I have a very tiny hangover.
But that's what is to be expected when Mothers Ruin finds herself kidnapped by wreckless no good wino's and drinking Lauren Perier champagne at 1am in Claridges.
There I am walking along Bond Street (doesn't happen often) in my M&S platforms when WOOSH this bunch of well quoiffed ladies grab me by the (not so brown any more) arms and threaten my life if I don't obey their orders. You must drink lots of wine and then when your body is full, go on and drink some more. And then really push the boat out, break your 12am curfew and chuck back more booze, this time fizzy, even if it spills out of the side of your mouth, YOU MUST DRINK.
So my body does feel a bit hungover this morning. But all in the good name of fun.
Actually this shouldn't be about me but the friend who's not-hen-party/birthday we were out celebrating. But because its my blog I can actually shift the focus of attention to me because, well, I can.
Actually I think I'm still a bit drunk so I should probably stop writing. I think I'll go cut some grass in my garden. Fresh air is a good hangover cure I believe.
Hope you girls are all feeling as happy and rough as I do this morning!
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Thursday, 3 September 2009
asbestos hair
My hair dryer what I was given when I was 9 years old and on my way to Boarding School (yes at 9 years old. I've seen 9 year olds. They're small. Why was I sent away at 9 years old? Was I really that bad? Has it scarred me for life? Am I bitter and twisted and permanently damaged? Did I ever call my matron Mum and my ginger-bearded-science teacher Dad? Why do I dream so much of school as a wrinkled adult?) is dying.
Last night was the fortnightly "Mol, we have to wash your hair. You have creatures living in there and they're not from this world" hair washing session. Actually, the older she has become the better the session is. There is less AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOO thrashing and more, oh, yeah, I like this Pantene stuff, wow, my hair is like WAY smooth. But I still have to dry it because she has long hair and I was told by my Mum, no, I mean my Matron Tamsin, that to go to bed with wet hair was like a walk down pneumonia alley and kissing death hello. So. We do the hair wash. ("Mum feel my hair its like silk" - maybe I should film and send to Pantene and see if she can be their next shampoo-model.) And then I get my creaky hair dryer out. The box has long since disintegrated. I admit, over the last few years I've been hearing strange noises come from my old Braun friend. Ignoring them because I don't want anything to be wrong. But last night the noises were no longer ignorable, the rattle was the sound of parts which no longer wanted to be together. It was as though in the quiet days in between use they had been having a big discussion about breaking up.
You know, I don't like these shiny red walls any more. And hey, I feel old and tired. I need a change. And you're not the macho fan you once were. Well, you can talk. You just blow hot air down a tube. Badly.
And then when I slide the switch to ON, there is this almighty rumpus, and then I notice as the hot air blows weakly down the tube that bits of 'stuff' are being spat out onto Mols hair. It looks like asbestos. But surely I can't have been 9 SO long ago that hair dryers were made of asbestos? And then there is this dilemma. Do I carry on drying Mols hair and let bits of asbestos spit out all over her precious head, or do I quit the drying and let her go to bed with wet hair and therefore invite pneumonia into her room on a red carpet? Being sort of mostly English and a bit incapable of making firm decisions (sometimes) I went for the middle of the road: dried the top of the hair (which now has bits of asbestos nesting at the roots) and left the long bits wet. Which basically was probably the worse option, but as I type she's has a whole day of being OK no weird asbestos side effects and no pale pneumonic looking chest. I guess I ought to investigate a new machine. Sad though. The old model being replaced by the new. There are many fun dorm memories attached with that old red hair dryer. Singing to Eye of the Tiger or Take my breath away (mainly down deodorant cans but occasionally if there was a shortage out came the hair dryer). Maybe I could do some modern art with it, turn it into a kind of shrine, attach it to the wall in a frame - could be a new movement - and I'd be the founder of it, me and my Braun. I can't be so flippant and just chuck it. I think not.
Oh my god! Lucas! East Enders! Ex-wife dead on a rake! Who'd Adam n Eve it? We watched her bleeding to death! Before 8pm! SO. GOOD.
On a final note I'd just like to congratulate the new mums in my life. Congratulations New Mums in my life. You're amazing! New babies! Sore bits! Long nights! No sleep! Loads of washing! I am a girl - no, sorry, not true, I am a woman (with wrinkles) - with a few words of advice: eat cake (by that I mean good home made cake); not too many visitors; get into East Enders as soon as possible and be nice to your man once a day if you can, otherwise he'll stop bringing you tea. Mind you its highly unlikely that any new mum will be reading this so I really shouldn't bother.
Last night was the fortnightly "Mol, we have to wash your hair. You have creatures living in there and they're not from this world" hair washing session. Actually, the older she has become the better the session is. There is less AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOO thrashing and more, oh, yeah, I like this Pantene stuff, wow, my hair is like WAY smooth. But I still have to dry it because she has long hair and I was told by my Mum, no, I mean my Matron Tamsin, that to go to bed with wet hair was like a walk down pneumonia alley and kissing death hello. So. We do the hair wash. ("Mum feel my hair its like silk" - maybe I should film and send to Pantene and see if she can be their next shampoo-model.) And then I get my creaky hair dryer out. The box has long since disintegrated. I admit, over the last few years I've been hearing strange noises come from my old Braun friend. Ignoring them because I don't want anything to be wrong. But last night the noises were no longer ignorable, the rattle was the sound of parts which no longer wanted to be together. It was as though in the quiet days in between use they had been having a big discussion about breaking up.
You know, I don't like these shiny red walls any more. And hey, I feel old and tired. I need a change. And you're not the macho fan you once were. Well, you can talk. You just blow hot air down a tube. Badly.
And then when I slide the switch to ON, there is this almighty rumpus, and then I notice as the hot air blows weakly down the tube that bits of 'stuff' are being spat out onto Mols hair. It looks like asbestos. But surely I can't have been 9 SO long ago that hair dryers were made of asbestos? And then there is this dilemma. Do I carry on drying Mols hair and let bits of asbestos spit out all over her precious head, or do I quit the drying and let her go to bed with wet hair and therefore invite pneumonia into her room on a red carpet? Being sort of mostly English and a bit incapable of making firm decisions (sometimes) I went for the middle of the road: dried the top of the hair (which now has bits of asbestos nesting at the roots) and left the long bits wet. Which basically was probably the worse option, but as I type she's has a whole day of being OK no weird asbestos side effects and no pale pneumonic looking chest. I guess I ought to investigate a new machine. Sad though. The old model being replaced by the new. There are many fun dorm memories attached with that old red hair dryer. Singing to Eye of the Tiger or Take my breath away (mainly down deodorant cans but occasionally if there was a shortage out came the hair dryer). Maybe I could do some modern art with it, turn it into a kind of shrine, attach it to the wall in a frame - could be a new movement - and I'd be the founder of it, me and my Braun. I can't be so flippant and just chuck it. I think not.
Oh my god! Lucas! East Enders! Ex-wife dead on a rake! Who'd Adam n Eve it? We watched her bleeding to death! Before 8pm! SO. GOOD.
On a final note I'd just like to congratulate the new mums in my life. Congratulations New Mums in my life. You're amazing! New babies! Sore bits! Long nights! No sleep! Loads of washing! I am a girl - no, sorry, not true, I am a woman (with wrinkles) - with a few words of advice: eat cake (by that I mean good home made cake); not too many visitors; get into East Enders as soon as possible and be nice to your man once a day if you can, otherwise he'll stop bringing you tea. Mind you its highly unlikely that any new mum will be reading this so I really shouldn't bother.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
tick tock...
...is the sound of my biological clock but more importantly the sound of the end of the holidays fast approaching. I'm not so concerned right now about my biological clock, except perhaps that as it ticks the wrinkles find themselves more permanently attached to the corners of my eyes. No. I'm more worried about the fact that now bank holiday has been and gone I have this sort of pit in my stomach that reminds me increasingly regularly that Monday marks a new term, a new academic year, a new career opportunity for me, my kids growing taller and gaining Norf Larndan Aa-tit-tood, innit?, the onset of wrinkles, sorry I mean Winter (have you noticed the colder air...?), another 15 weeks chasing our tails and living for Friday nights and getting blue (hopefully not because we're hypathermic) on Sunday afternoons.
Having spoken to a few Mum-friends I have been having conversations along the lines of "thank goodness its nearly over" and "god I can't wait for them to get back to school" and "I think they're bored of being at home" and "I'm going nuts" and "I'm sick of spending all day clearing up after them" and "I think teachers should be paid more money" and "teachers must be insane" and you get the message. I can see their point. The house is no longer the ordered peaceful haven it was 6 weeks ago. The dirt is prolific. The mess is giant sized. But for all the endless clearing up after them and the repetitive conversations "what are we doing today? who with? where? are we going now? can I watch TV? Actually, can I watch a DVD instead? I don't like peas. I don't need the loo. I have brushed my teeth. I haven't brushed my hair. I forgot to wash my face. Do we have to go to Sainsbury's again? Where are my shoes? Can A/B/C come and play? Can we go to the soft play centre? I still don't like peas..." I have had a splendiferous time this holidays with Liz & Mol.
After 2years of the girls apparently completely hating each other - fighting and shouting and hitting and pushing each other down the stairs and under passing taxis, or where Liz simply was too baby-blob like to play - this holidays has finally seen them come-together as relatively good play-partners. OK they still occasionally hit/push/shout but they have developed one or two games which keep them going for hours: teachers (Mol patronizes Liz for 2hours); Nursery (Mol patronizes Liz for another two hours); doctors (Liz sticks cellotape on Mol's arms and legs and inserts a plastic spoon in her ears/nose/throat); princesses (complicated network of silk scarves draped over the bunk-bed which turns into a sort of innocent - I think - harem where they then pose and drape themselves in elegant princess like fashion whilst listening to Classic FM). Which is really nice. And then I get to prune the over grown plants in my tiny patch of shit-filled-garden and make fairy cakes for my little doctors/princesses/teacher-girls.
Harmony.
So I am in fact not looking forward to them going back to their institutions where the under-paid teachers in their over-filled class-rooms try to teach them numbers and letters. I am going to miss the chaos. I am going to miss their daft questions about totally random unrelated things. And I am going to miss not having to worry about what time it is in the morning... tick tock brrrrrrrrrrrrrrring. UG!
Having spoken to a few Mum-friends I have been having conversations along the lines of "thank goodness its nearly over" and "god I can't wait for them to get back to school" and "I think they're bored of being at home" and "I'm going nuts" and "I'm sick of spending all day clearing up after them" and "I think teachers should be paid more money" and "teachers must be insane" and you get the message. I can see their point. The house is no longer the ordered peaceful haven it was 6 weeks ago. The dirt is prolific. The mess is giant sized. But for all the endless clearing up after them and the repetitive conversations "what are we doing today? who with? where? are we going now? can I watch TV? Actually, can I watch a DVD instead? I don't like peas. I don't need the loo. I have brushed my teeth. I haven't brushed my hair. I forgot to wash my face. Do we have to go to Sainsbury's again? Where are my shoes? Can A/B/C come and play? Can we go to the soft play centre? I still don't like peas..." I have had a splendiferous time this holidays with Liz & Mol.
After 2years of the girls apparently completely hating each other - fighting and shouting and hitting and pushing each other down the stairs and under passing taxis, or where Liz simply was too baby-blob like to play - this holidays has finally seen them come-together as relatively good play-partners. OK they still occasionally hit/push/shout but they have developed one or two games which keep them going for hours: teachers (Mol patronizes Liz for 2hours); Nursery (Mol patronizes Liz for another two hours); doctors (Liz sticks cellotape on Mol's arms and legs and inserts a plastic spoon in her ears/nose/throat); princesses (complicated network of silk scarves draped over the bunk-bed which turns into a sort of innocent - I think - harem where they then pose and drape themselves in elegant princess like fashion whilst listening to Classic FM). Which is really nice. And then I get to prune the over grown plants in my tiny patch of shit-filled-garden and make fairy cakes for my little doctors/princesses/teacher-girls.
Harmony.
So I am in fact not looking forward to them going back to their institutions where the under-paid teachers in their over-filled class-rooms try to teach them numbers and letters. I am going to miss the chaos. I am going to miss their daft questions about totally random unrelated things. And I am going to miss not having to worry about what time it is in the morning... tick tock brrrrrrrrrrrrrrring. UG!
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