jingle bells batman smells

Hurrah!
Halloween is over.
And now... bring on the tinsel and bells and ho-ho-ho-ing Father Christmas's.
Rock n Roll it's 6 weeks till Christmas.
I have been going through my mental check list. I thought I would share it with you because you never know, it may help you too.

Have you done your Christmas shopping?
Yeah right. Who does it in November? Per-leeez.

Have you found your glittery baubles?
In a damp box in the basement going green with rot. 

Have you darned your childrens' Christmas stockings?
Will sellotape do? 

Have you remembered all those things that popped into your head over the year (or since Boxing Day last year) that you may like for Christmas?
No.

Is it going to snow this year on Christmas day?
No. They'll be so disappointed. Again. 

Have your children started The Countdown yet?
A little bit. But their maths is bad.  

What is your current account status?
Dire. 

Are you excited about Christmas?
Currently more excited about the spelling of the new Greek Prime ministers surname. 

Are you a little bit too bah-humbug.
Perhaps. But if I play it down massively then the day can only be a bit better than expected, yeah?

Have you written to FC yet?
Not me personally. I don't believe in 'him'. But Liz has; a hilariously painful process. I now have to work out how to post the letter to FC so that the right elves - doh, I mean, humans - see the requests. 


Do you have a survival tactic for getting your Christmas Shopping done? 
Yes. It's simple. Online. Glass of Wine. Credit Card. Bish Bash Bosh.

Finally, some tips for enjoying the Christmas season as a family...?
Be positive and encouraging...
Whatever they query - tell them its true. 
Jesus was born in a manger (poor old Mary - must've been dreadfully uncomfortable...) under a huge star; 
Father Christmas comes down the chimney, no, he won't get stuck, no he won't wake you, yes, he'll like a mince pie; 
Yes singing carols in the rain is FUN; 
Yes, we have to go to church because otherwise God will know and you may not get any presents; 
Yes, I need this next glass of prosecco. 

And just remember - as you're on the edge of sanity and about to explode with annoyance that you've wrapped your stocking presents with the same paper as the bloody presents under the tree - that you were once a child too, and how fun all the mystery was, and take heart that your supreme efforts do not go to waste... Shine the halo, take a deep breath, suck on the red wine, re-wrap. FC will have a place for you on his sleigh next year, no doubt.

not halloween? please... no...

Ugh. I bloody hate halloween.
What is this 'celebration'? What's it all about? Something to do with the eve of the somethings that had to come out and scare away the something elses and save someone or other from eternal hell... And some people throw in the word 'pagan' to be really intelligent about its origins.
Or is it just a ploy from Tesco / Sainsburys / Asda / Aldi / even Waitrose I believe (not that I shop there more than once a year because my credit card - that belongs in fact to Husband - starts to quiver and shake in my wallet) / any supermarket / corner shop / news agent to get our children to eat shit for 48 hours, wear shit for 48 hours, talk shit for 48 hours and scare the crap out every person they possibly can for at least 2 weeks in the name of Halloween?
Ask any child on the street that you pass, or your own if you are in possession; ask them, and pin them down (literally if needs be): what is this Halloween you insist on dressing up for every year? Tell me, good child, honestly what is it all about, and I will maybe let you go out and threaten to put doggy-do through old peoples' front doors if they refuse to 'treat' you for making them get off their sofas, shuffle into their moist slippers, stumble for the light, creak their door open timidly and suffer a panic attack when they see a gang of masked idiots shrieking in their face. Tell me why I should let you do this, sweet child of mine?
And the chances are they'll say, in their sweet innocence: "coz you get loads of sweets mum!"
And because I never actually listen to much of what my children say in the first place, and being the daft lilly livered brain-leached wine soaked mother that I am, I'm likely to say, as if on perma-auto-pilot (which I generally am on): "Ah, free sweets! Go on then, off you go. Rot your teeth! Scare the elderly! Just make sure no one nicks your loot on the way home! Sweet things. Oh, and I love that fake blood all over your face! Are those real guts or just sausages you've stuck to your stomach? Lovely!" And off they'll toodle, in a gang, to scare the elderly, steal their sweets, slip on turds hidden under the autumnal leaf folliage, and come home off their frigging heads.
And after we've managed to calm our little sugar-tots down, wash off the black lipstick, black nail-varnish, rinse off the strange sweet-dyes from around their cherry lips, reassure them that we promise not to eat the shit, I mean, treasure that they have come home with, after all that, AND a bedtime story... us parents limp downstairs, attack the nearest bottle, slump onto the sofa and go into the zone that parents are so familiar with.

Only to be disturbed 5minutes later by the bloody teenage hooligans who come banging on your door after the watershed demanding sweets. Bugger off!

So, a tip to you all.
Shut the curtains and make like you're out...

chopper-ing hell

I was innocently lying in my bed last night.
All tucked up.
Pretty cosy, you know.
Husband was just beginning to snore, lying on his back, leg propped up on a pillow (recurring cricket injury; I don't need to spend time going over it any more than I need to - other than to say that it took a lot of charity for me to dig up some sympathy as this is 4th time he's twisted / popped / screwed his knee... - but you'll be relieved to know I found some near the surface of my small supply and his knee has been given enough attention to pass as sympathy).
My eyes were heavy after a nice day in Brighton. Mol & Liz breathing heavily and dreaming of rainbows and pink ponies.
All peace in the house.
When, suddenly FLASH! And, GRRRRRR-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-GRRRRRRRRR (that's the sound of a helicopter written down, if you need to use it for your own literary achievements you're free to contact my lawyers).
A bloody great helicopter swooped down OUTSIDE the window of my loft and shone its fucking cheeky torch right in to my bedroom. On my face!
Like. Hello? Do you see a criminal in this house of peace and synchronised snoring?
I think not! Get ye to the streets of Soho or Bangor, and get ye away from my window.
I sat up in bed as quick as a frogs-tongue catching a fly, and leapt out from under my warm duvet as fast as that new physics thing that says things can move faster than the speed of light, and I saw the helicopter turning away from the house and swooping over the houses of the adjacent roads, and then, coming to a hover over the Church at the top of the hill.
Huh? None of it made sense to me.
Anyway, whatever criminal was hiding out in the Church at the top of the hill, it/he/she stayed there for too long - and 40minutes later, with heaps more noise and flashing searchlights (meanwhile Husband snores gently through it all, in Ibuprofen La La Land I suspect), my head beginning to wonder how the helicopter intended to actually capture the crims in the Church (given it was a helicopter) - it just flew away. Vamos. Off it went.
Having woken the entire neighbourhood except for my immediate family, the chopper chopped off to shine its light in someone elses window.
Do you think helicopter pilots like freaking out nervous housewives at 11.45pm on a Sunday night?
I think they do.
Well the last laugh will be on them. Next time they come near my window, I'll be ready for 'em. In my pj's with Husband's crutches.
Trez menacing.
Or maybe I should just get an eyemask and earplugs...? Urban life. What a bore.

The net result is that today my hair looks like its been in a candyfloss machine and really this weather doesn't help.

And its only Monday.

Let it begin, again

Here we all are again. That's you too.
Back at the beginning.
The great boulder at the top of the steep hill called life which had been teetering on the edge has just been flicked over the side by an enthusiastic do-er who likes to do things and now we're on the annual roller-coaster of life that takes us on, eventually, via the M25 (probably blocked) and the Dartford Tunnel (definitely shut) to the heady warmth of summer 2012...
How nice it'd be to press the fast-forward button on the great control-in-the-sky and get the year done and dusted.
But I suppose we'd only find ourselves once more on the brink of total-organised-chaos as nothing can alter the flying of time. Time which is flying so incredibly fast - faster even than the Concord or than a Jaguar in full gallop, faster even than The Bolt doing the 200m...
And its not like I'm having a ball every moment of this flying time. Probably same as you.
Much of this time is currently spent de-nitting the heads of my two infested but still huggable (just) girls. Another bunch of this time is spent looking for a leotard that fits Mol (think I may have permanently scarred her recently by sending her to a new dance class in a leotard that had a baggy bottom a baggy stomach a sagging chest we could nearly see her nipples and shoulders that kept falling off - as first impressions go, the other dancers may have had a proper impression to chew over...).
Another bunch of time is working out the new timetable and checking that all the pieces of the weekly jigsaw fit together. So far no missing pieces. And no pieces from another puzzle have yet slipped in.
Not a huge amount of this time-flying-by is spent in a glamorous bar in Mayfair with a rich sugar daddy who says he'd like to buy me a villa in Southern France, or in the beauty parlours of Kensington having my back hot-stoned. Oh not for me! 
So we bump down through September, praying for an Indian Summer - and instead we get the cast off weather system from the West Indies and all the pylons in Durham fall down.
Oh and another bunch of time is spent scribbling in the cheque book. Swimming. After school club. Dancing. Name tapes. Printing photos of the long since passed summer (sob sob). Uniforms (checked too late and realised Mols jumper had shrunk to her mid-waist and the sleeves were like bits of thread dangling from a shoulder...). Shoes. The list goes on but may start to bore you even more. Out-goings are out-weighing the in-comings (mind you, there's not a huge change there).
Already we're nearly half way through September so I guess that's maybe a good thing. Because soon we may be through to November and December and then Father Christmas will come and make every one feel cosy and wrapped in cottonwool before we plunge back into the freezing waters of January.
I feel like I've never had a year so full of potential, and yet so full of clutter. But if I de-clutter the time, then the potential falls away - so it's all one mother of a chicken with a sodding big egg.
My horoscope probably reads something like this: Cancer, if you are a true cancerian you will want to crawl back into your shell and make your home pretty.
Well that'd do me just fine. If someone else wants to drive Valient Ship of Life on my behalf while I plump the cushions, do drop me a line.

och aye

A ten day holiday in Scotland? 
North west coast? 
Do I see you smirking behind a politely positioned knuckle in front of twitching mouth? 
But... Won't it be freezing?
Won't it just rain the whole time? 
Isn't there a risk of snow, even?
Wouldn't you rather spend 13 hours going SOUTH?
Ha! Not on your nelly! The only risk to us 5 intrepid adventurers (uncle scratchy was uncle-napped for the holiday) was inadvertent bog-snorkelling (both Liz & Mol fell into bogs... First liz - up to her waist... It was like a scene from an old fashioned Tarzan where the desperate damsel in distress is running from an evil woman-eating baboon (in this case Liz running from crazed sister...) and she slips into quicksand and sinks up to her chin, gulping with bulging eyes knowing her time is up... Luckily for this damsel her mother was two steps behind and pulled her muddy derrier from the black goo. And then Mol (moment of parental concern: how thick can you get?) 20 seconds later despite my "watch the bog Mol!" yell, goes and dives legs first into the exact same bog that just ate Liz...) - and (returning to initial train-of-thought) being decapitated by a low-flying Tornado Jet plane (that came over our heads just as Mol asked Husband if we are really allowed to light fires on the beach...- we thought being blown up by a missile would be pretty harsh punishment... Mind you, it's what to expect nowadays... N'est ce pas?) that had us all flattened to the smooth pebbles of the shore as it blew our eardrums and reduced Liz to a screaming shivering frightened wreck. Spare a thought for children of war-torn countries I thought as it disappeared over the brow of the local Munroe to dodge some deer antlers or claim a haggis or whatever. 

Scotland totally rocked the family of MR. Not least because of the genuinely breath-taking views & beaches & crystal clear emerald seas & pink Heather & lack of sirens & fluffy eared cows that meander lazily over the roads & the little men with orange hair and swishing kilts that jump out of the bushes and play Bonnie Prince Charlie on their bagpipes (just checking if you're still awake) & all 4 of us plus uncle scratchy having the most amazing rowing sessions over the loch while seals with beseechingly scrummy brown eyes bob in the sea beside us... 

It was just. Well. I don't know. Scotland! 
Brilliant!
Can we come back?
(Will bring snorkell & ear defenders...)

is it a snail? is it a whale? no its a trussed up M.R...

I'm just having a negative flashback.
Rewinding a week or so, before the whole Not Quite Gastric Flu incident, on the first day of our time in Devon I did an IDIOTIC thing.
Possibly the most stupid thing I did since getting paralytically drunk when I was pregnant with Mol (explains a lot... but I was young, I didn't know that if my period was late I'd really be pregnant... Yes, I did biology for A-Level...). Or maybe even more stupid than that time when I was getting on the tube with Mol ahead of me and Liz behind me, and I got stuck in the doors as they closed with Mol on the tube and Liz on the platform. Both children wailing. And obviously no gallant passenger jumped up to help me, no, no, in true Brit style the assholes in the carriage looked up from their dirty Metro's with raised eyebrows wondering how this interesting predicament was going to end. Well, all 3 of us are still here to tell the tale, so the complacent fuckers on the tube can shove the dirty Metro up their dirty...
Anyway, going off on a tangent.
Sorry about my language. That occasion on the tube really pissed me off though.
How can people watch and not help? Is it another sign of our strange times... Hey, look! A panicking mother with children on and off the tube, lets do some rubber-necking! Hey! Free trainers! Lets go raid some more shops! Hell, lets burn it all down afterwards too - I've got matches in my pocket that say light-me! The relationship is as clear as the water in the local council pool (once you've pushed the pubes and verucca-plasters out the way).
Anyway. So, back to the point.
So, on the first day of our Devonshire Cream Break, I said to the girls as we bumped off the A38 nearing the end of our 4 hour journey (which I was driving alone, so had a tennis racket to hand to whack any moaners or "are we nearly there"-ers, or shouters or fighters, or mainly, sorry - not to whack the girls with - any petrol pumps that dared totalise a filling up pump over £50... - a lot of whacking going on I tell you), HEY! Girls! I've got a great idea! How about I buy myself a wetsuit too?
I had visions of us all splashing into the crystal clear Devonshire sea, a bit like a scene from Baywatch, but English and a little greyer, great white smiles on our faces, the sun bouncing off the modest waves, a boogy board tucked under our arms, and people admiring us from the beach...
I thought they'd not heard me, and that I may have actually got away with it, and not have to buy a wetsuit (because my other vision which quickly slipped over the Baywatch scenario, was of us tiptoeing into a weed-filled-sea, the skies black with cloud, our towels blown onto wet sand, and the car key lost in a sandcastle-moat...), but no. To my horror... YEAH! COOL MUM! Way to go! Awesome! Lets go now! Get a pink one! Get a shorty! Get a board! Get a new body too...
Huh?!
So the very next day, true to my word, we snuck to the local Devonshire wetsuit shop called Pickles (is that because you get pickled when you go into a wetsuit and then into the sea?) and the 15 year old shop assistant stuffing a pasty into his mouth surrounded by acne (not his fault I know, but can't help what one see's), spat his crumbs out in my face and told me: You need to be able to fit two fingers, no more, between the suit and the skin. UG - I'm thinking, well, I don't need your fingers going anywhere near my skin thank you.

2 Hours later, its scene two (minus the lost car keys thank god) and we're tip toeing into the water, me feeling like a sausage that's about to burst its skin in my pink and black (wow, its the same as mine mum, says Mol, how cool are we? - I'm nearly replying, about as fucking cool as MCHammers crutch) wetsuit, and my girls in theirs looking way better and 'at home'...

Despite a lack of paparazzi and camera flashes to admire the 3 of us jumping and boarding in the fridgesome water, and despite the fact that a man left the water (he had strange man-boobs that actually bounced as he walked - has he NO idea his boobs bounce?) telling us 'watch out for the jellies' - we stuck it out and screams of delight were fast replacing screams of ffffff-hahaha-colllldddddd, as the wetsuits warmed up and we caught some fat-waves.

So in fact now I come to think of it, although I feel a bit like that man with man-boobs (what on EARTH does a woman my age think she's doing in a pink & black wetsuit, clutching a board that has cartoon fish on it?) I have to say: it was the bloody best thing I've done for a long long time.
Rock on the sea!
Rock on wetsuits!
Bring on the fat surf - and yeah baby - see that chick standing on the board? (yep, in my dreams...)

being nearly 5

So Liz hasn't had a birthday party for 2 years. We feel a bit neglectful. This year she's getting a party. And proper presents (last year to her great delight she unwrapped a packet of cocoa-pops... - is that qualifying as child abuse? Nearly?).
Having a birthday in the middle of the school holidays has its pros and cons. The pro is that for the last two years we've fobbed her off with a "but everyone is on holiday my dear. We'll have a family tea party, ok? Just as fun!".
Now she's nearly 5 she's caught wind of communication methods other than jungle-drums. "Why don't you email Aisha's mum? Mum, you should really text Alices parents, I know you have their number. Why don't you set up a twitter feed? Mum, there's this new forum attached to google where you can post tailored messages for exclusive parties for 5 year olds..."
I feel like the petulant teenager. WHATEVER.
The con to having a birthday in the holidays is that there are still a few people around and about who are very very very happy to have something to do on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of August.
Suddenly there are 12 children to entertain and feed.
And on top of this, I have returned from a week in Devon with some sort of bug. An Almost Being Sick Bug. My nieces both spent the last 5 days coughing up every sort of wondrous substance - at any time of day - maybe in the drive home from the beach (said wonders being caught in an upsidedown frisby - who'd have thought how useful they really can be?) or say, at 1030pm just as the last glass of Valpolicella has been sunk and the cheese board polished off - loving parents repair to the bedroom of their beloved for a goodnight kiss and tuck-up to find them caked in regurgitated pizza... etc. I could tell you more but we've done the sick-thing previously and you know what I'm on about.
I came home with a mild strain.
I've yet to revisit my wondrous lunch or breakfast, instead, my stomach is festering and boiling sordidly - like its plotting for my ruin at the most important part of the day... and can't decide yet at what point it'd be most inconvenient to empty myself. "Neeeheeheeheeee"(evil laughter from stomach), "what can I do to cause ruin and humiliation..?" (rubs hands together and laughs another burst of evil)
Tomorrow is Liz's party.
This morning I made THE cake - practically with a clothes peg on my nose, such was my disinterest in the production. I felt robotic as I wizzed the ingredients up, not enjoying the aromas of vanilla and sugar and all things nice as they bake in the oven. This evening I will transform the cake into a magnificent ... (don't want to ruin the surprise) - and hopefully the sardines dear Husband sensitively bought for our dinner won't make it as a garnish for the cake...
Liz and Mol are in a state of nearly high excitement about tomorrow.
I'm in a state of oh god how will we do it low excitement. I may have to go down to Green Lanes and score some crack to get me through it.
Actually as I write I already feel better. Maybe I just needed to vent anxiety at the computer - my therapist - and bit by bit the games the chocolate fingers the party poppers the balloons the screams of delight as Husband gets them in a tizz over Simon Says - will all fall neatly into place over night, and the Almost Being Sick Bug will get bored of trying to find the ultimate moment for its show and piss off to the noisy student house opposite us. That'd be a much better home for the Almost Being Sick Bug. Except I'm pretty sure that by the time it got to the student house it'd have transmogrified into virulent vomming and disastrous diarrhoea... That at least would shut them up in one sense of the word.
And with that. I embrace the party. I embrace the cake. I embrace the madness that will be shortlived for 2.5hours. Its very manageable.
I wonder where that local dealer has got to...?

chicken on the bone

So, I was sitting with Liz & Mol last night as they chomped away on some chicken I'd baked for them. Chicken drumsticks. They call it "chicken on the bone". It's a pretty clear definition of what they are eating.
So, chomp chomp. Liz (who is nearly 5...) takes a hearty bite of her chicken-on-the-bone and then, while teeth are gnashing the white flesh around her mouth like a cement mixer, she asks me a question (a few bits spit out onto the table landing close to my vegetarian elbow).
"Mum, so, is this pork or beef that I'm eating?"

My last blog entry was months and months and months and years and centuries ago. Almost last millennium before internet was invented. Why such a long break in the correspondence to the masses who need this drug? The drug of words and distraction from the mundane routine of work or children or cleaning the kitchen floor for the 2nd time in a day as the 2nd meal of the day has been uploaded off a spoon or fork or plate and joyously left by the children who squash a bit into the tiles so the mother who is on her hands and knees actually has to scrub the baked bean off with real traditional elbow grease. fuckers.

Well to answer the question I asked about 400-sentences ago it is because I've been preoccupied by academia and school and children and housework and cooking and sainsburys and eastenders and wondering if the sun will ever come out again after that lovely drought of a spring and I sort of got carried away by time and woosh before I knew it hey pasta&pesto it's the 2nd of August. Shocking how time flies.

I heard a rumour that time flies when you're having fun.
Well I would say since March I've had a bit of fun but mostly I've been chasing my children to school and then chasing my tail around essays (and then sobbing at the results) and then trying to feed everyone nourishing food (chips tonight? Pizza tomorrow! Fried eggs and bacon on Thursday! Fish fingers on Friday as is tradition... of course you can have another packet of crisps to tide you over). So the mother has been feeling a bit literally ruined. Whilst clasping vats of chardonnay and chugging the occasional cancer stick.

I'm sure I can hear necks creaking as the masses who read this nod in agreement at the recent chaos and accelleration (can't spell it sorry) of life generally.
Answers on postcards if you think its to do with us all having collosal amounts of fun.

Although I have had some massively fun times. Like going to Take That (even the 3 hour journey home as fun). Like going to North West Ireland, otherwise known as Donegal, otherwise known as Southern Ireland (of course it makes sense!). Like drinking black zambucca on my birthday and being drunk for weeks afterwards. All good fun.

My theory is this: I blame the children. If the childrens lives weren't so full of after school clubs and dancing and birthday parties and uniform updates and new shoes and hair cuts and more packets of crisps or trips to the park and then urgent dashes for the loo (always a poo) in the middle of nowhere.
So now I have a solution to slow down life: home schooling, never leave the house (unless for adult activity), long hair, Iceland ready made meals delivered to the door, potties in every room.
With this resolution I believe life will slow down and I may have more time to write my blog.

Although I may also go insane.
So, perhaps a happy medium. Send them to school! Don't cut their hair! Eat meals together (rather than having to cook two suppers every day of the week). Cut down after school activities! Increase DVD consumption!
Yeah.

Who want's to join the slow-it-down club?
See you in WHSmith buying bumper packs of dvd-box-sets, and just think how bloody glorious all the blogs will become?

How Michael Jackson really died

OK - so, hands up - I admit it - I bailed out, I chickened it, I froze in the headlights of physical activity. I didn't do the half marathon. And what a goddamned relief that was too!
I had a moment of clarity one morning when I was running UP Muswell Hill - which, so, I know its not exactly a Scottish mountain - but its pretty bloody steep - and I was sweating and thinking I can do this, I can do this, only another 1/4 mile to go till I'm at the top... and then I got to the top - huge sense of satisfaction - but then, I realised if I want to get FIT for this thirteen-fucking-miles (which was what I'd labelled it in my head by then) then I'd have to carry on running for about another hour - at least! and not just once a week - like, 3 times a week.
Well. I realised another thing. Life is too short to get worried about getting fit for a half marathon. So. When I got to the top of Muswell Hill, I did in fact carry on and run for another 1hour and 5minutes. And when I got home I said to myself: Mother, you did good. You know you can do it if you really want to or if someone came into the house with an AK47 and demanded I run it - yeah, you could. But frankly there are other fish to fry right now in this life or yours - namely - essays and children. Neither to be eaten and mainly to be handled with a lot of care and tenacity.
So. I'm afraid I (with great relief to all parts of me - physical mental emotional spiritual musical political biological pedagogical) I sent an email to my Brother In Law and resigned.
Now, I just do 'nice' runs of about 1/2 hour. Around Finsbury Park, where I comment out loud to no-one how disgusting the people are who leave chicken legs and cans of high-alcohol beer strewn around the park.
People really are disgusting.

And onto something very different. Did you know how Michael Jackson REALLY died?
Well I do now, now that Liz (aged 4.5) has told me the truth for real life.
"Mummy, when I get an ear reflection (infection) and I take a lot of mendicine (medicine) you know I have to be careful because Michael Jackson (OW!) is dead because when he was ill he drank too much mendicine, you know? How much calpol can I actually have anyway for real life?"
I must get in touch with those Lawyers. I think that murder trial can be put on hold.

long distance driving

We drove to Scotland for the half term.
Alarms rang at 6.15am on Saturday morning. Into the dark grey rain by 7am, onto the M6 by 9.25M... Great motoring.
So what does one take in a car to keep the children occupied for 7 hours of tarmac joy?
Well.
Food first and foremost.
Liz & I spent Friday pm boiling and mashing and mayonnaising eggs for the essential egg-sandwich travel munch. (Liz promptly refused to eat any the next day. Insisting on 'ham, cream cheese and cucumber, MUM, like I always have?' - where did she get the question mark dialogue from? Its like, yeah?) Egg sandwiches always bring a smile to the face - just when the back passengers get a whiff of the freshly opened egg sandwich container... If small children were allowed to swear, there'd be a major kick off: FUCKING HELL MUM YOUR SANDWICHES ARE TWATTING RANK. Or something. I think we have a few years left of not having to endure such language. (I'll keep you posted though.)
Crisps. Essential for dropping down the booster chairs and emptying on to the violating all public health measures car carpet (which are then eaten about 1 hour later when Liz or Mol remembers they're down there).
Chocolate. Great for bringing on huge life threatening thirsts. And for smearing all over car seats and faces. Liz usually gets it in her hair. A good look for the start of a holiday when you're never sure when the next hair wash will be.
Fruit. Especially tangerines. Peel. Everywhere. Pips galore.
Sweets. Great for causing huge fights in the back seats. How many have you got? How many have you had?  How old are you anyway? Do you deserve these? Mum, Mol has got 4 and I only have 1. etc.
So, food over and done with, there then have to be activities.
Activities are best if they don't involve the front passenger having to double-twist around in order to facilitate.
Forgetting that Liz cannot read, magazines (of the pink and fluffy animal variety) were purchased and given at 7am. By 7.15am, Liz had thrown hers on the floor (not yet covered in food debris) and sworn (not in an adult way) that she couldn't ever do it and it was smelly and a poo.
So, in reserve, having subconsciously been aware that this could be the case, a large pad of paper and a new set of Sainsburys cheapest felt tips were available.
Paper is great. Not only can you draw on it but you can also rip it into tiny little pieces. Hundreds and hundreds of them. And then drop them all over the discarded magazine (2 hours later - where's my magazine?) sticking to the freshly licked chocolate smears and generally scattering like dandruff from a Dulux dog.
Pens with lids are good too. Because the lids are always lost and fall on the floor or down cracks and then Liz gets the chance to shout (again) at Mol for being STUPID and the pens will all dry up if there are no lids and then Liz gets the chance to hit Mol and call her a big STUPID poo (for the 8th time).
Finally, cd's are a good thing to have. Especially when the boot of the car is SO full up that the back speakers are blocked by bags and tangerine peel, that the children demand it to be LOUDER (in union at this point) so that the adults who are admiring the views off the M6 and wondering how many miles to the gallon the old X-reg volvo really does, have to listen to Josephs Technicoloured Dream Coat full blast, for the 50th time.
Its quite good to try to get lost too - this adds a brilliant distraction to the rear-seats, who zone into parental gunfire - but on this journey we were too into the M6 to get lost.
Anyway. So, 7 hours later, the car in need of some sort of fumigation process, the children needing to be sent into a high-pressure-hose to remove tangerine peel chocolate pen lids cd-covers etc from most parts of their body, and parents in need of a high alcohol transfusion - we made it to Scotland.
Where it rained for 7 days.

how late?

3am!
That is the time the clock said when I finally collapsed into my bed on Saturday night - I mean, Sunday morning. 3am!
And here's the weird bit...
No child had woken me up demanding I clean up their vomit.
No siren had gone off on the road outside.
No car had crawled down the road with its thump-thump-music blaring. None of the above!
And, Husband wasn't snoring! No, because he'd been up and about till 3am - voluntarily - with me.
What's this I hear you say? Have you been partying? Yes, I reply! Triumphantly not feeling geriatric for a millisecond. Yes, partying with a capital-P.
Actually, there was a slight geriatric moment at about 930pm when I realised, having quaffed almost a whole bottle of very quaffable prosecco, that I really needed to fill the bubbles in with some food otherwise I'd last about 1/2 hour more before I either vomitted on the purple walls or collapsed messily on the dancefloor - at which point I dragged my husband out of the party (which was a tremendous joint 40th (I know, ok, we're fine with that) of some super brilliant party givers who are also super lovely friends of ours...) down to the ground floor where I demanded copious mounds of bread and butter and cheese and my husband swallowed a burger like it was an inconveniently sized pill. After which, geriatric food requirements over, we returned back upstairs and proceeded to 'rock-da-house' till well after 230am. (Rock-da-house. That's quite a geriatrically sad thing to say. But it has to be said because 'da house' was rockin'.)
And at some point the dj realised that the requests for ABBA were outweighing the requests for any thing that resembled music so he kindly let us have the final request (now I can't even remember what it was) and then he pulled the plug. And like someone letting out the air of a balloon, when silence fell so too did my levels of energy and suddenly all I wanted was to be in my bed, contact lenses out, make up off, pj's on, eyes shut, room not spinning.
We had to go via a cab firm where apparently I roared with disapproval at the fee the poor man quoted us (Husband told me about this in the morning when I was feeling weak and vulnerable from general abuse) and we bumped our way up to Harringay, still shouting as though we were in the club with the music blaring in our ear holes (which it wasn't because we were in a taxi that smelt of floral air freshener, ug - I mean, do they really wonder why people puke in their cabs? its not from booze mishandling its triggered purely by their foul 'fragrant' mirror dangle things).
I thought I'd lost my phone so the friends in our cab frantically phoned the people left at the club (can I call it that? It was a bar, but it was also a club, and although technically our friends had hired a bar, it was so a club because we were there DANCING till 230am... if that's not a club, then tell me, world, what is?) and I drunkenly tried to recall where I'd last used it (no idea other than trying to see what the time was last time I sat on the loo) and then suddenly my pocket was vibrating and I was like 'hey, guys, I'm vibrating! Is anyone else?' - er, no, you thick drunk mare, its your phone. So it was. Phone found, we scrambled up the stairs to our bed via the loo the sink the toothbrush avoid eye contact in mirror at this time of the morning and then bed. Mild spins followed by blackout.

Hurrah.
2 days later I am fit enough to tell the tale.
And guess this? So, I worked out, this is the first time in over EIGHT YEARS! yes, EIGHT YEARS that I have voluntarily stayed up till that stupid hour of the night. Do I blame the children? Entirely.
I thank you.

2feb...

would you adam and eve it?!
its the 2nd feb and still no alcoholic bev has passed my quivering lips. (they don't quiver that often, mostly at the thought of a nice quenching glass of wine... or perhaps the perfectly fresh bagel with the perfect butter and perfect marmite on it... or maybe a freshly baked home made brownie...)
what's happened?
my halo still shineth! brightly! positively blinding!
can you see it? no - that's not the sun!
why such abstinence I hear your enquire? why, you turncoat, have you not yet fallen from your perch of moral highground? get ye to the bottle shop! Absinthe required!
well, its like this see: yesterday, 1st feb, as my liver was getting ready to brace itself for a Victoria Falls sized wave of booze, I realised in fact that I had to be on my course. And given that its a counselling children course I realised that it wouldn't really do to turn up pissed as an old bat who'd fallen into the barrel. Just not the thing really. So, I have had to postpone the reentry into the world of wine for another 24hours. And actually, truth be told, at the end of the day, you know what I mean, innit, to be frank, to be fair, I have to admit, shockingly, (gasps from the crowd) that really, I'm quite happy in my little no booze bubble. And am rather, (more gasps) dreading the re-entry.
A bit like when an astronaut tumbles off the lofty heights of the moon, and then has to go through the trauma of re-entering the earths atmosphere... The astronaut, lets call it, her, "Sheila" for now, just to give her a face. She's got long hair, sort of honey colour, and her teeth are really straight because she had tracks when she was small. Sheila, has been on the moon, all free and clear headed for a long time - lets say, the month of January, and then she realises that she has to come home. And although she wants to she's a bit scared of the voyage. She knows it'll get really hot. And that her face will maybe go all g-force a bit when she goes through the landing part of getting to the earth. So. Understandably, there's ambivalence, right?
Well, I'm Sheila. And right now I'm feeling a bit ambivalent.
Although I am looking forward to a bloody MASSIVE glass of something tonight after bringing the girls back from their hellish ballet class.

nearly there...

30th Jan!
wow.
so, it looks like I made it! yeeeeeahh. looks like I made it to the end... unless something terribly stressful happens tomorrow and I am forced against my quivering will to imbibe the demon alcohol.
but, fingers crossed nothing terribly stressful will happen tomorrow other than the usual Monday stresses (work, taking the girls to ballet - which is actually a form of hell on earth, however much 'one' likes ballet and small girls, its still hell...).

30 days without a drop to drink.
how ripe and ready for the picking do the bottles in my larder look tonight?

the halo is about to reach peak glow... and I wonder idly how long it'll take to tarnish?
answers on a postcard. or, better still, we can discuss it down the pub...
24 hours and not counting a little bit at all.

the big 13m...

OK, so while I polish my no-booze halo (Husband has fallen in a ditch... and now I'm going to verbally stamp on his weakness. You're WEAK Husband. WEAK. - he's been drinking red wine. In my house. Under my nose. And in front of my jealous eyes... Oh, but he's WEAK) I am also trying to buff up my mid-to-late-30's-some-what-unappetising-physique. Buffing up by which I mean, I've set myself a physical challenge. Via my super-fit brother-in-law. Who is a 'big runner'. He ran the London marathon in about 45minutes, and in December he flew out to Las Vegas for some gambling and another marathon which I believe he ran in-between visits to different casino's. With his pockets weighted down with lose change. And on top of all that he raised shit-loads-of-dosh (such a good phrase) for a very close-to-home charity (Saving Faces). So over a drunken Christmas conversation as I shoved my face full of Christmas cake, pringles, brussle-sprouts, olives, smoked salmon, brandy butter, Cadburys Roses, prosecco, toast and marmite, stuffing, pasta, pasta sauces, more prosecco, white wine, red wine, port, coffee, tea, cucumber, humous, butter, kettle chips, peanuts, beer, ginger beer, tangerines, home made fudge, the table, napkins, one Volvo, Father Christmas and a 200-year-old-lime-tree - basically anything in sight went down the cake-hole,  my lovely brother in law propositioned me with a half marathon challenge. Having just eaten Father Christmas and an ancient tree I felt a bit cornered and heartily agreed.
So now on March 20th, you may experience what is more commonly known as an 'earth quake'. Fear not! This will just be me stamping reluctantly and inelegantly around a 13mile (What the..?) track somewhere out in Buckinghamshire.
What I'm currently concerned about is a.) what to wear (does my bum look big in these skin-tight legging things and this strange fluorescent t-shirt which appear to be compulsory clothing for runners?); b.) how the fuck do I get around a 13mile course without dying? And should I collapse at the 1mile mark, how humiliating will that experience REALLY be (for me and then for my family, after-all, they'll be there, at the 1mile flag, with a stretcher...); c.) if I'm feeling really energetic, what's the etiquette for elbowing slow-coaches out the way and pushing them headfirst in the mud, laughing outrageously evil-y, down, ye of little speed?
I ran for about 45minutes this morning, (relief: not in fluorescent - although I was in tight leggingy things which have a certain amount of derrier-revelation... unpleasant for pedestrians who have to witness 'it' as I 'bounce' by like a baboon in trainers...) - and actually, I didn't collapse or wet myself or get heart palpitations or vomit - and when I got home in my blue leggings, I felt, wait for it - yeah, OK!
So. There is hope. There is hope.
Albeit small.
The other etiquette I wondered about running is, so, is it OK to have a pint of Chardonnay at the end of it or do I HAVE to have water?

over half way

To keep you updated.
The glow of my alcohol free halo is still shining, and feeling quite glow-mungous. Not a drop has passed my lips although I realise that in the paella Husband cooked the other day there was more than a 'dash' of sherry (I didn't even know we had sherry in our house... Must have inherited it from one of my Granny's all those years ago. She must be looking down from the clouds above, happy to see her bottle come out...)...
And now I don't feel the need to fall into bed at 9.59pm! I am actually super awake at 11pm! Reading my very most excellent Jonathan Franzen book Freedom although having said that I do then wake up at 702am feeling a bit like, huh? late night? no hangover? feel a bit snoozy? why is the sky SO DAMNED BLACK? etc. Winter still sucks however glowing my halo may be.
The recycling men must be shocked at our lack of weekly wine-bottle-disposal. Our recycling bin is one of sparkling water bottles and spinach packets. Oh yes. We are good. Very good.

No one has yet come up to me and said, my god, you look 10 years younger! whats the secret?
But that's ok because its not about looking younger. No. I'm really not THAT superficial, thank you very much. No. Its how I feel! And if I'm really honest, I now feel about 36 instead of 46. So, kind of age appropriate I should imagine.
Husband has done very well too and imbibed no alcohol as far as I can tell. Unless he has a very good breath-adjuster for his homebound journey from Soho.
Only a few more weeks to go.
And then it may all fall about in about 24hours. But at least I'll have done it.

New Years Resolutions

Hello! I'm here! Remember me? I used to write an awful lot of rubbish a lot of the time and post it up thinking that you guys would want to read it! Ha! So big headed.
And then I had a bit of a calamatous time which involved a lot of sofa-lying and a lot of brain-shut-down and a lot of not a lot. Poor Old MothersRuin really felt like life wasn't playing fair. So MR kind of fell off her own perch temporarily.
But don't worry!
New Years Resolution is to come back. Make a Take That Come Back. Selling out in Wembley Stadium in less than 60 seconds - that's me! Or in cyber terms, 100,000 download click-through traffic jam gridlock come back.
Already as I type the power surge is teetering on the cliff of all out failure.
Talking of New Years Resolutions... I have made one. And it lasts for January. And its so predictable and I feel so terribly 30-something-suffering-from-over-indulgance that I'm nearly embarrassed to disclose it. But I shall. And then all of you other 30-something-suffering-from-over-indulgance can join me in the fight for the Quick Finish Of January.
Usually I wouldn't want to rush a month, especially one as fragrant and rewarding, colourful and warm as January. But now that I've given up imbibing alcoholic bevs for the entire month, I'm wishing it away. My nightly mantra is wake up and it be 1st feb, wake up and it be 1st feb, wake up and it be 1st feb ...
I know I'm a bit sad.
God how sad I'd be if I'd given up chocolate or cheese as well. Maybe I'll do that for Lent though later on in the year. Depending on how the current battle goes.
Actually its not as bad as I thought it was going to be. I did this last year and remembered feeling like a frisky 24 year old by the end of the month. Jumping out of bed at 7am without a groan, wrinkled eyes no longer wrinkled, bouncing through the day without batting an eyelid of exhaustion - my health halo was glowing a deep gold. So I do this with anticipation. The fridge has been cleared of all offending bottles and Husband has decided to join me until he decides to not join me. Fair enough. He's done 7 whole days with no complaint. We've even been out to dinner and been in a BAR where booze is sold and visible and shouting out buy-me, buy-me quicker than a chocolate bar says eat more eat more, and we have resisted. Will our will be so determined this time in 2 weeks? The proof will be in the pudding. Or Liver.
So.
And since the absence has been so long here's a small update on the kid situation.
Mol nearly 8, still believes in Father Christmas. So we had a joyous and magic time filling stockings in the dark whilst full to bursting with rich claret, and then in the morning we realised that FC had totally fucked up and put all the wrong presents into the wrong stockings. So Mol and Liz didn't have such a joyous time as they opened their presents with slight frowns on their faces as they realised that most of their presents were completely age-inappropriate.
"Ha ha" we laughed nervously with smelly morning Claret breath, "Father Christmas must have been so tired and it is so dark in your room - poor him, I've heard of this happening before..."  - seemed to do the trick.
Mols faith in the magic was tested again at a later date when my brother opened up AN IDENTICAL chocolate Lindt Bell - "but that's amazing - Father Christmas gave me one of those too Uncle Scratchy..." exclaimed Mol with wonderment. We all exploded with more nervous laughter and said HOW AMAZING!
Liz is a 4.5year old who is, I sympathise also being the youngest, on perma-catch-up with Older Sister and Older Sisters Sophisticated Friends. I feel for her. I can understand why she has outbursts and hits and throws things at people and behaves like an escaped asbo a lot of the time. But she had such a great time over christmas - measuring how much mince pie and carrot were eaten by FC and his reindeer with such care, wishing that every day could be Christmas, finding the idea that if winter was HOT and summer was COLD extremely hysterical. Its the little things in life that make a person tick.
My kids don't know about New Year Resolutions and by default of being my children they're perfect anyway so no resolution aint gonna improve on them I tell ya dat! ha.
(Am I delirious...)
So that's about it for the first one of the year.
No big story line (unlike East Enders...). Just chewing the fat.
But there'll be more. I hope. In time.
Adios amigoes. From the increasingly glowing from super human self restraint MR.