what's warm and gushes?

Well, for all you sordid mamas out there, go wash your mouth out.
If you want to know the answer to the above question, read on.

And because this blog is all about ME and ME and ME, you may find that the answer to the above question is in fact...

ME!

Yes, I am warm and gushy.

And still you raise your eyebrows in mock-oooh-er-missus-surprise.
And again, I say, go wash your mouths out you filthy bag of retrogrades.

I am warm because, well, it is really warm out there. So, for once, my finger tips aren't a bit blue and sort of wrinkled and damp, and I'm not wearing socks whilst I type up here in my study, and the heating is properly off and I have 10 open windows to prove it.

Isn't it just so nice to be warm though?
And not only am I warm but so too am I gushy.
Why so, I hear you ask, in mock-interest? Why is mothersruin declaring herself gushy? Isn't she on a perma-gush most of the time anyway? Gushing away about nonsense that no one comprehends? All that rubbish about dog poo and children who think Heaven is called Devon and that green food is dangerous and obsessing about East Enders (so good, Stacy had a baby and I reckon a massive round of postnatal depression is about to spark up in the plot...- get the kleenex mums)... Why is she more gushy than usual? (Apart from the fact that its taken 7 paragraphs to get to this point.)

Well, here comes the gush.
It was my birthday on Friday. Yes. Another year, another claw on the crows foot, another few million brain cells never to return and 30? Well, here we are slightly on the other side.
So typical of life. This growing old business. Such an arse.
But, to counteract all that depressing I-wish-I-was-21-again, why-doesn't-any-one-id-me-in- offies-any-more, am-I-literally-just-a-laundry-come-cook-come-chaperone-who-enjoys-64-zoo-lane?thoughts, I found myself surrounded by A Lot Of The Worlds Nicest People on Saturday night down the local N8 public house. And oh, how comforted I was in my time of need by these loves.
Greeting me with eyes full of sympathy (and empathy too I noted from some of the more elderly friends who ventured out on their zimmers to celebrate with me - and yes, I know, totally out-late-nighted-me) and cotton-wool-hugs, they felt my pain and knew what I was going through. And by throwing beautifully wrapped parcels in my direction, accompanied with a glass of prosecco (alternating with water - god, see how old and sensible you become when you reach the end of your 20's?? I mean reach your mid-30's, sorry, forgetful too - it's all water/wine/water/wine and a pint of water before bed with 2 paracetamol... don't want a hangover in the morning now, or an excuse for extra wrinkles now...etc etc) well, I was distracted from said pain and learned to enjoy myself again.

What a lovely party and so good to see the gang in outstanding gladrags and killer shoes and jewels and funky shirts and mascara and - well, etc. So, gushing on I just wanted to end my rambly gush (flood gates are opening...) with a little thank you to everyone who came and got a babysitter and drank a few glasses and endured the heat after a long day of more heat (and for some after also a long day in a playground shouting at children and parents at the school fete) and like some dreadful acceptance speech at the Oscars, I just wanted to say I love you guys. Thank you - without you, I wouldn't have got where I was today, and if my arms could stretch around you all at once, you know? Feel the lurve.

With that, I will wipe my nose on my hairy forearm and head for the bath where I'm about to start Huxley's Brave New World. Only apt as I venture forth in to the next phase of life.
As a 36 year old.

running woman

I'm running 10km in July.
Ouch.
I did it last year at the Croosh Ond 10k, in lashings of rain and being pumelled by the running crazies that attend these sorts of events.
As I accepted the challenge (which came from the charity I currently work for) by enthusiastically pressing SEND on a chirpy upbeat - yeah, I can do it - sort of email, as the email disappeared into the ether and my computer made that noise of a distant airplane going somewhere even faster than usual, I suddenly thought shit why have I just done that? Is it because I've been sitting at my desk for longer than I can remember and my arse has melted into my grandmothers old leather chair and the 10 bars of cadburys keeping me alive have now run out?
Probably.
So. For the last few weeks I have been in "training".
I am actually a bit like the man in the film Run Fat Boy Run as I stagger over the pavements in a pair of grim shorts grim shoes and some sort of grim vest thing, panting heavily and hoping that I don't give the sweet lady who I always pass on Poo Passage a cardiac arrest because I always seem to run so close to her without her hearing my approach (she's old, presume deaf? - how can she not hear my puffing?) - that as I pass her she sort of waves her shopping bag in the air in vague self-defence/terror/surprise/horror (what is that red puffing creature that resembles a female human?)...
In the film Fat Boy (Simon Pegg) is a loser who leaves his pregnant wife jilted at the Alter and to win her back he decides to run a marathon. With 4 weeks to train in.
So I have a bit longer to train and not for a 26mile race and also I'm not trying to win anyones' hand back. Luckily. Watching the film gave me hope that I could at least get around the course and I've been reassured by my friends in the charity that 'you can walk it in just under 2 hours' (cheers for the support).
(I think Fat Boy gets his not-wife back in the end by the way, so any aspiring love-in-the-making, this could be a really top way to win the hand of your fair lady or man... yeah, like so romantic... you can show off your blisters and cracked nipples post-race, and your inner-thigh-chaffings. And for extra romance: get her nose under your pits. A real love-inducer.)
So, any local readers, watch out! I'm going all runner on yo' ass as of a couple of weeks ago! If you see a flash of discombobulated human limbs accompanied with strange sound effects: no its not a local Labour Councilor canvassing for the next election, its most likely me, chugging round Finsbury Park swearing a lot and wishing to god I wasn't doing it.
Get me the cadburys I'm having a panic attack.

foxes

God and damned and curse those vile skanky bin lovin' shit-givin' garden-killin' creatures. The urban fox. 'Twas a mere 10 days ago when 2 small babies were attacked by the ghost-eyed demons of the streets, causing wounds to the vulnerable babies which left them in hospital for longer than a casual trip to casuality after a night on the tiles.
So this morning, husband having got up at sparrows fart and domestic harmony prevailing on such a sunny Monday, spirits lifted and strawberries gleaming in the light, you could hear the tinkle of bliss in our house on the hill. Cereal had been eaten with no 'but mum I'm full' 'but mum I wanted toast' 'but mum I have to go and poo' 'but mum I actually don't like rice-pops any more don't you know' 'but mum I do need to have more sugar' you get the jist. Mols packed lunch (ham and cream cheese bagel, banana fairy cake, cheese string, yoghurt 'health' drink) had been constructed, washing up done and all that remained to be done was hair and a bit of pre-school-chillaxing.
I was in the sitting room fiddling with the mop of hair (remind me to get it cut) on Lizs head as she pointlessly cut up a piece of paper into minute pieces for me to pick up off the floor after I returned from my run.
When...
From outside there was a very loud high pitched Mol-like "agh", and then a pounding of feet (more like rugby player than possible Grade 1 ballet dancer) through the kitchen and a sort of panting like some creature with not enough air in the lungs... Mol leapt in to the sitting room gulping and very pink and sort of with a crazed look in her eyes and then she burst into tears and said "fox, garden, close, ugh, on the fence, bumble bees, fox, flowers, talking to..." ? quoi?
And so to unravel this alien shpeel...
Mol had been talking to our collection of bumbles who like to congregate on my (outstanding) lupins in the morning sun. And as she talked to them (not sure what about, I'll find out, I'm interested to know where the common ground lies between a 7 year old and bumble) she heard a rustle from next door neighbours garden (tony) and she just presumed that it was Tony coming out to enjoy the morning rays (but given that he never rises from his den until after noon...) - so she turned around to say morning to our usually comatose neighbour and lo, it wasn't Tony, but scene from a horror movie, an URBAN FOX, with ghost eyes mangy fur and fangs was balancing on the fence not more than 1.5m away. Hence the scream.
Brazen fucking creature.
We had to switch on Timmy Time to calm the nerves.
I went out with my shotgun and blasted a few rounds off into the air.

Pain is...

Pain is when ones not very old computer dies on one, leaving one to go through the process of technological cold turkey. I am writing this brief entry to reassure you all that I haven't been murdered by my parents or drowned in vintage Harringay dog turds or fallen into an alcoholic induced coma. No no it's all very straight forward: no computer. Husband, who I secretly admire for this but god forbid my British ways permit me to tell him, is a total wizard on computers and promises to set me up again soon, once he's nicked the equipment from work. So in the meantime I suggest to you all, in sympathy for me, because let's face it this IS all about moi, for you to take a technology holiday too. Let's share this experience... Together we will grow stronger from experiencing mutual pain... Do I sound like a total loon now?
Mothers ruined.
Again. And this time amazingly it's not self induced. Apologies for any typos. I'm not very dab on the iPhone. Until next time ...