Being of Sound Mind

RIP

2012-02-28T20:41:00.000Z

Today I had some very sad news.

My ex, the father of my eldest son, got in touch to tell me his partner had given birth, full term, to a stillborn girl.

The cord had strangled her in the womb. My son, Liam is understandably upset, he so wanted a sister.

This post is dedicated to Macy. May she rest in peace.

Thanks for all the lovely comments yesterday, it's good to be back.

Until tomorrow,

Goodbye

Lucy x

Broken, on the mend

2012-02-27T19:21:00.000Z

I'm going to try and post every day for a while, get back doing things I enjoy.

I can't show you my presents today because all the pictures are on my (broken) phone. And that is true!

Everything has been breaking, everything. Life goes like that, even my fancy Global knife snapped clean in half as I chopped an onion.

I've been a misery, upsetting everyone. Traipsing around the supermarket like some sort of lost soul, even the sight of some people enthusiastically rifling through the selection of reduced bakery items compounded my misery.

I got home, washed my hair, read the back of the shampoo bottle - "The result is brunette hair that looks rich in depth with a spectrum of tones and multi-dimensional shine".

What is life all about eh?

Maybe if I keep blogging I'll find some answers.

I cannot thank you all enough for supporting me, cheering me up and offering wisdom.

I've been VERY busy in the charity shops, so lots of pictures will be appearing, with accompanying stories.

I'm going to cheer up, I am, I must!

Lucy x

Er, anybody there?

2012-01-30T21:34:00.000Z

"I'll write a blog post today!"

I've been saying that for ages. I haven't been busy at all.

I've been meaning to show you all the fantastic gifts I received from fellow bloggers.

Imagined writing a sarky and possibly touching post about my youngest boy starting school (which turned out to be him saying "bye mum, see you later" followed by me coming home and drinking litres of tea, stopping only for cheese toasties and to come up for air). Most unremarkable.

And comments! I love to comment. Where have I been? Not to London to visit the queen, that's for sure.

I have been busy in my brain. Doesn't burn the calories though, does it? I'm hurtling towards a life of inactivity brought on by knee strain, exacerbated by obesity. I MUST step away from the cheese, slowly.

"This is the hour, this is the day, this is THIS" (A great album title, I think, from Pop Will Eat Itself 1989)

I'm allowing a quiet, contemplative few weeks. Then I will be very busy. I have places to go, people to see, things to do. I've been locked in the attic with stale bread and water for years.

No more.

Out of the usual pure nosiness, what is your stance on the cliché "you only live once, live life to the full"?

Thank-you for all your patience, concern, and wishes, I look forward to catching up, before finally showing off my presents, next time. Honest!

Happy January! And some answers...

2012-01-01T13:09:00.001Z

As much as I'd like to, I find wishing people a whole year of happiness rather unrealistic. By the end of December 2012, you'd be taking happiness for granted, maybe even needing more, like an addict, to actually feel happy.

For the sake of convention, though - Happy New Year one and all!

Lots to answer - thank you everyone. Some questions are difficult, but most were easy to answer.

Kylie - great comment, thank-you. I have been known to lose so many phones, keys, purses. Always during the rare times I have cash in my purse too!

Wendz - if you had a choice would you want to leave the UK and live in another country? And if so, where would you want to go to?

Yes, I would leave the UK. I'd like to live somewhere with proper, defined seasons. Maybe New York.

Grey Area - a very polite way to say that you're not in the least bit interested in finding out anything! You're not properly nosey, just an observer.

Vix - you're as nosey as me!

1. If you were only allowed to re-read one book for the rest of your life which one would you choose?

The Oxford English Dictionary

2. Someone gives you £5000 on the condition that you had to spend it all in one day and only on yourself, what would you do?

I'd have every beauty treatment going - teeth whitening, lazer blasting on all the blotches on my face, that fat-removing thing they can do in an hour, facial, massage, manicure, full make-over, hair cut by a top stylist (I like the attention as much as the vanity aspect). I'd buy an heirloom type piece of jewellery, a brooch probably, I'm less likely to lose that, yellow gold with diamonds. I'd buy a Mont Blanc pen, and then I'd have a very long lunch, eat 5 courses I've never tried, wash it down with a different expensive wine for each course.

3. If you could be anyone, living or dead, for a day who would you be and why?

All I can think about with this question is the line "I think I'll come back as Dannii Minogue". If you forward the video to 9:23 minutes and listen to that scene, I'm sure you'll agree it HAS to be Dannii! Or a bra. Hilarious clip.

4. Your five desert island discs?

Amon Tobin - Cosmo Retro Intro Outro

808 State - Nimbus

Bochum Welt - Yellow Asteroids Over Berlin

Boy Robot - Bass and Booze (cannot find this online, I love it though)

Autechre - Bike

This list would change if I were to compile it even in another hour. This is music which sort of fits in with my brain, I will never tire of these tracks.

5. What would your autobiography be called?

Lucewoman

Curtise - will you be making a new year's resolution; if so, what?

I really want to get fit, ditch the asthma pump and feel full of energy all the time. I only realised I enjoy exercise last year.

Boring - sorry!

I'd also like to meet some bloggers, it'd be a good way to see more of the country too. Open to offers - I'm impeccably behaved sober, a nightmare pissed.

Krista - another curious sort!

1) Have you ever been around someone as they took their last breath before dying? If so who was it and what was that like?

No, luckily. I've been around some very sick children who have needed to be resuscitated, a calmness washes over me in a crisis though, so I become sort of detached from the horror. Not sure I'd be calm if it were a loved one.

2) What is your happiest teen memory? Saddest?

Happiest - a sort of religious euphoria swept over me onn my paper round one morning as the sun rose, I must have been 13. I felt my life was going to be extraordinary.

Saddest - when my boyfriend went away to university, it was pure heartbreak knowing the end had come

3) If you had a super power what would it be?

Invisibility - nobody would be safe!

Loren -What is the most memorable item of clothing you've ever bought?

I bought a dress from Dorothy Perkins in my early 20's EVERY time I wore it I had the worst night out. I think I wore it 5 times before getting shot of it. It looked like a painting of the sea, all smudged blues, greens and browns. I loved it, then hated it pretty soon after!

Max - I would like to know whats your favorite paragraph or line of writing Luce, of yours and in lit. in general and why?

I like this line from my Teenage Kicks post

The malnourished one spoke, her voice was how I'd imagine a full ashtray to sound were it to be animated in a cartoon.

In lit, I love this:

"People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth. They don't look down at all except to be content to live on hills. They have nothing to do with last weeks garbage or fear of rats. Night comes. Nothing wakes them but the wind"

Bums in the Attic from The House on Mango Street

Sandra Cisneros

Sian -

um... are you still job hunting? do you like to bake cakes? do you like to read? and if yes what was your favourite book you read in 2011... and what was the best film you saw? what do you think your children will do when they grow up

I'm ALWAYS job hunting! I will find a job (and heaven knows I won't be miserable) this year, and volunteer at the CAB or a charity shop too. Charity shops make me sneeze though.

I love to bake cakes, scones and bread - so therapeutic. I'm no artist when it comes to decorating though. I tend to cut a template from paper and sift icing sugar over my cakes. I love flour, silky flour like Marks and Spencer's Organic self-raising.

I love to read, not necessarily novels, just words wherever they are. I spend every spare moment reading. I enjoyed In The Forest by Edna O'brien and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro which the gorgeous Comtesse kindly sent me (I noticed the Ishiguro on Wendz's pile too).

Liam (12) I think will seek a very ordered life, a job like his dad (parts manager) a modern and tidy house (he loathes my lax attitude to housework) lots of pets and foreign travel

Ricky (4) he likes one on one friendships, is very logical and likes finding out about how things work. He is the most like Rob, so I'm sure he'll end up working with computers too! I try to increase Rick's confidence, his fear of failing could be a stumbling block.

Sonny (3) is wild. A true monkey who would set my nerves on edge if he was my first. He loves the outdoors, is very physical, impatient and impulsive, I will have sleepless nights when he is a teenager, no doubt. I don't think he will take kindly to being told what to do, so goodness knows what work he will enjoy!

Ricky is on the left

Tristan - have you done the dishes yet ?

The dishes are never 'done'. I wash up about 6 times per day, my hands are raw. Rob's are like a baby's backside!

Scarlett - What was your best holiday memory? If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life what would it be? What would be your perfect day?

Best holiday memory - the first time I saw the sky from an aeroplane, I think I was 8. I'd always wanted to see the sky close up.

Food - cheese, I eat way too much cheese. When I left home my mother couldn't believe how much longer the cheese was lasting!

Perfect day - a peaceful train journey through lush green countryside, a picnic on a warm day by the river, falling asleep with the sounds of nature ringing in my ears, and a really good laugh, there's nothing better than nearly collapsing with laughter.

Steerforth - 1. If you could choose your nationality (including being born there and speaking the language), what would you choose to be?

After much thought, including living in the Amazon, it comes back to being happy to be British. I will be fluent in Welsh, French, Spanish and British Sign Language one day, I know I will. I suppose I'm too ignorant to other cultures to make an informed decision about being anything other than who I am. That saddens me.

2. What's the closest you've come to death?

I've been in 2 car accidents, one when the headteacher didn't let us go home early in heavy snow, I skidded and ended up flipping the car onto it's roof. The second was as I was being beaten up by the passenger. My life flashed before me in a clichéd way, just like in films (to quote Rik Mayall from the above YouTube clip "it was like one long relentless collage of grey")

3. If you had a time machine, where would you go?

Nowhere, I have no desire to return to the past, or to see my future. I'd only end up trying to change things and make everything worse! I would like to see how the earth looked at the dawn of time though, if that can be arranged.

4. What's your earliest memory?

Eating 2 plug fuses, I was 2 years old and it's as clear as if it was yesterday. They just looked so tempting.

5. What were your best and worst holidays?

Best holiday - Ibiza 1998, I felt so free

Worst - West Wales 1996 - 3 males (all super odd and gormless) and my friend Louise. A holiday home owned by one of the oddballs' parents. His parents wanted him to be normal. We'd been there an hour, were watching TV and a drag queen came on. The one whose parents owned the home said (super camp) "she's nice". We all burst out laughing because he genuinely thought it was a lady. We were home by teatime. Major hissy fit and we were all ordered to leave. Trouble was, he had to drive us home. In complete silence.

Sarah - What would you save from your burning house (everyone is already out)?

Just my black handbag. Everything I need is in there

PerlNumquist - Why do the tiny precious crumbs of chocolate left in the wrapper when the rest has been eaten always taste nicer than the huge chunks you gorged only moments before?

I disagree, so will say its something about not knowing what you've got 'til it's gone, and not buying enough chocolate in the first place. Rookie mistake.

Little Nell - sorry!

La Dama -

Do you believe in Tarot?

I believe such things can cause equal comfort and distress.

have you ever had a tarot reading?

No, but I do have a pack of cards which I used to gain popularity at school. I used to make up my own meanings.

seen ghosts,felt,heard???

I saw a butler in Victorian dress very clearly in the bedroom of a guest house in Dorset 9 years ago. I am always seeing people/hearing things. Every female on my mother's side of the family does. I think it's our imaginations.

You feeling better?

A lot, thank-you. I feel better than ever!

Phew, that took hours! I need a drink...

Thanks again for all the questions.

Lucy x

Curtise, Em (Ivy Black Chat) and Keshling - a post featuring your gifts to follow very soon...

2011-12-26T22:21:00.000Z

Just a track which sums up this vile story and this example of consumerism gone mad so few words:

"buy more" "Consume" "be happy"

I hope you all had a great Christmas. Feel free to ask me things (anything you want to know)

My next blog post will be answers.

Thanks

One Hundredth Post

2011-12-15T15:01:00.000Z

I have been here, loitering. I have written, and quickly scrapped countless posts. I have re-visited older posts, an end-of-year evaluation, I suppose.

I was driving home from a retail park earlier, the road by-passes a village and you get the feeling you're driving through a groove carved out from the earth with a giant pointed stick, mountains all around. Neil Young came on the radio, I'm not a huge fan, but his nasal tones remind me of childhood. Staying up late on a weekend; my uncle's 'fragrant' roll-up cigarettes competing with everyone else's, pints of cider and lager dotted around, the musky perfume 'Tweed' by Yardley filling the bathroom, loud laughter. I'll have a small cup of Strongbow with a splash of Ribena please, and dream about being grown-up.
An intensely luminous rainbow shot out from the trees and over the mountain - it's beginning and end apparent but not obvious. The birds' silent flight makes it's own music by igniting rhythms and bass-lines lying dormant in your brain.
A balloon filled with helium bobs around in the back of the car, like a third passenger nodding to the music, what a noble gas.
I'm regularly reminded that the connections you make with people through sharing your life on here are not purely superficial.
My coat came from Sheffield, from a lady I've never met, I have never heard her voice, but I know her. I read her blog posts and everything about her is familiar. Someone giving me a coat and knowing it would fit and I'd love it - must be a friend? My ring came from London, a lady I've never met, my earrings from Stockport, a lady I've never met.
I laughed really rudely and loudly last night at the corner shop. A local lady with mild learning difficulties and a dearth of endearing characteristics was there furiously scratching lottery cards. Pink nightdress with a cow on the front, gaping pink fleece dressing gown and emerald green peep-toe shoes, eight cans of John Smiths on the counter awaiting payment. The new shop owner wore stonewashed jeans with a razor-sharp crease ironed into the front, and a baseball style jacket with denim body and baggy jersey sleeves, his shirt was a purple, mustard and teal abstract affair - like many of the eighties prints; a smudged chalk effect. My attire didn't disappoint either. Exercise leggings, cheap ribbed t-shirt, my son's hoodie, and running shoes. "Look at us, all dressed up and nowhere to go!" I quipped.
Tumbleweed blew past as I waited for a raucous response to my joke, a few customers shot me a filthy look.
I went out last Saturday with the gang featured in this post. Festivities, I embraced them - whatever they are. I even wore a party hat. My default 'pissed' behaviour came out of hiding. I was presented with endless glasses of water and ordered to drink them. I harassed the two very young barmen, I'm barely getting away with this now, lord help me when I'm a pensioner. I'm bound to be still at it.
I decorated the tree with the boys, ensuring that essential foul-mood which is unique to mothers of young children reared it's head. Usually when cooking, splashing boiling gravy, dropping pans and saying SHHHITTT! It was lovely.
I sat and watched the Christmas concert, kids can't sing nicely to save their lives, and I can't sit there without thinking what the REAL story was with that star, child-mother, 3 blokes and a barn. Terrible mum.

I bought a present following a recommendation on Jem's blog, I sent my charity-swap parcel off (more from the coat, swap etc. another time). I made Christmas cards, I DO try.

I wish you a very Merry Christmas.
What is your wish for next year? Mine is for peace.

2012 is going to be a year of change, I don't know what I'll be doing this time next year, but I will definitely share it with you all. You're all wonderful, I mean it.

Thank-you,

Lucy x

CHEERS!

Christmas rant/Shopping rant (yes, misery rules)

2011-12-01T23:28:00.000Z

It would take so long to comment on all the posts I have either missed this week, or have only briefly glanced at on a tiny screen. This makes me feel like I'm not playing by the rules.. Sorry folks. Will try to remedy this very soon.

Where have I been? Everywhere and nowhere. Trying to be a good PTA* member, failing to be a good PTA member. Trying to be more of a disciplinarian with the boys, failing to be anything but 'soft as shite'. Trying to be more domesticated, less of a lazy dreamer...failing.
Trying, trying, trying to be the type of person who talks about Christmas with enthusiasm FAILING.

I like seeing children smile, who doesn't? That doesn't mean I have to like Christmas. Remember that line as I won't be dwelling on the happy kids side of it again. i hope it goes without saying that my boys like Christmas.

I don't dislike Christmas, I even end up getting into the spirit by about the 22nd.
I like the school concert, but it doesn't make me cry. I'm a bit hard in the 'kids making me cry' department after looking after a girl until her death, who was smashed against a wall by her step father as a baby. She died blind, deaf, epileptic and happy 5 years later. I was 20 and one of my favourite pictures is of me holding her.

I like the Salvation Army band playing in town. I like watching people try to carry something bigger than them home from town in the heavy rain, face like thunder, full of White Lightening. I like getting a card addressed To no 17, from no 26. I am having great difficulty adding to this list.

I've been doing a bit of amateur psychology, trying to work out why I can't work up much enthusiasm for special occasions. I conclude; it's spontaneity I thrive on.

I've never liked wearing a watch. I have a reliable body clock, and am punctual. If I'm going out for the day, finding out the train times doesn't come into it. I'll turn up, and a train will arrive on the platform soon after.

Nights out, impromptu - great. Meticulously planned, deposit-paid, "I'm wearing this dress and these shoes" - boring.

Dinner - thrown together by instinct and with little thought - delicious. Military precision dining - no thanks.

Shopping for gifts - awful. Seeing something and thinking "she'd LOVE that" when it's nowhere near her birthday or Christmas - memorable (no, not 'priceless).

My pet hates; plastic toys, gift sets, waste wrapping paper, sickly cheap processed food, warm wines and spirits, grudges, general 'waste', insincerity, ungratefulness, token/thoughtless gifts, vile greetings cards, terrible music, hidden pain, debt, overly wound-up kids (Santa won't come), harassed staff, angry shoppers, grumpy postal staff...

I went to Cardiff with my 12 year old on Wednesday, he's itching to boost his social status with some over-priced leisure wear.

Hollister has arrived in Cardiff, everything about this had escaped my attention. On the train, talk of the queues to get into Hollister was to be heard from every angle. I didn't know what the fuss was about (still don't).

FORTY-FIVE minutes of queuing to get into a shop? No, I didn't do it. Great marketing, but why are adults sucked in? Fair enough the teens, but why would anyone find a shop reeking of artificial flowers, and staffed by underweight pre-pubescent looking androgynous types, an experience worth buying into?

The queue for the shop snaked all around this balustrade:

On to 'Cult' a shop stocking endless racks of overpriced hoodies and t-shirts emblazoned with 'Super-Dry'. I remember the Super-Dry collection about 10 years ago seeming like butch wear for ladies, and camp wear for gents (sorry to generalise).

Now, the Super-Dry jacket and hoodie are a sure way to prove you're a valid member of society. Huge queues in the store, identikit staff, stressed parents and grandparents.
I'm so out of touch with shopping. I think £10 is a fortune to spend on an a garment. Fifty quid for a zip-up hoodie? No joke.

I did succumb though, I remember a brief period of wanting to fit in. Followed closely by a period of wanting to look totally unique, all second-hand or customised clothes from the age of 14 to the present day. I looked a total idiot most of the time, but the courage I had then, I miss. If my son wants to be a clone, he can be one. That's what he wants for Christmas.

On the way back, I stopped at just one charity shop, it was painful walking past the next 3. "Mum, you are the only one out of all my friends' mothers who dresses like an old lady". I bought a naff jumper, I will model it soon. It IS an old lady jumper - shame on me. My poor, embarrassed boy.

The guy who served me was pleasant, natural and funny, unlike the other shops. I spent £6 on a jumper and trousers. Spontaneity ruled. For me.

Tell me what I'm missing.

Merry Bloody Christmas!

* PTA = parent/teacher association

2011-11-21T01:55:00.000Z

Can you believe this pool has been empty for over 20 years, and just left to disintegrate? It's right in the centre of town - the heart of the war memorial park, which is my favourite haunt.

The changing rooms, shelter and other surrounding buildings are Grade II listed.

Presently, the shopping centre is undergoing a very expensive facelift. The giant concrete cuboid, formerly 'Taff Vale Shopping Precinct' has been demolished.

The tax office which was encased in this architectural masterpiece is slowly being taken apart (good old asbestos).

Plans for Next, Debenhams and other such retail giants to open stores here in 2012, promise to lure cash-splashing shoppers back to Pontypridd.

The precinct used to house 'Rainbow Records' "no love, I haven't got that top 20 album, I can get it by Monday?" (Monday never came, though I did buy some great stuff from there in the early nineties)

The barbers was by far the jewel in the precinct's crown though.

The couple who owned it won the pools in the 70's, and went on an intensive hairdressing course before they bought the shop.

The same apron was used for every customer, they only had 2. The 'gold'fish were suspended in slime, like a smaller, rotten version of Hirst's Cow.

The couple offered no small-talk to customers, never decorated the place, or took down the 70's posters, and never gave anyone a decent haircut. It was always busy though, I think the price structure had a lot to do with it.

The ultimate insult to throw at a boy would be "did you have your hair cut in the precinct?"

gone, not forgotten

The design template for most of the departmental buildings in Pontypridd (built post 1950) follow this pattern: get a ruler, draw a straight line, then another, and join up the sides.

Only 2 floors left to demolish now, this was September.

The other major re-development currently under way is the building of a Sainsbury's supermarket on the former Brown Lenox site.

Brown Lenox was a chain/anchor works, constructed in 1816.

In junior school, lessons in local history tended to feature two things; coal-mining, and the chainworks. The image of Isambard Kingdom Brunel standing in front of the giant chains is iconic for me.

We walked through the indoor market on Saturday, the boys love it in there.

I bought 2 bras for £1 each from the beautiful stall Shapemakers - take a look, and imagine what shape you could create.

The second-hand book stall is chock-a-block with working-class favourites; My Life Has Been Utterly Shite, I Met a Nice Man and he DIED, I am a copper and I DRINK NEAT WHISKY all day - you get the picture? I didn't buy a book.

However, I will mock the market no more. It's improving month by month, and I remember getting excited about going shopping there as a child.

I'd buy a few ounces of coconut mushrooms ("why do you always choose the heavy sweets Lucy?") and look at the toy stall. I once bought a little doll inside a matchbox from there, it seemed a perfectly sensible purchase.

Recently, four ladies my age opened stalls, one (the market owner's wife) has a lovely delicatessen/butchers, another sells hand-made cushions, bags and decorative items, the third - an organic fruit and veg stall, and finally, a stall selling paper goods.

Tasteful, contemporary, quality, maybe things are looking up?

If we stay in Pontypridd, I hope the boys won't remember it as a dump. It's home.

My parents aren't from Pontypridd, neither is Rob, but I feel settled here, even when some of the sights get me down.

I was discussing 'inspiration' the other day; it recently dawned on me that you don't need to go far or be surrounded by stereotypical examples of beauty to feel inspired.

I do feel a change of scene is important to keep your mind fresh and add intrigue, but when you're in the right frame of mind, a walk down a well trodden path, one you've frequented all your life, can feel new and exciting.

I refuse to feel depressed about a supermarket and various chain stores taking over the town.

I'm on first-name terms with the lovely elderly ladies at the 'Truck Stop Cafe' in the market, and the young ladies starting new ventures. There's room for optimism, as well as dismay (though, I revel in the latter).

What makes 'home' for you, and why?

A 'No News' week...

2011-11-13T20:53:00.001Z

A sweaty week on the sofa with the family. For me, swallowing was agony, every time, it felt as though I was attempting to gulp a whole tangerine coated in glass beads. Head colds for Rob and the boys.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, dreaming I was choking, before waking to find a child telling me he needed a drink, meal, entertainment or help to get his Spiderman or Hulk costume off to have a wee.
My neck was swollen, I dribbled, my ears stung and my head spun.
The gas man came, why do they always arrive at such times?

I'm nearly recovered, but feel rather fragile, I just want to get out and do things, but slight activity leaves me exhausted. This is my winter mode, every year since my early teens, it's the same. Please - no suggestions of vitamin tablets.

Blogging material has been limited to the confines four walls surrounding me. An impromptu visit from a couple, whilst in the throes of illness, was most unwelcome. This duo usually arrive with chutney in early December, a tradition of which they're very proud. The chutney is ghastly, I'm not a fussy eater at all, to which any family member will attest. This red onion chutney, however, tastes like rubber bands steeped in wine and strawberry jam. I will donate it to the school, part of the Christmas hamper raffle prize.
They were doing the chutney round early this year, the reason is long and boring.

I tried fobbing the grinning couple off at the front door, hoping my swollen, clammy, pasty face coupled with nightwear at 4 pm would be enough proof that I wasn't feeling well. It mattered not that I was potentially host of a SARS-type virus which could exterminate them before they get to the next lucky recipient of chutney.

I managed some half-hearted small-talk, made them a cuppa, and very efficiently 'swept' them out of the house when I could stand no more 'useless-doctor-at-the-hospital/surgery' talk.
I was racked with self-loathing and guilt when they left. Why can't I just be nice?

Anecdotes are so thin on the ground, days have passed, and I've yet to finish the post.

I ventured out this evening, to Tesco Express in Treforest - home to the University of Glamorgan. It's always really busy, and not very big. There's a Pizza Hut, KFC and a bar all crammed into a space only big enough for one of these establishments. Students are always to be found in large groups, using their measly funds to stock up on essentials like boxes of wine and buckets of chicken wings.

I filled a basket with packed-lunch supplies quickly, the handles chewed into my palms. A lady who seemed to have the mental age of a ten year old kept getting in my way, well, everyone's way.
Sandwiches reduced to £1 were drawing a crowd, you really can't beat stale bread, cheap ham and some rubberised cheese for an evening snack, can you?

The lady getting in my way (I decided to call her Bertha) was with an equally charming male companion who had a penchant for denim (he can be Shakin' Stevens or 'shaky' for short). Shaky took one look at the queue and decided he was too cool to wait, he picked up at least 4 big bars of chocolate and strutted out of the shop. Bertha huffed and puffed behind me, she had 8 cans of cider, loads of reduced sandwiches and 2 huge bags of value ready salted crisps - they should work up a thirst.

Bertha and I were served at the same time, she looked like a lady with not a lot on her mind, I noticed a key ring swinging from her hand, it was festooned with cartoon character trinkets. As I had more shopping, Bertha left before me.

I was keen to see where Shaky had got to, so I hurried out of the shop, to witness Shaky sitting in the passenger seat of a brand new Ford (typical girl - don't know the model) EATING the stolen chocolate, and DISPLAYING a disabled badge. I know lots of disabilities are hidden, I'm not about to have a rant about any of the thoughts which came to mind.

I got into my shed, and followed Bertha and Shaky out of the car park. Shaky had cracked open a can, Bertha was force-feeding herself a sandwich (maybe livers are fetching a good price at the moment? Bertha is following the foie gras method to plump her liver to maximum size. "Cash your liver TODAY!" "webuyanyliver.com".

How the other half live eh?

Anyone remember 'Bertha'? I loved it. Rob always says he's not surprised I don't watch much TV now, I was completely addicted as a child:

Hope you all have a lovely week, I enjoyed everyone's blog posts while I was marinating myself in a Streptococcus sauce. Commenting was sometimes hard, my phone was thrown in anger on several occasions.

2011-11-06T23:17:00.000Z

When I was at junior school, I decided I was going to become an actress. I can't remember the exact moment, but I do remember starting to internally narrate my actions.

I had a nightie which I adored, it was knee-length with 3/4 sleeves, a boater neckline and it depicted a scene comprising two rows of telephone booths fading to a vanishing point. Men on one side, women on the other (all identical) there were palm trees too, and everything looked like bright metallic car-paint. The women were wearing tight jeans, denim jacket, giant hoop earrings and stilettos. They were 'me'.

If I was preparing a Marmite and Dairylea sandwich for myself, which was possibly a daily ritual, in my head I'd be building my part up. "Yes Peter, I'm just making some sandwiches for us. What time are you picking me up? 7:30? OK, beep the horn". I'd go upstairs and pretend to put on stilletos and ankle socks, just like on ZZ Top's 'Legs' video.

I don't know who Peter is, but it was always Peter, which happens to be Rob's middle-name.

This internal narration took over everything, even having a bath became an episode of my own personal Truman Show-esque life. I 'spoke' about myself in the third person.

Everyone does this to a certain extent - don't they? Maybe not.

I had a stressful evening last Thursday.

I took all three boys for a haircut and it was a nightmare (I may blog about it once I've recovered). Next, I bought jeans for my 12 year old, the type which look as though they've been designed for someone with severe rickets.

That was also a horrendous experience, not helped by the crude music in the shop which could be described as "a migraine interpreted through the medium of Gabber techno" being blasted from a cheap stereo. I love electronic music, so you can imagine how awful it was if I'm moaning.

To cope with this unpleasant evening (did I mention the torrential rain, and toddler who refuses to have the rain-cover on his pushchair?) I narrated the scenes in real time.

"Now, she's buying some jeans for her son, they're not what she'd choose for him. It's difficult saying no sometimes. He really wants these jeans, and he doesn't get many treats from his mum. She spends half her life living out of a suitcase, so likes to spoil him on the rare occasions they get together".

Don't ask why I "live out of a suitcase" maybe I'm a top Kleeneze rep in my 'other' life or something.

We rushed home in the rain, only pausing to look at The Gruffalo's house. This house is being renovated, it's so creepy because it looks filthy and stuck in a time warp, yet a middle aged woman lives there (it really does look uninhabitable).

The 70's curtains catch my eye, "oh, the things Vix could make with these".

When we got home, I didn't see the mess and disorder. I live in a large house, just as described in this post.

I think it's time to start living my life. Properly.

forward to 3:49 - dream footwear

A fiver to anyone who can listen to this in it's entirety without wanting to slice their ears off

A Gruffalo, why - don't you know?

Psycho-delic Furs

2011-10-30T01:28:00.000+01:00

The charity shops called yesterday. If I had the funds, and a shopping trolley to bring it all home, I would have pretty much emptied the Wales Air Ambulance and St David's Hospice shops.
There really is an improvement in stock once the boot sale season ends.

I bought three hats in the ambulance shop, some pretty material, a skirt, vintage napkins, a pyrex casserole dish (with lid!), a merino wool jumper and some picture frames. Sum total £15.75. "I'll put the hats on ebay" I thought.

In the hospice shop, I found myself wondering if some of the customers thought it was an actual hospice.Two wheelchair users, a man and woman, and their respective partners, cut a sorry sight. The shop manageress greeted the older couple with a welcoming familiarity. They were after a blanket for the lady in the wheelchair, to keep her legs warm. A pile of beautifully crocheted blankets sat on a table, knitted in subdued, tasteful and gradually merging tonal shades.

The lady, who looked at least 65 said "I don' wan' one-a them, they for grannys, in't they? I'll look like I belong in a nursing home!".
I thought about the current resurgence in popularity these blankets are having, and how they'd fetch a pretty penny on some 'hip' city stall, thirty-somethings snapping them up to dress their sofa. £3 for one the size of a single quilt, £4 for a double. Very reasonable.
They left with nothing.

The second couple looked malnourished and really pathetic, they were wearing those strange padded hoodies, with mystical transfers on the back of wolves and wizards, don't know if you've been lucky enough to see these garments on show?
The manageress spoke to them in an over-familiar, prying way. I know her, I worked with her daughter a few years ago, she tested my patience, which is in pretty high supply.

Before the.charity shop she was the manageress at Mc Donalds, and raised a lot of money for charity. She has one of those union representative type personalities.

"What happened to you then, why are you in a wheelchair? It's like wheelchair club today".
Great way to break the ice.
"I'm diabetic love, feet don't work at the moment, hahahaha"
"Terrible thing, diabetes, my nan had her leg off with it". Great retort

They went on to discuss infections, hospitals, rubbish wheelchairs...
I kept getting drawn towards a beaver lamb fur coat, which smelt of badgers, not that I'm familiar with the scent.
As I tried on the coat, transforming myself into the type of lady who gets 'taken out', I eavesdropped further on the conversation. I wish I hadn't.

"Infections - they can be very nasty. I had a terrible internal itch in my bowels awful, it was. Antibiotics didn't work, and you can't exactly scratch your bowels can you? They had to open me up. I still wasn't better. The smell was horrendous, let me tell you, I made myself feel sick, so lord knows how my family coped. I got in the bath one day, the water was brown in minutes, it was." My partner used to sponge me down, but he began retch".

She glanced over, and changed the subject.
"That coat looks stunning, doesn't it? Real beaver, it is 1930's" (sheepskin, possibly early 1960's).
The couple agreed it looked nice, and seemed to accept wearing a 1930's beaver was perfectly acceptable. Caught up in my little fantasy, I bought it, £10, way over my usual spend allowance.

As I paid, I decided to show her my hat collection, "ooh, what a bargain, REAL mink!"
I looked again. It was real.
Oh dear, how many dead animals was I willing to take home? I really hadn't thought about it.

You can't really argue that "it's already been killed, so it's ok - second hand" can you?
It's still glamorising fur. Is it ok if you're a meat eater and the fur is a by-product of the food chain?

I won't be wearing the mink hat, that's for sure. The smelly coat? What do you think?

As for bowel stories, as much as I love toilet humour, the brown bath tale even had me feeling a bit sick.

ready for bed in tartan p.j's and beaver

Ebay? Keep?

Ebay? Or pet sematary?

Good Life

2011-10-27T16:24:00.000+01:00

I'm just getting over a virus, many are calling it 'flu, but this is an exaggeration. I've felt generally like I've got the worst hangover, all my energy stolen, limbs feel useless, heavy and bruised.
The worst thing? Bloody ravenous, all the time, despite not being able to taste anything (definitely not 'flu then).

Enough symptom talk, very boring, and I spend most of autumn/winter poorly every year so it's nothing new.

The past few weeks, very limited use of a PC means relying heavily on my phone to keep up with blogs - not easy unless you have a really snazzy phone (which I don't).
Sorry if my comments have been poorly typed, or if I haven't got around to commenting and I usually do.

It's been such a lonely fortnight for me, thank goodness for blogs, and twitter, which I'm warming to more after being unsure about if for most of the time.

I haven't been in a very communicative mood, generally, probably due to being run down. I did want to be around people, but only people who don't feel the need to fill the air with dialogue, close friends in other words. This period of near solitude has been good for me, provided a chance to think about the future.

I walked past a hair salon the other day, I have been walking past it on my way to town since I was three. It's called Pandora, and two ladies in their sixties run it, one of their mothers owned it before them.
Only old ladies go there now, but they probably went there when they were my age. They go in and have their hair 'set'. As the frail looking ladies sit, their head under the heaters, they look like corpses being warmed up. Invariably, they leave the salon looking only marginally different from when they went in.

I very suddenly became aware of the lapse of time, it was strange, I felt a sad longing, all vulnerable and under pressure.
When you don't work, you see the same types of people; other mums, the unemployable, and the elderly. These elderly ladies getting out of taxis every Wednesday to wobble into Pandora were me, not so very long ago.When I walked past aged 3, who knows, maybe one of them was in there having a perm, sipping weak tea, enjoying a bit of peace. Corned beef hash planned for dinner, a night out lined up at one of the now long-gone bars or clubs that weekend.

Like many people, I get scared when I think about the future, excited and scared in equal measure. I think of death, illness, one or all of my sons becoming tearaway, of me being fed up as I juggle work and family commitments.
I also think of having more fun, being less tied to the family, meeting new people at work, getting out and about more.
I think of the past, those days which leave a lasting impression on your mind despite nothing notable happening (like standing in the lane, aged 8, looking at an open attic window on a hot day and feeling like I was looking at myself from another vantage point. Duran Duran were blasting from the bedroom).

I reckon Pandora will be gone soon, those ladies have been standing up all day in stilletos for over 40 years. I bet they'll never be able to wear orthopaedic shoes now.

I'm reaching a prime, not necessarily a prime age; a prime time. I don't want a perm, don't want a full-time job, don't want a tattoo, don't want a degree. I don't want to go to a show. I don't want a girls weekend in Butlins.

I want to get fit, dress more like 'me' than some blend-in with the furniture mum. I want to make things, make friends, cook more, talk more (I don't talk much, believe it or not) and create memories to look back on for notable reasons. I can't wait

I hope these thoughts make sense, I sometimes wonder if a diary would be better than a blog?

Aberfan Disaster anniversary

2011-10-21T00:13:00.000+01:00

On this day, 45 years ago, 116 children and 28 adults were killed by the collapse of a 'tip' which engulfed a school in Aberfan, South Wales.

It was the last day of term.

The disaster was preventable.

A small mining community was devastated in a day.

I was there for about an hour and a half until the fire brigade found me. I heard cries and screams, but I couldn’t move. The desk was jammed into my stomach and my leg was under the radiator. The little girl next to me was dead and her head was on my shoulder.
Pupil, Pantglas Junior School.

The coal mining industry shaped the South Wales valleys. So many deaths, so much emphasis on profit over human safety.

I found it too difficult to write a full post about the Aberfan disaster, despite spending months researching it and reading this book:

So many tragedies could be avoided if greed was removed from the equation.

"The brave front of the people of Aberfan cracked on Monday at an inquest on 30 of the children.
There were shouts of "murderers" as the Coroner of Merthyr, Mr. Ben Hamilton, began reading out the names of the dead children.
As one name was read out and the cause of death given as asphyxia and multiple injuries, the father of the child said "No, sir, buried alive by the National Coal Board".
One of the only two women among the 60 people at the inquest at Sion Primitive English Methodist Chapel at Aberfan, shouted out through her tears, "They have killed our children."
Then a number of people called out and got to their feet. The coroner tried to restore order and said: "I know your grief is much that you may not be realising what you are saying."
The father repeated: "I want it recorded – ‘Buried alive by the National Coal Board.’ That is what I want to see on the record. That is the feeling of those present. Those are the words we want to go on the certificate."
Merthyr Express

I would like to pass the book (which is excellent) on to someone else, it touches on other, more recent disasters as well as Aberfan. The author kindly gave me permission to reference anything in the book - thank-you Martin Johnes.

It's very hard to write this post without imagining how it must have felt waiting to see if your child was going to be pulled out alive from the rubble.

When I saw a child with the same name as my 4 year old son - Richard Philip, listed as one of the children killed BY THE NATIONAL COAL BOARD, it became impossible to concentrate.

Dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives inAberfan on this day in 1966. Apologies for the disjointed nature of this post

I'm happy to send the book to anyone who would like to read it (even overseas), leave a comment and I'll choose a name at random if needs be.

Fairtrade bananas, a vicar and a poem...

2011-10-17T00:21:00.000+01:00

We've been treated to some of the most beautiful autumn skies I have ever seen, day and night.
As I ran with my eyes fixed on the enchanting moon, I barely missed lamp posts, confused new students finding their way around Treforest (home of the University of Glamorgan) and dog-walkers.

Last Thursday I spent an hour at church, listening to cringe-worthy harvest songs sung by children innocently and naively thanking God for conkers, bananas and parents. The vicar was a rather bemusing character, ultra-camp, I think panto was his true calling.

I pulled a chair to sit near two mums and chat before the service began, I didn't have much to say, but they invited me and I had been feeling rather 'Billy no mates' sitting alone at the end of a row of 20 empty chairs. The vicar insisted I was a fire hazard and made me return to my original seat, with a worse vantage point - I was destined to sit alone.

I'm glad I did sit alone, it was easier to stifle the tidal wade of childish giggles that were ready to flood the church. The vicar put on a bizarre display using a banana as a prop. The banana became a gun and a mobile phone, "what did you say mummy? Stop playing with my food?"
I was too shocked to react and didn't dare imagine further uses for the phallic prop (really, I didn't).

I looked around the church; stained glass windows all around ensure you don't look out to the sky and the world, a large organ, fire extinguishers everywhere, a giant projector and screen - everything was at odds. Even the churchy feeling I usually get, a sort of general heightening of my senses, eluded me.
The songs were beautiful in their celebration of nature, but for me, this was spoilt by the suggestion god had carefully and cleverly designed it all.

The vicar showed us a clip promoting the fairtrade scheme - great, I love a fairtrade banana and bar of chocolate.
I wished I could think only about the happy farmers, but I thought of the child labour, the starving AIDS-ravaged families, the helplessness. I almost envied the vicar's faith as I looked at the plump, comfortably clothed school children who have more pencils in one drawer than a whole village in parts of Africa, a sense of intense guilt washed over me because I am always moaning about the price of food.

Babies and toddlers became restless, I started to focus on the vicar's sharp intakes of breath before each sentence, anything to detract from the tedium - my concentration span is incredibly poor.
Light flooded in through the red robe of whichever saint adorned the east facing window, occasionally painting the vicar's face a devil-red.
A pile of tinned food for the local hungry people looked sterile and inappropriate in a church, I felt it should look like an offering to the gods, all laid out with doilies, candles and incense sticks.
I mouthed the words to All Things bright and Beautiful, instantly being transported back to primary school, the smell of the woodblock floor, damp walls and rancid farts.
The teachers looked at their watches, probably planning their coffee breaks and willing the vicar to wrap up the service, the pupils started to shuffle and giggle. Carrier bags started to rustle, I wonder when carrier bags will be something we remember from years ago, like fags being smoked on a bus.

The vicar allowed the headmaster to take centre stage, he too thinks he's a funny guy, he read a Roger Mc Gough poem and grinned as if he was hearing it for the first time.

The vicar thanks us for coming, the church quickly empties.
As I was about to leave he came over to apologise for embarrassing me regarding the fire-hazard saga. I tell him he made up for that with his banana routine.
The vicar tells me the children love his banana routine, I can hold on to the tidal wave of guffaws no more.

Just Another Autumn Day - Roger McGough

In Parliament, the Minister for Mists
and Mellow Fruitfulness announces,
that owing to inflation and rising costs
there will be no Autumn next year.
September, October and November
are to be cancelled,
and the Government to bring in
the nine-month year instead.
Thus we will all live longer.

Emergency measures are to be introduced
to combat outbreaks of well-being
and feelings of elation inspired by the season.
Breathtaking sunsets will be restricted
to alternate Fridays, and gentle dusks
prohibited. Fallen leaves will be outlawed,
and persons found in possession of conkers,
imprisoned without trial.
Thus we will all work harder.

The announcement caused little reaction.
People either way don't really care
No time have they to stand and stare
Looking for work or slaving away
Just another Autumn day.

Roger McGough

Reasons to be Cheerful [IMAGE HEAVY]

2011-10-09T23:58:00.001+01:00

There are so many reasons to be cheerful.

I won TWO 'giveaways' -

Firstly, a garment that has been on quite a journey (returned to sender once, and from the depot to my house THREE times!) fitting, really, as it features a large feathered bird:

I won this on Kat and Emma's monthly giveaway and I love it. They are such a creative duo, true artists with a passion for embracing all things unique, quirky and fun.
This cardigan caused quite a stir at the doctors last week! Children wanted to touch it.

Secondly, I won Scarlett's latest giveaway, and I had some help opening the parcel:

Suits you, sir

they insisted I paint my nails IMMEDIATELY!

can I eat it, mum?

they love these Enid Blyton tales

I plan on using the buttons for crafting, and framing the tea-towel - my kitchen needs to be brightened up -

stuff EVERYWHERE

As if this wasn't enough to keep my spirits up, in between these parcels, the queen of treasure-hunting, style and generosity, Vix sent me a parcel of goodies.

Just by reading past blog posts, detective Vix managed to glean enough information to choose items I simply adore.

Even down to the card, Vix picked out just the right detail.

Lovely earrings, poncho created by Vix in my favourite shades with shades in my favourite shade too! Bracelet I've hardly taken off, pinny just perfect for my pizza nights, cute blue slip which cheered Rob up a treat (winceyette p.j's not so popular).

Even the card was thoughtful - I mentioned wanting a dresser full of treasured finds in a past post.

I also one a parcel full of chocolate on Crystal Jigsaw's caption competition post!

And, a 1980 edition 'Mandy' annual I picked up for 10p has provided some double-entendre delight:

"Sorry for choking like that mum, I just wasn't ready for 'Big Ben'"
"We'll get used to it in the evenings dear"

Whilst I'm going a bit crazy with the images, here I am wearing my most recent charity shop finds:

Coat - Eastex - Red Cross- £5.99

Black dress - St Michaels - Wales Air Ambulance - £3

Black Heeled Brogues - my mum's original

Scarf -Richard Allan - Wales Air Ambulance - 50p

Orange Cardi - Hand-knitted - St David's Hospice - £1

Patterned tights - 'new' from charity shop (can't remember) - 50p

Patterned skirt - St Michaels - (I wouldn't go out dressed like that - honest!) - Wales Air Ambulance £1.50

I ended this evening with a book that was written for me, cheers Vix.

Scarlett, Kat and Emma - your prizes made me so happy! Thank-you very much.

Kathryn (Crystal Jigsaw) I'm going to have to run an extra mile a day at least to work off the damage done by the giant chocolate parcel you sent me! Thanks though - loved it (yep, all gone!).

I'll leave you with something I managed to avoid taking home from the charity shop....

Have a great week everyone!

Six ninety-nine please

2011-10-06T17:57:00.001+01:00

Everyone was walking past the house to go to the shop for wine or beer. I bought some wine too. I wanted to be transported somewhere exciting, maybe £6.99 being removed electronically from my bank account for a bottle of rotten liquified grapes was the key.

I was swept along with the tide of seemingly happy people on twitter, they love drinking wine on Friday.

I'm on my second big glass, watching The Comic Strip. I'm not finding it very entertaining. Rob has drifted into one of those naps which start with jerky spasms, a hangover of evolution; stopped us falling from trees when were apes.

I have no computer, this week I have been solely using my phone for electronic communication. Frustrating for a ham-fisted individual like me.

To be using my phone to type a blog post suggests desperation.

Overdrawn, overtired, overstimulated, understimulated, groundhog day, content, fear of the future, longing for adventure, longing for hibernation, want to dance, want to sit motionless in 10 decibel silence, laughing uncontrollably with friends, serious chat with friend,.want to be thin, want to be curvy, want to dye my hair, love the natural colour, need new footwear, washed the dog shit off my running shoes; they look box-fresh, want my sons to be more independent, still want to be the centre of their world, want more free time, worry free time means I spend that valuable time doing things like this...

Typos, grammatical errors, inevitable tonight - sorry readers.

I was looking for a job....

2011-10-03T23:10:00.001+01:00

I'm so annoyed with myself. I've allowed the house to become something which resembles student digs.

I haven't been plucking my eyebrows regularly enough, so now I look like Oscar from Sesame Street (that reminds me - I used to look after a girl called Oscarina who had 'Sesamstrasse' trainers - I loved them).

I have been eating bread, chocolate and crisps most days. I'm not particularly enjoying my own company, I'm constantly telling myself to 'pull myself together' and clean the house. In my defence, the weather has been too nice to stay in tidying up and cleaning. Then again, not doing any chores for 2 weeks is inexcusable.

I completed an on-line 'talent screening' contest for a cashier post Marks and Spencer - the algorithms deduced something I already knew:

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for taking the time to complete our on-line talent screener.

We received a very high standard of response for this position and we are sorry to tell you that you have been unsuccessful on this occasion.

The abilities that we test online are those which we believe are good predictors of success in Marks and Spencer and have been validated to ensure they predict performance in the role. Unfortunately we felt that based on the answers given, you did not meet all of these requirements.

We would of course welcome your application again in 6 months time for a Customer Assistant role, all of which are advertised on our website atwww.marksandspencer.com/careers.

May we take this opportunity to wish you every success with your future career and hope that you will not be discouraged from applying for any future vacancies.

Kind Regards,

Resourcing Operations Team

I'm not what they are looking for!

I'm not what anyone is 'looking for' I'm unique - you don't realise you're looking for me 'til you find me - then you wonder how ON EARTH you got through life this far without me. If you just give me the chance Resourcing Operations Team, I'll prove I can do this. I was BORN to serve customers. Retail is in my blood. All my friends and family tell me I'm a brilliant till operator. I'll prove you wrong*.

Anyway, I'm not really a massive drama queen having a sulk, honest. I'm mildly fed up because I go through periods of restlessness and boredom quite regularly, and I only have myself to blame. I have hobbies, but I also have 3 children and an almost obsessional addiction to cooking fresh meals every day - so time consuming, no dishwasher either. Woe is me.

At least the keywords this week in my traffic stats were amusing:

DISCLAIMER

* I am fully aware that working in retail is not easy. I have previously worked in a clothes shop and I was awful. I walked out on a busy Saturday I hated it that much. The animated cartoon interviewer saw through my usual impeccable impression of an ideal employee. BITCH!

p.s I think you should all check out this post by Genius Loci for a visually stimulating treat.

Watching you watching me to see you looking back at me

2011-09-30T22:49:00.002+01:00

This week I've been staring a lot at people I don't know personally, but have noticed them 'around'.
Some of these people look back at me with a hint of recognition in their eyes. I'm probably "that woman who's always pushing a screaming kid around town".

This brief, extra late Indian Summer, though welcome, and very much expected by me, is strange. The park smelt rotten, the festering, damp, autumnal mulch, intensified by the alien heat rays.

I got to the park early every day to enjoy the initial peace and increasing warmth with my monkey of a son; the squirrels, birds and the park keeper our only company.

By 10:45, the squirrels are hiding and out come the pigeons, ready for some of Greggs' finest crumbs, dropped by the hoards of toddlers who arrive. Peace will be restored in under 24 hours, until then, goodbye park, I have been frequenting you all my life and will never completely give up on you.

As I exit the park, I recoil by HSBC bank. The "loud, chopsy thin woman" which is a rather poor nickname (coined by my mum) is even thinner. If she was 7 stone before, she now looks less than 6, a walking corpse; skin like flaps of peeling PVA glue hang from jutting spiky bones. Her voice is now ghoulish, I can imagine her saying "help meeee" in a terrifying whisper. She no longer chats for too long to the charity shop volunteers, she's fading. I don't think she's as old as she looks (which is about 190) and I think she is clever, though she seems like a 'difficult' person. I stare and recoil a few more times - how can someone so poorly be out and about?

In the market, I see a man who scares me, if I'm near him in a shop I go all cold and tense. I'd say he's in his mid to late 60's, he never smiles, there is no evidence of an emotion, positive or negative, on his face. It's the upright walk which unnerves me, that and the eyes of a shark.

A new addition to my 'I've seen you before' file, intrigues me. I reckon I'll get to know her one day, she seems worth getting to know. I like her clothes and the way she looks up, not just around. I'd say she's in her mid forties, lives alone, and suffers from depression - her eyes look quite sad, like they're desperate to be rinsed out with cold water and shown a bright picture.

The last in today's list is a lady who has lost it. Once, she looked the part. In the 80s she 'nailed' (I hate he use of that word all the time) the big hair, frosted lips and stiletto-revealing toe-cleavage look. Time has been unkind, and I reckon moving on (there goes another crap term) would be a good idea. Ordering all the discontinued 'Sky Blue Pink' Constance Caroll lipsticks from some obscure website, still back-combing her hair even though it's brittle and grey, and spraying an emphysema-inducing amount of Insette hairspray to hold it in place, has done her no favours. She doesn't smile. She used to smile a lot. I bet she's got bunions.

When I become "the woman who USED to push a screaming kid around town" I hope I look happier, not sad and lost.

Do you have any nicknames for local strangers?

Rob and I have hundreds. Just in a small section of the street we have:

'My Ex' (so called because he asked me on a date once when I first moved in - I declined)

'Your mate' (I call the guy who lives over the road Rob's mate because Rob fixed his computer once. He lives in the dirtiest house imaginable and is rather eccentric, very much NOT Rob's mate)

'Snoop Dogg' (He lives opposite and is never without his dog. Seems a nice guy, but has the worst hairdo; fringe which comes to his eyebrows, long hair to his shoulders; cut short at the sides for his ears to poke out. Oh, and a moustache to complete the look. And 70's addidas track suits which would fetch a tidy sum on ebay)

I'm a very nosey neighbour.

Meet Loren - Korea Girl

2011-09-27T23:53:00.000+01:00

The 'Korean' pose

Loren is a 23 year old English Graduate from South Wales.I met her through a mutual friend earlier this year, and she really encouraged me to give blogging a whirl.

A very early interest in clothes led Loren to pursue a career in the cut-throat world of fashion journalism. Good internships, let alone jobs were in scarce supply, so she decided to take on an adventurous role - teaching English in South Korea.

It's one thing to go travelling with a friend to experience different cultures, but I believe you don't get the full experience unless you fully immerse yourself.

Here Loren answers some prying questions for me ( I really am that nosey).

What made you choose Korea?

Money was my main motivation in choosing Korea. I'd heard that you could save quite a lot working here, something that is unfortunately necessary to get my future off the ground in this time when graduates are expected to work for little or no money. I was also intrigued by the country. There's a lot of negative stuff posted about it on the internet, particularly about being an English teacher here. This contrasted deeply with the glimmers of interesting stuff I read about the zany fashions, kitsch culture and the up-and-coming music scene. I decided to contact bloggers to see what they thought and the response was overwhelmingly positive, urging me to go for it.

What does a typical working day entail?

School is a 10 minute walk away for me so I leave the house at 8:20 and head there. Typically I teach about 3 or 4 lessons a day in classes of 40 high-school boys (15 year olds). Luckily I have a coteacher who handles discipline so I can teach without worrying about that, plus most of the kids are very focused and determined so I barely ever have a problem. They can be a little loud or grumpy, depending on the weather and what they’ve eaten: they get very agitated just before lunchtime on a humid day, for example. I stay at school until 4:30, preparing lesson plans, helping out with any grammar/ linguistic queries the other teachers have and proofreading any work that needs looking over.

What do you do in your spare time?

In the evenings I’ll grab dinner with someone or eat alone at home. Eating out is incredibly cheap here, you can get a decent meal for 3 quid and the portions are enormous. It’s actually cheaper to eat out as a single person than it is to eat at home alone. Korea also has burgeoning obsession with coffee so since I live in a bustling University area there are tons of coffee shops around. I like to sit and read or write in them since they all have WIFI. In fact, Korea has the fastest internet speed in the world and there are plans to blanket Seoul in free WIFI in the near future.

On weekends I generally visit Seoul. As the second largest city in the world, there’s always something going on here. A typical weekend would be to have dinner with friends on the Friday evening, normally something more expensive than usual such as galbi (Korean Barbecue) or maybe something western. On a Saturday I do some exploring and in the evening I’ll go out to Hongdae where all my favourite bars are. There’s always some kind of party organized by someone on the expat scene so you always see the same faces out, which is fun. The Sunday will be spent hungover, shopping and/ or eating.

What is the food/drink like?

I’ve already mentioned food twice so you can assume that I love it! Korean food is cheaper than western food so I try to eat that as much as possible. At the moment I’m obsessed with mandu, which is the Korean version of chinese steamed dumplings. I also love galbi because it’s such a sociable idea to sit in a restaurant with your friends, cooking your own meat. Korean food comes with tons of side dishes so even if you feel like you’ve ordered a small meal it often turns into a big one. I’m not always a fan of the side dishes though, they’re often very strange foods such as jellified roots and fermented vegetables. Koreans eat kimchi with everything and I mean EVERYTHING. Kimchi is fermented cabbage, salty and spicy with an odd slimey texture. I can’t stand it but it’s meant to be some kind of superfood so I try to eat a little of it now and again.

I can’t mention drink without mentioning soju. You can get a bottle of this Korean vodka for 75p. The drinking culture in Korea is pretty crazy. The country is meant to be so conservative but then you regularly find yourself sitting next to an inebriated passed out middle-aged man on the subway.

What is the weather like?

The weather isn’t great. When I came it was cold but within a month it started getting considerably warmer. We had six weeks of gorgeous sunshine but then rainy season started. Rainy season is meant to last for a month but this year it was more like three. It’s hot, grey and humid and everyone gets very irate. Koreans told me that this is the worst rainy season they’ve ever seen. Clearly I brought the weather with me from Wales! It’s autumn now and the cool, dry weather is a bit of a relief. I’m worried about the sub-zero temperatures that winter is going to bring but on the bright side that means I get to go skiing for the first time.

Scenery?

The scenery isn't the best. I miss looking at the valleys. Korea has dry looking mountains, surrounded by apartment blocks. The cities are packed with people and the architecture is functional as opposed to beautiful. I have been to some gorgeous places in Korea though, but you do have to seek them out. I've also been to some places that would have been more gorgeous had there not been a random ugly building plonked obscurely in the midst of a scene.

Best thing about Korea?

Most people say the public transport. I have to admit, that is a huge draw for me. I live in a city 30k away from Seoul but I can get there in 40 minutes for less than a pound. A few weekends ago I visited the east coast of Korea for a few days, taking 3 hours on a bus to get there, at peak time during a public holiday. The bus took exactly the time it was scheduled to take and cost me 14 quid return. It’s so cheap and convenient. It seems like a boring answer but what it means is that the best thing about living here is the freedom to visit anywhere else in the country at the drop of a hat.

Worst thing?

The worst thing is that because Korea is so homogeneous there is a lack of multi-culturalism and a high proportion of casual racism. I get stared at constantly, especially when I'm not in Seoul. Also the language barrier can cause problems but you just have to adapt to that. You get really good at impromptu charades.

Have you made any good friends?

I’ve made some great friends, more than I thought I would. Initially I planned that if I failed to make any friends I would just acquire a cat and go on adventures with it in tow. Luckily I’ve made a great group of friends and I meet new ones every week. There’s a feeling amongst the foreigners that everyone is in the same boat so most people are very friendly when you meet them out and about. I’ve made some great Korean friends too, although this is usually harder than making friends with non-Koreans because Koreans can often be shy and are very nervous about using English in front of a native speaker.

How long do you think you'll stay?

Possibly a couple of years, maybe more. I will eventually be coming home to start a career but at the moment it’s a relief not to be living in depressing recession-era Britain. I'm also looking into moving to some other countries to teach since I'm feeling the wanderlust. I'm thinking Taipei in Taiwan, Buenos Aires in Argentina or Prague in the Czech Republic

Smiling, at a sporting event? Unheard of

What is your dream job?

My dream job is to be a fashion or features editor on a national magazine. Failing this, I’d just like to be paid to write.

Any funny tales?

Far too many. Mostly funny weird though. The strangest thing that happened to me is probably when I was at the Buddhist Lantern Festival in April. I was minding my own business, checking out the art stalls, when a shaven-headed female monk in robes came up to me, around 10 more monks in tow. She presented me with some art made from a rubbing that she had just done and then all of the monks encircled me. They took a picture with me and left me flabbergasted, as fleetingly as they had appeared.

Currently listening to?

K-pop! Nah, not really. It’s a bit too bubblegum for my liking. Although I do love Big Bang and 2NE1.

Currently reading?

Diary by Chuck Palahniuk. He’s one of my favourite authors and luckily I managed to find this in the foreign book shop in Seoul.

Loren, and some other creative pals in Korea have set up Chincha?! a great website offering a snapshot of the best things Seoul has to offer. She'd be delighted if you'd have a look and let her know what you think.

Follow Loren's blog where you won't find lengthy self-absorbed rants, just cool stuff like this which only take a moment to enjoy, but leave you inspired:

The Thorium dream

Anywhere

Bodysuit

Naughty Barbie (as a former Barbie addict, I LOVED this [yes, me - a Barbie fan as a kid])

Thanks Loren for letting me grill you. I think your ambition is admirable - you deserve the success which will inevitably come your way.

A-Z

2011-09-24T21:16:00.001+01:00

Bored on a Saturday night, how has it come to this?

I've enjoyed my day - only one son here this weekend, so I handed the park and train track making duty over to Rob and hit the charity shops. The prices were BEYOND unreasonable, I only came away with 2 cardigans, some crazy earrings, an old map of France to use for crafting, some photo-frames to destroy and a couple of books and toys for the little ones. Total spend £11 and I hope to make some money from the frames once I have tarted them up.

I went for a 4 mile run, passing glamorous ladies off out on the town, numerous take-aways wafting the odious MSG aroma into the evening air, hundreds of boy racers drove past, souped-up Subarus, Citroen Saxos, and sporty Fiestas filling the gap where testosterone, intelligence and wit should be.

I'm still 'dieting' so a bottle of wine/cake/bag of cashews/hummus and crusty bread are out of the question - not to mention the giant bar of Michel Cluizel chocolate I want.
We've plenty of films to watch - but Rob always falls asleep half way in - very annoying when I've squinted my way through intense subtitled dialogues (hate wearing my glasses) only to find I have nobody to talk about the film to at the end.

All the books I'm currently reading are super-depressing, the stuff of nightmares, all I want is some light-hearted fun (not interested in the X-Factor once the initial auditions are over).

Moan finished, I've decided to copy Lakota and do an A-Z of me post. I have been thinking of doing one for a while, so here goes:

A - Age
34. I feel older, look older and don't do anything to try and look younger. No creams or potions in this house.

B - Bed Size
Double, really uncomfortable mattress, one of the numerous things which need to be replaced

C - Chore you hate
Cleaning the oven is the worst

D - Dogs
We don't have any pets. I'm allergic to most hairy animals, and find dogs' neediness and fierce loyalty rather pathetic as opposed to appealing. I do know what it's like to love a dog though - always had pets as a child

E - Essential start to your day
A pint of freezing water downed in one, followed by super-strong tea - at least one. My bladder is pretty strong, luckily.

F - Favourite colour
Grey, purple, orange, green - like them equally

G - Gold or silver
I don't own either- I'm more of a pewter girl. Given a choice - silver

H - Height
5' 7"

I - Instruments you play
None, I got thrown out of violin class because the teacher couldn't handle my slow-to-learn brain. Cello teacher told me music wasn't my forte, even the recorder proved a challenge for me. Shame, I 'feel' like quite a musical person!

J - Job title
Mother-goose

K - Kids
3 boys aged 12, 4, and nearly 3

L - Live
Pontypridd, South Wales

M - Mother's name
Linda, very opinionated but only family get to hear the opinions - good job, she's made grown men cry with her truths

Looking good at 60, I reckon

N - Nickname

Juice (obv - rhyming), Frank Spencer (dad's name for his clumsy daughter)

O - Overnight hospital stays
5 days is the longest, my youngest son was born early and I had an infection which can be lethal if passed on to the baby during labour.Very lucky it was detected before his birth.
I enjoyed people-watching, enjoyed being waited on, and bonded with my baby far better for being in hospital. Nothing but praise for the staff, bloody boiling in there though! And the tea wasn't up to my standard.

P - Pet peeves
Litter, waste, cars taking over the pavement as well as the road, raffle tickets, junk mail, empty jars being returned to fridge//cupboard I'm afraid the list could go on all night)

Q - Quote from a film

"It's not Jesus, it's just a fella" - Whistle down the Wind

"The box - you opened it. WE CAME" - Hellraiser

"Nobody understands clothes here Barbie" - Ken, Toy Story 3

R - Right or left handed?
Right

S - Siblings
Brother, 2 years younger

T - Time you wake up
every hour, get up at 7 ish - love mornings though, and very late at night - hate 2pm - 6pm, I'm grumpy and lethargic.

U - Underwear
Mother-in-laws old bras, and I get knickers for Christmas. Nothing matches. Can't justify the expense of underwear, and if I got run over, my knicker and bra choice would be the least of my worries. I take my bra off as soon as I get in anyway, they are all over the house for guests to find and feel embarrassed about.

V - Vegetable you hate
Mushrooms why would anyone want to eat fungi?

W - What makes you run late
Rob. Nothing else, I hate being late, punctuality is VERY important to me. Rob gets ready to go out 5 minutes after he should have been somewhere - I have learned to bit my tongue ('til it bleeds).

X - X-Rays you've had
Last one was on my left index finger. It got jammed when a child slammed a door into it. That finger never gets warm, it's always ice cold, and painful in the winter.

Y - Yummy food that you make
I asked Rob, he said curry, and pizza. Has to be all fresh spices (my hands are always yellow from fresh turmeric) and pizza dough has to be made by hand, with home made sauce - no tomato purée.

Z - Zoo animal
Elephants, they are so prehistoric looking, and such emotional animals, and my favourite colour

Some pretty pointless facts there, for a pretty pointless evening! Having said that - I'd love it if you'd join in because I'm so nosey.

Je ne regrette rien

2011-09-22T23:08:00.000+01:00

The sky was perfect earlier, gold, pink and lilac with clouds the colour of a Russian Blue cat. A reward for putting up with days of damp, uninspiring weather.

I'm not sure if it's the change of season, but I keep getting the sense that something dramatic is about to happen. It's not a sense of impending doom, or a stomach-churning excitement (I was probably 10 last time I had that) rather a feeling that something unprecedented is looming.

When I was single, before having children, I would agree to go out with friends [on the weekend] early in the week. If, by the weekend, a feeling of nervousness or foreboding overcame me, I'd cancel the night out - sometimes just hours before. My auntie used to do the same to my mother, causing untold frustration.

I regarded these feelings as warnings or premonitions and trusted my instinct so much, I let my moods dictate every choice I made. Of course, I'm more realistic now and realise that self-fulfilling prophecies were what I was creating - not accurate predictions.

The last time I had an exceptionally strong feeling I wanted to stay in was around 13 years ago. I had arranged to go out with some girls I used to work with, it was a netball fundraising event. The girls scared me, they were loud, brash, and shared a camaraderie I have struggled to achieve with groups of females; it fascinates me but I'm not sure I'll ever feel that 'sisterhood' thing.

I should have felt comfortable, I looked OK (I very rarely felt OK about my image) and was enjoying my life at the time. Something was gnawing away at me, I couldn't shake it off and it hung over me like a cloud the colour of licorice. We got a minibus into Cardiff, and I started to cry uncontrollably, embarrassingly - this was out of character for me - even after 4 pints. I suddenly felt frightened and lonely, it was all very strange.

By the time we got to the nightclub, I started to perk up, I pulled myself together and danced the night away. Two ridiculous looking blokes lurked around most of the evening, one 6' 5", the other around 5 '5" (apologies to those who don't work in feet and inches any more!). The taller bloke pestered me non-stop, I did my best to ignore him, but was polite - he seemed harmless enough.

As the end of the night drew nearer, I was bombarded with phone-number requests, it's hard to believe how much times have changed since then. Now it would be a mobile number or "are you on Facebook?" (no, by the way). I refused to give my parents' phone number out, but did divulge my surname, which is on the first page of the phone book, and there is rarely more than one other entry of the same name.

That was all he needed to get hold of me the following week. Friends and family admired his persistence, and encouraged me to go on a date. I'm not about to suggest I was forced into this union, and of course I could have called it off any time, but there was a strange bi-polar pull throughout this relationship, it really did feel out of my control at times (maybe the excessive alcohol consumption played a part).

I went on a few nice dates before I was just used as a plus-one for engagement parties and trips to the pub, I was treated like an accessory. I was unhappy early on, but kept on going - there may be some truth in 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen'? I struggle to think of a reason why I didn't just call it off.

A few weeks in, I went to Ibiza for a fortnight with a childhood friend. My friend had met a guy a few months before and was besotted (they eventually married last year) and I think she would have liked to cancel the holiday. I made the most of it, shared drinks with some familiar faces from home, befriended the most gentlemanly group of Scottish guys I've ever met, and forgot about home. My friend pined, moped and went through the motions of 'having fun'. I had a whale of a time.

Coming back to a cold, wet Wales after a fortnight of parties in the sun was a massive anti-climax, back to reality with a bang. I had planned to knock the relationship I'd started before the holiday on the head, but it picked up where it left off.

Nine months later my fist son was born, and the unhappiest 2 years of my life ensued. I enjoyed motherhood, despite the obvious shock that comes with the arrival of your first child. I didn't say that just to make it look better, I genuinely felt complete with a child of my own to care for. He was a placid baby, quite clingy, an erratic sleeper (isn't EVERYONE'S first?) and a fussy eater, other than that, a dream child.

The relationship was horrendous though, and I had such reservations about becoming a single mum, I stuck it out and endured some very bad times.

Of course, I don't regret going out that night, because everything that is right with my life is right because of what followed on from the chance meeting of two totally incompatible people. I learned lessons quickly and painfully, but learned them nevertheless. Our son enjoys one of the most successful shared-parenting arrangements I know of, and I believe his life is richer for it.

I made a series of decisions, none of these experiences were 'fate'. It would be all too easy to keep blaming mistakes on something ethereal.

This week though, I have asked Rob on more than one occasion - whose idea was it to have these kids? The nights have been difficult, with the little ones now sharing a room, and the youngest wanting to jump in bed with his brother - musical beds at 2 am is not fun.
Obviously, I wouldn't change a single thing - my sons are a source of pride and joy (sometimes).

I'll carry on drifting, making a variety of decisions based on 'gut feeling' and others on rational thought. A parallel life will run in my head - more than one most probably.

As long as I don't repeat past mistakes, I'll live my whole life without regret.

Any regrets?

Organised Chaos?

2011-09-18T22:11:00.000+01:00

As much as I'd like to be one of these people who has a place for everything, and everything in it's place - it's never going to happen.
I don't write lists, don't have a calendar with birthdays on; I memorise addresses, postcodes and phone numbers (even mobile numbers sometimes). I rely on the other mums to remind me about school events (they know what I'm like) because even having a letter with important dates on the fridge doesn't make a difference. I have a system in my brain, but not a physical system to back it up.

Flicking through the photographs on my phone, I decided it was high time I deleted most of them - they are no better than the ones people used to take to finish the film off when they were desperate to get it developed. It's a small step, but getting more organised will take time.
Please don't recommend I join the Fly Lady revolution - even she couldn't save me.

I tried, but I couldn't bring myself to delete them, I wanted to think first about the story they told.
If someone found my phone, what on earth would they make of the owner? Besides quickly deducing that I have 3 sons, I'm not sure what the photographs taken on days out say about me.

The other file on my phone which could give something away is the 'notes' application. I DO write some things down.
I write down ideas which pop into my head when I'm daydreaming. I only started doing this recently, Rob is the king of list-writing and he told me to start typing thoughts and conversations into my phone in case I forget them.

I just read through some of these notes - they're all very much centred around making observations about others' appearance. So I'd come across as a right bitch:

Her hair looked like a lolly with all the juice sucked out
Is the opposite of aero-dynamic, terra dynamic? He looked neither
Rob said "she looks American, doesn't she?" Me: "yeah, a boiler really but so well groomed and with those gleaming white teeth it's hidden well"

Aren't I nasty? I must write more pleasant things in future - there are only one or two: "the trees grew at strange angles; looked like cocktail sticks protruding from a pineapple at an 80's buffet. The leant in to admire their reflection in the river".

I don't have a state of the art phone, so apologies for the poor quality of the shots...

The 'peaceful' collection - these were taken during the moments you feel able to take a full, deep breath - moments which can be all too rare:

Nostalgia - I had my tea in this cup every morning as a child. There's a yellow and red one too - very happy memories:

Charity shop buys - spot the spelling mistake, and if you see a better knitting pattern than this gorgeous canary yellow number, please let me know:

I like the light and shadow in this:

The people in the background of this picture entertained me all day, I didn't even notice my son had a bucket on his head because I was distracted by the couple who kept telling their son to "bugger off and play or you can go home and watch TV in your bedroom"

There are countless more, but I won't bore you - holiday photos are boring enough, let alone random pictures taken on my jaunts.

I think these pictures highlight my nosiness. There are about 20 photographs of the sky, and loads of my hand, wearing a ring Lakota kindly sent me ages ago. I wanted it as my profile picture - but I have the oddest wrist bones. I fell once and when I got up someone said "aargh - look what you've done!". I was fine but he assumed I'd broken my wrist:

I'm never going to get my act together, am I? Wasting time blogging about nonsense when there are a hundred chores to complete.

What do you like to photograph?.

Grounded

2011-09-15T23:07:00.003+01:00

Being 'grounded' was never really a punishment doled out to me. I learned all about being grounded once I became a mother.
I missed my freedom sorely, going to the shop for milk was now an activity requiring planning. I missed the continuation of my former life. I had started to become more self-assured and then I met someone hell-bent on beating me down.
I'd allowed all this to happen, it had unfolded slowly like a good story. The story ended badly, but self pity was not an option. I had made this uncomfortable, messy bed, I was tired - had to lie in it.
The days were long, I read crap books, listened to crap music and endured 'the soaps'. How did I end up with someone who watched 'the soaps'. No offence, soap fans, its just that I was told The League of Gentlemen was sick "turn it off" whilst abortions, domestic violence, criminality, adultery and divorce were being peddled as entertainment night after night.
Alternative futures were imagined, day after day. My existing friends no longer fitted in, I had aged. My new 'friends' were nice, but not able to help fill the void within.
My imagined friends liked to sit, chat and eat. No subjects were taboo, or off-limit. My imagined friends lived all over the place. No embarrassing rugby and dragon related patriotism.
My imagined friends had style, a unique, confident edge. Dinner parties left me feeling exhilarated, refreshed, learned.
My imagined friends inspired me, listened at the right time, advised at the right time, and made me smile at the right time.
I'm lying in bed with a feverish, sick, coughing, clammy 4 year old. My phone is linking me to another place, previously undiscovered.
I am still 'grounded'.
BUT, I found those friends, who were in my head. You lot.
Thank-you. Please come to dinner soon.
Love,
Lucy

Mr Fennel and Mr Green

2011-09-11T22:59:00.001+01:00

I used to clean 2 houses, an hour a week in each house, and I'd leave with £10 - easy money.
Mr Green was an unhappy soul, one who'd never get over his wife's death, never accept he could no longer do all the things he used to, and never accept my inferior cleaning skills.

Mr Fennel, a retired Sargent, lived happily in retro squalor. Cleaning the house was the least of my priorities when I got there - "sit down girl, have tea and cake with me" I was a bit of company masquerading as a domestic help.

Mr Green would subject me to a 5 minute run-down of his latest health scare before instructing me to polish the myriad ornaments, trinkets and photographs (sporting achievements of offspring circa 1982).
I never seemed to fit in all the chores within an hour, he insisted I dust all 6 Venetian blinds by meticulously brushing each metal strip. I'd always leave there feeling I'd earned the £10.

On to Mr Fennel, 80 years old, widowed ("she was a good woman, very smart - but she liked to spend MY money all the time"). A very tall man, even at 80 Mr Fennel commanded a presence, I instantly respected him the day I met him.
Mr Fennel's cakes left everything to be desired, made with sour butter, rotten eggs and burned dried fruit, it took all my strength not to wretch (I have a VERY strong stomach). I started making my own, to "save him the trouble" but he always insisted I'd done everything wrong, before polishing off 3 slices.
I'd spend the final 20 minutes cleaning, but he always walked behind me saying "leave that girl, I already cleaned that" (when? just after decimalisation came in?).

One week, after Mr Green had decided I was OK after all, he told me his life story. It was mainly unremarkable, peppered with financial struggle, sacrifice and "lovely holidays in Majorca", where the majority of the 'lovely' trinkets originated. The story ended with advice - "don't ever smoke, my wife died of lung cancer, and all my problems are down to fags".
It seemed strange that he was so pre-occupied with the cleanliness of the blinds at first, but I realised his late wife was fastidious and liked the house to be gleaming - he wanted to keep this pride alive.

Mr Fennel liked to spend the hour bragging about who he knew, where he'd been, and what he'd done. I think he liked to imagine I was in awe of him, and once he said "If I was 20 years younger" (hmm, you'd be 60, still 3 times my age and very much on the back burner of potential suitors).

I always felt a bit sad cleaning both houses, imagining that when they die, all the house contents being given away in one fell swoop. A lifetime of collections and memories, all creating a feeling of nostalgia - eras, decades, experiences frozen in time - a stagnant pool. The buzzing of a nebulizer replacing the buzz of family life, children running in and out.
The scratch of a cheap biro on paper, circles being scribbled 'til it bleeds ink - a crossword where they used to be the scratch of a record, a couple dance as they make up after cross words.

Mr Fennel sat like a caged lion, he still had fire in his belly, he looked strong, didn't seem to care much for the ever-decreasing circle of life which was all around him - in his mind he'd always be a handsome young man.

Mr Fennel's advice for me was unforgettable. Nothing to do with health, money, relationships or experiences:

"Always buy loose tea, Lucy, none of that tea-bag muck. Jesus, I'm glad I had my teeth in when I said that!"

I laughed uncontrollably - maybe he did still 'have it'.

I liked Mr Fennel.

You're the one for me, fatty

2011-09-06T22:15:00.000+01:00

Studio portraits, I feel, are invariably utterly hideous. Grinning babies sat on a sheepskin rug, 'tired' looking ladies plastered in slap, soft-focus lens, inane grin or sultry pout - we've all pretended to like such a photograph.

"Why, then", I hear you ask, "have you go one as your new profile picture?"

The Lucy in that picture was having a rather pleasant time, courtesy of a popular supermarket's promotional team.

After successfully losing a couple of stone using a popular supermarket's on-line diet programme, I received an exciting e-mail. I no longer have this e-mail, but it read something like:

Hi! Following your astounding weight-loss using our internet service, we wonder if you'd be willing to take part in a photo-shoot, to inspire others...

I thought, "astounding? 2 stone?"

...you would have to be able to travel to London (all expenses paid) some time in the next fortnight

Ooh! London, all the way to London, from Wales! A hotel, a make-over, a break from the children - why not?

So, I replied saying how excited I was to receive the e-mail, and that I'm available any time (you'd better believe it).

The next e-mail from the PR lady was an apology.

Sorry Lucy, the e-mail was sent to you in error blah blah blah

I was disappointed, but pretended not to be, a bit embarrassing, I suppose - me thinking I would get a chance like that. I replied and added some 'before' and 'after' shots, I said I'd love to be considered for anything similar in future.

The next day, I was inundated with calls and e-mails, I was to be whisked to London, stay at a hotel, bring your partner, it'll be a great day out, you'll be treated like a Queen!

So, Rob, my youngest son, (then 9 months) and I got on the train, and had a wonderful time in London, fitting in a lot of tourist - type stuff and exhausting ourselves lugging a pushchair on and off the tube at peak times.

The photo-shoot and make-over the next day was thoroughly enjoyable, I clicked straight away with the make-up artist and was amazed at how long it took to get me ready for the glare of the lights. I was treated well, met some great people and felt 'alive' for the first time in a while.

I think the clothes are dreadful, office-wear for the lady who hates clothes shopping - if I'm being polite.

"You can keep all the clothes Lucy!"
No thanks, haven't any room in my empty bag over there.

A few months later, in January 2010, I appeared on the cover of the supermarket's promotional magazine, photo-shopped and airbrushed.

The spiel inside was all "lonely single mum gorges on pies, scotch eggs and synthetic cream chocolate éclairs all night, meets prince charming, he shows her she's beautiful on the inside, and she became less of a boiler, after our wonderful diet.

The amount of weight I lost was exaggerated, along with the tale of how I got fat (having 2 kids in 16 months was more of a factor, with one of those screaming solidly for 2 years).

I was also given free membership to the diet programme for life, which, rather tenuously, leads me to explain 'why I blog' (bear with me).

I started to use the diet site's support forum, once I had free access, and discovered a section dedicated to word-play games. I logged on daily, and along with a couple of other ladies, composed limericks, took part in word-association games, A-Z games, and, most enjoyably, entered 'The Virtual Pub'.

I struck up a very good rapport with the moderator of the forum, and we 'became' 2 hapless old alcoholic tarts, making up weird and wonderful tales, getting very drunk, lost, arrested and shaming ourselves at the Virtual Pub. Outrageous 'ladette' type evenings were dreamt up, I never seemed to run out of new material.

I didn't ask much about Claire's personal life, but new her children were grown up, and that she travelled a lot, all over the world. We shared diet bores, and a toilet humour I seldom find with females I meet day to day.

Claire suggested I start a blog, said I obviously enjoy writing, and it'd be a good outlet. She was spot on. When I followed her advice, the diet, and indeed the banter on the forum, went out of the window.

I now need to lose about 20lbs to get back to the weight I was back in November 2009, when I went to London.
I can't complain though, perhaps I wouldn't have started blogging without the photo-shoot mishap. I'll leave my profile picture up until I'm happy with my weight again (I know - it's never gonna happen).

I'm very happy to be blogging, and despite being a starter and stopper type, I reckon I'll stick at it.

Meanwhile, I found a photographic reminder of the chaos I endured every day before dieting. Yes, I hate my kitchen, yes, I detest my nightwear too.
My body shape is not dissimilar to 'The Honey Monster's is it? All top-heavy.

Oldest son wearing all red because he was in team 'Coch' (Welsh for red) at school, I didn't dress him like that regularly.

Can you spot 20 dangerous things? I bet you can...

So, hope I have explained in some way, the reason for the gurning over-made up studio shoot, and what lead me to start a blog. And to think, I was going to try and be 'anonymous'...

...I leave you with a rather apt song, and an apology, for ever being happy to promote a popular supermarket.

Don't give up?

2011-09-03T22:32:00.002+01:00

It dawned on me this evening, following a conversation with a friend, that I've spent half of my 34 years surrounded by children. I've worked with 'children' aged between 6 weeks and 19 years old in a variety of settings (12 - 19 year olds in a special school).

This work is tiring, in a mentally draining way, and as with most jobs, mindless paperwork and bureaucracy often spoil any real chance of progress.

I would never claim to know a lot about children, and I am quick to defend people who are not a parent, because two of the most inspirational people I have ever worked with are childless.

The time is approaching for me to rejoin the working world, I blogged about my feelings regarding this a while back, here.

I will soon be applying for a job at the local University canteen (maybe). The working hours are ideal - 10-2, term time only, so I can't miss the chance to work, yet still fit in child-care commitments. The other big thing - no children to 'tend' to in the day.

Part of me longs to live a more structured life, one where the washing has to be on the line by 8 am OR ELSE.

Financially, work would just mean some of the debts accrued since I've been home with the children could be repaid - working would by no means provide cash for holidays and fripperies.

Work may lead to me gaining special new friendships or forge opportunities, and even though I've only been out of work for 3 years, I could finally shake off the awful 'lady of leisure' tag given to me by some working people.

In all honesty though, I do not think being in gainful employment will be the answer to all my prayers.

I'm not a great 'team-player' - my ideas often go down like a lead-balloon, my sense of humour seems to offend more than entertain, and I usually get on like a house on fire with "that weird Italian lesbian from the agency" (true story).

This is the spot at my local petrol garage where the staff take their cigarette break

Ideally, I'd enjoy having a few months on my own - children all in school. I could go shopping sans pushchair, browse the charity shop wares in peace, maybe even go to a cafe and have a drink; daydream and look out of the window.

I could clean the house in one go, instead of having to keep stopping to escort a child to the toilet, provide a snack, or glance at Mr Tumble and think 'no, he's not bouncing a little blind girl on his knee, surely?'

Starting this blog in February has led me to discover so many inspirational people, and that is no exaggeration or vain attempt to flatter anyone. Many of the people I admire are 'doing their own thing'.

I never realised I enjoyed writing, simply because I didn't do it. I used to keep diaries, but the last one I kept was in 2002, which reads like the memoirs of a chronic misery with a severe dose of hypochondria (I can't imagine why).
When I get a job, I'd imagine this blog will be put right at the bottom of my priority list (not that I have ever compiled a priority list). This would be a shame, I really enjoy reading blogs, keeping mine and 'meeting' so many interesting people (the likes of which I never seem to meet in real-life).

The whole 9-5 existence is a great way to fill your life, compartmentalise your time so there is a limited number of hours in which to indulge in passions or folly. Wine and fine food on the weekend, sandwiches and weak coffees through the week, swallowed with a heavy dose of mindless banter - "did you watch the X-Factor?".

I know this life beckons, it calls my name, tells me I'd be great on the tills at Tesco, or helping a group of children with challenging behaviour to overcome their problems (I really do enjoy this, it's what I always did best). I also know, though, that once I get a job, that's it until my late sixties at least - working and coming home to cook, help with homework, taxi boys to clubs, get everything ready for tomorrow, organise life's mundane yet essential activities, and flop, exhausted, onto the sofa every night.

Before I succumb though, a foolish little voice keeps squeaking away, (though admittedly, it's getting more faint) saying - "come, follow me, there is another way, YOUR way. You CAN live your dream, you can be what you want to be, just believe".

I am torn.

Tell me, do you like your job? If you are retired, a student, self-employed or unemployed, or indeed a man/lady of leisure - what is your take on it all, I'd love to know?

Hang the DJ

2011-09-01T23:20:00.002+01:00

Keshling added my name to the list of people she'd like to know more about from a music taste perspective. I was happy to oblige, after all - this was going to be a music appreciation blog (hence 'Being of Sound Mind').

I refuse to use the words 'tagged' and 'meme' as they make me feel a bit sick, like when a child sucks chalk, or you stand on a piece of banana and it feels like a slug.

Keshling produced a fine list.
I'm always impressed when someone can play an instrument, and I'm always impressed when music is a big part of a person's life. Keshling - you're on to a winner.

Last week, Loren asked "is it OK to fancy someone purely based on their music tastes?".
I had to reply "yes, of course" because that is what brought Rob and I together initially.
I could cope with a man who had different music preferences to me, but not someone who doesn't enjoy music at all, happily listening to Radio 1 in the daytime.

'Songs' - probably not the right word, I tend to listen to music without words (which I know is a crime to many). Choosing 5 is very difficult, the list has altered daily in my mind...

1) 808 State - Pacific State.

I was 12 years old, watching Top of The Pops and eating Battenberg cake.
Something happened. I heard music which matched my brain pattern, it was this ^ ^
My love affair with electronic music began that evening...

2) This love affair became torrid, tempestuous and unruly. My late friend (more about her here) and I used to sit in her large bedroom with a pot of tea, toast with cream cheese and jam, and listen to Aphex Twin as we made collages from striking images we found in magazines and newspapers.

This track always struck me as haunting - melancholy and beautiful. I listen to it very occasionally now, I have to be ready to spend the rest of the day in a reflective mood, with a slight sadness lingering for hours afterwards. This is electronic music at it's best, even though it's nearly 20 years old. I know it can be incredibly boring listening to other people's favourite music, but I'd love your feedback, particularly on this track.

3) My father and I were huge Twin Peaks fans, we looked forward to watching it all week. The final episode left a lasting impression on me, and Jimmy Scott/Angelo Badalamenti's dramatic rendition of Sycamore Trees added to the sensory overload. I think I'd like it played at my funeral, with a backwards-talking dwarf dancing around my coffin, then again - I'd be dead so what's the point in arranging something only I would find amusing?

4) I'll keep it short, this one is 'our song'. Not that we get all emotional over it, or plan on shuffling uncomfortably to it *when* we get married (or is that 'if' - Rob?).
The lyrics are so sickly, but I love them.

5) I'm not a Björk fan, but this track does something for me, maybe it's because I have 3 boys, and 'boy' is in it?

I look forward to posts from the others who are joining in. If you'd like to let us know your 5 song list, I'd love to hear them....

We'll weather the weather whatever the weather, whether we like it or not

2011-08-29T10:20:00.001+01:00

Summer has been so coy, hasn't had the confidence to remind us what intense luminosity she possesses.
Autumn is now upon us, yet my new pencil case, shiny shoes and scratchy shirt are nowhere to be found. I still feel the 'back to school' stab of dread, and it still smarts (I blame working in schools). Every September, I think back to that poignant moment during summer, the one locked in the photograph section of you brain. Some years it's being in a boat, hair all warm like fibre-optic lights, sea and sky equally serene, perfect, everybody feeling smug and content - moments like this aren't meant to last long.
Eating dry, charred meat holds special significance in summer it feels right - washed down with barely acceptable wine. A similar feast any other time of year would lead to melancholy.

Summer is not my favourite season, it promises so much, lies to you, leads you to think all of life's best moments are those mentioned in Will Smith's Summertime.

Autumn exaggerates it's charm too, skipping through a shag-pile carpet of rust, gold, copper feeling delighted about your new scarf...maybe very briefly, once.

Spring, so inspiring, (anagram unintentional) and it's been a while since the last big Christian celebration so everyone's aching for another.
Egg-box and tissue-paper daffodil pictures decorate the fridge, mounted on flimsy, faded school paper. Summer has been stealing Spring's (thunder? No - spotlight) lately - she has no shame, and neither do we.

Winter, flu-jab - it's time to prove yourself, so please don't let me down. Central heating, such a wonderful luxury, but one day something much better will be invented and we will all talk about the days of large painted metal eyesores spoiling our walls.

Winter 2010 - you excelled yourself, Summer is a girl, Autum is a boy, Spring is a lady but Winter, you are a real beast. A local man was killed by an icicle, Raj had to walk the treacherous 5 miles to his shop, we ate casseroles made from the stuff in the freezer which usually gets binned.
My family were all near, we sat together watching the most beautiful scene as the sky emptied endless unique flakes of delicate frozen water. Time stood still, we drank hot chocolate made from a giant melted slab of Cadbury's Dairy Milk and we stared at the snow globe world.
I was so happy.

Gloves and hats are for wimps - lukewarm milk for me

My favourite Winter track, and it seems I'm not alone - a comment below it reads:

This is stunning, I have loved it since I first heard it, I was trying to get a friend into this who originally felt it was a mess, but I think the trick is to listen to it like jazz, let it flow in and flow out without trying to pick bits out. To me, its beautiful, soul moving and something elemental, like a mountain stream falling over rocks on a snowy mountain, sounds stupid I'm sure.

Yes, it does sound stupid, but don't worry, one day the whole world will understand...

So, tell me a little bit about yourself...

2011-08-26T13:15:00.001+01:00

Lots of mums at the park yesterday had badly dyed hair. The lighter hair which had been dyed looked like it had been done with a running-out felt-tip pen. The darker dyed hair looked that purple/brown/red/black hue which emerges after washing a cheap black t-shirt 73 times and leaving it to dry in the sun.

Some women had taken great care with their appearance; full make-up , coordinated clothes, new shoes and costume jewellery. Some were wearing clothes I'd even be loathe to put on to creosote the fence.

I was struck by the associations I made in my mind just by looking at people. The ladies with top of the range pushchairs, highlighted hair and coordinated clothes - they would have a spotless house, big TV and have probably been to Spain to get that tan. Their partner works in garage and plays football on the weekend.

There is a clique which I am familiar with, but have no desire to enter, despite them all being pleasant and intelligent. Whenever I eavesdrop on their conversation, there seems to be an element of bragging. While they may not be bragging about upgrading from a 32" TV to a 50", bragging is still bragging and I can't stand it. The odd amusing anecdote being exchanged about your kids is one thing, but harping on as if they are child prodigies impresses nobody. I read it as either poor social skills and insecurity or as projection ( I can't brag about MYSELF so I'll harp on about how great my kids are, it's the same thing).

If it's not the children they're showing off about, it's what they had for dinner (and you can guarantee it'll be healthier, tastier, more complex and more responsibly-sourced than yours). These mums are all dressed like 90's new age travellers.

I like small-talk, and feel it's underrated. Sitting next to a stranger and managing to find clues as to their lifestyle and background is like a game for me. Most people seem happy to chat for hours about themselves, even talking about quite personal details.

Very often, when I've stumbled upon a particularly self-absorbed individual, I curse myself for ever letting them see my 'tell me more' expression. Gruesome details about operations and the minutiae of someone's diet being the least favourite topics.

It's usually grandparents I talk to at the park, they seem to have more confidence and time. Many parents come to the park en masse, or if they're alone, stay for no more than 10 minutes.
I like looking for patterns in conversation and usually find the same things seem to matter to people of certain age groups.
By around 60 years of age, I notice most women have a very rigid routine. "I go to Marks and Spencer's every Thursday, and I buy their tins of chunky chicken - have you tried it? I'll just open a tin of that for me and my husband, and we have potatoes and peas with it, something easy because I'm looking after my granddaughter".
I will reply with a blatant lie, such as "that sounds nice".

I often feel a bit worried, am I going to have more time one day, children grown up and left home? I'll be working part-time or maybe even retired (if something miraculous happens to our finances) and all I'll do with this spare time is stretch out the mundane crap I have to do, and make it seem like a whole day is needed to wipe around the toilet and put some tea towels on the washing line before making a ham sandwich?

I'm not suggesting that people become boring or set in their ways at a certain age, that wouldn't be fair because all of the most interesting people I know are a lot older than me.I just don't want another 3 decades to pass and still be waiting to win the lottery, feel healthy and have bags of free time.

Anyway, yesterday I sat by a young mum of 3 who looked poor and shy. It turns out I was right about the poor bit, not the shy. Initiating the conversation with confidence, she seemed like someone who was going to relate her entire life story to me from as far back as she could remember.
I wasn't prepared to find out how it feels to be on the other side - this girl wanted to know all about ME. I tried all my deflection tricks, none of them worked.

By the end of the afternoon she knew my children's ages, names, the schools they go to and what food they like/dislike. My name, age, work history, interests and marital status. Where I shop for groceries, what films I like, what parts of my body I hate - all this was skilfully gleaned. Despite it not being my kind of conversation, we discussed celebrities we'd like to look like, (she chose Cheryl Cole, I chose Christy Turlington - which shows how long it's been since I last thought along those lines because I had a paper round when she first caught my eye on the cover of Vogue).

I was beaten at my own game, by a girl ten years younger than me, a girl who seemingly had little in common with me.
I thought about it afterwards, she's got three children, had her first at 21, she doesn't work, doesn't socialise with other mums because it's "hard work when you're tryin' to keep an eye on the kids", she brings her own food to the park "cos it's cheaper" and loves a bit of small-talk,

We had plenty in common.

She talks to you in monochrome

2011-08-24T12:55:00.004+01:00

The sky looked like a swimming pool this morning, it made me feel all energetic and excited. It didn't last, I now sit and look out at a sky resembling wet-wipes I've taken my eye make-up off with.

Evening sky over the M4 a couple of weeks ago

It's so grey today in South Wales, slate roofs, grey terraced houses running either side of the murky river Taff, grey mountains. It's so green too, something I never appreciated until I didn't see it everyday, Slough to Cardiff and towards the valley was like finally adding a fresh, crisp salad to a meal of boiled potatoes and fish.

View from bridge to train station, I live near the red-brick school

Ladies walk past en route to the corner shop, permed grey hair frames their grey-skinned faces. On the way back, they clutch a grey newspaper in the crook of their arm. Window panes used to be framed with colourful gloss painted wood, now they are all white PVC, speckled with grey dust.

Current view

Cars are black or silver, white towels flap on washing lines, a black cat walks like an Amazonian super-model along the grey concrete wall. They cut the tree down, the tree which spoke to me every summer since I moved here. I could have thought I was mad, but my neighbour cried when they cut it down, she loved it too. Cigarette poised, and blowing her smoke into the evening sky, she would echo my thoughts "I love the way that tree rustles in the breeze" I'd tell her about closing my eyes and the tree became the sea.

Lyn no longer smokes, she was ill when they killed the tree, that's why it upset her, and now she wants to be well, smoke and ash will not help, just turn all the pinkness of her lungs black-grey.

The birds, all of them black, the grey gulls are out too, always slightly less anxious when bin-day is upon us. White, cream or grey blinds and net curtains help conceal my neighbours' black TV's, cream sofas, chrome accessories.

My town, it's all being demolished, sadly!

Black computer, white screen, black coffee giving me grey teeth. The rain has just arrived, it looks like the pretend rain on black and white films, or interference on a rubbish old television screen.
I used to think the 'olden days' were black and white, I thought colour didn't exist when my parents were small. I wonder if my children will feel the same.

Caption competition

The title inspiration for this post comes from Adult's 'Hand to Phone'... "she talks to you in monotone": (which unless you like emotion-less unnatural robotic music, you will HATE!)

Women, eh?

2011-08-22T17:45:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, I spent £15 at the corner shop - this is a record. We needed milk, butter and a few other essentials, but I didn't have any cash. The cash machine charges £1.59 for withdrawals, and Raj charges 40p for you to pay by card (as long as you spend over £6). My skewed logic told me it was better to spend £6+ on over-priced groceries than to spend £1.59 for the pleasure of taking MY money out of the bank. I bought The Times, because aside from the red-tops this was all that was left. We don't buy a Sunday paper every week because I like to see it trashed, every single supplement creased, pored over and shuffled (but sometimes by Wednesday it is still pristine) . I go through phases with the Sunday paper, sometimes buying The Observer, The Independent, The Guardian or The Times - and then never buying one because we're visiting OH's mum for a salty, grey Sunday lunch; boiled to unrecognisable proportions.

Raj, slightly more animated than usual on a Sunday morning following a sale which will ensure he can retire next year, said "thanks Lisa, I see you have a busy day ahead" (big paper, cleaning products, baking supplies...). Now, I've been a customer since I was 7, and Raj has only recently started to address me by name - shame it's not my name.
"Lisa doesn't suit you at all" said Rob when I told him - but I can't bring myself to correct Raj, for some reason. And Rob, sorry - but I don't like 'partner' or 'OH' and 'Mr Being of Sound Mind' or 'Mr BoSM' doesn't have a ring to it. I've outed you, again.

I spent the day making lunch, making wedding invites for a friend, paying frequent visits to the washing line (I have to stand and stare at the washing for a few moments once it's on the line, sad, but it's one of my favourite sights) and drinking tea and coffee. The boys spent the day entertaining themselves - happily running in and out of the house, saying "bum" to each other and laughing hysterically. Between cutting, sticking, basting and pegging, I read the odd article, flicked through the supplements and mainly rolled my eyes and tutted as I did so, even expressing the 'deep-in-thought' sound - hmmm

Rob read a little more of the paper than me, and ended up feeling quite angry about an article on a book about VNC (so called spying) software, which, as a user of the software, he felt was highly exaggerated and misleading (the book, that is).
I got slightly irate after reading yet another journalist using Katie Price as an example of the worst possible example of modern feminist values. Can't they think of anyone else? I see her as just a narcissist with a hint of body dysmorphia, like any number of other celebrities from the beginning of 'fame' to the present day.

The article was a damning critique of Sally Bercow, wife of the House of Commons Speaker John Bercow. Her decision to appear as a contestant on Big Brother reads like the crime of the century against the feminist movement. Nice article; run down two women, and then throw the word 'feminism' in to make it sound like you're on women's side. I'm not about to go off on a rant about feminism, it's too complex to tackle in a blog post - this is about 'bitching'. Spending the day cooking, cleaning and engaged in lightweight craft involving hearts and glitter would not stand me in good stead for the Feminist of the Year title, would it?

I'm a bitcher. Oh yes, I've slipped one in about the mum in law's cooking already. At the park earlier, I made several comments like "hasn't she got a full length mirror at home?" when a lady in a black jumpsuit and white underwear went past. I've joined in with character-assassination style gossip sessions about colleagues. I've always been surrounded by women , never really worked with men; out of 90 students on my college course,- all but one was female. I've only had close friendships with women, I've had one reasonably close friendship with a guy - he was gay and took bitching to a whole new level. Bitching in my life would have been difficult to escape. I do try not to get carried away with it though, and always have a soft spot for the under-dog, whoever they may be.

I read once that women get bitchier during ovulation, more competitive. Some women must be dropping eggs like a battery hen if that's the case. I carefully avoid all-female group situations, they scare me and I don't really know how to behave in such a setting. The staff room at work equalled mental torture for me, I liked 98% of my colleagues individually, put them together though, and I thought they were vile. All-female workplaces are very difficult, the competition is incredible, you'e always going to be 'too' something. 'Too' pretty (no such luck there) too ugly, too 'nice' too soft, too hard, two-faced...

Back to the article, Camilla Long writes - "For all his irritations, John Bercow seems like a nice man, evidenced by his repeated support of his wife..." hmm, many a wife-beating rapist 'seems like a nice man' too, Camilla, and are you suggesting he's so nice she should have done what HE wanted, not what she wanted? Supporting your wife = a bad thing?
"...overwhelming current suspicion that she is no more than a fameseeker with arguably fewer feminist credentials than Jordan". Why compare Sally and Jordan, twice, Camilla? Is Jordan famous for having a famous husband and admitting to alcohol abuse? No.
How about comparing their passionate support of Autism-related issues, if you're going to compare them for something they share a common interest in?
Katie Price isn't afraid to admit she loves attention, it's hardly a secret.

Anyway, these articles are meant to get you annoyed, or just agreeing, because brash women are such easy targets for bitching about. The magazines were no different, Ruby Wax and her admission that she wasn't maternal and couldn't look after her 3 kids, but hey, she had a nice man to do that for her.

Another article had me very close to actually vomiting because I attempted to read it straight after my roast " MUMMY BLOGS HAVE MOVED ON FROM MATERNAL MARTYRDOM TO FOCUS ON FUN..."
I got as far as "Sharmadean Reid, owner of the so-hip-it hurts WAH Nails chain and mother of 6-month-old Roman, even carried on working during her 48 hour labour. "I still had things to communicate to my team" she says."
SO DID I, LOVE... "Is that chicken still in the fridge? It'll be gone off now, bin it. Ask your mother if she wants any more clean clothes for the toddler, bring me some clean knickers later, and some more pyjama bottoms. Don't forget to put the bins out. Please tell all my loyal internet chums that I'm a bit busy for now ROFL but I luv them loads and can't wait to get home and discuss my 5 day hospital ordeal at length, sore nipple woes, and how my 'ickle man has made me the proudest mummy in the world, sniff.xxx "

Maybe it was hormones or something, but the papers got my blood boiling yesterday, despite several brilliant articles which made me glad I bought it. Next week I may get The Star and see if that manages to offend my contradictory feminist values quite as much. There'll probably far more to bitch about - "look at the state on her".

What do you reckon?

She's got no class

2011-08-20T11:40:00.002+01:00

My dad worked for a construction firm when I was younger (actually, it was very recently he moved into an office environment). We didn't have a car because he had use of a transit van, and my parents were always quite careful with their money. The van reeked of diesel and oil, and in the back was a metal trunk full of rags. These rags were what became of unsaleable second-hand clothes, and dad would clean his hands with them, wipe minor spills, and stem leaks. The fabrics were often colourful, lurid, psychedelic, some would be old children's clothes or t-shirt remnants with some long forgotten fund-raising logo like "Telethon '78".

Sometimes I'd go to work on a Saturday with dad, wellies on, and end up sitting in a dumper truck, JCB or Caterpillar and pretend to drive it. One of his colleagues would inevitably give me 50p or £1 which would seem like a fortune considering you could still get 2 sweets for a penny and a bag of crisps for 5p.
Dad would always be nursing a wound, usually to one of his fingers, these could not be described as 'cuts' because the gash would be so deep I'd imagine I could see right inside to the bone and the flesh would look like a cross section of a blood orange.

Mum always had at least one job (sometimes three) but seemed to always be home too, cooking, cleaning, putting the washing on the line. Dinner would be classics; Shepherd's pie, liver and onions, casseroles, sausage dinner...
I always ate all my dinner, (nothing changes) and though some of the meals I now prepare are more exotic there's a similarity to the routine.
My brother was always up at the crack of dawn, guzzling the leftover milk from a giant bowl of cereal and shouting to ensure everyone was awake. He had too much energy and was always trying to invent a machine by taking apart household appliances.

A typical working-class family, my parents liked to go out for a drink, and holidays would be Butlin's when I was younger; Spain, Menorca, Portugal and Bulgaria later on. Typical working-class, only on the surface though, any assumption that they enjoyed watching soaps, playing darts, and were uncultured would be wrong. They read a lot, listened to Radio 4, enjoyed plays, hated mainstream TV, were broad-minded about political and social issues and were very 'green' before it was fashionable.

I enjoyed watching Alan Bennett and Mike Leigh plays with them, and from this I think I 'got' the class divide thing quite early on. In Leigh's Nuts In May I empathised with the character Ray, caught in the middle of an embarrassing clash of values.
At my primary school, during harvest, we used to take parcels with food in to be delivered to local elderly people a. My mother wasn't a fan of this scheme, she worked as a home help and knew the elderly locals had plenty of food and a loving family looking after them. Not wanting to give food away just to rot/go out of date, she gave my brother and I a bottle of Fairy Liquid each with a dishcloth secured to them with a rubber band. A friend laughed as she proudly showed off her box brimming with tins of 'Pek' ham, Oxtail soup, custard powder and fruit salad. There was another family who were of the same opinion as mine, they were forward-thinking Guardian readers, stood out like a sore thumb amidst the car-factory workers who invariably described them as 'weird'. I was delighted to see their children arrive with a small bunch of flowers each which they'd picked from the garden that morning and tied with some wool. Someone else like us.

Dad excelled at school, but chose to mess around and left early; mum is Dyslexic but went through school being told she was thick. Both have ended up doing soul-destroying jobs, physically exhausting and uninspiring. My brother and I are following their lead, school didn't do anything for us.
So, the cycle seems to be continuing, my eldest isn't finding school very interesting and I can't summon up any enthusiasm to return to education.

Destined to struggle, make very slow progress and have to pretend to be interested in popular trends? I could escape - if I wanted to prove something to myself (or anyone else) I would. My determination and willpower are second to none when I've got a bee in my bonnet. I used to feel inferior to people who'd been to university, travelled, spoke with confidence about politics and so forth. I used to clam up in conversations with people I deemed 'better' than me - felt I had nothing to offer.

Now, I realise that it's not class which stopped me from progressing in the past, and what stops me now. I just think we're a family who don't care to be defined or fit in. We have our own language based on amusing lines overheard through the years, it takes a while to learn, but people worth having in my life are fully versed in it. Rules have never been followed very closely, social norms always questioned. In high school I tried to stand out instead of blend in. Now, I'm finally realising nobody has the expectations of you that you think they do, I don't need to try so hard to adapt. Being 'me' isn't ever going to happen - I don't know who on earth I am.

I can't believe it's taken me this long to realise. I've spent hours wondering what the point of this post is, and wondering whehter or not to post it.

If anyone has any ideas, answers on a postcard please....

Shhh!

2011-08-18T12:56:00.003+01:00

On the second week of OH's holiday (recovering after a busy first week nodding at dog-walkers and choosing between plain bacon, or bacon and egg sandwiches at the caravan) we did 'nothing'. Nothing planned, that is.

Monday, on a whim we took the boys to Techniquest for a few hours, and did something naughty - pretended the 4 year old was 3 so we didn't have to pay for him (anyone else do things like that and feel paranoid all day?). At Techniquest, adults feel quite justified in behaving like an 8 year old and not just any 8 year old - an over-indulged bad-mannered one. Men were even dressed like children, wearing those trouser/short hybrid things, sandals, cap and slogan t-shirts.

I have been to Techniquest too many times, mainly through work and a few times on toddler day (when it's free). I ALWAYS find the behaviour of the adults accompanying their children irritating, infuriating and above all, fascinating. Playing on the accepted notion that everything can be mauled, parents and grandparents seem to just 'go for it' and act like it's a day out for their benefit. Your child wants to play a bit longer with the bubble machine, but something else has caught your eye? Time to shout "come on, hurry up" to your enchanted son.
You can guarantee, if there's a queue for the puzzles, it's because uncle Mike and daddy are battling it out together, competing for Alpha male status. If you feel eyes burning into the back of your head, and a sense that you're being willed to move on, it'll be Oscar's dad, itching to take over from your kids.

That's the men, on to the women. Loud is the best word to sum up them. Why do females suddenly get loud once they're a mum? Ladies, please, resist the urge to continually raise your volume by 13 decibels every time you mention your child's (oh so unusual) name. I've heard that name before, it isn't unique, clever, meaningful or THAT important. Also. shouting at your children for absolutely nothing is something to be done at home, not in a crowded place. "Anwen, QUICK, wash your hands, QUICK, you TOUCHED the toilet, come on, give them a GOOD wash. PUT SOME soap on, QUICK, come on, you're messing around and trying my patience". You, madam, are trying MY patience, and those deep sighs because I held the door open and your child hesitated to walk through - pathetic.

Changing rooms at the swimming pool are the worst places for this loud, shouty behaviour. Getting dressed after a swim is unpleasant enough, without several high-pitched wails from mothers across the room "don't let your towel touch the FLOOR". Maybe I am a bit noise sensitive, but it is for reasons like those described that I avoid crowded places. Usually, I'll arrive somewhere super-early (often waiting for it to be opened) avoid the cafe, and shoot off before the hoards of loud, hungry, thirsty parents arrive. My parents started this trend, and OH is happy to carry it on as he hates crowds full stop.

I don't think children should be seen and not heard, but this sounds like a great idea for the parents.

The rest of the week was spent trying to fit too many clothes into not enough storage space. I gave OH an option - take the boys out so I can catch up on chores, or vice versa? Surprisingly, he chose the ironing.
We had a lovely time at a Rhondda Heritage Park you have to pay £2 per child to use the park, but I don't mind. There were only 3 other parents there, it was so peaceful. I knew one of them, so sat with her and put the world to rights. We even went to the cafe, so's not to hamper the progress at home - that too was a success. The cafe is airy with an art gallery at the back, craft materials for the children and huge windows overlooking a densely wooded area. It was then, I think, that I realised parents are better on their own with the children, you focus on just them and speak quietly, directly to them.

I got home, OH looked flustered, he said " I feel like one of those bosses who go back to the shop floor and realise their staff are putting up with shit. This ironing board cover is useless, I've got nowhere, it's demoralising". I suddenly felt better about not always being on top of the chores, and smug about the pleasant day I'd had.

I forgot to mention that at Techniquest, I spent the entire time catching glimpses of myself in the many reflective surfaces, thinking "am I really that fat?" just like Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story 2 when he sees other versions of him.

This week, we really have done nothing, the weather is vile and I'm too tight to take them to places which charge admission - a couple of outings is enough. Staying in and shouting at the boys for being boys sometimes beats going out and watching a public display of it.

What do you reckon, are we too loud, generally?

Sunday

2011-08-15T13:17:00.005+01:00

Yesterday, with just one reasonably compliant son in tow, we went to Cardiff. Usually we have the two younger boys, and trips to the city involve a picnic at Bute Park, a museum visit to look at the wolly mammoth and albatross (these are the only animals the boys ever mention when we say 'museum', despite there being some enormous dinosaur displays).

My eldest is frying in Turkey with his dad, and middle son ~~being spoilt~~ staying with his nan in Newport, so we decided to venture into the part of the city where money talks.

I've clearly been living in the past. The very recently developed St Davids II shopping centre houses shops the like of which I thought Cardiff would never see. Firstly, Jo Malone - I was so tempted to spend the £40 I'd put aside for shoes and school trousers on a Lime Basil and Madarin candle, but I found the strength to put it back. LK Bennett - bereft of customers, even window shoppers. Cath Kidston - newly opened and a frenzy of activity. Even MEN were in there, holding up floral accessories and grinning. Not that I went in, I'm not a fan of her designs.

We walked through the arcade and it was like a mid-nineties teen film set. 'American Candy' was selling small bags of coconut M&M's for £3. Krispy Kreme was bustling; huge queues, kids leaving - happily sporting little paper hats emblazoned with the logo - great advertising ploy. Adults waltzed out of there with boxes of doughnuts - happy to pay £10, but probably think a whole chicken should cost no more than £2.50. A stall selling milk shakes made with bars of your favourite chocolate had a fair sized queue. The Disney shop was rammed full of spoilt kids (I actually like the shop, but have some very painful memories which I'll share one day). Nobody looked particularly happy or serene, it was almost like they were shopping and 'having coffee' so that they could go home and update their social networking forums to say 'just had a Krispy Kreme, NOM NOM, LOL, greedy!'

What was I doing there, then - just the same I suppose, doing something for the sake of it. I did have plenty of 'aren't humans weird?' moments - one being watching children thrash around in a large pool inside giant inflatable orbs . Another; a tourist dressed in brown polo shirt, navy silk trousers, black patent leather shoes and white towelling sports socks, posing unashamedly as his partner took photographs of him with incredibly dull backgrounds. Maybe he had initially packed a suitcase with casual/sporty/smart clothes and now was left with just a small selection of items from each category to wear.

I'd started the day in an almost foul mood. Readers, male and female alike - I'm sure you recognise that snappy/terse tone, face like 'a slapped arse/ripped dap' (Welsh one, that) deep sighs, wistful glances - accompanied with an "I'm FINE, just tired" upon being asked sweetly "everything OK, love?".

You don't? Either you're an angel, or you live with one - lucky you.

Being out on what became a reasonably sunny Sunday did lift the pale shadow of unnecessary doom and gloom.

I let my son out of the pushchair, (it can't be comfortable) he made a beeline for a giant metal ornamental structure outside John Lewis. He was in his element; playing peek-a-boo, trying to scale it or use it as a slide, it was hard to feel anything but happy.

The rest of the day went on to be thoroughly pleasant, as did the evening. I beat my running personal best by 2 minutes. We had a lovely curry for dinner, a longer evening of peace than usual as a worn out toddler settled down before 7 pm, very satisfying.

This morning I planned to do some grocery shopping, I checked my bank balance first - NO MONEY. Put the washing on the line, settled down with a cuppa - RAIN. My right knee is smarting, that'll teach me for trying to canter instead of trot. OH bought UNSALTED butter - he's in for it when he gets home from work. The foul mood threatened to make a comeback. Threatened.

I thought to myself "I'm going to get a full-time job, we can't go on like this".

Then I surveyed the photographic evidence of yesterday's happier moments. Children are worth going without food and candles for, aren't they?

p.s If you do ever visit Cardiff, this brilliant website lets you know the only shops worth going in. I'm sure the other shops have nothing you can't see in your local shopping centre.

I wasn't going to do a 'riot' post...

2011-08-11T10:48:00.002+01:00

...but it just sort of happened, because it's all that has been on my mind. I fear I've left myself wide open for a beating - never discuss religion or politics - right? Apologies for it being so long.

I hope the shocking and repulsive behaviour we've had to sit back and watch this week has some positive outcome in the next 30 years. Sure, it's great that people are showing solidarity, coming together to clean up the visible mess. But the invisible mess will take more than a pair of gloves and a broom to clean up.

What about the kids of these kids, what the hell can we do as a wider community to help show them right from wrong, if you've never been shown, you can't make decisions and just become another sheep.

I am not 'excusing' any of the sickening behaviour we've seen, I just happen to feel everyone is to blame in part. Me included. I DO look at someone in a track suit/hoodie with all the 'chav' trappings and turn my nose up. I do. I've joked about it.

BUT, I also had plenty of middle-class friends who had good upbringings; healthy dinners eaten as a family, well stocked book-shelves, Ecover washing-up liquid, piano in the living room, intelligent conversations ...and sadly, at least 3 of these friends I had, I know - they would have been there, frantically trying to grab trainers, gadgets and anything - just because they could, and 'everyone else' was doing it.

There is no self-righteousness attached the reason I wouldn't have joined the other looters when I was a teen. I just would have been scared and frightened. Self-preservation would rule, not just pity for the poor shopkeepers and my community pride.

I do know I'd feel it was wrong and disgraceful if I saw someone smashing up our corner shop, I would NOT think it was funny, clever or a good way to display anger at 'the system'.

I hope my suggestions for a happier life don't come over as 'holier-than-thou' either. I have very few answers, but if they work for me, maybe they'll work for someone else too...

I'm getting rid of more stuff. I don't buy much 'stuff' because we don't have the money and I hate shopping (even charity shopping can get me down). People give me stuff all the time, carrier bags brimming with stuff. Clothes my friends' kids have outgrown; towels, bedding, shoes, toys, furniture, catalogues (which I use for craft), cutlery, crockery, books...

By the time I've finished with this stuff, it's looking grim. Towels are only fit for the dogs home, bedding only fit for the salvation army bin (too embarrassed to take threadbare bedding to the charity shop and hand to a human). The clothes will have been through at least 4 boys adventures; toilet training, climbing, splashing in puddles, vomiting. Crockery will all be chipped, cracked and useless (though, my sister in law sometimes takes smashed crockery to use as drainage for her orchids).

Toys will be sad, missing their arms and eyes, batteries dead and leaking, and missing that vital component - rendering it redundant. Books will sometimes be creased or the pages welded together with porridge/drool (not mine) - but usually fit for another few generations of readers.

Still, I feel incredibly guilty about getting rid of stuff, even though it's not going into landfill, and even though I didn't buy it. There's enough stuff in the world for everybody to be entertained and comfortable - surely? No, people seem to want more and more and more new 'stuff'.

Is there another way to enjoy life, without buying 'stuff'? I think so, I've learned to go without buying stuff, and my happiness has increased accordingly.

Like fashion? - no need to go to Top Shop and buy, just have a look and create your own version of that £75 dress with a bit of imagination. Chances are it's a re-hashed look from a generation where they did it better anyhow.

Bored? Go for a walk or a run, seriously - it's that easy to appease boredom/mild melancholy. Look at the sky, the trees, birds, even looking at a dual carriageway from a bridge gives you an interesting perspective, helps you to understand your place - small but capable of rising above.
Breathe in, the air tastes different all the time. When I run past the river I smell the pungent (akin to stale urine) purple weeds and it reminds me of playing as a child. I inhale the damp trees scent and it reminds me of those childhood days at Autumn's end - when all the years warmth is over and no more outdoor play looms, you feel sad but don't know why.

Nobody listens to you? We all go through that phase, few care about teenagers' views, or those of the elderly/infirm. People seem to go through a stage between 30 and 55 where they're a valid member of society, before and after those ages - invisibility envelops you. "Not Economically Viable" to quote a line from the film Falling Down.

Hungry? Eat protein as well as sugar. For the price of a bottle of Coke and a Greggs steak bake, you can create a healthy meal for at least 2. Your body needs vitamins, minerals, protein and carbohydrates to function well - they should teach you the importance of that at school. Eating well can help overcome a lot of physical, even emotional problems.

Full of nervous energy? Put the X-box controller down and create something - you have a talent, maybe you just haven't discovered it yet. Try making music, drawing, painting, photography (even if it's just using your phone camera) write a song, poem or story, try your hand at sewing.

Listen to some different music, there's a reason millions of teenagers found solace listening to The Smiths - the words are being sung to you, for you. The best person to surprise is yourself.

Sad, lonely, feeling unloved? Talk, it's not easy at first - it doesn't feel comfortable, but even seemingly obscure fears, hopes and dreams once aired, can become shared goals. The biggest, cheesiest and truest cliché of all - 'you are not alone'.

For me, I've realised life doesn't change all that much between leaving school and joining the adult world. At work, there will be people who make you feel you're not as good as them, that you don't fit in. Work itself can be boring, lacklustre. Money worries plague even the most seemingly 'well-off' people at times. The structure and routine that going to work encourages does help you to get through life though. You will meet some of your closest friends through work, too.

Relationships are never easy, but learning to accept differences, explaining your actions and finding a routine together helps. Agree to disagree, pre-empt arguments and work through them before they escalate. Misunderstandings should never lead to relationship breakdowns, the pattern will only repeat itself in your next relationship.

Raising children is part instinct, part luck, part weeding out the good advice from the bad, and mainly about confidence. We make mistakes all the time as parents, and don't ALWAYS have the answer, the chances are you're the most special and important person in the world to your children, that's what makes it so hard and also so easy.

What is life all about? Maybe it's about always making sure the next generation have a better life than you. Life often imitates art, make sure you choose art to admire which reflects what you want to be.

I'm sorry - all those mums I deliberately avoided at mother and toddler groups. You were very young, reeked of fags, gave your children loads of sugary treats, sat looking at your phone and avoided eye-contact. This didn't mean I couldn't at least try to strike up a conversation and show you some respect. Your children were a bit naughty, and I worried my children would get hurt, but I, of all people should understand.

Those teens outside the shop, spitting all the time, swearing loudly, getting in the way, making inappropriate comments...I should say 'thank-you' when you eventually get out of the way, not tut and then whine to Kay and Raj for half an hour about it. Adults like that used to annoy me as a teen.

Was I a 'good' teenager? No. Did I have impeccable manners, behave within the law all the time and endear myself to adults - no way.

I did know what was right and what was wrong, though. I was afforded an enormous amount of freedom, grew up very quickly and experienced things between the ages of 14 and 18 most people don't until they start university or leave home.

What is THE answer? Is it a return to religion? Capital punishment? National Service? More power for teachers? I have read all these suggestions, and I don't feel hopeful. Mending a broken community will require huge change.

What is your suggestion?

Keshling's Charity Swap parcel arrives...

2011-08-07T23:54:00.005+01:00

I've just had a nice bath. Always a 'nice' bath isn't it? And a 'nice' cup of tea. I missed having a bath last week - I'm old fashioned like that.

There was a neat pile of mail waiting when I got home today, but I pushed that to one side. I wanted to look at my parcel from Keshling full of charity swap goodies (organised by Lakota).

I tore off the tape and opened the box:

It's white crispies mummy!

I open the gift bag...

True. I'm old fashioned like that

First thing I spy is this (and I WILL be thinking of you when I enjoy a brew):

No mouth, no nose - but a cracking hairdo and gorgeous frock detract from this minor omission by the artist

Now, let's tear open the wrapped items...

Isn't it a beauty?

Clever Babcia

And there's more...

You kill me. No, you REALLY do

Intrigued....

LOVE these

*Insert hat joke of your choice* I actually have this very hat in silver - what a coincidence

Next to be unwrapped - something I've wanted for ages

An apron! I can 'look' busy now. Check out the tan lines too - drinking in the sun is not big OR clever kids.

A little window display with my new teacup, tea cosy and very apt phrase on the card. Couldn't find a frame for the card - but I think it looks great in the vase? Doesn't the cup coordinate well with my favourite teapot?

I thoroughly enjoyed the swap - I don't get many presents. I'm not the kinda girl who gets flowers, chocolates and Valentine's cards. I did moan to OH that nobody has ever won me a teddy, so he got busy on the 'grab' machine. I cannot stand soft toys, but did find the strength to smile when a proud OH thrust this beauty into my hand, with the accompanying line "don't say I never give you anything"

Who said romance is dead?

Thanks Keshling, you've been a brilliant swap buddy, it's not like I give much away with regard to my tastes in second-hand goods, but you did me proud.

Thanks to Lakota for organising this, it was no mean feat. I look forward to the Christmas swap!?

Today was a good day

2011-08-06T00:27:00.001+01:00

The males in my life woke up all grumpy and snappy after a light, broken sleep. I, on the other hand woke up refreshed and eager to make plans to enjoy the sunshine. I soon realised today was not a day for hill walks, picnics and strenuous activity. "Let's just have a quiet day", I said.

"When in Rome" became the catchphrase of the day, and I found myself mirroring the behaviours of the neighbouring caravan owners. Before 9 am I had cleaned the windows, washed the net curtains and engaged in some very lightweight small-talk with the elderly neighbours who were supervising the sparrows as they feasted on wholemeal bread (they prefer it to white, apparently).

I was fortunate enough to hear the story of what Margaret had planned for John's tea four times, she told me first. Margaret had corned beef sandwiches for lunch, but John has been to work all week, so a corned beef salad wouldn't suffice. Sliced turkey breast for John, he's been boiling in London, so doesn't want a roast dinner. Margaret kindly donated the leftover corned beef to the sparrow fanciers, explaining the salad dilemma she'd been faced with. John's 6 o'clock dinner was plated up in the fridge by 9:30.

The lady in the caravan next to Margaret worked her socks off all day. Wiping, sweeping, dog walking, washing, cooking, shopping - no wonder she looks so fit; her husband is dying of cancer and he just watches her, looking sad. Margaret's salad story didn't seem to interest either of them, nor her quips about being worn out from clearing the cobwebs from her decking.

The kids had a nap at midday, so did OH. The sky was clear, the sun made it's boldest appearance this week, no way was I going to sleep through it's performance. I pottered a little, read for a while and then decided to worship the sun. I sat for a couple of hours, blatantly basking in the heat. I had a few glasses of water, 2 glasses of wine and a bottle of mixed berry cider, I only remember needing the toilet twice.

I drifted in and out of intense daydreams, Margaret punctuated them at regular intervals with random statements. "Turkey is stinkin', never been there 'cos all our friends came back with bad stomachs".
I relaxed deeply, in my meditative state I was able to cancel out the yapping dogs, frolicking children and lawnmower sounds.

I thought about the people above me, flying to Turkey, Greece, and Spain every 15 minutes from the nearby airport. I thought about the people around me, caravan owners - mostly retired and their grandchildren growing up. I thought about my sleeping family, I wondered what drama lay ahead for us all in the coming decades. I thought about Margaret, in her seventies, yet still getting excited about seeing her husband. I thought about the poorly people around me, life nearing it's end - simple things mattering now. I thought to myself, there is nowhere else I'd rather be, and nobody else I'd rather be right now.

I wonder if John enjoyed his turkey salad, Margaret said she'd take it out of the fridge about 45 minutes before he got in.

Dressed for Success

2011-08-02T11:45:00.001+01:00

It's raining, the sky looks like a blackboard which has been wiped clean with the palm of my hand. The sea looks like the water paintbrushes have been soaking in. The boys are fine; swimming, climbing at the park and walking a lot seems to have sharpened their appetite, and three healthy meals a day are being wolfed down with gusto. We've been swimming, we have wi-fi, I have access to blogger and I can't seem to stay away.

An elderly lady completed at least 15 lengths of the pool at an impressive pace, she got washed and dressed the same time as us.
Showering naked, she drew a lot of stares from young boys. Crepe paper skin, tiny frame - maybe size zero. Lots of care was taken with drying, a very well rehearsed, methodical routine was observed. Talc was gently sprinkled onto her tiny hand before being sort of 'thrown' onto her armpits. The scent of parma violets and lavender filled my nostrils for a moment. Moisturiser next, slowly but purposefully she covered her arms and legs in a fine film of cream, changing the brand for her feet, a peppermint aroma was evident, I almost tasted it.

Clothes - lacy, mint green underwear, a silk petticoat with cream lace trim and a beautifully cut fitted dress; her light, belted mac was the exact length of the dress, followed by co-ordinating peep-toe kitten heel shoes.

I expected to see a Mason Pearson brush emerge next, but no; a simple black comb did wonders for her matte silver hair. A slick of peach lipstick and a spritz of Charlie bodyspray, she was ready. Everything was neatly returned to her FILA rucksack, I felt a pang of disappointment - surely she has a pretty bag at home which would do the job.

We left the changing room at the same time, my hair dripping onto my t-shirt, chipped toe-nail varnish pepping out from Regatta flip-flops (my mum's, slightly too small). Our eyes meet, she smiles and says "what a lovely skirt dear" I reply, "oh, thanks - it was from a charity shop, only £1.75!".

I do myself no favours...

A big thank-you before I go away for a week

2011-07-30T16:02:00.005+01:00

Keshling whose blog Keshling Pulls it off!!! I wouldn't have discovered were it not for Lakota at Faith, Hope and Charity Shopping (she paired us for the brilliant charity swap) has passed on her very deserved blog awards to me!

Keshling's blog offers a witty, honest and varied glimpse into her very busy life. I admire her dedication to her family; her humour; tastes in art and music... and her determined streak is something I'd love to borrow for a few years to sort my life out.

I only wish I had a list of interesting facts about me to share which would rival Keshling's. I mean, drumming in a punk rock band, tandem parachute jumps? I couldn't even make up such cool things to share.

I'd imagine I've led others who were kind enough to pass these awards on to me to believe they're 'not my thing'. Truth is, I was really chuffed when Lakota first passed on the Liebster Blog award to me in March (see here).

I was brand new to blogging, knew nothing about awards and was quite overwhelmed that somebody felt my blog was worthy of telling others about. I'd seen a lot of British Mummy Blogs with all their fancy clicky things down the side, and initially thought there must be some sort of catch.

I was wrong, these awards are a simple way of introducing like-minded bloggers to one another, not some dodgy pyramid-scheme/chain-letter type nonsense. I had every intention of adding the Leibster Award to the side bar of my blog.

This leads to the first fact about me: I am RUBBISH with computers. I sort of by-passed the computer revolution at school and college. I have managed to get by just being able to do the very basics. I've always been able to delegate any computer-related tasks at work (there's usually someone who prefers sitting at the computer to cleaning up shit, funny, that). And at home, I have a partner whose idea of perfect bedtime reading is a 9,000 page CISCO book - I kid you not.

So, the award sort of languished before floating away into obscurity, I couldn't work out how to add it to my side-bar.

I really appreciate Lakota's support, right from the start I have been encouraged by her. During times I wonder why on earth I'm blogging, Lakota has always offered positive feedback - despite her having to maintain her own fantastic blog and huge following.

I was then astounded to receive more awards, recently from Max at Blackbird Has Spoken, and if you scroll to the comments I left on her post, I sort of awkwardly accepted the awards, whining about not having much confidence.
Max hadn't been following me for long, and I was really surprised to be included in her award-share. It's times like that you just know that blogging is worthwhile.

Max's facts were fascinating, and it's amazing how such a small collection of information about a person can tell you so much about them.

Right, this is getting nowhere... I am OVER THE MOON to be recognised by these awards, thanks to everyone who feels my blog is worthy of sharing with their followers.

I love to charity shop, do a small amount of re-purposing etc but never seem to blog about it. I think if I had the time I would keep a separate blog to share my finds/craft attempts, because many of my favourite blogs centre around these things.

More facts, and my blog recommendations:

I saved my entire years salary in order to afford a deposit on my home. My parents kindly let me and my son (then 2) live with them and took no money for 18 months, I only spent the child benefit. This was during the 'boom' so house prices were going up every week. I'm so glad I did it though.

I am allergic to horses. If someone comes near me who has horse hair on them, I will soon become a wheezing, bloated-faced, sneezing wreck and my eyes seem to disappear

I always wanted to be an actress. I wish drama had been an option at GCSE (it is now, the school opened a state-of-the art drama department AFTER I left)

I went to a drama group for a brief time and loved being on stage

I take ages to learn new skills, I had over 120 driving lessons (but passed 2nd test without fault).
I couldn't tell the time or tie my laces 'til ages after my friends, even after my brother who is 2 years younger. I have difficulty working out what's left and right, get lost regularly (even places I've been to loads of times) strangely though, I seem to have a gift for learning languages (good sound memory I guess).

This blog was initially going to be an avenue to further explore my love of electronic music but I couldn't be bothered with adding all the little gadgets for soundclips etc.

Music without words or 'natural' instruments stirs my soul more than any other. Does this mean I'm an android?

I've been a Viz subscriber for years and years, and reader for as long as I can remember

I have a fear of Mathematics (don't laugh) and considered quitting my job when I learned I'd have to get a maths qualification to keep it (had a baby instead)

I don't mind Marmite (don't LOVE or HATE) I hate mushrooms and prawns but will eat most anything else

I love black humour, if a joke is inappropriate, 'sick' or in poor taste, it'll either be coming out of my mouth or I'll be sniggering away as everyone else looks on, horrified

"Yet despite her fragile mental state, we did still manage to enjoy a few lighter moments of black humour"
Not me they are referring to, but what a classic line eh? Love it.

Right, so many blogs I follow already have been given these awards...

Firstly I wish Kat at Katryoshka Ramblings more followers (and join this month's giveaway why don't you?). I enjoy her take on life living communally at a beautiful farm house, her varied artistic talents which know no end, and her CARAVANS! I did pass on the Liebster to her back in March.

Secondly Cliodhna at DannSIndWIrHelden because she writes so well, and we share a lot of quirks, such as enjoying the occasional cup of Earl Grey tea with milk.

Thirdly Little Nell at Hanging On My Word such a multi-talented lady, her blog is brilliantly written and her photographs always tell a thousand stories, she sews beautifully, and her support of my blog is incredibly inspiring

Finally, Sian at Sian Lile Makes - her blog usually makes me feel hungry if it's a snap of her lunch, inspired if it's her art/sewing on show and ALWAYS calm. If you need a book recommendation, it may be worth asking her too, I think she's a bit of a bookworm, to say the least?

Right, I hope I have made it clear that I am really proud of the awards, I'm still amazed that anyone reads what often feels like dis-jointed brainstorms.

I hope these awards are accepted by the ladies mentioned above....

Lakota, Max and Keshling, it hopefully goes without saying that I whole-heartedly endorse your excellent blogs, and I am delighted to have found you all....

To ALL followers, I thank you for reading, for commenting and for being so very patient (I do go on). Every time I get a comment it makes me excited, like opening a letter.

I shall NOT be thanking God, my stylist, my entourage or anyone else for that matter.

The Drugs Don't Work

2011-07-24T17:27:00.003+01:00

Sat around a circular table with three other couples, waiting for our main course at a wedding - we were interrupted. "I'm sorry to butt in guys, but I've just heard that Amy Winehouse is dead".

At least we'll all remember where we were when we found out. There was no shock, no conversation, I just made a joke (as I always tend to do at the most inappropriate times) and suggested they tell the Master of Ceremonies. The MC had driven us all mad asking us to be "upstanding for a toast" every five minutes, I thought it may be time for one final toast to a wasted life.

Fleeting thoughts about other drug-addled 'legends' were juxtaposed with thoughts about people more familiar to me. People who had gone a step further than smoking joints, snorting the odd line, taking a pill. People who had crossed the line, gone the extra mile, pushed the boat out. Jacked-up.
I have NEVER taken Heroin. It was around me for a while during my early to mid teens, I was never offered any - the smackheads I knew kept their habit private.
I saw the odd bottle of Methadone or Diazepam medicine nestled on the mantlepiece where a clock, candlestick or figurine may be. That was all.

The world of the smackhead was everywhere, yet nowhere to be seen. The early morning queue at the chemist, the needle exchange clinic always busy, the skeletal, haunted figures shuffling down the streets in small gangs.To this day though, I have never seen anyone 'jack-up'.
I knew what I would become if I took Heroin, I knew what lifestyle I'd have. I knew how terrible I'd look, how skint I'd be. I knew that to try Heroin, was to become an addict overnight. The life of crime, violence, debauchery that lay ahead never appealed. I didn't need a 'buzz' that badly.

I saw a boy, homeless, and messed up on heroin, he was drifting in and out of consciousness and preparing for death "nothing can be more painful than life".

Every now and then I'd hear of another familiar person who'd gone over to the dark side - something about piercing your vein to inject a hot brown liquid chemical had appealed to them.
She was indiscriminate, Lady Heroin. Like a trip to the library or a music/book shop - she collected people from all walks of life. The pampered only child, the grade 7 piano-playing middle-class girl who was so bloody clever, the abandoned teens living in bedsits following family breakdowns, the transient 'oddballs' who slotted in with the jobless time-rich wasters, artists and acutely mentally ill.

I could imagine the feeling of being comfortably numb, the pink cloud eclipsing the black. A brief escape from yourself, life, family, pain. Heroin was never about enhancing existing senses, it seemed. I always thought "it MUST be good" because too many sensible people had sold their soul to smack.

When my best friend chose smack. I'd already lost her in some ways, I had said goodbye, sat back and waited for her to become a person I could handle. Three horrible boyfriends, one after another, made it difficult to keep in touch. These boyfriends (maybe with the exception of the final one) were high achievers. Number one was the son of a headmaster (apparently a lovely guy) and teacher. He was beautiful until you looked into his cold eyes, charming and intelligent until his controlling superiority reared it's head. His heroin addiction was fought by his family with the most supreme effort imaginable, it was pointless. He's now paraplegic and relies on 24 hour care, the car crash should have killed him, a passing doctor saved his life with seconds to go, his parents never recovered (though they are alive and did not crash).

I never met boyfriend 2, but felt his overpowering presence when I visited their flat. His artwork was disturbed, twisted and yet somehow perfect. He was discharged from the army, but behaved like a soldier in the relationship. I browsed his CD collection, nothing pretty there either, and coming from me, that's saying something.
Escaping his hold seemed to lead to a brighter time for my friend, her silly letters and drawings started to grace the doormat again. I met her at her parents house 40 miles away, she was happy that day but so thin. I was disappointed to hear she was a big Fugees fan, that didn't fit in with my life, I wanted her to be like me again. She cut the visit short, I was upset. She was happy because she'd met a 'lovely guy'. He was a lovely Heroin addict.

We were both pregnant at the same time, it was great to have someone to share pregnancy with, but we didn't see each other. We met up once when our babies were a few months old, I have a photograph of our little bundles of joy lying side by side. When my son was one, she sent a card - I was touched. I kept meaning to thank her, my birthday was coming up; her daughter's birthday soon after, I would ring then.
I rang her to say thank you, to suggest we meet up, to put some effort in to maintaining some sort of friendship. The answer I got when I asked to speak to her was blunt, it came from her partner - the father of her beautiful daughter: "haven't you heard? She died the other day".

I still went out for my birthday, just minutes after the call. We went to the pub where I worked for a free meal. En route, I passed a boy she knew well from school, told him the news. He looked really shocked, he had a drug problem, he is now dead too (heart attack).
When I walked into the pub "The Drugs Don't Work" was playing on the jukebox.

The funeral was a humanist ceremony; poems were read, people spoke about the girl who wasn't 'an addict'. I should have spoken, I should have spoken about my lovely, creative, child-like friend, but I didn't.

Today is the first time I have spoken about it really, eleven years on - I still don't know what to say.

I think, therefore I worry

2011-07-22T10:48:00.000+01:00

I was chatting to a friend and two ladies (one mid fifties, one 65) yesterday. We spoke at length about 'worrying'. I was the only one who openly admitted to worrying a lot. The other three claimed they 'take each day as it comes' and various other gems emerged, such as; "we could get cancer and be dead this time next year" (so - that's not something to worry about? I'm lost).

The conversation progressed onto topics such as plans for the summer holidays, going on holiday and comparing diaries to organise a date for our annual summer trip to the Museum of Welsh Life (worth a visit if you're ever unlucky enough to end up in South Wales) with our children/grandchildren. I seemed to be the only one who 'lives each day as it comes' - I had every day free for the foreseeable future, and didn't need to whip out a diary or consult my phone calendar.

More subjects came up which never fail to divide the crowd - prison sentences and social workers. I was the odd one out again, I defended social workers and said I believe by the time someone gets to prison all the damage has been done and there's little to rejoice about (case in point was a woman they feel needs to be 'made an example of'). I also added that everyone I know who has been to prison came out and carried on with whatever they were doing to get them in trouble in the first place (I'd like to add I don't know any released rapists, paedophiles, or murderers).

The final straw came when they started to whinge about the recent opening of "yet another charity shop". I piped up "I'm more excited about that than I am about getting Tesco Express and WIlkinson's" (cheap and cheerful homeware, sweets, wet wipes, toothpaste, plastic toys).

As we parted company, the worry set in, 'Oh dear' I thought - I didn't agree with anything they said. I wondered if they found me deliberately obtuse. I worried that the dates I'd agreed to for our meet up clashed with plans to go to the caravan/hospital appointments. I worried they thought I didn't think the woman who may go to prison hadn't done anything wrong. I worried I hadn't asked enough questions about their families, did I seem self-absorbed? I worried they thought I was happy with my choice of footwear (couldn't find the right pair).

I went to bed and worried about all the sugar I've been eating lately. I worried about what I'm going to wear to the wedding tomorrow, I'm bursting out of my usual size, like when you try to put a king size quilt in a double duvet cover.

I worried about the summer holidays; fighting boys, boredom, spending too much, eating too much. I worried about getting a coldsore. I worried about what the teachers thought because I was one of the few who didn't buy end-of-term presents. I worried about my hair, it needs a good cut and will look awful if I try to style it tomorrow.

Just before I drifted off, I comforted myself with the realisation that if I'm thinking about these things, it shows I care.

I was thinking not worrying.

Empty the recycle bin?

2011-07-20T22:23:00.002+01:00

Yesterday, I had a day of maniacal tidying, cleaning and de-cluttering. Seven bulging recycling bags; a full wheelie bin, sore hands and lots of cloths stained with mottled black dirt are the evidence of my toil.

I bought some Jeyes Fluid in preparation, there's just something appealing about that intense aroma. I used it quite liberally out the back to scrub the moss-covered patio slabs, disinfect the drains and mainly to keep my enthusiasm up with the nostalgic scent.
I'm sure my 'green' chums in the next street would be horrified if they knew, I'm so glad they didn't pop in for a cup of Rooibos tea when I was in the middle of using such a toxic substance.

Next, I tackled the mind-numbing task of sorting out the various bowls, boxes, bags and jars filled with 'stuff'. Said 'stuff' mainly seemed to be batteries, elastic bands, letters, small toys, business cards and empty envelopes. My mother never writes on greeting card envelopes - "no point, you know who it's for and you can save the envelope for another time". Trouble was, most of these envelopes had become damp/soiled/crumpled.

After the tidying, came the cleaning, and gradually, my house started resembling a house that's quite presentable - so I celebrated with Earl Grey (are you listening Cliodhna? I had a splash of milk with it!).

It was middle son's actual birthday, so he had a friend over for tea, and the in-laws and other relatives visited (hence the crazy cleaning).

I couldn't switch off from my frenzied cleanaholic mode, so swiped cups and plates from guests' hands as soon as they'd gulped the last drop of tea/crumb of cake. I washed, wiped, dried and put away everything rather than let it pile up. My behaviour was out of character. Visitors tend to enjoy my laissez-faire attitude to cleanliness and order, a sort of 'wipe your feet on the way out' approach. I've usually made some scones, cake or laid on a buffet. Not last night - tea and shop-bought baked goods.

When the boys were in bed, the house all tidy and clean for once, I said "I'm going to blog now". Nothing came. I typed and deleted around ten different beginnings to posts. It seemed my brain had been cleansed and emptied like the jars, cupboards and boxes.

I didn't daydream much yesterday, my mind was on the job, manual labour my focus - for once I quite enjoyed it. So now, I have brain-space free maybe a terabyte's worth. I'm as loathe to fill it with crap as I am my recently organised living room.

As I finally got rid of the broken toys, spent batteries, last years' bills, dried up nail varnishes, snapped crayons etc my brain got rid of some daydreams.

Here's a glimpse of some which are in the recycle bin;

Remembering my last public transport journey, tired after running for 5 minutes in case I missed the train. Train whirring, tress flashing - acid green, head on the window so I'm outside, not in, enjoying the sounds as they cancel out small-talk nonsense

Overheard conversation snippet: "I'm going to Tesco after, I'll pick some up for you if it's still on offer"

I imagine the offer is on loose sand, and the car is full of sand with her tiny face peeping out when she returns

Friends/family - life and death, torturous pain, ecstatic highs, loss, fresh starts and unhappy ends

Exotic, faraway places, feeling that fleeting moment of knowing you are meant to be here, and at least feel occasional bursts of intense joy, (and being grateful)

Looking at the 'tobacco' strewn ground (decomposing blossom) then, later, the tobacco strewn pavement (discarded fags outside 'The Merlin' pub)

No time to run tonight - think about running fast and breathing down cold fizzy air which courses straight to my veins, pulsing through and bursting back up through my throat like an opened lemonade bottle

Dream up business ventures leading to meeting interesting people - nationwide travel - cosy lunches and stilettos

Up ahead; short, stout lady in patterned wide-leg trousers, I imagine parting them and revealing a window to a strange world, closing the floral 'curtain' trousers and never seeing that world again.

Home, crack open the Jeyes Fluid - inhale....

Honestly, I don't mind

2011-07-15T19:25:00.001+01:00

Despite the often overly-dramatic descriptions of my emotions, I'm quite calm and level-headed (I think).
If I've ever been praised at work, it's been along the lines of "you're so patient, you let everything go over your head."

There lies the problem, I DO let everything go over my head, thus never get the chance to dwell, contemplate and digest situations. So, when a friend rings me during the busiest time of the day - family 'rush hour' (3.30 - 4.30) just to harp on about the Next sale and my mum-in-law bombards me with requests to fill her in on the proposed minutiae of her visit next week... I just let it all go over my head.

I do not buy new clothes, therefore have no desire to buy a reduced item of clothing for £12.99 instead of £24.99. I procrastinated in the charity shop earlier because the price label threatened to make my eyeballs bleed - £3 - three whole English pounds for a gorgeous vintage St Michael's dress, can I really spoil myself THIS much?

As for proposing an itinery for next Tuesday, well, forget it. I'd barely decided what we were having for dinner, haven't bought presents for the party we're attending tomorrow - next Tuesday is an age away.

So, I carry on with the dinner; pack my eldest's weekend bag, separate the fist fights my younger 2 are in the habit of, and muddle on.

I receive more text messages; my running partner wants to know what time I'll knock her door (er, how does "I don't know" sound?).
Another friend texts to ask if I'm still up for a night out with her and her sisters tomorrow (er, forgot I said I was up for it in the first place - I'll get back to you).

No wonder people either think I'm laid back, or get a bit cheesed off at my indecision. Ask me ANY question and you can guarantee I'll say "I don't know" or "I don't mind".

The PROBLEM is when all these things happen at once. Like this evening. My brain tells these questions to go away. The questions keep coming, I can no longer hide, I approach meltdown - sensory overload.
What do I do? Let off steam as soon as my OH gets home from work. I turn into someone I despise. "She said this and I said that and I turned around and said this....." A whole hour of it. Poor sod.

Sometimes I wish I had a day like a child, I get dressed by someone, fed, taxi-ed around and put to bed. Are you one of life's decision makers, with firm opinions? Or always on the fence?

Wasting Time

2011-07-12T22:49:00.008+01:00

I spent a leisurely morning in town today. We stopped for an ice-cream (and chatted to the cafe owner for half an hour about dyslexia) before going to the park.

I was delighted to see two magpies instead of the usual one, in my youth, I used to allow superstition to control the day . Every morning on my paper-round I'd see at least one magpie and felt a pang of inevitable doom if it was just one. When there were two, I'd convince myself today was going to be the day I became someone.

The cafe, unchanged since it opened in the 1800's

A grandfather told me he'd just given his granddaughter her first smack (she looked about 2 years old). It was hard to tell if he wanted congratulating, reassurance or a ticking off from me - I just quipped "she doesn't seem too bothered".

I tend to look skyward when I'm at the park, desperately wanting to see the wood pigeons' underside turn turquoise as they fly over the pool. I don't ever tire of this spectacular sight, yet when I point it out to strangers they look at me as though I've just confessed that I adore the 'Go Compare' adverts.

The morning fades away, time to go home and put some better clothes on (I'm wearing an unflattering ribbed vest top and faded jogging trousers - the type worn for painting or menstruating in).

Lunch, and then the toddler has his nap (it should be time to prepare the vegetables for dinner). A loud, fat, powerful fly enters the kitchen and seems most annoyed about something. I sit on the sofa and switch on the laptop - the fly has reminded me of something, no - someone - 'Boab' (see description below)

The Granton Star Cause is a comedy, where Boab is having a very bad day indeed. His parents throw him out so they can indulge in sado-masochism and he is sacked from his job, dumped by his girlfriend and dropped from his football team. It has elements of Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis. One of the characters is a pitiless and profane God, who transforms him into a fly as punishment for wasting his life.

YouTube fuels a full hour of time-wasting, I happen uopn an urelated video: 'Boab's Teeth'.

I find myself endeared to Boab; with his botched dental work. I agree with his comment about

having to pay £10 for being late for the dentist, but not receiving £10 when the dentist is late. Forward to the end if you want to see the shocking teeth....

More time elapses and again it's far from constructive; I search for a clip from The Blues Brothers with the quote "you're gonna look pretty funny trying to eat corn on the cob with no fucking teeth". I can't find a video, just an audio clip and endless forum references to it.

Thanks to Boab and his teeth, I wasted two hours.

I wonder about the trains of thought which lead to incredible breakthroughs, discoveries, masterpieces..I conclude that they are probably nothing like the ones I've allowed to pass through my brain.

I end the time wasting session by scrolling through some 'tweets'. I'm still not 100% sold on the whole concept of Twitter, but it's great for wasting time.

A single Canadian girl fills us in on her latest date.

"He was hot, suggested a second date...hope he follows through"

Now I am laughing out LOUD. Images of a handsome young man 'evacuating his bowels' at a swanky restaurant provide the best laugh I've had in a while. I'm sure I used to laugh a lot more.

Twitter isn't so bad, I click a link and thoroughly enjoy the poetic descriptions of place names on a piece of BBC Archive footage...

...Blaenau Ffestiniog I always like to hear that. Some of my favourite words are Welsh; Pili Pala (butterfly) being one, it describes their flight to me beautifully.

Please listen to the train clip, I'll feel better about wasting my time today if you do...

BBC Archive - Steam Trains

Celebrate good times...come on!

2011-07-08T14:18:00.021+01:00

Which celebrity grates on you, can you not stand the sight or sound of? My OH cannot bear Nicolas Cage, refuses to watch a film if he's in it (so that does narrow our choices considerably). There are numerous celebrities who I took an instant and irreversible dislike to, top of the list is Jamie Oliver. I disliked him before it was fashionable to dislike him, right from the start and I don't care to dwell on his 'fantastic' work because there is no reason he gets on my nerves - he just does.

I went out for dinner last night, a belated birthday treat from a friend I haven't seen since her birthday in May - when I was lucky enough to witness this spectacle:

I suggested she should choose the restaurant, what with living in Cardiff and eating out more regularly than me (this past few months I've eaten out more than I usually would in a decade - honestly).
"Jamie's is good - have you been?"
"I'm sure it is good, let's go"
I wasn't lying, I knew we wouldn't turn up to find a sulky teenager reluctant to put her mobile down, unsure of the specials and be presented with a plate of reheated boil-in the bag curry. I was also sure we wouldn't encounter a loud, lisping Oliver promoting Sainsbury's sausages in one of his own franchises.

The service was excellent, food OK, wine very good, the presence of Oliver's over-priced merchandise (Tea-towel £12!) just about bearable along with the over-use of the word 'amazing' on every specials blackboard.

I could have been in Mc Donald's with Clare and enjoyed myself, her company is all I need for a stimulating evening.
The only uncouth people I encountered were on the train there, and back.
On the way to Cardiff an anxious Londoner with 3 mobile phones stood a few centimetres away from the doors all the 30 minute journey. At one point I heard him say "We'll 'ave a cuppl' a salmons, innit?" the last time I heard this phrase was Mr C from The Shamen saying "Anybody got any salmon? SORTED!" on their God-awful hit 'Ebeneezer Goode'. Google tells me it's rhyming slang for 'snout' as in salmon and trout. Goodness knows what a 'couple of salmons' refers to.

Here's a snap of his feet, look how close he's standing!

I reckon Ryan V of 'Cynon' is gutted about his spelling mistake, how embarrassing! Must take ages to etch the train seats, what a shame:

On the return journey, a well-oiled gentleman (who was perhaps feeling rather frustrated as a result of being surrounded by girls in their late teens dressed in vests and hotpants) squared up to the ticket inspector. The inspector was built like a brick outhouse (I shan't swear) and the drunken guy, with a fistful of gold rings and tombstone-teeth must have felt very low in the pecking order stakes. He was thrown off the train.

Today, I am feeling a little anxious as Sunday draws nearer. A joint party for my middle son, who will soon be 4, is being held at a local community centre. Along with a sweet girl in his class (whose mum was in school with me) and around 30 kids - a celebration will take place. I am SICK of celebrations!

An ageing 'entertainer' has been booked, he sounds like someone who has a bi-polar personality; an equal mix of over-inflated ego and crushingly low self-esteem (hmm, sounds familiar). I bet he goes home after each party, necks a bottle of Buckfast and weeps as he leafs through photo albums depicting him in his youth - the glory days.

Disposable plates, plastic table cloths, party bags and balloons will be ready for landfill after two hours of sweaty, high-pitched frenetic activity. Parents with folded arms will yawn and look at their phones/watches wishing each minute would pass a hundred times faster. A mountain of high sugar snacks with a mere mouse-sized nibble taken from them will be thrown into the FOOD WASTE BIN (upon my insistence).

The real birthday is on July 19th, but another party is taking place the weekend before that. There was a party last weekend too. Parents have been whining about having to attend 3 parties in a row (don't blame them, two of the parties are joint, so 5 presents in 3 weeks!).

My friend has been very organised, she designed the invites, wrote numerous lists, Googled and got quotes from all the entertainers in a 25 mile radius and has been buying lots of decorative bits and pieces. My (would-be) mother in law has organised the party bags, a cake, bought new shirts for the boys and generally thought about EVERYTHING.

Me? I shall shake off the low self-esteem about 20 minutes before the party, put on my best smile and 'work the room'. I will talk to all the parents and children, massage the entertainer's ego in the hope of getting the most out of him for his fee. I will clean the place up afterwards and thank the caretaker. My contribution is all last minute, just being there is enough (ahem!)

When I get home, I will start to moan about how stressful and expensive it all was. I will vow not to do it again I won't drink a bottle of Buckfast, I will just be thankful that OH and youngest son's birthdays aren't 'til the end of the year (OH's birthday doesn't count, I'll just make a cake and suggest we watch Commando, his favourite film of all time).

I'm all mainstream celebration-ed out, well - nearly (just a wedding to go). I'm turning into my mum more quickly than I imagined possible. When I start ranting about how ridiculous funerals are (bad for the environment, stupid hymns, tacky flowers...) I'll know that I can fight the metamorphosis no more.

Merry Bloody Christmas!

incidentally, I can't stand Kool and the Gang's 'Celebration'. I used to work in a shop selling hideous clothes and there was one tape played on a loop all day - this was one of the tracks. Every time I hear it; the smell of the customers' sweaty armpits and feet comes back to me and brings a lump of bile to my throat. What will I moan about next...

I won't moan, I'll share this track and video which I really enjoyed (it gets quite creepy from 1:38 on)

** UPDATE ** 'Simon Sparkles' captivated the children for 2 hours. I was rather disappointed to discover that in person, he was pretty nondescript and displayed not the slightest hint that there was a dark side (unlike Mr Tumble). Both adults and children enjoyed the afternoon, with the exception of one boy who asked to go home every five minutes and hid from Mr Sparkles. That boy was my son.

Thirty-four

2011-07-03T21:21:00.003+01:00

Born on the fourth of July, that film is all about me. On Monday 4th of July 2011, I will officially be 34. What have I done with myself in this time? Nothing extraordinary, on paper. I've spent most of it locked in the comfortable security of my imagination.
When I was in high school, I longed to escape into an alternative lifestyle. My friend and I became obsessed with New Age Travellers (or work-shy scroungers as The Sun often referred to them). We spent French lessons dreaming up new names (me - Maisy) discussing how we'd kit out our home - a double decker bus - and how we'd never wash our hair.
I soon realised life was all about getting a job, decided I'd like to be a social worker. I also decided revising for exams and listening during class made my brain hurt too much, so didn't bother.
Escaping still appealed to me, so I set my sights on all sorts; nannying in the U.S.A, working on a cruise ship...
I had my fortune 'told' a few times, as did my mum, and America was always mentioned. I escaped all the way to Slough, Berkshire.
After a year, my time living closely with another family ran it's course. I left with no drama, thankful that I'd been taught to make curry by a master (my employer's mum used to tip the curry over her head if it didn't taste right) and that I hadn't travelled all the way to America to realise how difficult it is to fit on with another family's routines.
I spent the next 2 years working 9 to 5 and getting drunk at the weekend. It was crap, I didn't ever look right, say the right things when I got chatted up, or master the art of drinking responsibly. There were some good times, but my default emotion seems to be embarrassment. In my mind I'm a waif, petite and vulnerable - this is in completely incongruous with the reality (maybe I can be vulnerable). I feel out of place, clumsy, a nuisance at times, other times however, I feel like I'm entertaining the crowd.
After a brief relationship, I found myself being all grown-up, with a house and baby. At 22 I'm discussing washing, grocery shopping and meal time-tables whilst still desperately trying to escape from myself. A dark 3 years pass, my daydreams keep me alive, treading water, sometimes falling under but always fighting back up, breathing. My best friend dies, I find out on my 23rd birthday.
Strength finds it's way to the surface, by-passing the sense of inadequacy and helplessness. I slowly build a new life, buy a house of my own and start to feel proud. I look at my shiny floor and waltz around MY bedroom. I am me, it's not so bad really.
Nights out resume, I'm still rubbish at drinking, flirting, dressing up and laughing out loud at 'jokes'.
I find a kindred spirit, not your typical middle-class guy, nor working class - but partial to brown rice, documentaries, owner of walking boots and shunner of soap operas, chart music and fizzy drinks. Settling-down commences; babies; washing lines, routines again.
I don't know what I want to be, only what I don't. This is good. I do care what people think, sometimes that's all I care about. I don't get so embarrassed. I don't fear getting old, hearing friends panic about being 40 seems ridiculous. I think I'll suit being older.
I'd like to learn how to drink properly, how to use commas, semi-colons, apostrophes and brackets more effectively. I'd like to learn how to say 'no thanks' with an air if finality to it. Other than that, life is good. I'll open some garish cards in the morning, pretend to be pleased, pretend I don't care about the dearth of cards and presents/dramatic displays of affection.
For 4 years running I've either been pregnant/breast-feeding/at a wedding/poorly on my birthday. Tomorrow, I will do nothing except drink tea and embrace my slowly-emerging acceptance of myself.

Twelve

2011-06-28T14:20:00.004+01:00

My first born decided he wanted to celebrate his twelfth birthday last Saturday with just me and his dad. I understood, last year he ended up feeling cheesed off as 10 friends took over the show at his dad's. Several litres of Coke; a pile of junk food, a hot tub, water bombs, trampoline - you can imagine the consequences.
"I want to go quad biking in the morning with dad, and out for a meal with you and dad in the afternoon". I agreed to it straight away, though didn't relish the idea of making small-talk, eating a gluten-laden meal and waltzing around Cardiff Bay with a man I have nothing to say to. I did, however, perfectly understand the request and found it quite sweet that something so simple was all my son wanted.
On the Friday, there were reports of dad's man-flu threatening to jeopardize the whole celebration, I felt sorry and hoped he'd 'get over it'.
The quad biking took place, but lunch was cancelled last-minute; "too ill, I'm dying, need to sleep".
We went for a meal, just the two of us, to 'Frankie and Benny's'. It's very dark, loud, busy, over-priced, soul-crushingly mediocre there. I whine about prices straight away and then remind myself that this is a birthday, a rare chance for just me and my eldest to spend time together. The heavy, yet fine rain didn't stop, in the weeks before I'd envisioned bright blue skies, sunglasses and al fresco dining. We huddled around a very small table, constantly kicking each others' feet.
My bag housed a very small birthday cake, I foolishly handed it to the waitress. I scanned for the cheapest meal, but it was hardly worth trying to save money now, I ordered a burger with blue cheese, he wanted scampi and chips. The family on the next table, a young couple with two girls, seemed to be celebrating something. An elderly man was with them, his collapsible zimmer frame was propped up by his side - he was there in body but not spirit. Another family comprising 3 couples of various ages and one spare part in the form of a bored and uncomfortable looking young man, were celebrating something too.
I'm not very good at sitting and waiting, I started behaving like a child, grabbed a balloon and sucked the helium from it to (irresponsibly) entertain myself, and managed to get the first belly-laugh from my 12 year old I'd heard in ages. A glamorous couple entered, both over-tanned, his over-trained muscles and her over-dieted frame were a good match. They 'stormed' out after hearing there would a 15 minute wait for a table.
Our meals arrived and my first thought was how pointless the mint green-coloured limp teaspoon of rocket was. Surely rocket is meant to be dark green, robust and fill about a third of the plate if it's to have any effect? The scampi was the colour of rusty iron, obviously either deep-fried in filthy oil, or for too long. I was about to complain, but my 'starving son objected, said it looked just how he wanted it. The scampi was too spicy - the batter was full of cracked peppercorns and took your breath away. I forgot about the blue cheese until I gulped down a sizeable wedge of it, leaving me feeling as though I'd eaten a lump of congealed vomit.
After the meal, we sat feeling rather disappointed and said we wouldn't come here again. The waitress took the plates and didn't look surprised that we didn't want dessert or drinks. The music went off, out came the small cake, twelve candles flickering, all eyes on us. I felt sick from the cheese and sick at the spectacle about to take place. "Happy Birthday" song kicks in, too loud, too cheesy and completely ridiculous. The bemused waitress mouths the words sheepishly, wondering where the hell the rest of the family and my son's friends are, no doubt. Cliff Richards' 'Congratulations' next, more embarrassment, "make it stop!" I scream silently. My cheeks burn with the glare of puzzled diners before me, "poor kid" they must have been thinking. Mortified, my son blows out the candles before hanging his head and waiting for the cake to disappear, A knife is presented to me, along with two napkins, we decide to eat a slice each and run.
Walking towards the door, a sense of relief washes over us, laughter erupts, we can't stop laughing. I tell my son that 12 years ago it was a boiling hot day. I tell him about lying on the bed with him in my arms, and stuffing my face. I ate 2 baguettes, a whole box of Roses chocolates and 3 packets of crisps (I blame the shock). "Where was daddy" he asks, I tell him; "at the pub".
Just me and my boy, we walk to the car, it always was just the two of us and I always knew everything would be OK in the end, (even 12 years ago when everything wasn't OK). We smiled and decided in another 12 years, on his 24th birthday we will sit together, eat like pigs and share a cake again. In the car, he said "I've had a lovely day". I had a lovely day too, just as I had 12 years ago, sitting up in bed holding my newborn son and feeling exceptionally proud. Everything, yet nothing has changed.

Friday

2011-06-26T23:11:00.000+01:00

The last few days have been very different for me, throwing my routines and ending the Groundhog Day feel to life. My mum in law had the 2 year old from Thursday 2.30pm until Friday 7.30pm. A swap took place on Friday, 3 year old went to stay for two nights. My eldest celebrated his twelfth birthday on Saturday.
I found myself locked in a narrow world of mild depression last week, fully aware of my self-absorption, fatigue and inability to move much. An awareness that this phase would pass quickly helped me to make an allowance, to wallow and refrain from trying too hard to emerge from the pale grey cell I was confined to.
Loud noises, fast movement and unexpected physical contact set my nerves on edge (so with 3 clumsy boys I was on edge quite regularly). I *jumped* at the chance of having a whole day to myself last Friday, the co-incidental timing was perfect. Charity shopping, all day, that's what I'll do. Maybe a cup of coffee half way through the day, perhaps some craft therapy in the afternoon, pure indulgence.
I waved the 2 year old off on Thursday afternoon and would have gone straight to bed had I not had the school pick-up to do. Instead, tea and 20 minutes cutting up paper, so very therapeutic for me.
On Friday morning, breakfast was civilized, I chatted to my eldest without interruption, there was no porridge splashed around waiting to set like concrete. I felt my breaths getting deeper, waking me up, energising me. Straight into town after school drop, the children's hospice charity shop first. Colour coordinated rails of clothes - I do not approve of this display method. I look at everything many times wanting to buy lots but knowing I would end up giving everything back to charity very soon,
People everywhere, noisy, smelly, full of shit. An old lady moans to the volunteers about her health problems, they don't listen or care. The weight of my imagined load drains energy reserves, I long to escape from myself. There are people sitting outside 'The Patriot Bar', a vile small public house, the devil's waiting room. Briefly, I envy their lack of decorum, responsibility and self-preservation instinct.
I cut my charity-shop binge very short, the poorly lady is making her way through the shops at the same rate as me. Hearing the same story three times is too much for my fragile brain, I start to see things happen which aren't happening, time for home.
Craft and solitude save the day, I refresh myself and make a mess with paint, paper, glue and shiny things, my 'basket weaving'. Maybe I'm over-tired, a bit run-down, under-nourished but over-fed. I try to remember last year, does the week leading up to my eldest son's birthday stir painful memories, perhaps?

I spy something beginning with 'C'

2011-06-22T14:07:00.000+01:00

A broken pushchair meant driving to school this morning, and people watching from the safety of my car. A troubled looking man, underweight, black trousers with white trainers drags hopefully on his cigarette. I wonder if his tension will visibly ease once the butt is discarded. A group of pensioners alight the bus, cigarettes poised, lighter in hand. The journey from the valleys to our 'gateway town' perhaps buoyed by the anticipation of 'that' moment when the flame touches the paper, igniting the tobacco. To my right, a lady on the wrong side of the road, walking on a narrow cobbled stretch, heading for a dangerous place to cross. Her heeled shoes make for a clumsy stride, the cigarette helps to distract me - voyeur, and offers something for her to focus on. Mums head to town from their school-run, one pushes an empty neon pink pushchair with her left hand, her right hand is busy with a freshly-lit 'fag'. As she multi-tasks a man in a rush tries to navigate the fag, pushchair and her generous girth. I see her smile apologetically as he finally overtakes, but he reaches the pedestrian crossing and is soon joined by her again.

A final right turn before home, two lads in oil-stained overalls light up after throwing the plastic wrapper and paper foil packaging so it falls just shy of the bin. I think of Charlie Bucket as he feverishly searches for a golden ticket in his chocolate bar. I pull up outside my house, I spy a neighbour on the way to the shop. I go back to the car to get the coats, she's on her way home, grinning, as she passes she leaves a trail of smoke.

Past, present, future

2011-06-20T23:50:00.003+01:00

I was rifling through one of my many boxes filled with paper goods and discovered a class photograph circa 1984. The girls sat on benches at the front in two neat rows, behind; two rows of standing boys. We all needed a haircut, and uniform hadn't been introduced. One girl, who had the rather amusing (at the time) name 'A. Bird', is sporting a delightful Boy George sweater, pleated skirt and patent shoes. Another girl who I played an imaginary game with for 3 years featuring horses (of which I'm allergic and very cautious around) is wearing a velvet royal blue dress with a satin crimson pussy bow neck tie (imagine an 8 year old wearing that now!). My favourite outfit is a crushed velvet fitted, short red dress, knee high socks and cheap white trainers. This girl was STRANGE, she kept slow worms as pets, cut her knees purposely most days with seemingly blunt stainless steel scissors, and enjoyed stemming the flow of blood with blotting paper. In the photo there is evidence of self-harm in the form of two unsightly gashes. The last I saw of her was in a real-life magazine, she was show-boating as she'd been to Turkey for liposuction and a tummy tuck.
With a few exceptions, we're all mums now and most live within a 10 mile radius of our childhood home. I regularly see one of the girls from the photograph, she comes over for coffee (never tea) every other Wednesday afternoon. I have little in common with her 'on paper'; she is childless, lives with her mum and is very good at all the things I'm not very good at. We lost touch for a while when she went to uni, then lived in various locations for a few years after. Getting back in touch was easy once we both ended up living within 5 minutes of each other. I like having contact with people whose lives are different to mine it's exciting watching her future unfold fortnight by fortnight.
I think of all the things I wish I had done more of before I had children, and urge her to do these things. Travel! Revel in self-absorption, do things alone, don't wait for an accomplice. Go to parties, meet people, stay out really late and sleep all day. Study now if you want to better yourself, don't live a life of financial hardship, capitalise on your talents.
This advice is pretty rubbish. All anyone seems to want to do eventually is settle down and have a family. I recall getting fed up of nights out when I first bought my house and my eldest went to his dad's at the weekend. I couldn't handle the solitude if I stayed in, yet felt uncomfortable and lonely when I went out with friends to pubs. I'm not one for TV so if I stayed in, I'd spend a bit of time on the computer, then 'pace' the house like a caged lion. I had one great party which I tried to re-create, but as is often the case, round 2 was a flop (I supplied too much alcohol; broken glass, a river of wine and several unstable revellers trying to dance - treacherous).
Now, I often crave solitude, just one weekend all to myself. I don't know what I would do, maybe sit and soak up the sound of the freezer whirring. Perhaps spend guilt-free time online. I'd look around all the charity shops, go to a cafe and read the paper. I would eat a meal slowly, follow it with a cake I don't have to share. I'd paint my nails, pluck my eyebrows. Read, but end up feeling restless. Do you know what? I'm already bored just thinking about it. I only have myself to blame for ending up with a home bursting with noise, activity and chaos.
What would you do if you had a whole weekend to yourself? And those who can look back to the point I am now at in life - what advice do you have for me?

Toaster and towel bale please...

2011-06-19T15:13:00.000+01:00

In this post, I ask my esteemed readers to re-assure me that getting married is a deeply personal, unique, intimate experience. Indeed, I also ask for proof that getting married is worthwhile, and recommended. We have 3 surnames between the five of us, I don't like that. My parents have been happily married for over 40 years, but aren't in the least bit bothered about my brother and I marrying our partners. I have no reason to be cynical about marriage, but here is my sarcastic and exaggerated take on 'weddings' . No offence is intended, I just happen to have a house full of crap which I'd love to have replaced with new (or thrifted) items which remind me of special people every time I use them. I think the days of the cutlery service and bone china tea set wedding gift are long gone, and feel a bit sad about that.
Most of the weddings my family and I have attended in the past few years have included a poem with the invite. The bride (always the bride) will have Googled the poem, there are a few different versions, but they translate as " DO NOT BUY US A GIFT, GIVE US MONEY". This is fair enough, if it's a first marriage for a well organised comfortably-off duo, the chances are the wedding comes in the middle of their five year plan, which begins with 'buy a house and fill it with stuff' and culminates with 'have a baby'. If it's the second or third marriage, you can pretty much guarantee the couple have enough wine glasses and picture frames to set up a shop.
I'm sure most guests find this easier, and it beats having to choose something from a gift-list and go to collect it. Stuff some money or a cheque into a card, a lovely card which costs upwards of £3.50, stick a fascinator and some lippy on, your OH can pour himself into the shirt and suit he wore to every wedding, funeral, job interview and Christening since you met, and off you go. Sit through a 'touching' ceremony, 'aw, look at his face', sit and wait hours for a lukewarm meal, listen to some 'hilarious' speeches. Discover that the groom was wild, had no direction and was fond of getting drunk all the time 'til he met his miracle-weaving bride. The bride will look beautiful, even if deep down you're thinking "hmm, that back-fat oozing out of the dress...not a good look', she will still look radiant and erm... beautiful. After the meal has been swallowed in large unchewed lumps, it's time to knock back large quantities of mid to low range wine. Hopefully, the DJ (who is undoubtedly a veteran) has fired up the lights and speakers by 7 pm. After stumbling uncomfortably to Snow Patrol's 'Cars' or any other vomit-inducing smoochie record, it's time for the suitably 'refreshed' guests to throw polygamous shapes to Abba, Kylie, and Take That. All of this frivolity will be caught on camera, and boy will you be the talk of the day if you get too drunk (talking crap for hours before lying under a table Lucy, remember?).
The bride and groom will say it was the happiest day of their lives, and add that they wish they could do it all again it was so much fun (good news, chances are you will be lucky enough to do it all again if the statistics are anything to go by). Next day, you'll be having a really bad hair day, a really bad hangover as a souvenir, and be laughing out loud as you scroll through the digital camera footage. During the next week or so, unless you're on Facebook, you'll miss out on hundreds of snapshots of the day.
The bride and groom will return from honeymoon eager to click their way through endless amateur photographs until the official book arrives with all the stiff looking forced-pose high-gloss pictures.
Their home will be void of any physical, practical gift items which bring the guest to mind, the mugs they sip from will be part of a set bought from Argos/John Lewis/Ikea ages ago. The 'official' photograph displayed will be just of the bride and groom. The groom may be gurning, but it will be the most flattering shot of the bride. The inappropriate antics of the well-oiled guest will soon be forgotten. There is another invite on the mat for a wedding, the poem reads "having you there means more to us than anything". And where will the evidence of this be, exactly?
I like the idea of being married, the wedding - less so. Please share your story, and I LOVE long comments, so don't worry if it turns into an essay, I have opened a debate...

Contentment or Apathy?

2011-06-17T14:00:00.001+01:00

I caught the last half of Don't tell the Bride yesterday. My OH and I rolled our eyes in unison when the tears started to fall. Mum HAS to cry when she sees her daughter emerge from the changing room in her dress, it's the law. Both bride and groom have to 'fill up' or blub when their eyes meet on the big day. Tears are a big part of the whole emotional roller coaster that is a union of two people in holy matrimony.
Birth of a child - tears please (everyone). Funeral - whatever noises made related to crying/sobbing no matter how disturbing are always acceptable. Who am I to argue, crying about such life-changing events is a natural way to release tension, adrenaline, excitement, grief and a whole host of extreme emotion.
Me? I hardly ever cry, and these days I don't even get a lump in my throat. I worry about where these pent-up emotions are storing themselves. Squealing; never done it no matter how excited I am (and you can guarantee unwrapping a pair of over-priced shoes would be more likely induce a groan). Cry about a soap storyline? Forget it.
The headteacher where I used to work was famed for making the female staff cry, I was warned about her powers from day one. For years, I managed to avoid all situations where she'd get an opportunity to give me a good 'dressing down'. I saw countless staff emerge from the tear-jerker's office looking like they'd been told there's no such thing as Santa, your husband's having an affair, your son has been arrested and your new haircut makes you look old all in one sitting. I always knew my time would come, and I knew she'd do her best to get me to the point of waving the emotional white flag. Salty water dripping from my eyes in response to basically being told "I'm in charge, you're right but I don't give a shit, piss off".
My day came, and in all fairness, it was out of the blue. I had no time to prepare and she'd buttered me up the week before by making me feel she was on my side. Boy, that woman tried her best, it was an epic breakdown of my character, I was reduced to feeling 9 years old. Tears? They didn't come, but another emotion I rarely feel and it's even more rarely do I display it - fury, raw fury bubbled and
erupted. Ten minutes later, I calmed down and forgot about it, I was annoyed I'd let her lull me into a false sense of security and just took a valuable lesson from the whole pile of nonsense.
Some of the staff cried at the drop of a hat, every week there'd be a really minor incident blown all out of proportion. Joan's catologue bill, Zoe's cancelled date, Alison's 1lb gain at Weight Watcher's, Dawn's divorce 6 years on... tears, tears and more tears. I don't know how to handle a crying lady, so I would keep a wide berth. I was labelled 'hard' 'cold' 'cynical' and all sorts of things for not seeming to care. Give me a kid with a nosebleed, another two vomiting, another screaming because the Beauty and the Beast DVD isn't in the right case and 5 cups of tea to make - I'm there, sorting it all out. Tears over "she said to me, I said to her, she turned 'round and said this...." and I feel like saying "shut up, grow up and get on with your job".
There are things I'd love to cry about, to show I am a person with feeling. Happy occasions, they seem to be made all the more poignant with a few carefully lined up tears. "You've passed your driving test?!" Great time to 'fill up'. Best friend pregnant, been trying for ages, excellent 'Kleenex moment'. I can cry, and I have cried a lot in the past. So why don't I cry anymore? Is it that I don't want the attention? Why not cry alone, then? Am I apathetic, or just content? I reckon there is a chemical and scientific build up to crying which I have managed to control. As for the almost staged, attention seeking, ulterior-motive led, or crying so others feel sorry/guilty/stop what they were doing...not my style.
So, who is a real blubberer? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Anyone else like me, just pretty neutral most of the time and not prone to extremes of emotion. Anybody who just can't help themselves from crying, but wishes they could? Am I missing out on a bonding experience with other females, am I abnormal?
One of my favourite crying stories was when my mum's neighbour sat bawling his eyes out because he'd had an operation and couldn't clean the house, The house was immaculate and his wife was able to do it. I like that tale because I can't think of something I'd be less likely to cry about than not being able to scrub the floors.
I look forward to your 'sob stories'.

Driving Miss Crazy...

2011-06-14T16:08:00.003+01:00

My parents' neighbour, Rita, is nearly 80. Rita has one son who went to university and never came back, her mum pretty much brought him up. Widowed at 58, she spent the best part of the next two decades enjoying herself and spending lots of money. My family liked Rita and found her a pain in the arse in equal measure. Some people (like Rita) are not capable of doing anybody else a favour, yet demand regular favours from others. My mother once contracted lead poisoning from some second hand eye make-up and could barely move. My brother and I were under 8 and out playing, mum asked Rita if she would call us in, she refused.
We all get old, we all will need help one day and so on, but Rita milked every opportunity to get us running around for her. Shopping for her with a giant list of things to get from different shops, milk from 'Kwik Save' bread from Somerfield, ham from M&S. We'd have to do her shopping every time she had so much as a runny nose, or a bout of passing 'loose stools', which was a regular occurrence. In her defence, she was funny without ever trying, and came out with some classic phrases such as "Roy? He hasn't worked since the small beer strike" in reference to a local unemployed gentleman. I have some incredibly fond memories of Rita, and used to love looking at her garden which was festooned with gnomes, swan planters, windmills and flowers of every colour in the rainbow.
Yesterday, Rita must have been spying, ready to pounce. As I left my parents' house, she appeared and exclaimed "Luce, take me to town will you" this was not a request, it was a demand. I tried fobbing her off by suggesting I deposit her near town, but she was insistent that I drop her off by 'Caddy's' (a pet shop which closed down in the late 80's). I explained to Rita that it'd be impractical to drop her by Caddy's as there is nowhere to park, but she's gone a bit senile and didn't listen. I tried a little light small-talk (I'm a bit of an expert at small talk) but all I got was the odd grunt and a few belches back from her. Halfway to town: "turn 'round Luce, I forgot my bank card". I was not amused, but followed her order, knowing deep down that it was in her bag and she'd spend ages looking for it.
Try again, head to town, explain I'll drop her IN TOWN meaning I'd have to drive past town in order to turn around, that's the way you have to do it, unless you're driving a taxi or bus. Rita assumes I am a taxi, and is quite angry with me for not turning right at her request. Next, I'm aware we have a flat tyre. My heart sinks, and I tell Rita (who assumes I can still drop her off by the non-existent Caddy's). I pull over near the park, which is right in the heart of town, and suggest Rita gets out. "No! I want to go to the chemist, I can't get off here". I offer the alternative of waiting in the car whilst I change the tyre, hoping she'll change her mind and get out. No chance, I'm stuck with a tired, hungry 2 year old, a 79 year old misery and a flat tyre.
I open the boot, it's choc-a-bloc; pushchair, holdall rammed with blankets, black bag full of clothes for charity, buckets and spades... in my head I'm Tony from Bullseye reeling off the prizes "that's red, number 5, it's the golf umbrella". 2 year old is running out of ideas to gain Rita's attention, he's tried cute, tried shouting, now he's throwing polystyrene from the car seat at her. I realise I'm going to need help to change the tyre, so it's time to do my best impression of a damsel in distress. I spy a man my dad's age, looks just the ticket, and he's only too happy to oblige (until he sees there isn't a handle for the jack). It takes him ages to lift the car, especially with Rita weighing it down, but in all fairness, he was efficient and didn't complain.
Back in the car, I'm desperate to lose Rita now, she is draining the small reserve of patience I'm left with after years of being surrounded by challenging kids. It's not easy though, Rita has a new plan: "Lucy, I'll give you my prescription, you can hand it in"...NO WAY. You may be nearly 80, but you're fitter than a lot of people half your age, you have all the time in the world, and an umbrella.
"I'll drop you off opposite the doctors, OK?"
Rita and I come to blows between now and dropping her off, she refuses to get out of the car on the brow of a small hill, meaning I have to pull over on a busy main road, causing chaos. My blood starts to boil, I have little sympathy for her unfortunately (because I know so much about her life of self-absorption).
As she gets out of the car I roll my eyes and mouth some obscenities. A horrified onlooker gives me a look which says 'heartless bitch'. I glance into the mirror and see Rita toddling, her limp grey hair which used to be coiffed to auburn perfection, a dowdy mac and shopping bag have replaced her immaculate jacket and handbag. It's a sorry sight, I calm down instantly, and yes, I feel a bit sorry.
Sorry for the next person who has a day like mine with lovely Rita.

Inspired by a stranger

2011-06-12T22:31:00.010+01:00

I used to drive to work the 'long way' avoiding a dual carriageway and managing to squeeze in a bit of peace between two sets of chaos. Llantwit Road, long and winding, trees lined both sides; turning the road into black lace as the sun shone. I listened to the same few albums, full volume, often repeating my favourite tracks, and holding on to the tiny part of self-absorption my day allowed. Sometimes I'd spy a colleague waiting at the bus stop en route, music down, daydream over, "jump in". Talk about the weather and staff shortages all the way to work.

For four years this was my routine, and I saw the same people at the same stage of their work commute for most of that time. I like to be early, or at least on time for appointments and work, being late leaves me feeling ashamed and guilty all day (and that's no exaggeration). One lady would be walking along the road, embarking on her journey as I came to the end. It used to puzzle me, where was she going, there wasn't a house or bus stop for a couple of miles? This lady was what could be described as 'morbidly obese'. Headphones in, sweat pants and t-shirt on, with a jumper around her neck in Spring/Summer, rain mac in winter, she looked worn out but determined.

As the years went by, I saw this lady every time I drove to work, and things began to change, slowly but dramatically. First, I noticed she had upped her pace, there was a spring in her step, arms like metronomes. Weeks later, I realised I was passing her in the middle of the road, not as she embarked on the journey. Eventually, she jogged. Red-faced, pained, determined - she exuded will-power and focus as her breasts bobbed freely under a pastel t-shirt. I wondered what music was helping her along and imagined it being Tina Turner or Meatloaf. A shadow of her former self, she was getting close to the end of the road as I drove past.

The bus-stop colleague shared my interest in this lady's progress, she had anorexia and loved nothing more than to discuss exercise, food and weight loss. When I left the job, I wondered if she kept a keen eye on the jogger's progress.
The road now forms part of a by-pass, which joins onto the 'short way' route. I would miss that drive if I still worked at the school, I would miss seeing the shrinking jogger, I would not miss, however, having my journey interrupted by a colleague.

I recently took up running; I struggle along the main road gasping for breath as my asthmatic chest tightens. I think about that look of dogged determination, that shrinking woman and I keep going.

A duck, a frog and some Welshmen

2011-06-09T19:16:00.000+01:00

Straight into town after the school drop, stopping at a charity shop before the park. I spy several items I'd like to buy, but they are over-priced. My 2 year old son spots a grotesque frog stuffed toy, he simply MUST have it. I leave the shop, £1.99 lighter and imagining what fun the dogs at Rhondda Animal Aid are going to have tearing frog and around 85 other teddies to shreds (when I eventually bag them up and donate them). I meet a friend and her daughter, we discuss childbirth. My sister in law gave birth to her second child early yesterday morning in the bathroom. My friend is pregnant with her second child, so she was fascinated by the speedy delivery of my niece , and marvelled at the lack of medical intervention required.

A grandfather who regularly frequents the park and cafe circuit with his toddler granddaughter starts chatting to us. His comments were a series of minor rants about the 'useless council' 'foreigners' and a cringe-worthy anecdote about arriving at a French camp-site and being refused entry because the owner thought he was English (and naturally, upon correcting him "je suis gallois" he was welcomed with open arms). Neither my friend or myself were able to pretend we were interested or amused.

I took my recently toilet-trained son to the Ladies, it was dark (useless council). A stout elderly lady entered, face full of tension and announced to an imaginary audience that she wouldn't be closing the door, "'fraid of dark I am, bloody toilet, bloody lights, door open, OK?". My son attempted to play 'peek-a-boo' I dragged him out at lightening speed.

After parting company with my friend, I went to another charity shop. A regular customer who seems to be lonely was in there talking loudly, not holding a dialogue with the staff, just making brief statements "bus fare gone up, fags gone up, gas gone up, good job I'll be dead soon". The man working at the shop looked very tired and worryingly malnourished, he scanned the shop as if he was looking to be rescued. I pass the vociferous regular, a sickly odour was emanating from him, not unlike 'bin soup'. This particular charity shop (Wales Air Ambulance) is full of bargains, nothing seems to be over £2. I picked out some items and moved on to the toy section. "Mum, duck. I wan't duck please." A bath toy priced at £1.50, I let him hold it and plan to sneak it back on the shelf. A few moments later, I quietly tut, assuming the three young girls who'd entered were playing crap music from their phones. It was the duck. A blinkin' bath duck radio, only in a charity shop. "Mum, I like ducky, dance". Son is 'bopping' and entertaining the whole shop (with the exception of the ranting regular who is oblivious).

I buy £6.61 worth of items and leave, music is blaring from the duck now the volume dial has been discovered. Lots of stares, many people seem impressed by the music, one song was Tom Jones' 'Help Yourself' (apparently it's his birthday). I spot an opportunity to distract my son from the duck, he loves 'posting' things, and there's a lady ahead collecting for the Salvation Army. My plan worked and he now had a pamphlet instead of a duck. We head for the last row of shops before the journey home, I want eggs from the 'Wholefoods and Homebrew' store. I ask myself if I can face it, the owner is a chatterbox and he tells me the same story every time. I need eggs more than I need a break from the Hungarian teacher who makes a lovely cake with my eggs story, so I brave the story and head home. It wasn't so bad, this time -I have the recipe.

I look forward to ranting, repeating myself and weeing in full view of everyone, I hope I live to get old.