think about dips that go best with crisps
  • Wonder how easy it is to make your own guacamole
  • Google recipes for guacamole
  • Make mental shopping list for lemons and avocados
  • Look at the clock and crap myself when I realise I have just wasted 24 minutes.
Only at this point do I actually start to do what I should be doing.

My shower takes me only minutes, however I don't have time to wash my hair.  When I get out of the shower I have a quick glance in the mirror and am not really surprised to see Ian Beale peering back at me.

I manage to get myself dressed and apply some make up in approximately 29.6 seconds.  I look at the clock again and realise that in fact I took a touch longer to dress and apply my make up than I initially estimated.  It is now 8.24am

WHAT IS GOING ON, WHO IS STEALING TIME???

I realise with horror that:

  • Neither of the boys are dressed
  • No one has any lunch
  • I am supposed to fill the car with petrol
  • Instead of doing just lipstick, powder and lipgloss, I have applied make up that Lady GaGa would be proud of (how did I not know I was doing this)
I decide the best course of action is to just shout a lot, so I shout at the boys and tell them to go and get dressed.  They grumble but do as they're told.  They both however seem to be reluctant to finish watching the episode of the Simpsons they are watching.  Actually I don't blame them, its a really good one, I haven't seen it for ages. 

WHAT AM I DOING!!! I'M WATCHING THE SIMPSONS!

I rush around the kitchen frantically looking for things for lunch.  I decide there is no time for sandwiches so I throw buttered bread, ham and some lettuce in a bag and decide that today everyone will be having deconstructed sandwiches. I also give the boys an apple and a chocolate biscuit. I will tell the boys that we are having a build your own sandwich day.  The 8 year old will suck this up, the 16 year old will eat in on the way to school and then buy chips at lunchtime.  I'm ok with that.

I get us all arranged in the living room, bundle the boys into the car and give the chip pan thats on my head another spray with dry shampoo.

I check the clock again.  Its 8.54am.  Only 2 hours since the alarm went off.  We're like a well oiled machine. I congratulate myself for being so speedy this morning.

Off to work to relax.







Fifty shades of ridiculous

So we've all read the hype.

Apparently if you're female and between the ages of 16 and 95 you're not really a woman unless you've read 50 shades of grey.

Failure to read this book means that you are technically dead from the waist down. You are in fact 'frigid'. You are incapable of any kind of sexual pleasure. You lie prone in your bed at night, dreading the very touch of your inexperienced husband. You have given up on wearing pyjama's and have taken to sleeping wrapped in a rug, to ensure there is no inappropriate touching.

Failure to read this book means that effectively you and your other half are living as brother and sister. You'd rather have a scone and do a sudoku than have a snog and a fumble.

Having heard this I decided that I should definitely read 50 shades of grey. My sudoku habit (20 a day at the moment, but I'm on patches) does not make me frigid..

I decided to download it on my phone, rather than buy the book. My thinking being I could drip with pleasure in private, whilst looking like I was reading the daily mail online (in hindsight I'm actually more ashamed about being seen reading the daily mail in public than 50 shades of grey)

So before I read it, I read some reviews about it:

  • Claire from Oxford:  Good grief, its delightfully dirty!
  • Camilla from Chipping Norton: Blimey, one nearly fell off ones pony whilst reading it!
  • Cilla from Liverpool: Surprise, surprise...The unexpected hit me between the eyes....then between the legs...
  • Christine from Middlesbrough: Effing hell, I'm proper chuffed I never threw away me skipping rope and table tennis bat...pulling me knickers down as I type....Waynes right up for it
So I started reading.

It seems that the story is based around S&M (not to be mistaken with M&S) The first one is one person dominating, and giving pain to another. The second one is a person wanting to buy jumpers, candles and smoked salmon while the other one sulks.

It started off a bit on the bland side then got a bit ruder. He'd started tying her up and inflicting a bit of apparently pleasurable pain.

At this point I contemplated bringing a length of wood and a tennis racket out of the garage and hiding them in the wardrobe.  What could possibly be more erotic that waking up my husband at 4am with a hefty smack around his head with a table leg.  Just as he's coming round I would tie him up with my dressing gown cord, straddle him (erotically) while repeatedly belting him over the the head with a tennis racket.  I'm sure he'd be writhing in pleasure (convulsing with serious head injuries) by this point.

Some of the 'sexy' traits of the female lead character is biting her lip and rolling her eyes. The male lead character finds it desperately and distractingly erotic and deals with it by punishing her for being dreadfully naughty. 

Feeling sure my husband would react in the same manner I decided to start biting my lip and rolling my eyes too.

Husband: Did you empty the hoover
Me: No, I forgot
Husband: For gods sake
Me: Sorry *bites my lip and rolls my eyes*
Husband:  Are you OK *shouting* ARE YOU OK, ARE YOU HAVING A STROKE

Once the ambulance had gone, I admitted I was attempting to be erotic.

Only then did he punch me in the face.

Finally we're getting somewhere.





Thursday, 1 March 2012

The nations favourite - just NOT mine!

As I write this post I am well aware that I am quite possibly going to become a figure of hatred. I will be stoned outside of the supermarket at spat at in the office. People will post dog poo through my letterbox and the woman in the canteen will wipe bogies in my sandwich (Yes in my mind everyone behaves like they’re 5).  Writing what I’m about to write is tantamount to admitting my new eye cream is made from the lungs of puppies or in my spare time I paint pictures using my menstrual blood. Writing what I’m about to write will make you wonder what kind of person I really am?

I HATE CUPCAKES.
I do, it’s true I hate them. I’m sick to bloody death of them and this countries fascination with them, Even the name irritates me.....Cupcakes.....it’s so sodding twee and American.  I also hate how they reduce normally sensible women into gushing halfwits (they are no doubt filling bags with dog poo while I’m talking).
Let’s look at your standard cupcake, firstly, I don’t care how much you like cake, they are too big! There is too much cake in a cupcake; secondly they are very often dry. The bakers of the cupcakes won’t know this, because they NEVER EVER eat the cupcakes they bake. They just force them onto other people.  There is an annoying thing that happens with cupcakes, they are often that dry that as you’re chewing they form into a giant mush which wedges itself firmly into the roof of your mouth. This means that you are rendered incapable of speech, any thoughts you had of commenting on the dryness of the sponge are pushed from your mind as you consider the real possibility you are about to choke to death. 
Then there’s the icing, swirling piles of sickly, often fluorescent icing. No self respecting baker of cupcakes would leave it at the cake and the icing. It is imperative that ‘things’ are shoved into/sprinkled onto the icing. Buttons and bows and sprinkles. Flowers and leaves and sweeties. The cuter the better.
UNACCEPTABLE THINGS TO PUT ON/SPRINKLE OVER A CUPCAKE
  • Bacon bits
  • A Yorkshire pudding
  • Liver (in fact any offal will be frowned upon)
  • Shake and Vac
  • Animal droppings
  • Anything marked ‘warning poison’ or ‘highly flammable’ (unless you are going for something more of a ‘novelty’ cupcake)

 The huge pile of icing and ‘stuff’ makes it almost logistically impossible to eat.  If you do manage to get the cake in your mouth, there’s a very good chance that the icing is going to go up your nose. At this point it’s highly likely that you’re already choking on a ball of cake, and to add insult to injury you can no longer breathe. Apparently cupcake related deaths are on the rise, this is why.
So I’ve told you why I can’t stand the cake, and I hate the icing but we haven’t discussed flavours and colours.  Apparently it is illegal to call cupcakes simply ‘orange’ or ‘chocolate’; you have to give them elaborate and ridiculous names.  Should you break this rule you’ll be stripped naked and lined up in front of 10 hysterical, pre-menopausal women, who will pelt you with stale cake until you are dead.
ACCEPTABLE NAMES FOR CUPCAKE FLAVOURS
Orange:                Tangerine Dream, Satsuma Crush, Sexy Clementine, Urine Infection
Lemon:                 Citrus Twizzle, Lemon Ladyboy, Sour Jaundice
Chocolate:          Double Bubble Mocho Choco, Chocca Doopy, Poop Shute
At this point I’d like to make a suggestion.  We should remember that we aren’t American and we as a nation are damn good bakers, we should ban Cupcakes, that’s right, BAN THEM! Instead we should go back to baking the things of our childhood, that aren’t dry, or sickly or likely to suffocate you. We should consign cupcakes to the noughties and start a craze for ‘retro baking’. 
THINGS WE SHOULD BE BAKING
  • Butterfly cakes, with jam and a bit of butter cream, dusted with icing sugar
  • Fairy Cakes, with glace icing and hundreds and thousands, silver balls or half a cherry
  • Coconut Haystacks, made with condensed milk, shaped in eggcups
  • Rock Buns/Rock Cake, ugly little heaps of fruit studded cake, great with a cuppa
  • Maids of Honour – a pastry case filled with jam and sponge
  • Jam Tarts – sticky, jammy loveliness.
Bring them all back. Bring back Victoria sponge, and pineapple upside-down cake, and treacle tart and crispy cakes.  Let us return to our Bero book roots, America can have their 2quid a pop, cupcakes back, (oh bloody hell I’m going all independence day here, I’ll be stood on my coffee table in a minute with a megaphone), anyway you get the point. I don’t like cupcakes!
I’ll get my coat.