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

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)

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

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...

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.

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

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?