olives: don't be deceived

Firstly. Here I am. I'm back on. Although I think I may have sweated a lot of my mojo out whilst I was ill for I am suffering a way-big lack of writing enthusiasm.
Secondly. So I apologise if my work is dull.
Thirdly. Husband returned from his 9 day trip to Sardinia in his 4* hotel with no present for me and an American-sized-jumbo-pack of Kinder-chocolate, which I believe isn't Italian, even, for the girls. Humour fast dissolved. Not that a happy relationship should be based on presents. But giving is meant to give joy to the giver in an altruistic and halo-shining fashion. Husbands halo was fast knocked off its already rocky perch when I realised (as I put on the third load of dirty been-abroad-cloths-wash) he really wasn't joking about the lack of gift. My gifts to him were therefore retracted and my extra complicated and unfriendly pyjamas have been worn on a nightly basis since.
Fourthly. Do not be deceived by olives on an olive tree. Do not think to yourself, oh, this reminds me of my trip to Greece, or that time in the South of France when... or, remember when we were in Spain in that olive grove with all the lizards; popping them into your mouth like a minstrel... In England, if you see an olive tree with plump black shiny olives glinting at you - run a mile. Put you hands in your pockets and turn-heel. Do not listen to your practical-joker-work colleague and believe him when he says, oh, yes, I had one earlier, simply scrumptious. Go on, try! For you will be left feeling like I do, 9hours later: ill sick disgusted at my own idiocy.
How could I have ever thought that an olive on a young English Olive tree in the middle of a Hackney Garden Centre could be anything other than utterly repulsive?
I gagged in the same way I heard poor Mol gagging down the loo 3 weeks ago. But I wasn't in the privacy of my home, I was in front of my work "mate" on a street in the middle of N-bloody-1. Fucker! I vow to get him back. I VOW...
Although, my tale of near-vomiting is not nearly so tragic as that of a chum who was out at the gig of some sadly relaunched pop-legend (he was in a Boy Band of the 90's)... who got so over-excited by all the celeb-spotting that she drank her weight in Pina-Collada's at the gig, and then projectiled on the street outside the show. And she's a mother. I won't mention names and I won't tell your daughters about it at their 16/18/21st birthdays either.
Olive anyone?
(oh, so who is watching X-factor and Strictly? God, I LOVE Virgin right now - replay just rocks the house for being able to accommodate both...) (but, SHIT - who saw Whitney's dress pop? and who saw Robbies eyes spin? Freak-oh-rama.)

sunday pm

Mothers Ruin, that what has been ruined for the last 2 weeks, is now on the mend. The forecast is as follows: head area small chance of aches and blinky eyes (as though coming out of a dark place into bright light); chest region suffering chesty cough residue from green snot which has dripped into lungs over past fortnight - flood risk: low; sweat concern: reduced from red-alert to amber.
Would benefit from trip to spa-like-environment for half a day, but likely to be put on hold until children are 18 and have left home.
Updates and observations on their way later on in the week. Hold on to your hairnets.

nothing this week

Mothers Ruin is not on this week.
This is due to full bodily meltdown which includes organs and mental coordination.
Hope to be back up and running next week.
Please try not to panic during this time of cerebral deprivation.
Permanent attachment to wine bottle is a good alternative to filling the void left in the absence.
Apologies.

vomit.

6am on Tuesday.
"aaaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhh" "uuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrggg" noises came up from Mols room. What? Is White Bear murdering Dog? Is a living operation being performed by Mol onto Liz?
Leaping out of bed like a cobra attacking prey Husband ran downstairs to see what the commotion was all about.
Mol lying in bed. Groaning. "I have a sore tummy." Oh for goodness sake Girl! Is that all? Be quiet! Go sit on the loo or go back to sleep it's still night time was the sympathetic response from less spring-like Husband who clomped back upstairs adrenaline all pumped out and need for sleep returning fast.
"aaaaaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhh" thump thump stumble stumble thump thump, whack (that's the loo seat) choke cough gasp splutter choke some more moan moan uggggg spit spit choke pant cough wretch-noise drippy-gooey-drippy noises... The sound of poor neglected "go back to sleep" Mol vomming what was left in her stomach from last nights sausage beans & chip dinner (yeah yeah ok we're not that healthy I accept...).
We both "leap" (me more like crank myself out - feeling very full of cold and having had a night in a pool of sweat) out of bed and "run" downstairs to the location of the noises... Mol! No! A very pale drooping confused upset little Mol was standing forlornly by the loo which was now full of stringy yellow biley liquidy-yukkyness... Some of the stringy yellow biley liquidy-yukkiness was also dangling out of Mols mouth onto her PJ's and over the loo seat and stringing its way to the floor.
Oh lazy parents! Feeling guilty we wrapped the empty child up in a towel and wiped up the stinky stringy mess and popped her back in bed.
Fifteen minutes later more moans more thumping and whacking and ugging and wretching and heaving and moaning and stringy yukkiness down the loo. More towel wrapping and water and suggestions to brush teeth. Meanwhile Husband & I "calmly & maturely discuss" who's work is more doable from home. Clearly Husband's is because he works off a laptop and phone and my work on a Tuesday is based in a school with the children who go to that school ("um, hi, would you mind bringing your 11year old down to Harringay? so sorry, my daughter is ill with the voms so I can't get into school but you're welcome to come to me!"). But Husband has important meetings and a complicated schedule to organise for a shoot he's on next week (Sardinia! 4* hotel! - is it really a shoot or is he off with that fancy bird from Bognor..?). After a bit of stroppy foot stamping Husband gathers his wits, wizzes into town and collects his work and wizzes back. What a champ.
As I leave the house at 10.45am, Mol has been sick on her feet, on the bathroom floor, in the downstairs loo, on the downstairs loo floor, all over her pj's, in her hair (woops, must wash it). I have just put on the 3rd round of washing. The house has that smell of disinfectant. Mol has a very sore tummy.
Just as I'm getting to the school my mob rings. "Do we have any more disinfectant? Mol has been sick in her bed..."

The First Cold.

I think Autumn has struck me with her crinkly-leafed-finger. I woke this morning at 2am to the sound of Liz in full wail ("where's my duvet?") and as I stumbled blindly down the stairs to rescue her duvet I realised I was completely drenched in sweat. It was dripping off my nose and my non-existent cleavage resembled bonsai-sized rapids. And as I stumbled back upstairs my t-shirt got cold and my scalp tingled with chill and I fell back into my sweaty pit and then woke this morning with shivery limbs and a clonky throat.
And a few hours on, after a therapeutic trip to Sainsburys and Homebase, one coffee and a handful of grapes later, my limbs still feel shivery and my head has that under-water-what's real and what's not sort of fogginess.
Does the saying 'starve a fever, feed a cold' ring true? Thing is, I'm not all that hungry.
I wonder if I should wash my sheets? Or will I wake up in another pool of fast flowing sweat tonight? If that's the case I don't see any point in the laborious task.
I have taken my echinacea and my vitamin pills. I will take some more. I've got to get Liz to her gym class this afternoon. Drive or Walk? Its raining and I feel weak...
I shall see how I feel after lunch with Liz whether I stamp some more of my carbon footprint on the well stamped route to the YMCA where gym takes place.
To snottily be continued over the course of the week.

autumn

You know its autumn when all around you people are sneezing, coughing, looking a bit pale suddenly, looking a bit over or under dressed, snot rags dangling about with careless abandon and all the children get flu.
Oh, and also the leaves turn brown and fall off the trees hiding all the dog shit.
"Look mummy, can I go play in the leaves?" shrieks of delight followed by groans of repulsion from mummy who then has to pick out the horrendous turds from the ridges in Start Right shoes. Have you done that?
I got home once from a very splendid walk in the park and un-beknownst to me I had dog(I hope)faeces all over my trainer. I joyously walked through the house. Up and down stair carpets. Across floor boards. Onto white laminate bathroom tiles. And it was just before having to go and collect Mol from school. I had about 5minutes to get a drink and leave the house. And then I got whiff of something that didn't belong in the house. Yet here it was. In the house. Stomach does small lurch of of-for-fucking-shit's-sake. Check the shoe. Offending brown turd smeared all over sole. Kick off shoe. Then look at clock. Then realise I have less than 3 minutes to clean crap off 3/4's of my floors before Mol is left standing at the school gates forlornly assuming she's been abandoned forever and ever.
I was like a cartoon character with those go-faster-wind-whoosh-movements spurting out from the feet: I raced around the house swearing very loudly a lot (fucking dogs fucking disgusting smell fucking irresponsible selfish dog owners should be shot etc.) with a marigold on one hand, a large wiry sponge and a bucket of not nearly hot enough water and an evil "lemon fresh" cleaning agent in the gloveless hand.
The house smelt of lemon for weeks. The poo I think was obliterated. My obsession with dogs in London (or not being in London, at all) increased 10-fold.
Which reminds me of another more recent poor story. My neice (who is nearly same age as Liz) was romping through Finsbury Park. And for some reason the family was in a bit of a hurry, so my brother kindly picked up his sweet rosy cheeked daughter and gave her a lift (laughing all the way) to the car. When he got to the car he had that 'something smells dodgy here' moment. Sniffing deeply he realised the smell was very close to home. Worryingly close to home. It turned out that Nieces shoe was covered in the shit. Her shoe was no longer pink leather. It was brown sludge. And my brother was now smeared from head to foot (literally, it was on his shoulder, it was on his stomach, it was on his arms, thighs and ankles) in shit too. It was a classic moment as my brother who is usually a pool of calm started on a voyage of simultaneous cussing and stripping down to his birthday suit (kept pants on) whilst applying copious amounts of baby-wipes to his daughter himself his clothing her shoes... They had an hour to drive down to Putney. I know they made it down but - gawd - an hour in a car with a load of stuff stinking of dog-shit?
Beware the autumn leaves...