bank holidays. the end of the summer. the last bbq. the last weekend before the kids go back to school in their new Clarks shoes and their new Sainsburys outfits and their new pencil case tucked into their bags ready to get lost within a few hours of putting them down in the classroom.
the last of the hot sun.
the first of the major downpours that last until the following May.
getting stuck in a mass-exodus-from-London-traffic jam.
having an argument about whether to get off the M road.
forgetting to pack any waterproof jackets. therefore getting caught in rain.
should I start planting my autumn bulbs?
I can't believe Gal sailed off with Dawn into the sunset last night on Enders.
hmm. that smell of autumn bonfires.
picking blackberries.
squashed apples on the floor and too many wasps.
dusting off the alarm clock and thinking about the new routine which will be starting in just over one week.
the last glass of white wine before moving onto red which always warms the fingers a bit better than icy chardonnay, as the nights close in and the air gets crisper.
and watch out! don't be tempted to step on that pile of leaves! there WILL be dog shit in it.
oooh. jumpers.
Friday, 28 August 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Climbing back on
Have had another day of being On The Wagon (why is it a wagon? where is it going? is it pulled by a tired mare with blinkers and hair loss or by a strapping stallion with rippling muscles and the wind in its mane?). That is because Husband is out tonight which means I don't open wine and I get to watch my first episode of East Enders in WEEKS. Months in fact. Its sinful. Shocking. Dis-respectful of me to have missed so much of the Square. But life on a summer holiday is very hard to plan around Fill & Dawns affair and who the father of Evvas' sprog is - 7.30pm is not a convenient time to drop everything and rush to the old TV (its deeper than it is wide. I think if this TV was screwed into a wall like a trendy modern flatscreen I'd have Tony from Next Door screaming in fear as the whole wall collapsed in on us... its a big TV). But tonight I caught a whole whopping 20minutes of it and it ended with Gal punching Fill in the middle of the square and Dawn looking hopelessly on with too much makeup and a seriously trashy wedding dress. Will they get married? Will I be able to watch the episode on Thursday? I'm not sure as we have friends for dinner and I just may have to cook something for them rather than check the make-up continuity of Dawns lips.
But onto healthier things than Enders. My throat hurts and I've told my Brother that he's to REFUSE my pathetic requests for his cigs. I am now going to cut the cord between me and smoking. I'm too old and too unhealthy and you know what? Smoking KILLS. Like knives. Guns. Earthquakes. Illegal dogs. Bad council paving. Airplanes. They all kill. So I've decided to give up smoking because at least I can. I may not be able to give up illegal dogs (our neighbourhood is over run with the creatures, drooling like a rugby player with oversized gumshields and shitting all over our streets for our small children to carelessly run through and then spread all over the inside of their cars or houses - Mummy whats the smell that's making me gag?) and I may well trip over a big crack in the Harringay pavement caused by an undetected earthquake (you don't know what goes on when you're asleep) but I can at least force my brother to stop feeding me cigarettes. Actually I may well give up airplanes too. They're a dreadful invention. Partly because they scare me a lot (even more than my old riding teacher) and also because they do sometimes fall out of the sky and also because they do waste a lot of energy and also because they have horrid loos which when you flush them you think 'am I going to get sucked out of the plane now?' and also air stewards are generally orange and that's quite scary. You also have to go to airports when you get an airplane and they are full of orange people wearing bad clothes to go on holiday in, and there are queues and over priced newspaper shops and too many people in uniform who are mainly out to get you and then the plane gets delayed and all the orange people go to the Ye Olde English Pub and drink beer at 9am and that's quite scary too. So yes. Smoking AND planes (Monsieur Coff I know you'll pick up on this at some point and when I book my next flights to the Costa on the most orange planes of all I'll have to pretend that it was Husband and that he didn't know my latest vow of abstinence...).
So my list for today: no booze, no fags & no planes. I scrub my halo.
But onto healthier things than Enders. My throat hurts and I've told my Brother that he's to REFUSE my pathetic requests for his cigs. I am now going to cut the cord between me and smoking. I'm too old and too unhealthy and you know what? Smoking KILLS. Like knives. Guns. Earthquakes. Illegal dogs. Bad council paving. Airplanes. They all kill. So I've decided to give up smoking because at least I can. I may not be able to give up illegal dogs (our neighbourhood is over run with the creatures, drooling like a rugby player with oversized gumshields and shitting all over our streets for our small children to carelessly run through and then spread all over the inside of their cars or houses - Mummy whats the smell that's making me gag?) and I may well trip over a big crack in the Harringay pavement caused by an undetected earthquake (you don't know what goes on when you're asleep) but I can at least force my brother to stop feeding me cigarettes. Actually I may well give up airplanes too. They're a dreadful invention. Partly because they scare me a lot (even more than my old riding teacher) and also because they do sometimes fall out of the sky and also because they do waste a lot of energy and also because they have horrid loos which when you flush them you think 'am I going to get sucked out of the plane now?' and also air stewards are generally orange and that's quite scary. You also have to go to airports when you get an airplane and they are full of orange people wearing bad clothes to go on holiday in, and there are queues and over priced newspaper shops and too many people in uniform who are mainly out to get you and then the plane gets delayed and all the orange people go to the Ye Olde English Pub and drink beer at 9am and that's quite scary too. So yes. Smoking AND planes (Monsieur Coff I know you'll pick up on this at some point and when I book my next flights to the Costa on the most orange planes of all I'll have to pretend that it was Husband and that he didn't know my latest vow of abstinence...).
So my list for today: no booze, no fags & no planes. I scrub my halo.
Monday, 24 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
curdled liver foggy head
I was reading the contents page of a Sunday paper magazine today - and my heart gave a little hopeful leap as one of the articles was titled Mothers Ruin! Fame at last! I've been reviewed in a Sunday paper! Strange that the journo hasn't contacted me to ask me any pertinent questions about how my writing is inspired and am I a permanent pessimist in real life and how many of my fascinating accounts are truth or fabrication...? But then I read the little side-line attached to the title and realised that the article was nothing to do with ME but something to do with... Oh, crumbs, I've forgotten what the article was about and I've forgotten which paper it was (my sister in law gets the Mail on Sunday which we all sniff our noses at but then find ourselves reading and making oohs and ahs at the EXCLUSIVE headlines about Anne Robinsons latest £12,000 facelift and Husband buys The Observer and we all read it very quietly pretending to absorb important facts about Global Warming and how to mulch a city garden).
Why have I forgotten the name of the paper and what the article was about? I only saw it, what? 5hours ago? I hope the reason I have forgotten is because the article was in fact in The Mail on Sunday and was so mundane that the words didn't even reach the perifory of my brain. What I worry is that the reason I have forgotten is because my body is currently a sponge soaked in cheap white wine and smelling slightly of the raw onion I crunched into by mistake at last nights post-cricket-Hog-Roast-party.
My body has been through the mill of late. A mill created entirely by my weak will, my lilly-livered-behaviour which is fueling my poor liver to actually ripple as I douse it in yet another shower of acidic wine, or possibly an (these are so good: elder-flower-gin&tonic) extra strong gin made by my cocktail-crackers-Dad. But these are the holidays, right? No need to get up in the morning (apart from Thursdays to skip into work where I type letters for Mrs B who tells me in falsetto whispers all about the various members of staff and their vices), what harm will one more glass of cheap white wine do? So down it goes. Maybe accompanied by a cigarette (I don't really smoke, honest... just annoyingly nick of others...) rolled by my brother or maybe a lump of chocolate or a slice of cheese. It's always so good at the time. But come the morning I wake feeling groggy. And recently my stomach has had some gruesome aches which can't be down to stress because this being the summer holidays there is nothing to stress about except whether the wine is not cool enough or the tomatoes need watering. After a long hot day in the park with two kiddies splashing around in a filthy lido there is nothing better than a large icy glass of wine, no? I can't believe you would disagree ('you' being my one reader, although he'd probably opt for a glass of cold beer). So it feels excusable. But I wonder how much my body is reacting to constantly having to process another 2-4 glasses of wine each day?
I have seen that programme "Make my body younger" where some young party animal who drinks and smokes and parties all night gets a "living autopsy" and the doctor says with very dramatic music moaning in the background, "if you carry on with this lifestyle you'll be dead before the end of this programme" and then they stop drinking and smoking and go to the gym and before the end of the programme they have another "living autopsy" and the doctor declares "well done you have reduced your risk of death before the end of this programme by 100%". But my point is this: if I had a living autopsy would the doctor say the same thing when he looked into my liver? Would it be curdled? And would he look down my earholes and see a very foggy brain that only had two fully functioning nerves remaining? How much does a gal have to drink, regularly, before her body has a physical reaction in the Sainsbury's Cheap Wine aisle?
Afterall I am no whipper snapper any more. NO! I am half way through the decade that takes me to the big four-oh. My body cannot snap into shape like it could, um, when it used to snap back into shape.
I just found this website about detoxing. I may try it. And I've got the Green Tea already so I'm half way there. I just hope I remember to do it. What with a foggy brain and a curdled liver its very difficult remembering what one is meant to be doing at all.
Whats on my shopping list for tomorrow? Bread, cheese, chocolate, fags, wine, wine, wine (its still the holidays afterall...). This mother is well and truly ruined.
Why have I forgotten the name of the paper and what the article was about? I only saw it, what? 5hours ago? I hope the reason I have forgotten is because the article was in fact in The Mail on Sunday and was so mundane that the words didn't even reach the perifory of my brain. What I worry is that the reason I have forgotten is because my body is currently a sponge soaked in cheap white wine and smelling slightly of the raw onion I crunched into by mistake at last nights post-cricket-Hog-Roast-party.
My body has been through the mill of late. A mill created entirely by my weak will, my lilly-livered-behaviour which is fueling my poor liver to actually ripple as I douse it in yet another shower of acidic wine, or possibly an (these are so good: elder-flower-gin&tonic) extra strong gin made by my cocktail-crackers-Dad. But these are the holidays, right? No need to get up in the morning (apart from Thursdays to skip into work where I type letters for Mrs B who tells me in falsetto whispers all about the various members of staff and their vices), what harm will one more glass of cheap white wine do? So down it goes. Maybe accompanied by a cigarette (I don't really smoke, honest... just annoyingly nick of others...) rolled by my brother or maybe a lump of chocolate or a slice of cheese. It's always so good at the time. But come the morning I wake feeling groggy. And recently my stomach has had some gruesome aches which can't be down to stress because this being the summer holidays there is nothing to stress about except whether the wine is not cool enough or the tomatoes need watering. After a long hot day in the park with two kiddies splashing around in a filthy lido there is nothing better than a large icy glass of wine, no? I can't believe you would disagree ('you' being my one reader, although he'd probably opt for a glass of cold beer). So it feels excusable. But I wonder how much my body is reacting to constantly having to process another 2-4 glasses of wine each day?
I have seen that programme "Make my body younger" where some young party animal who drinks and smokes and parties all night gets a "living autopsy" and the doctor says with very dramatic music moaning in the background, "if you carry on with this lifestyle you'll be dead before the end of this programme" and then they stop drinking and smoking and go to the gym and before the end of the programme they have another "living autopsy" and the doctor declares "well done you have reduced your risk of death before the end of this programme by 100%". But my point is this: if I had a living autopsy would the doctor say the same thing when he looked into my liver? Would it be curdled? And would he look down my earholes and see a very foggy brain that only had two fully functioning nerves remaining? How much does a gal have to drink, regularly, before her body has a physical reaction in the Sainsbury's Cheap Wine aisle?
Afterall I am no whipper snapper any more. NO! I am half way through the decade that takes me to the big four-oh. My body cannot snap into shape like it could, um, when it used to snap back into shape.
I just found this website about detoxing. I may try it. And I've got the Green Tea already so I'm half way there. I just hope I remember to do it. What with a foggy brain and a curdled liver its very difficult remembering what one is meant to be doing at all.
Whats on my shopping list for tomorrow? Bread, cheese, chocolate, fags, wine, wine, wine (its still the holidays afterall...). This mother is well and truly ruined.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
old children
Well, I survived Thursday's excitements. I guess I was having a surge of vain-glorious-ness as I imagined people actually reading the shit I put up on the inter-web and then taking it to the next level of egotism and me-love.
So, not wanting to let my people down (I have officially got ONE whole follower, and despite knowing who he is, I pretend that its not just ONE and that maybe in google-analytics-language ONE actually means ONE batch of, say, 100,000. So if I had, like 4 "followers" what that really meant was 400,000 followers... oh god I'm desperately pathetic. A bit like the new girl in the playground giving everyone sweets to make people like her...Although I'm sitting at my desk now eating giant Cadbury's chocolate buttons which are so good but I'm not actually sharing them with anyone, so no new friends I guess) I batted off the FBI and the gay Nazi officers and here I am for another round of Its My Life.
Saturday saw the graduation of Liz turning transferring from terrible twos to the fearsome three's. I recall vividly that when Mol turned three I experienced some of the most incomprehensible tantrums - lying on the floor howling over not being allowed another yoghurt or donut or spliff, whatever, and I remember finding black graffiti on her freshly painted walls "Am I bovvered?" (I had it translated by a monkey trainer - he said it looked just like the scrawls they produce just before they're given type writers to see how long it takes to type up a novel) and a lot of "You're not my friend" conversations which get a bit complicated when you say "well you're not my friend either" in friendly retaliation and then they burst into tears because what they actually think you mean is that they're poo's and that you don't love them any more. And then there's a lot of back-peddalling but by then the hole is too deep and the full rage is released once more and the windows start to rattle. So that is where we're at with Liz. Window rattling. I think the cashiers in Sainsbury's a few miles away recognise the sound waves as we approach in the car and suddenly all take their fag breaks at the same time - it can be the only explanation for the lack of people in the shop when get there.
But we had a party. She got her pig cake that she'd decided I had to make her (over 6 months ago, its been a long time coming). And mum and dad didn't kill the wasps in the giant wasps nest that had been the source of pain for at least 4 people when they had the fete in their garden a few weeks ago (if interested see 18/7 entry, bunting bunting) so we spent most of the day panicking that one of the kids had swallowed a stinger and was about to go into shock. And we had a treasure hunt. And a really ropey pass-the-parcel (one girl had the parcel passed to her 3 times and STILL didn't get a sweet... Conclusion: do not delegate parcel making to Husband and godmother after they've drunk a bottle of wine). And generally it was a good day.
So now I own a 3 year old and a 6.5year old. And now I'm batting off my mum who's eyeing up my midrift every now and again to see if there is another one on the way. NO MUM THERE'S NOT IT'S JUST ANOTHER ROUND OF BRIE. Bugger off.
And now I have to go through the fun task of writing thankyou letters on behalf of a screaming toddler who wouldn't have a clue who gave her what, and has probably lost the bits to the new jigsaw already and spilt all the Luxury Waitrose Bubbles all over her new Mermaid costume etc.
I love being a mum.
Now I search for the wine. The paper. And a half-spent felt tip to make the letters look genuinely from a three year old. "dear gwanny. fank u for the tent. I pee'd in it and then it bwoke. love liz."
So, not wanting to let my people down (I have officially got ONE whole follower, and despite knowing who he is, I pretend that its not just ONE and that maybe in google-analytics-language ONE actually means ONE batch of, say, 100,000. So if I had, like 4 "followers" what that really meant was 400,000 followers... oh god I'm desperately pathetic. A bit like the new girl in the playground giving everyone sweets to make people like her...Although I'm sitting at my desk now eating giant Cadbury's chocolate buttons which are so good but I'm not actually sharing them with anyone, so no new friends I guess) I batted off the FBI and the gay Nazi officers and here I am for another round of Its My Life.
Saturday saw the graduation of Liz turning transferring from terrible twos to the fearsome three's. I recall vividly that when Mol turned three I experienced some of the most incomprehensible tantrums - lying on the floor howling over not being allowed another yoghurt or donut or spliff, whatever, and I remember finding black graffiti on her freshly painted walls "Am I bovvered?" (I had it translated by a monkey trainer - he said it looked just like the scrawls they produce just before they're given type writers to see how long it takes to type up a novel) and a lot of "You're not my friend" conversations which get a bit complicated when you say "well you're not my friend either" in friendly retaliation and then they burst into tears because what they actually think you mean is that they're poo's and that you don't love them any more. And then there's a lot of back-peddalling but by then the hole is too deep and the full rage is released once more and the windows start to rattle. So that is where we're at with Liz. Window rattling. I think the cashiers in Sainsbury's a few miles away recognise the sound waves as we approach in the car and suddenly all take their fag breaks at the same time - it can be the only explanation for the lack of people in the shop when get there.
But we had a party. She got her pig cake that she'd decided I had to make her (over 6 months ago, its been a long time coming). And mum and dad didn't kill the wasps in the giant wasps nest that had been the source of pain for at least 4 people when they had the fete in their garden a few weeks ago (if interested see 18/7 entry, bunting bunting) so we spent most of the day panicking that one of the kids had swallowed a stinger and was about to go into shock. And we had a treasure hunt. And a really ropey pass-the-parcel (one girl had the parcel passed to her 3 times and STILL didn't get a sweet... Conclusion: do not delegate parcel making to Husband and godmother after they've drunk a bottle of wine). And generally it was a good day.
So now I own a 3 year old and a 6.5year old. And now I'm batting off my mum who's eyeing up my midrift every now and again to see if there is another one on the way. NO MUM THERE'S NOT IT'S JUST ANOTHER ROUND OF BRIE. Bugger off.
And now I have to go through the fun task of writing thankyou letters on behalf of a screaming toddler who wouldn't have a clue who gave her what, and has probably lost the bits to the new jigsaw already and spilt all the Luxury Waitrose Bubbles all over her new Mermaid costume etc.
I love being a mum.
Now I search for the wine. The paper. And a half-spent felt tip to make the letters look genuinely from a three year old. "dear gwanny. fank u for the tent. I pee'd in it and then it bwoke. love liz."
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Thursday
With a title like THURSDAY I imagine I'll probably be the cause of an internet meltdown as hundreds of thousands of devoted followers log on to see what's been going on in Mothers Ruin life today, this most stupendous of Thursday's.
And at that rate, by default, probably the satellite dishes in the sky will melt a bit from being over-fired-at and there'll be official communications chaos as NASA and MI6 and the FBI and even some slightly mad modern day Nazi group try to work out (independently of each other and therefore waste Billions of $'s over nothing) what is going on in the sky above North London and why have all the internet connections jammed?
And then their little electronic sniffy noses will start wagging towards the beige-carpeted 2nd floor study on the side of a hill in Haringey where the houses look like they may well roll down the hill and gather in a jagged heap on Green Lanes. Hm. We're smellin' something unauthorised in here...
And the helicopters will hover and their search lights will point in through the ready-made John Lewis curtains and catch the back of a mid-30's amateur blogger who doesn't understand the power of the internet, in fact doesn't understand a lot of things, like how come big ships don't sink and how do airplanes get in the air, and why are there no naturally blue foods? And as the Nazi's knock on the front door with their squeaky black leather jackets all rubbing up fetishly against each other in the narrow porch, Mothers Ruin will be sipping her still awfully horrible Green Tea trying to detox and not realising that her house, two children and husband, snails slugs and tiny green beans are in fact surrounded by 100's of lethal killing machines ready to pull the trigger on this offensive Destroyer of Free Communication. What do you plead Mothers Ruin? Um, well, I guess I didn't realise the impact that using the word THURSDAY would have on the entire worlds internet systems. Send her down, Ignorance is INEXCUSABLE. And get her children into Geek School as soon as possible.
And at that rate, by default, probably the satellite dishes in the sky will melt a bit from being over-fired-at and there'll be official communications chaos as NASA and MI6 and the FBI and even some slightly mad modern day Nazi group try to work out (independently of each other and therefore waste Billions of $'s over nothing) what is going on in the sky above North London and why have all the internet connections jammed?
And then their little electronic sniffy noses will start wagging towards the beige-carpeted 2nd floor study on the side of a hill in Haringey where the houses look like they may well roll down the hill and gather in a jagged heap on Green Lanes. Hm. We're smellin' something unauthorised in here...
And the helicopters will hover and their search lights will point in through the ready-made John Lewis curtains and catch the back of a mid-30's amateur blogger who doesn't understand the power of the internet, in fact doesn't understand a lot of things, like how come big ships don't sink and how do airplanes get in the air, and why are there no naturally blue foods? And as the Nazi's knock on the front door with their squeaky black leather jackets all rubbing up fetishly against each other in the narrow porch, Mothers Ruin will be sipping her still awfully horrible Green Tea trying to detox and not realising that her house, two children and husband, snails slugs and tiny green beans are in fact surrounded by 100's of lethal killing machines ready to pull the trigger on this offensive Destroyer of Free Communication. What do you plead Mothers Ruin? Um, well, I guess I didn't realise the impact that using the word THURSDAY would have on the entire worlds internet systems. Send her down, Ignorance is INEXCUSABLE. And get her children into Geek School as soon as possible.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
fat useless and lethargic
Fat and lethargic could aptly fit how I feel in that post-holiday-blues-come-down period. But I'm cheered by a nice weekend of seeing all my favorite people - in-laws nieces godsons best-est friends - maybe it was helped by lashings of rose and crisps and sun but I definitely don't feel as rubbish as I did 4 days ago. The fat bit is a natural fallout after spending two weeks binge eating runny French cheese.
The useless applies aptly to our recent temporary lodger Mr H - a sex-mad foul mouthed rude coarse mind-bogglingly twattish South African who has finally moved his god-awful motorbike from our front garden. He said he'd do it the day after he moved it into our front garden (flinging gravel left right and centre) and that was over a month ago. I was beginning to wonder whether his brain had made a return journey to South Africa and crashed into the ocean with the frozen urine they release 30,000ft above the sea but thankfully Mr H's brain is still intact and so is his sense of responsibility so his god-awful motorbike has now been moved to some other suckers front garden for probably another month. As a socially responsible citizen I wonder whether I should send an anonymous letter to warn them of their lodgers' tendencies to neglect.
I occasionally wondered, whilst Mr H took refuge under the sheets of our spare room, whether he had a small crush on Husband? It is possible that someone, after all, male or female, could fancy him. It was the sideways glances across the sitting room as they watched the cricket highlights together, or, Mr H returning home each night after work with a 6 pack of beer which he'd ply Husband with, whilst offering to massage Husbands gammy post-cricket knee injury... I don't recall past lodgers plying husband or me with anything except dirty washing and tension in the morning whilst we queued for the shower. What was going on behind the shut door of our spare room and why did Mr H refuse to let me hang up his washing when I needed to use the washing machine? Shamed by the number of pairs of pants or pj's had he had to wash over the weeks?
The thought is rather distasteful I agree.
Luckily he's now out of our hair and has taken his crush, motorbikes, beer and dreadful language to someone else's house. Good luck to them. (And, I learnt just recently, that Mr H's landlord is a man whose wife and kids have gone abroad for a few weeks, leaving him ALONE with Mr H... Is she mad? It's like a remake of Single White Female, but with a psychotic South African Man instead of the psychotic American Woman... what happened in the end..? Strike up the creepy violin music...)
JOKE!
Mr-very-brilliant-H! We loved having you to stay. Please come back and ply us with more beer and laughter and silly drawings for Mol and calling Liz Bob (I'M NOT BOOOOOOOOOOB she shouts with glee...) and telling us crazy stories about life in the beautiful South Africa and trying to persuade us to book overpriced flights to Cape Town in December for Christmas (I reckon if you'd stayed like just one more week you'd probably have clinched the deal...)... And Finally. Thank you for babysitting for us last night. You are a top lodger and a gold star goes on your resume.
The useless applies aptly to our recent temporary lodger Mr H - a sex-mad foul mouthed rude coarse mind-bogglingly twattish South African who has finally moved his god-awful motorbike from our front garden. He said he'd do it the day after he moved it into our front garden (flinging gravel left right and centre) and that was over a month ago. I was beginning to wonder whether his brain had made a return journey to South Africa and crashed into the ocean with the frozen urine they release 30,000ft above the sea but thankfully Mr H's brain is still intact and so is his sense of responsibility so his god-awful motorbike has now been moved to some other suckers front garden for probably another month. As a socially responsible citizen I wonder whether I should send an anonymous letter to warn them of their lodgers' tendencies to neglect.
I occasionally wondered, whilst Mr H took refuge under the sheets of our spare room, whether he had a small crush on Husband? It is possible that someone, after all, male or female, could fancy him. It was the sideways glances across the sitting room as they watched the cricket highlights together, or, Mr H returning home each night after work with a 6 pack of beer which he'd ply Husband with, whilst offering to massage Husbands gammy post-cricket knee injury... I don't recall past lodgers plying husband or me with anything except dirty washing and tension in the morning whilst we queued for the shower. What was going on behind the shut door of our spare room and why did Mr H refuse to let me hang up his washing when I needed to use the washing machine? Shamed by the number of pairs of pants or pj's had he had to wash over the weeks?
The thought is rather distasteful I agree.
Luckily he's now out of our hair and has taken his crush, motorbikes, beer and dreadful language to someone else's house. Good luck to them. (And, I learnt just recently, that Mr H's landlord is a man whose wife and kids have gone abroad for a few weeks, leaving him ALONE with Mr H... Is she mad? It's like a remake of Single White Female, but with a psychotic South African Man instead of the psychotic American Woman... what happened in the end..? Strike up the creepy violin music...)
JOKE!
Mr-very-brilliant-H! We loved having you to stay. Please come back and ply us with more beer and laughter and silly drawings for Mol and calling Liz Bob (I'M NOT BOOOOOOOOOOB she shouts with glee...) and telling us crazy stories about life in the beautiful South Africa and trying to persuade us to book overpriced flights to Cape Town in December for Christmas (I reckon if you'd stayed like just one more week you'd probably have clinched the deal...)... And Finally. Thank you for babysitting for us last night. You are a top lodger and a gold star goes on your resume.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
back to mundaneness
One load of washing (whites today. colours tomorrow. if weather permits).
One clean dishwasher.
Three rose bushes deadheaded.
One small plot of grass - cut.
One trip to Sainsbury's. £43 into John S's pocket, one pack of chipolatas and family packet of Walkers Baked Crisps and some bananas.
Readjusted to left hand drive quickly on Green Lanes.
English tea.
Fresh milk (real cows in England).
Humous.
Damp cellar.
Snails.
Oh. How easy it is to forget life as we knew it before The Holidays. And how totally scarily easy it is to just slip right back in to the same old, same old... Pass me the wine someone.
One clean dishwasher.
Three rose bushes deadheaded.
One small plot of grass - cut.
One trip to Sainsbury's. £43 into John S's pocket, one pack of chipolatas and family packet of Walkers Baked Crisps and some bananas.
Readjusted to left hand drive quickly on Green Lanes.
English tea.
Fresh milk (real cows in England).
Humous.
Damp cellar.
Snails.
Oh. How easy it is to forget life as we knew it before The Holidays. And how totally scarily easy it is to just slip right back in to the same old, same old... Pass me the wine someone.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Monday, 3 August 2009
cheese dreams and litres of chocolate glace
I have slept so badly whilst being on holiday. I hate to admit to a negative aspect of this wondrous stay, but sleep has been low on points. It's probably my fault. Eating my own weight, and more, in cheese each day (mostly Roquefort), three quarters of it about 20 minutes before I go to bed, is probably not the best way to start the precious bed-time. But also, being a true Brit, I like to snuggle up in bed, under a duvet, feel cosy, have a little cold pink nose sticking out of the top, and frankly in these hot places its all I can do but have a thin layer of sweat and a threadbare sheet covering my skin. Cosy, I think not. My threadbare sheet and thin layer of sweat couldn't save me from the mozzies, or the witches flying around the house at night (the local village of Villefranche has some strange Witch Legend going on down there and not only do all the women look like real live scary witches with double jointed fingers and black teeth, but all the shops have fridge magnet witches, doll witches, witch-pencils, witch dangly things to hang off your rear-view-mirror - and its because of the Qant-legends de sourcerers, which none of us could work out what it was about - but they're definitely outside my window at about 3am when I really need the loo and my sheet feels very thin...). But despite witches and strange frog noises outside the window at night time, this has been a very stupendous holiday.
A highlight was when Liz was sitting on a fold up chair, which then folded up and ate her, as a venus fly trap may eat its fly for the day. If we'd not been outside to witness it, we may still be looking for Liz today.
Another highlight was my brother trying to be brave about jumping into the swimming pool every time Mol counted to THREE. It wasn't a very cold pool.
Another highlight was having Liz rub suncream on my legs. She took a lot of pride in this work.
Another highlight was walking for croissant each morning down the road past a smelly goat who sunbathed with his great smelly goaty balls hanging loose, and past a house with a garden which could only be called Gnome Heaven. A proud man snipping at weeds each time I walked by. C'est joli I called to him one morning. Oui. C'est vrai. He replied sincerely.
Another highlight: the sun.
Another highlight: my kids running around in no clothes for 12 days.
Another highlight was Liz in the Prades town square, where we had a baguette and some coffee with the locals, and she for absolutely no reason hit a boy and then hit a girl (who burst into tears) and then I gave her a right royal bollocking and she then totally had a melt down turning puce (I think that's a word?) and screaming really loudly. Any one want a child? Anyone? going cheap. or free, even.
Eating a lot of crevettes on the bbq and getting pink fingers.
And now. Well, its all just a distant memory... Tomorrow. Ryan Air. Stansted. Gross-o public transport back to London. My garden - it'll be awash with fucking slugs. I'll have to catch up on 8 episodes of East Enders (has Stacy finally gone to the nuthouse?) and Husband will be back to work and highly busy and stressed.
It'll all just seem like another cheese fueled dream...
A highlight was when Liz was sitting on a fold up chair, which then folded up and ate her, as a venus fly trap may eat its fly for the day. If we'd not been outside to witness it, we may still be looking for Liz today.
Another highlight was my brother trying to be brave about jumping into the swimming pool every time Mol counted to THREE. It wasn't a very cold pool.
Another highlight was having Liz rub suncream on my legs. She took a lot of pride in this work.
Another highlight was walking for croissant each morning down the road past a smelly goat who sunbathed with his great smelly goaty balls hanging loose, and past a house with a garden which could only be called Gnome Heaven. A proud man snipping at weeds each time I walked by. C'est joli I called to him one morning. Oui. C'est vrai. He replied sincerely.
Another highlight: the sun.
Another highlight: my kids running around in no clothes for 12 days.
Another highlight was Liz in the Prades town square, where we had a baguette and some coffee with the locals, and she for absolutely no reason hit a boy and then hit a girl (who burst into tears) and then I gave her a right royal bollocking and she then totally had a melt down turning puce (I think that's a word?) and screaming really loudly. Any one want a child? Anyone? going cheap. or free, even.
Eating a lot of crevettes on the bbq and getting pink fingers.
And now. Well, its all just a distant memory... Tomorrow. Ryan Air. Stansted. Gross-o public transport back to London. My garden - it'll be awash with fucking slugs. I'll have to catch up on 8 episodes of East Enders (has Stacy finally gone to the nuthouse?) and Husband will be back to work and highly busy and stressed.
It'll all just seem like another cheese fueled dream...
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