please excuse current "blog" entry.
mothers ruin has fallen off her not even very high perch and finds herself like an overturned lady bug, unable to clamber back on top of things, and unfortunately unable to engage brain. brain... hello? are you out there brain? come back! I need you!
its the kids.
the kids.
i blame the kids.
they've sucked my brain out, digested it over the last 7 years, and now, the last remnants have been flushed down to the N8 sewers, never to be seen again as they wash out down the Thames towards the Channel and the big ships which will swill whatever brain cell was left into the final nothingness of its existence.
or it could just be that I went to a very good wedding on the w/end and am now a bit tired and my liver is probably saying OK, enough already! and my brain has shut itself down in an act of sensible self protection.
but its better to blame the kids. afterall, in about 10 years time (or less...) they will blame me and Husband for every damn thing that goes wrong in their life. from broken nail to failed A levels.
so, whilst they lie cute and sleepy in their beds, I will say to you, that my current status quo is entirely the fault of the children, and not me.
just off to get another glass of red...
Monday, 29 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
spare pants required
I don't think I ever went to a school disco before the age of 9. But in London -everything starts decades earlier. Dancing lessons take place for babes-in-vitro. New borns have raves down the drop-in. Toddlers do 4-day-festivals. So 7 year olds get school discos in their school halls with bad ecoustics (?sp) bad light slippery floors cheap tat for sale at the door and the joy of seeing their teachers "mum, I saw Paul, he was DRINKING BEER in the school hall that is sooooo weird" (7 year old puts on what I'd only describe as sooooo weird American accent from her one-ever-viewing of Hannah(eugh-give-me-the-vom-bucket)Montana) what was I saying, oh yes, teachers being off-duty drinking beer in the lunch-hall.
I'm really referring to Mols school disco that took place last Friday.
Possibly the worst day of the week for a disco to take place?
Children: way too tired (therefore prone to tears and general-malfunction)
Parents: way too tired (as above)
Teachers: way too tired (as above but probably magnified 10x)
Music: way too loud (I should think the music is directly responsible for Liz's ear-drum-explosion yesterday afternoon where she spent 5hours with my hand clutched like a vice to her head as she yelled "OOOOOOHHHHAAAAAAAH" like a scene from One Born Every Minute - listen to the sound effects on this link)
The intentions I know, are valid: fun, community spirited - and it may be that I wasn't feeling very community spirited on Friday as I was recovering from a day of violent vomming (and I hadn't even watched Hannah Montana) and I felt weak - too weak to endure the base of the kiddy-muzac booming out full blast - but gawd...
I remember school discos with a trembly tummy sort of - oh god, I've got to dance in front of all these people and my brothers-hand-me-down-jumper is just so un-cool and I'm not allowed to wear eye-liner but all the girls are and now I'm just a wall-flower and I don't know what to do.Some kids can dance. Some kids can't. Some kids have flashing shoes. Some kids don't. Some kids have cool parents. Some... well. Y'know. And I went to the disco on Friday actually carrying the same anxiety for Mol: will she be ok?
But now I realise that 7 year olds don't have quite the same levels of self-conscious-anxiety as perhaps a 9 year old (or just me), so actually the school disco on Friday was really quite a happy place (bar Mol getting whacked in the eye with one of those day-glow-necklaces, and Liz peeing in her pants and all over her tights, and therefore going commando, and then deciding to do rolie-polies on the dance floor - I'll get my coat) and it was actually quite sweet, if I stuck my fingers down my ear-holes and ignored the teachers "dancing", to see the little people hopping about in a totally carefree way.
No wallflowers at this disco.
No pre-teen-angst in the hall last Friday night.
So that was nice. Yes. Indeed. Happy faces all round.
Oh but how old do I feel now? My girls go to discos and I moan about how loud the muzac is? (Call this music? Its just a thumping noise! I'll show you music!)
The lesson to be learned from Friday night: take ear plugs; smile at anything anyone says even if you can't hear them, and most definitely bring a spare pair of pants.
I'm really referring to Mols school disco that took place last Friday.
Possibly the worst day of the week for a disco to take place?
Children: way too tired (therefore prone to tears and general-malfunction)
Parents: way too tired (as above)
Teachers: way too tired (as above but probably magnified 10x)
Music: way too loud (I should think the music is directly responsible for Liz's ear-drum-explosion yesterday afternoon where she spent 5hours with my hand clutched like a vice to her head as she yelled "OOOOOOHHHHAAAAAAAH" like a scene from One Born Every Minute - listen to the sound effects on this link)
The intentions I know, are valid: fun, community spirited - and it may be that I wasn't feeling very community spirited on Friday as I was recovering from a day of violent vomming (and I hadn't even watched Hannah Montana) and I felt weak - too weak to endure the base of the kiddy-muzac booming out full blast - but gawd...
I remember school discos with a trembly tummy sort of - oh god, I've got to dance in front of all these people and my brothers-hand-me-down-jumper is just so un-cool and I'm not allowed to wear eye-liner but all the girls are and now I'm just a wall-flower and I don't know what to do.Some kids can dance. Some kids can't. Some kids have flashing shoes. Some kids don't. Some kids have cool parents. Some... well. Y'know. And I went to the disco on Friday actually carrying the same anxiety for Mol: will she be ok?
But now I realise that 7 year olds don't have quite the same levels of self-conscious-anxiety as perhaps a 9 year old (or just me), so actually the school disco on Friday was really quite a happy place (bar Mol getting whacked in the eye with one of those day-glow-necklaces, and Liz peeing in her pants and all over her tights, and therefore going commando, and then deciding to do rolie-polies on the dance floor - I'll get my coat) and it was actually quite sweet, if I stuck my fingers down my ear-holes and ignored the teachers "dancing", to see the little people hopping about in a totally carefree way.
No wallflowers at this disco.
No pre-teen-angst in the hall last Friday night.
So that was nice. Yes. Indeed. Happy faces all round.
Oh but how old do I feel now? My girls go to discos and I moan about how loud the muzac is? (Call this music? Its just a thumping noise! I'll show you music!)
The lesson to be learned from Friday night: take ear plugs; smile at anything anyone says even if you can't hear them, and most definitely bring a spare pair of pants.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
leave the kids behind
I think its been nearly a whole two years that Husband and I went away together, without the kidlings (although we've been to a wedding and had a night 'off' when the kids have stayed with Granny but we'd been under orders to be back at her house for breakfast - which sort of defies the purpose of leaving them with Granny in the first place... but mustn't grumble because we're JOLLY LUCKY to have such a lovely Granny who has them to stay at all... etc etc. don't look a gift horse in the mouth - another weird and idiotic phrase - don't look ANY horse in the mouth frankly, unless you want green spit in your eye or worse) so this weekend has been trez-spesh as the French would say. Trez spesh indeed.
Starting on Friday which was a day like that scene in the film Goodfella's when, near the end, the paranoid coke addict is cooking a tomato sauce but also trying to sort a massive drugs trade and also has to collect a granny or disabled sibling from somewhere whilst trying to deliver the coke to another venue all the while a helicopter is following his car and he's getting more and more psyched out with all the things he has to do before dinner - too much to do, too little time? I felt a bit like that on Friday. Too many things to do before I could get to where I really wanted to be: Beaulieu, with my Husband, away from it all.
8am - the plumber comes by (had already forgotten he was booked in)
8.45am - get the girls to school
Then spend 2hours packing cleaning tidying emailing administration making tea for the plumber thinking of an excuse to get Mol out of school 1/2hour earlier than normal pack the car up make sandwiches for Liz's lunch and for the girls 'tea' in the car later
11.30am collect Kid 1. Pay the plumber shit loads of cash for 20minutes work. (Make note: investigate plumbing college for girls - seems like a lucrative career...)
12pm go visit latest addition to the world in N16 (ah, sweet little baby!)
1pm go visit less recent addition but still pretty new to the world in N16 (ah, another sweet little baby!)
2pm Liz does huge poo in someone elses house - make a sharp exit and hope they don't need a plumber recommendation
3pm collect Mol
3pm hot-foot it to Hampshire
6pm and 68miles later 2 girls asleep in the back of the car after 2hours of solid fighting and Mother totally loosing her rag at 90mph on the A3 telling them the teddies will be chucked out of the window RIGHT NOW unless they SHUT UP and SHARE THE BLOODY THINGS
7pm say goodbye to suddenly extremely cherished girls breath enormous sigh of relief wish my parents best of luck with Liz and her not peeing in her bed 9 times in the night hot foot it to Winchester to collect Husband off train and then hot foot it even faster to Beaulieu - land of the free parents, home of the beer and wine, shelter to the on-verge-of-collapse-due-to-exhaustion Londoners.
We arrived eventually - sucked up most of the bar and a wheelbarrow of chips and then passed out in a coma for 10hours, waking up in that fug of 'huh? where are we? why is there no child by my bed whinging? why can I hear ducks instead of sirens? is this actually heaven?'.
Heaven indeed. And my, how time flies when one is in heaven. And oh - here's a novelty: conversation! uninterrupted conversation with the man I married 10 years ago. Fancy that? Oh yes please! None of Liz's endless drivel or Mols moody glares - just whole conversations that have a start, middle and end. It was like a miracle. But I guess when having a temporary residence in Heaven, then Miracles can be on the menu.
Anyway. its all over now. No more ducks. Tonight I go back to sleep in my less expensive bedlinen and will wake up to the sounds of the 141 breaking at the bus stop down the road and an ambulance/police/fire-engine siren belting down Green Lanes at sparrows fart. Usual noise of urban life.
But it was super-great having a wee reminder of what made me and Husband well, me and Husband, I guess - its easy to live with someone day in day out and completely lose touch. And these little snippets of time away from the every day - well, as the French absolutely don't say, trez-spesh indeed.
(PS just had a message from my mum: "love your kids. have necked a bottle of white. will survive.")
Starting on Friday which was a day like that scene in the film Goodfella's when, near the end, the paranoid coke addict is cooking a tomato sauce but also trying to sort a massive drugs trade and also has to collect a granny or disabled sibling from somewhere whilst trying to deliver the coke to another venue all the while a helicopter is following his car and he's getting more and more psyched out with all the things he has to do before dinner - too much to do, too little time? I felt a bit like that on Friday. Too many things to do before I could get to where I really wanted to be: Beaulieu, with my Husband, away from it all.
8am - the plumber comes by (had already forgotten he was booked in)
8.45am - get the girls to school
Then spend 2hours packing cleaning tidying emailing administration making tea for the plumber thinking of an excuse to get Mol out of school 1/2hour earlier than normal pack the car up make sandwiches for Liz's lunch and for the girls 'tea' in the car later
11.30am collect Kid 1. Pay the plumber shit loads of cash for 20minutes work. (Make note: investigate plumbing college for girls - seems like a lucrative career...)
12pm go visit latest addition to the world in N16 (ah, sweet little baby!)
1pm go visit less recent addition but still pretty new to the world in N16 (ah, another sweet little baby!)
2pm Liz does huge poo in someone elses house - make a sharp exit and hope they don't need a plumber recommendation
3pm collect Mol
3pm hot-foot it to Hampshire
6pm and 68miles later 2 girls asleep in the back of the car after 2hours of solid fighting and Mother totally loosing her rag at 90mph on the A3 telling them the teddies will be chucked out of the window RIGHT NOW unless they SHUT UP and SHARE THE BLOODY THINGS
7pm say goodbye to suddenly extremely cherished girls breath enormous sigh of relief wish my parents best of luck with Liz and her not peeing in her bed 9 times in the night hot foot it to Winchester to collect Husband off train and then hot foot it even faster to Beaulieu - land of the free parents, home of the beer and wine, shelter to the on-verge-of-collapse-due-to-exhaustion Londoners.
We arrived eventually - sucked up most of the bar and a wheelbarrow of chips and then passed out in a coma for 10hours, waking up in that fug of 'huh? where are we? why is there no child by my bed whinging? why can I hear ducks instead of sirens? is this actually heaven?'.
Heaven indeed. And my, how time flies when one is in heaven. And oh - here's a novelty: conversation! uninterrupted conversation with the man I married 10 years ago. Fancy that? Oh yes please! None of Liz's endless drivel or Mols moody glares - just whole conversations that have a start, middle and end. It was like a miracle. But I guess when having a temporary residence in Heaven, then Miracles can be on the menu.
Anyway. its all over now. No more ducks. Tonight I go back to sleep in my less expensive bedlinen and will wake up to the sounds of the 141 breaking at the bus stop down the road and an ambulance/police/fire-engine siren belting down Green Lanes at sparrows fart. Usual noise of urban life.
But it was super-great having a wee reminder of what made me and Husband well, me and Husband, I guess - its easy to live with someone day in day out and completely lose touch. And these little snippets of time away from the every day - well, as the French absolutely don't say, trez-spesh indeed.
(PS just had a message from my mum: "love your kids. have necked a bottle of white. will survive.")
Sunday, 7 March 2010
traditional sunday roasts
what is it about the words roast and sunday that go together and create sunday roast and before you can say pass the bread sauce your saliva ducts start saliva-ating and all you can think about are mounds of golden potatoes, perfect buttery peas and a huge sparkling fresh from the oven chicken with crispy bacon curling over its back, steam rising in the hot kitchen and a table with all your beloved's around it, waiting eagerly and patiently?
its like something out of the Darling Buds of May!
plates heaving with food and gravy and everyone laughing amiably as the red wine is passed from glass to glass.
today we had pheasant no less. not that i ate it being a vegetarian, but that was the sunday roast, no less! fresh from the woods in suffolk! a life of brambles and oak trees, a short stint in the freezer, and then a glorious debut on a happy kitchen table in Highbury.
but god! bloody hell! the LABOUR that goes into putting together a sodding "traditional English Sunday Roast" is just daft. bloody daft! to eat a pheasant by 1.15pm, we got to mother-in-laws at 11am and i basically didn't leave the kitchen until the last splat of breadsauce had been wiped off the plastic table cloth at 2pm. its bonkers!
roast potatoes (involves peeling and chopping and par boiling and fluffing and heating oil roasting);
roast parsnips (as with potatoes);
carrots (peeling and chopping with blunt knife steaming buttering thank goodness no parsley to chop for these ones - not enough manpower to spare);
bread sauce (sticking spices onto an onion in some milk about 4 weeks before lunch is due, then cubing some stale white bread saved especially for the event, then simmering for 15mins - after all that);
cauliflower cheese (cauliflower cheesey white sauce blah blah blah - honestly just make a small one I PROMISE the kids won't eat it);
pheasant (kill in a wood 85 miles away, pluck & sneeze each time pheasant fluff ventures north up a nozzie, scream like a girl when chopping off head and getting out stinky slimy twisty things, hang in London basement for 1 week, freaking out mother of house each time she goes to put a wash on downstairs; wonder how best to freeze then decide plastic bag & bottom drawer of freezer, defrost 3months later, cook in an oven whose door doesn't shut properly, complain bitterly that the oven is shit and the pheasant clearly wasn't defrosted);
OH! and the vegetarians & children all require separate menus SO if you don't mind the list continues with:
sausages (that's relatively easy you think! but NOT when the oven already has cauliflower cheese, pheasant, parsnips & potatoes already in it);
salmon for the pheasant-phobes (same problem as sausages - no room in the oven).
you see, its not so darned simple, is it?
but we got there in the end.
the kids ate their sausages first (where's the ketchup? - so insulting spoilt little brattoss-'s - mine, unfortunately);
then the vegetarians ate their salmon;
then about 1/2hour later the pheasant was finally produced golden crispy meaty smelling and attacked by three people who made out like they'd not eaten since it was actually 'taken' from its happy world in suffolk.
and Liz who had a massive tantrum before lunch - just as the cooks were getting hot under the collar about the lack of co-ordination between the three protein-sources - because ALL I WANT IS A HAM SANDWICH, to which the standard reply was shuddupbrat you must be joking you are eating what you are given YOUNG LADY etc etc - Liz then went on to eat SO much pheaz- I mean - "chicken" that I wonder if the really stinky farts that took place a few hours later were connected?
kind of meaty smelling? may be a bit like the smell outside macdonalds?
so we survived it. but for all the "yeah, lets do a sunday lunch! cool! fab! we can bond over the hob! " well, next weekend its PIZZA all round.
Open box
Turn on oven
Put in oven for 10 minutes
Eat
(possibly burp too)
Return to Cbeebies / newspaper - ignore each other happily for rest of day.
Sunday Roast MY ARSE!
(although it tastes a darn sight nicer than a tesco budget pizza with "real" mozzarella)
its like something out of the Darling Buds of May!
plates heaving with food and gravy and everyone laughing amiably as the red wine is passed from glass to glass.
today we had pheasant no less. not that i ate it being a vegetarian, but that was the sunday roast, no less! fresh from the woods in suffolk! a life of brambles and oak trees, a short stint in the freezer, and then a glorious debut on a happy kitchen table in Highbury.
but god! bloody hell! the LABOUR that goes into putting together a sodding "traditional English Sunday Roast" is just daft. bloody daft! to eat a pheasant by 1.15pm, we got to mother-in-laws at 11am and i basically didn't leave the kitchen until the last splat of breadsauce had been wiped off the plastic table cloth at 2pm. its bonkers!
roast potatoes (involves peeling and chopping and par boiling and fluffing and heating oil roasting);
roast parsnips (as with potatoes);
carrots (peeling and chopping with blunt knife steaming buttering thank goodness no parsley to chop for these ones - not enough manpower to spare);
bread sauce (sticking spices onto an onion in some milk about 4 weeks before lunch is due, then cubing some stale white bread saved especially for the event, then simmering for 15mins - after all that);
cauliflower cheese (cauliflower cheesey white sauce blah blah blah - honestly just make a small one I PROMISE the kids won't eat it);
pheasant (kill in a wood 85 miles away, pluck & sneeze each time pheasant fluff ventures north up a nozzie, scream like a girl when chopping off head and getting out stinky slimy twisty things, hang in London basement for 1 week, freaking out mother of house each time she goes to put a wash on downstairs; wonder how best to freeze then decide plastic bag & bottom drawer of freezer, defrost 3months later, cook in an oven whose door doesn't shut properly, complain bitterly that the oven is shit and the pheasant clearly wasn't defrosted);
OH! and the vegetarians & children all require separate menus SO if you don't mind the list continues with:
sausages (that's relatively easy you think! but NOT when the oven already has cauliflower cheese, pheasant, parsnips & potatoes already in it);
salmon for the pheasant-phobes (same problem as sausages - no room in the oven).
you see, its not so darned simple, is it?
but we got there in the end.
the kids ate their sausages first (where's the ketchup? - so insulting spoilt little brattoss-'s - mine, unfortunately);
then the vegetarians ate their salmon;
then about 1/2hour later the pheasant was finally produced golden crispy meaty smelling and attacked by three people who made out like they'd not eaten since it was actually 'taken' from its happy world in suffolk.
and Liz who had a massive tantrum before lunch - just as the cooks were getting hot under the collar about the lack of co-ordination between the three protein-sources - because ALL I WANT IS A HAM SANDWICH, to which the standard reply was shuddupbrat you must be joking you are eating what you are given YOUNG LADY etc etc - Liz then went on to eat SO much pheaz- I mean - "chicken" that I wonder if the really stinky farts that took place a few hours later were connected?
kind of meaty smelling? may be a bit like the smell outside macdonalds?
so we survived it. but for all the "yeah, lets do a sunday lunch! cool! fab! we can bond over the hob! " well, next weekend its PIZZA all round.
Open box
Turn on oven
Put in oven for 10 minutes
Eat
(possibly burp too)
Return to Cbeebies / newspaper - ignore each other happily for rest of day.
Sunday Roast MY ARSE!
(although it tastes a darn sight nicer than a tesco budget pizza with "real" mozzarella)
Friday, 5 March 2010
friday afternoon
Whilst my beloved children are downstairs eating pizza in front of Madagasca (I like to move it move it I like to move it move it) and currently not trying to throttle each other with ribbons or stab each other with the remote controls, I have snuck away to contemplate the sunshine and the week, which has flown by like concord going supersonic.
Is it bad that I've left them downstairs on their own with the nursery maid aka dvd? Well, I watched the first 45minutes so I reckon I'm ok at the moment.
So this week has been all a bit stomach wrenching and peculiar.
Sunday I let a North-Face-Clad-couple-from-Crouch-End in to our house to look around it. We may be selling it. But that's another blog for another day. And I proudly showed them around (Husband was at work going a bit insane on a completely insane job, and had a bucket under his nose to catch the snot which was on perma-drip); admiring my own home, which we, Husband and I, and I suppose to an extent, Mol & Liz, have put together over the last 8 years. And I am proud of it. And by showing them around I realised how much I totally love this home of ours. Our FIRST grown up home, with upstairs and downstairs, a garden, and a roof that we own 100% of. And its really, really made my stomach do flips thinking about not being here any more. How odd will it be for two small children who've only ever lived here to pack up their things and watch the house empty out into a large lorry sometime in the summer (with their drunken mother sobbing into one of Husbands oversized overused man-hankies)?
So that was weird.
And then on Wednesday night I watched a re-run of Location Location with the wordy Phil & Kirsty, who were re-living their very first couple who happen to be excellent friends of ours. And seeing them on the telly from 7 years ago was surreal. (Not a new line on their face since, which disturbed me somewhat as I climbed into my bath aftewards, my face covered in lines and indellible sleep-patterns around my eyes...) The very night their show was broadcast I went into labour with Mol, so as I was watching them again on Wednesday my tummy started going a bit flippy and I must admit I shed a tiny tear (also probably because I really wanted to jump on the first express train to Glasgow and I know I probably won't be able to do that now until 2011...). So that was weird. In a nice sort of a way.
And then weirdly a really good friend of mine, who's husband is Liz's godfather, on that very same night as Phil & Kirsty re-lived their love of our friends in Scotland, only went and got herself into labour too. Crazy huh? Maybe there is something about watching friends on TV when at a critical stage of pregnancy that triggers a hormone rush that triggers contractions? I may have found something here.
So that was weird.
And then today when I took Mol to ballet me and Liz sat in the hell like waiting room listening to the clonk-clonk of the piano in the studio and like dominoes, one by one, each toddler in the waiting room hit each other, with increasing intensity. ella hit jasper. jasper hit theo. theo came over and demolished liz and tried to remove her hair as if it were merely a wig.
so that was a bit weird.
something about the YMCA which induces crazed behaviour in small people.
anyway. I can hear "I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it" which means Madagascar is finishing, which means I better go down before the killing of siblings begins. Again.
Have a nice weekend folks. May it be free of weirdness.
(see. not even 10seconds has passed and I can hear them battling downstairs. HELL.)
Is it bad that I've left them downstairs on their own with the nursery maid aka dvd? Well, I watched the first 45minutes so I reckon I'm ok at the moment.
So this week has been all a bit stomach wrenching and peculiar.
Sunday I let a North-Face-Clad-couple-from-Crouch-End in to our house to look around it. We may be selling it. But that's another blog for another day. And I proudly showed them around (Husband was at work going a bit insane on a completely insane job, and had a bucket under his nose to catch the snot which was on perma-drip); admiring my own home, which we, Husband and I, and I suppose to an extent, Mol & Liz, have put together over the last 8 years. And I am proud of it. And by showing them around I realised how much I totally love this home of ours. Our FIRST grown up home, with upstairs and downstairs, a garden, and a roof that we own 100% of. And its really, really made my stomach do flips thinking about not being here any more. How odd will it be for two small children who've only ever lived here to pack up their things and watch the house empty out into a large lorry sometime in the summer (with their drunken mother sobbing into one of Husbands oversized overused man-hankies)?
So that was weird.
And then on Wednesday night I watched a re-run of Location Location with the wordy Phil & Kirsty, who were re-living their very first couple who happen to be excellent friends of ours. And seeing them on the telly from 7 years ago was surreal. (Not a new line on their face since, which disturbed me somewhat as I climbed into my bath aftewards, my face covered in lines and indellible sleep-patterns around my eyes...) The very night their show was broadcast I went into labour with Mol, so as I was watching them again on Wednesday my tummy started going a bit flippy and I must admit I shed a tiny tear (also probably because I really wanted to jump on the first express train to Glasgow and I know I probably won't be able to do that now until 2011...). So that was weird. In a nice sort of a way.
And then weirdly a really good friend of mine, who's husband is Liz's godfather, on that very same night as Phil & Kirsty re-lived their love of our friends in Scotland, only went and got herself into labour too. Crazy huh? Maybe there is something about watching friends on TV when at a critical stage of pregnancy that triggers a hormone rush that triggers contractions? I may have found something here.
So that was weird.
And then today when I took Mol to ballet me and Liz sat in the hell like waiting room listening to the clonk-clonk of the piano in the studio and like dominoes, one by one, each toddler in the waiting room hit each other, with increasing intensity. ella hit jasper. jasper hit theo. theo came over and demolished liz and tried to remove her hair as if it were merely a wig.
so that was a bit weird.
something about the YMCA which induces crazed behaviour in small people.
anyway. I can hear "I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it" which means Madagascar is finishing, which means I better go down before the killing of siblings begins. Again.
Have a nice weekend folks. May it be free of weirdness.
(see. not even 10seconds has passed and I can hear them battling downstairs. HELL.)
Monday, 1 March 2010
lizards and sun
ooh! I have one more official follower! thank you follower! I think I may love you.
anyway. onto today's hot topics.
spring?
sun!
bulbs!
birds singing!
people smiling!
could it be could it be..? or are we sad misguided weather-nuts who see the best in a bad situation. will I wake up tomorrow and my house have slid down to Green Lanes under the weight of a new dump of Siberian Snow, fresh in off Cloud 9?
I know we're a nation of weather-nuts but is it any surprise? we've had 4months of grey drizzle vitamin-d-deprivation, combined with a recession, christmas, january, pot-holes, teenagers throwing their chicken-wings-food-wrappers all over Hornsey rail station (actually that's not seasonal, that's constant and so disgusting I want to go and shut down chicken-wings or get some fire-crackers and set them off each time a Horsney School for Girls Teenager chucks her carton nonchalently on to the wet floor; have they NO pride in their surroundings?) and Bradley being killed off in East Enders. I mean, the times have been really tough.
so when I woke up to a ray of sun beaming through my bamboo lined blinds this morning I actually jumped out of bed and felt - dare I say it - happy!
Mol and Liz, peeling their faces off their green with snot pillows, also felt the joy of the beams. they both got dressed with no fuss, they both ate breakfast without argument, they brushed their teeth and hair (different brushes) almost with merriment. they even shared the making of a jigsaw. actually that's a lie. i can't push it too far. they had a row over the jigsaw. out came the green snot again - flying in all directions as they chucked jigsaw puzzle bits at each other in rage. a bit like when a camel gets feisty and spits at the moronic tourist trying to get on its back - greenies flying galore.
BUT: can this be put down to the joy of sun?
I think I may be a lizard inside a womans clothing. And when the sun comes out my fingers start to move properly, my skin feels less vulnerable, my body wakes up. I wonder what the Xray in the new airport security would see as I saunter through? would it bleep because of the belt buckle or the large diamond ring Husband gave me for having his children (oh, wait, delete that last bit) or would it bleep because the security guard had just seen an upright lizard skeleton walk towards him and he'd vomited in shock on his machine and set off the alarm? Who knows. This could be a conversation to have with my parents.
anyway. its very nice to have the sun out, however briefly it lasts.
(even the dogshit on the passage caused humour today rather than anger... - how rare is that?)
anyway. onto today's hot topics.
spring?
sun!
bulbs!
birds singing!
people smiling!
could it be could it be..? or are we sad misguided weather-nuts who see the best in a bad situation. will I wake up tomorrow and my house have slid down to Green Lanes under the weight of a new dump of Siberian Snow, fresh in off Cloud 9?
I know we're a nation of weather-nuts but is it any surprise? we've had 4months of grey drizzle vitamin-d-deprivation, combined with a recession, christmas, january, pot-holes, teenagers throwing their chicken-wings-food-wrappers all over Hornsey rail station (actually that's not seasonal, that's constant and so disgusting I want to go and shut down chicken-wings or get some fire-crackers and set them off each time a Horsney School for Girls Teenager chucks her carton nonchalently on to the wet floor; have they NO pride in their surroundings?) and Bradley being killed off in East Enders. I mean, the times have been really tough.
so when I woke up to a ray of sun beaming through my bamboo lined blinds this morning I actually jumped out of bed and felt - dare I say it - happy!
Mol and Liz, peeling their faces off their green with snot pillows, also felt the joy of the beams. they both got dressed with no fuss, they both ate breakfast without argument, they brushed their teeth and hair (different brushes) almost with merriment. they even shared the making of a jigsaw. actually that's a lie. i can't push it too far. they had a row over the jigsaw. out came the green snot again - flying in all directions as they chucked jigsaw puzzle bits at each other in rage. a bit like when a camel gets feisty and spits at the moronic tourist trying to get on its back - greenies flying galore.
BUT: can this be put down to the joy of sun?
I think I may be a lizard inside a womans clothing. And when the sun comes out my fingers start to move properly, my skin feels less vulnerable, my body wakes up. I wonder what the Xray in the new airport security would see as I saunter through? would it bleep because of the belt buckle or the large diamond ring Husband gave me for having his children (oh, wait, delete that last bit) or would it bleep because the security guard had just seen an upright lizard skeleton walk towards him and he'd vomited in shock on his machine and set off the alarm? Who knows. This could be a conversation to have with my parents.
anyway. its very nice to have the sun out, however briefly it lasts.
(even the dogshit on the passage caused humour today rather than anger... - how rare is that?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
