lipstick & nail varnish

I don't really like seeing small girls in make up. It is all a bit yukky and sickly and makes me think of those adverts on Ch5 in the morning with small girls wearing make up as they rock their pink baby to sleep (the one that cries and wets itself) and they slightly also make you want to vomit. Its not really their fault but it does still induce nausea.
Anyway.
So here's a story about make up and small girls wearing make up.
We had The South London Cousins for lunch today. Liz has a nearly-twin-in-age-cousin and together they make mischief and play in a cheeky funny way. I have visions of them aged 16 in Leicester Square pissed out their brains tripping over their high heels and wondering how to get home without Cross Parents noticing they stink of cider.
So. Today, as we were enjoying Global Warming with a bbq and eating out in the garden, soaking up some hot sun, we noticed that there was a bit of a kid-free-silence. Hm. I wonder where the small people are, I thought.
But it was a not very important thought as we sat chewing our way through sausages and sea bream and end of season over-chewy-under-sweet-sweet-corn. We were lost in chat about horror films and what some old and wrinkled rock-star had chosen for his Desert Island Disk. Really important issues.
And then I thought. Hm, its still kind of quiet. So I sent Husband on a reckee to see what was going on.
About 3 minutes later he came down with Liz & her cousin. At first glance all looked fine. And then at closer inspection we realised that Liz was covered, from her forehead down to her toes in shiny pink lipstick, all greased up like a pig on a spit. And Cousin had an open pot of nail varnish, plus, lipstick all over her face, and some over-gloopy lip-gloss dripping like honey off her little cherry lips. (Both offending articles were old cast-offs of mine which I'd donated to Mol a few months ago. In fact she never uses them. So, I hold my hands up. I'm actually kind of responsible for this sick charade...)
And they came up to us very pleased and chipper: don't we look good?
Ughh!
No!
Gross!
And so in true mother style we spat on bits of kitchen roll and wiped the gloop and grease off the soft peachy skin and told them we didn't want our little cherubs turning into chav tarts at the age of 3. That learned them that did.

hot hot hot!

Sunbathing? At the end of September?
Shall I start a rant about global warming and the end is nigh?

Nah! Fuck it! I so loved sitting in a slump in the garden with hot rays bathing my bod.
Bring it on!
(And my last 10 tomatoes now have a chance of getting ripe.)

Burning Bottom

Ouch. I just had a bath with really amazing bath salts (Burts Bee's) given to me for my birthday but I don't think the salts dissolved 100% so as I lay there in the close-to-boiling-bath-water (how I like it) reading my book (such a good book even though I've forgotten what its called) I realised that my arse was actually burning. Not like smoking burning (that would be hard in a bath) but sort of stinging burning and I realised that I was lying on undissolved megga-strong-Burts Bee's Bath Salts which were now dissolving my bottom skin rather than dissolving directly into my close-to-boiling-bath-water.
The idea behind the bath was a cleanse-the-body-from-the-weekend-of-excess - but not to purge myself by consciously skinning parts of my body. Anyhow, I'm not sure that burning my arse on Burts Bee's Bath Salts would absolve me of my booze sins and disgraceful dancing on Saturday night at The Wedding.
So. A short lived Bath. One chapter claimed of my book (was aiming for 2 or 3...).
Talking of absolving me of my booze sins from the weekend reminds me of the weekend and what an extra-lovely (booze fueled) weekend it was.
Looking back on my previous blog entry I'm wondering how I faired when it came to my wedding prep-hit-list?
I certainly ate at least half a loaf of white bread on Sunday morning to soak up the champagne & wine & beer & fags (and the same at lunch and then a large pizza for dinner).
I certainly danced exceptionally brilliantly, no, wait, check that - cast my mind back 48 hours, oh, no, not brilliantly! BADLY! to Dancing Queen AND Don't Stop Me Now (Queen, ah, gawd-bless-you-Freddie... I'll never forget hearing about your Death. I was in a woodwork lesson at school and Radio One (Steve Right?) was on. And then me and Mirry ran to our study and wrote to Radio One declaring our undying love for the now dead Freddie).
Amazingly given the height of my not-real-gold-shoes I didn't fall over at all and the loo's were in a field too which was difficult terrain to master. But I saw two women fall off their chairs in between speeches (high heels sticking up in the air, pants and tights a-kimbo, all dignity and sobriety out the marquee window...) and then I captured on camera another woman climbing out of a bush having fallen into it on her way back from the porta-loo.
Our gorgeous friend The Bride really was the star of the show. A luminescent Audrey-Hepburn-esque presence. Floating around in a gown fit for film-stars with the broadest smile of happiness. Glowing&Gorgeous. Drop-dead. And now I believe her and her new husband are off in Italia soaking up the remaining September sun and drinking in the Chianti and sucking on olives. I am more than mildly jealous.
But it is true that only the best couples go to Italy for their honeymoons.
As far as I know that really is the truth about honeymoons and couples. Scientifically proven. By me.
So as I sit here with a tingly bottom, purging myself of the last few units of incredibly delicious champagne, I'm thinking, yes, weddings really are splendid and I'm wondering, who's next? and How long do I have to wait till I can don another pair of silly high heels and wobble my way through a night of excellent frolics with all my most-excellent friends?
(Someone mentioned they may get divorced just so that they can get married again... well, if all else fails...)
In the meantime I have snapfish for memories, flashbacks of dancefloor anthems and the image of a lady climbing out of a bush trying to retain her dignity whilst actually nearly peeing herself (again) laughing.
I love weddings.

In preparation of a wedding.

In preparation of a wedding there are certain things a girl with any amount of vanity (that's any amount, even if its pin-head-size. Some girls loudly ascertain that they are definitely not vain. Well. That's just a load of cow-pat if you ask me. Every girl has a certain level of vanity. Its ingrained. Society grains it into small girls from the age of 1 day, when they gaze at the baby and say, ah, isn't she just gorgeous? And from that day on the baby feels pressure to be gorgeous and will permanently mirror check, wrinkle-check, smelly-nappy-check, cute-smile-check, and first-curl-check. etc.) must do.
First.
Kill a chicken (best by hand). At mid-day the day prior to the wedding make a jelly from the jiblets. Apply chicken jelly liberally to entire body and soak in a bath of chilly oil for one hour whilst reading Grazia.
After one hour skin should appear smooth, silky, young, and your persona will take on the pezazz from the chilly, creating a hot-chick on the dance floor. Literally. This is the truth. I have just come from my chilly bath.
What the?

Here's the REAL wedding prep-hit-list:
1.) Go to Boots. Find the sharpest razor in the Mens Toiletry section. Find most wrinkle-smoothing skin toning moisturiser. Bring home. Soak in bath (read approx 1 chapter of good book). Apply mans razor gently but firmly (huh?) to forestry areas (applications for deforestation need to be received by council at least 1month prior to destruction date). Pat skin dry with old grey towel. Liberally apply cream to deforested areas. Run for loo roll to catch drips of blood where deforestation has led to ruptures.
2.) Cut nails of toes (new shoes hurt with long nails) and fingers. Find emery board. File nails. Rummage for 1/2 hour in over-stuffed bathroom cabinet for ancient used-once-a-year-for-weddings-nail-polish. Apply to finger nails. Avoid finger tips knuckles palms of hands wrists clothing floor or white walls. (House and body can resemble scene of murder otherwise.)
3.) Remind Husband once a day for a week or two that he needs to check his suit is clean. Get rebuffed once a day for being repetitive nag.
4.) Get very excited.
5.) Imagine self on dance floor very drunk singing to DANCING QUEEN with old friends.
6.) Imagine self not drinking so much that one is sick in bed at 3am.
7.) Imagine self next morning eating half a loaf of bread and pretending to be sober and looking forward to going to bed that night.
8.) Finally. Go to bed the night before the wedding trying not to worry about forgetting part of extremely glamorous and over-planned outfit.
9.) Final finally. Remind self that the wedding is not about me but about the beautiful blushing bride throwing herself into the arms of her best beloved.
10.) Really. Last finally. Aren't weddings just the best?
Who's next...?

gimmegimmegimme

Maybe I have writers block or maybe my brain has finally gone on permanent vacation (if I was it I'd be heading somewhere like Mexico, the beans are so good down there and so is the tequilla even the bottles with uggy sort of grub things in them)? But I feel like there is so much going on right now that I can't actually process it and make sense of it.
There doesn't seem to be a good starting point.
I could start from where I left off (Cricket, damp jock straps, tall-men) which would mean that I'd be starting the process of processing from Monday (school) but I think I'd miss other crucial bits of information and then I'd be misrepresenting of my overly fascinating life.
I'll try starting from Sunday night. Me and Mol went to Hyde Park to see an Abba Tribute. (This IS a good starting point, now I come to think of it.) I've never been to a Hyde Park concert - I've been in London for 12 years now. Mol is 6.5years and I suspect this marks the beginning of an expensive ('but its cultural mum, to go watch Girls Love Pink in Hyde Park and where is my mini-skirt', 'there is NO WAY you're going out in that belt Mol' etc) habit.
It was a bit cold and a bit blowy but I had a bottle of rose hidden in my un-suitably un-spangly bag and Mol had a packet of Chewitts - so we were well equipped for a night of hard partying and singing our lungs out.
And there were 30,000 people there! How bonkers is that?! I've been to a football match where there are lots of utterly vomit-inducing men and I've been to a concert in Wembley (Stone Roses! how old am I?) with lots of stoned students, but this outdoor concert malarky is a whole different kettle of chips. Just loads and loads and loads of people! My very intelligent friend (whose brain is never on vacation, but that's probably because she uses it) suggested we wrote our phone numbers on to our childrens arms so that if they got lost they could ask a nice stranger (in flares and wig) to call us and reunite us. So I did. I think that slightly freaked Mol out. The thought of getting lost in a crowd so big all she could see were peoples bums and bad shoes. So once I'd tattooed my number to her arm, she then climbed on board and I had her on my shoulders for pretty much the entire concert. No chance of losing her then.
I chugged my rose.
Mol chewed her chewitts.
We sang very loudly.
We shimmied.
We shammied.
We admired Kylie and her outfits.
We laughed at Chris Evans' rotating ginger wig.
We crowd watched.
We ooed and ah-ed at the end-of-concert fireworks.
And then Friend-with-brain brilliantly gave us a lift back home and Mol fell into bed in an Abba-induced coma.
I can't believe there are people out there who don't like Abba? Who are you criminals? Its just unthinkable that you couldn't not want to dance when Dancing Queen strikes up... (ooh, that reminds me... I've got a wedding this weekend... I hope hope hope we have a bit of Abba... that'll totally ruin my new golden stilletoes! watch this space, I'll probably be checking in next week with a broken ankle...)
Today I have a sore throat. Singing for 2.5hours at full blast clearly not the best thing for throats.
Thank you for the music.
Honey honey honey.
I love you. Shmorgersboard.

cricket tea

Husband got back from Sardinia with bags under his eyes and nothing in his bags for me or the girls. Disappointed from N8. Where are our Italian souvenirs? Not even a curl of penne or a moldy olive from the crust of a pizza. Dreadful.
And today was Husband's cricket match against the Greenwich Giants. That makes them sound like an exotic team of Americans. But what I mean is that they're actual biological giants. The average height of the opposing team is probably about 6ft-4inches. The average height of the Ladder Eleven is what, maybe 5ft-2inches? The air is more polluted up in N8. We're all a bit stunted. So anyway. I gather from upset-Husband in SE10 that the Giants squashed the Eleven (David and Gollaeth is a fable afterall) and have probably since put them on the bbq and actually eaten them half-cooked, cricket bats as skewers and the balls, well, enough said.
I realised as I drove down to SE10 that I was the only cricket wife attending from Husbands' team, except for my gorgeous sister in law (who forgot her cake...) and I realised why as the teams got on with their standing around on the pitch for 5hours. The cricket tea and the kiddy-care. Its all left up to the wife (and her loyal wife-helpers). I mean. I like my kids and I like tea. But somehow on the side of a cricket pitch it just doesn't have the same delightful ring to it.
So I had this ridiculous conversation with one of the team-players of Husbands team whilst Husband was on the pitch having Giants chuck fast balls at his balls (not sure I noticed his jock-strap going on - hm, potential for real pain I thought, and when I was sorting out the tea, I found a jock-strap, kind of scrumpled up and a bit sweaty looking right by the sandwich box. A bit un-savoury thought I, and then I thought, (cue evil laughter) I could just pop it ON the sandwiches and the boys would never know... A bit like the waiter spitting in the pea soup...).
Anyway, conversation went along the lines of:
me: so, how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, about 26 overs.
me: right. so how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, yes. well, probably in about 182 balls.
me: look you stupid fuck, I don't work in overs or balls. just tell me how many minutes?
him: (looking at me with fear) I don't know.
So I got the tea stuff out and cut the sandwiches thinking, wish I'd rubbed the jock strap on these and I hope they go stale and curl. That'd show them! I mean, god...tell the time in sodding OVERS what is THAT about?
So. That was cricket tea.
It's really good fun. Michelle, you'd have loved it. Honest to god.
XX

spiders

You'll be delighted to hear that Mothersruin is back up and firing on most cylinders once again. After Saturdays shenanigans I was beginning to doubt I'd ever squeeze the last drop of Lauren Perier out of my soggy muscles, but as it turns out biology (in't biology bwilliant!) won over and I am pure once again.
Which means that in the absence of Husband (got to pop off to Sardinia luvvy, back on Wednesday... oh. work or pleasure?) I have achieved achieved achieved. My house is a haven of beauty and smells like freshly baked cakes (not much change there then) and my garden could have been lifted from Hampton Court so well pruned and tweaked is it. I wouldn't be surprised if a scout from Elle Deco dropped by to congratulate me on my success.
But has anyone noticed that the spiders are back? Or is it just my house and its strange Haringey location - plonked between two bachelors' houses on top of a steep hill, a magpie nest in a nearby tree and cats everywhere - it sounds like the makings of a witches den... Often there is a strange old man who sits on my roof, in a moss-green-cloak, I can't see his face, but he holds a crow and cythe... I don't know, all very suspicious.
Anyway, back to the real world. So, I have spiders in every nook and cranny of the house.
First thing in the morning - I get into the shower. The shower door is currently housing a spider and web. Not an obvious place for passing flies and grubs, perhaps Winkworths has been applauding itself on another fantastic rip-off sale in the neighbourhood...
In the kitchen above the kettle if I follow the path of the steam as it boils (takes forever our kettle, I could read War & Peace AND watch Broke Back Mountain and it'd still be on the warming up stage) there is a spider just to the side of the spot the steam hits. Again, not an obvious location. What's it doing there? Is it waiting for me to be hungover again and then fall happily onto my nose? Bastardo.
Outside the front door there is a whoppa who each night weaves a complicated and probably quite beautiful web which I put my head through every morning (well, for the last two mornings when I've been first up & out of the house, Mol appears to be below web-level so doesn't get that clingy stringy thurpy ug ug stuff in her face). Gross.
And then just today, as I was doing my wonderful tweeing-up of the garden it was a constant stream of hurl-inducing-webs - on my legs/arms/head/hair, even my eye-lashes (so long and lustrous are they). As I climbed the ladder to chop a very spiky bit of neighbours hawthorn (SUCH an antisocial bloody thorny bush to plant) I saw a seriously ugly spider, well, more ugly than the rest, in that it was greeny-transparenty-long-leggedy-grosso-ey make-me-slightly-screech/wretch at the same-time-y. Of course I wasn't physically vomiting and I didn't kill it but my natural reaction was to kind of flick it with a very globby paint brush.
And then the man in the cloak on my roof waved his cythe at me and his crow delivered a message in its croaky voice: do not interfere with even the ugliest of spiders, great strife will fall upon your shoulders. I'm like shit. But yeah, like, its well ugly and its on my ladder and for god-sake I'm imagining that Death is sitting on my roof so I really suspect great strife has befallen me deja, ya?
And now, after freaking myself out with my strange ramblings, I am actually quite looking forward to Husband returning tomorrow.

very tiny hangover

I have a very tiny hangover.
But that's what is to be expected when Mothers Ruin finds herself kidnapped by wreckless no good wino's and drinking Lauren Perier champagne at 1am in Claridges.
There I am walking along Bond Street (doesn't happen often) in my M&S platforms when WOOSH this bunch of well quoiffed ladies grab me by the (not so brown any more) arms and threaten my life if I don't obey their orders. You must drink lots of wine and then when your body is full, go on and drink some more. And then really push the boat out, break your 12am curfew and chuck back more booze, this time fizzy, even if it spills out of the side of your mouth, YOU MUST DRINK.
So my body does feel a bit hungover this morning. But all in the good name of fun.
Actually this shouldn't be about me but the friend who's not-hen-party/birthday we were out celebrating. But because its my blog I can actually shift the focus of attention to me because, well, I can.
Actually I think I'm still a bit drunk so I should probably stop writing. I think I'll go cut some grass in my garden. Fresh air is a good hangover cure I believe.
Hope you girls are all feeling as happy and rough as I do this morning!

asbestos hair

My hair dryer what I was given when I was 9 years old and on my way to Boarding School (yes at 9 years old. I've seen 9 year olds. They're small. Why was I sent away at 9 years old? Was I really that bad? Has it scarred me for life? Am I bitter and twisted and permanently damaged? Did I ever call my matron Mum and my ginger-bearded-science teacher Dad? Why do I dream so much of school as a wrinkled adult?) is dying.
Last night was the fortnightly "Mol, we have to wash your hair. You have creatures living in there and they're not from this world" hair washing session. Actually, the older she has become the better the session is. There is less AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOO thrashing and more, oh, yeah, I like this Pantene stuff, wow, my hair is like WAY smooth. But I still have to dry it because she has long hair and I was told by my Mum, no, I mean my Matron Tamsin, that to go to bed with wet hair was like a walk down pneumonia alley and kissing death hello. So. We do the hair wash. ("Mum feel my hair its like silk" - maybe I should film and send to Pantene and see if she can be their next shampoo-model.) And then I get my creaky hair dryer out. The box has long since disintegrated. I admit, over the last few years I've been hearing strange noises come from my old Braun friend. Ignoring them because I don't want anything to be wrong. But last night the noises were no longer ignorable, the rattle was the sound of parts which no longer wanted to be together. It was as though in the quiet days in between use they had been having a big discussion about breaking up.
You know, I don't like these shiny red walls any more. And hey, I feel old and tired. I need a change. And you're not the macho fan you once were. Well, you can talk. You just blow hot air down a tube. Badly.
And then when I slide the switch to ON, there is this almighty rumpus, and then I notice as the hot air blows weakly down the tube that bits of 'stuff' are being spat out onto Mols hair. It looks like asbestos. But surely I can't have been 9 SO long ago that hair dryers were made of asbestos? And then there is this dilemma. Do I carry on drying Mols hair and let bits of asbestos spit out all over her precious head, or do I quit the drying and let her go to bed with wet hair and therefore invite pneumonia into her room on a red carpet? Being sort of mostly English and a bit incapable of making firm decisions (sometimes) I went for the middle of the road: dried the top of the hair (which now has bits of asbestos nesting at the roots) and left the long bits wet. Which basically was probably the worse option, but as I type she's has a whole day of being OK no weird asbestos side effects and no pale pneumonic looking chest. I guess I ought to investigate a new machine. Sad though. The old model being replaced by the new. There are many fun dorm memories attached with that old red hair dryer. Singing to Eye of the Tiger or Take my breath away (mainly down deodorant cans but occasionally if there was a shortage out came the hair dryer). Maybe I could do some modern art with it, turn it into a kind of shrine, attach it to the wall in a frame - could be a new movement - and I'd be the founder of it, me and my Braun. I can't be so flippant and just chuck it. I think not.

Oh my god! Lucas! East Enders! Ex-wife dead on a rake! Who'd Adam n Eve it? We watched her bleeding to death! Before 8pm! SO. GOOD.

On a final note I'd just like to congratulate the new mums in my life. Congratulations New Mums in my life. You're amazing! New babies! Sore bits! Long nights! No sleep! Loads of washing! I am a girl - no, sorry, not true, I am a woman (with wrinkles) - with a few words of advice: eat cake (by that I mean good home made cake); not too many visitors; get into East Enders as soon as possible and be nice to your man once a day if you can, otherwise he'll stop bringing you tea. Mind you its highly unlikely that any new mum will be reading this so I really shouldn't bother.

tick tock...

...is the sound of my biological clock but more importantly the sound of the end of the holidays fast approaching. I'm not so concerned right now about my biological clock, except perhaps that as it ticks the wrinkles find themselves more permanently attached to the corners of my eyes. No. I'm more worried about the fact that now bank holiday has been and gone I have this sort of pit in my stomach that reminds me increasingly regularly that Monday marks a new term, a new academic year, a new career opportunity for me, my kids growing taller and gaining Norf Larndan Aa-tit-tood, innit?, the onset of wrinkles, sorry I mean Winter (have you noticed the colder air...?), another 15 weeks chasing our tails and living for Friday nights and getting blue (hopefully not because we're hypathermic) on Sunday afternoons.
Having spoken to a few Mum-friends I have been having conversations along the lines of "thank goodness its nearly over" and "god I can't wait for them to get back to school" and "I think they're bored of being at home" and "I'm going nuts" and "I'm sick of spending all day clearing up after them" and "I think teachers should be paid more money" and "teachers must be insane" and you get the message. I can see their point. The house is no longer the ordered peaceful haven it was 6 weeks ago. The dirt is prolific. The mess is giant sized. But for all the endless clearing up after them and the repetitive conversations "what are we doing today? who with? where? are we going now? can I watch TV? Actually, can I watch a DVD instead? I don't like peas. I don't need the loo. I have brushed my teeth. I haven't brushed my hair. I forgot to wash my face. Do we have to go to Sainsbury's again? Where are my shoes? Can A/B/C come and play? Can we go to the soft play centre? I still don't like peas..." I have had a splendiferous time this holidays with Liz & Mol.
After 2years of the girls apparently completely hating each other - fighting and shouting and hitting and pushing each other down the stairs and under passing taxis, or where Liz simply was too baby-blob like to play - this holidays has finally seen them come-together as relatively good play-partners. OK they still occasionally hit/push/shout but they have developed one or two games which keep them going for hours: teachers (Mol patronizes Liz for 2hours); Nursery (Mol patronizes Liz for another two hours); doctors (Liz sticks cellotape on Mol's arms and legs and inserts a plastic spoon in her ears/nose/throat); princesses (complicated network of silk scarves draped over the bunk-bed which turns into a sort of innocent - I think - harem where they then pose and drape themselves in elegant princess like fashion whilst listening to Classic FM). Which is really nice. And then I get to prune the over grown plants in my tiny patch of shit-filled-garden and make fairy cakes for my little doctors/princesses/teacher-girls.
Harmony.
So I am in fact not looking forward to them going back to their institutions where the under-paid teachers in their over-filled class-rooms try to teach them numbers and letters. I am going to miss the chaos. I am going to miss their daft questions about totally random unrelated things. And I am going to miss not having to worry about what time it is in the morning... tick tock brrrrrrrrrrrrrrring. UG!