Maybe I have writers block or maybe my brain has finally gone on permanent vacation (if I was it I'd be heading somewhere like Mexico, the beans are so good down there and so is the tequilla even the bottles with uggy sort of grub things in them)? But I feel like there is so much going on right now that I can't actually process it and make sense of it.
There doesn't seem to be a good starting point.
I could start from where I left off (Cricket, damp jock straps, tall-men) which would mean that I'd be starting the process of processing from Monday (school) but I think I'd miss other crucial bits of information and then I'd be misrepresenting of my overly fascinating life.
I'll try starting from Sunday night. Me and Mol went to Hyde Park to see an Abba Tribute. (This IS a good starting point, now I come to think of it.) I've never been to a Hyde Park concert - I've been in London for 12 years now. Mol is 6.5years and I suspect this marks the beginning of an expensive ('but its cultural mum, to go watch Girls Love Pink in Hyde Park and where is my mini-skirt', 'there is NO WAY you're going out in that belt Mol' etc) habit.
It was a bit cold and a bit blowy but I had a bottle of rose hidden in my un-suitably un-spangly bag and Mol had a packet of Chewitts - so we were well equipped for a night of hard partying and singing our lungs out.
And there were 30,000 people there! How bonkers is that?! I've been to a football match where there are lots of utterly vomit-inducing men and I've been to a concert in Wembley (Stone Roses! how old am I?) with lots of stoned students, but this outdoor concert malarky is a whole different kettle of chips. Just loads and loads and loads of people! My very intelligent friend (whose brain is never on vacation, but that's probably because she uses it) suggested we wrote our phone numbers on to our childrens arms so that if they got lost they could ask a nice stranger (in flares and wig) to call us and reunite us. So I did. I think that slightly freaked Mol out. The thought of getting lost in a crowd so big all she could see were peoples bums and bad shoes. So once I'd tattooed my number to her arm, she then climbed on board and I had her on my shoulders for pretty much the entire concert. No chance of losing her then.
I chugged my rose.
Mol chewed her chewitts.
We sang very loudly.
We shimmied.
We shammied.
We admired Kylie and her outfits.
We laughed at Chris Evans' rotating ginger wig.
We crowd watched.
We ooed and ah-ed at the end-of-concert fireworks.
And then Friend-with-brain brilliantly gave us a lift back home and Mol fell into bed in an Abba-induced coma.
I can't believe there are people out there who don't like Abba? Who are you criminals? Its just unthinkable that you couldn't not want to dance when Dancing Queen strikes up... (ooh, that reminds me... I've got a wedding this weekend... I hope hope hope we have a bit of Abba... that'll totally ruin my new golden stilletoes! watch this space, I'll probably be checking in next week with a broken ankle...)
Today I have a sore throat. Singing for 2.5hours at full blast clearly not the best thing for throats.
Thank you for the music.
Honey honey honey.
I love you. Shmorgersboard.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Saturday, 12 September 2009
cricket tea
Husband got back from Sardinia with bags under his eyes and nothing in his bags for me or the girls. Disappointed from N8. Where are our Italian souvenirs? Not even a curl of penne or a moldy olive from the crust of a pizza. Dreadful.
And today was Husband's cricket match against the Greenwich Giants. That makes them sound like an exotic team of Americans. But what I mean is that they're actual biological giants. The average height of the opposing team is probably about 6ft-4inches. The average height of the Ladder Eleven is what, maybe 5ft-2inches? The air is more polluted up in N8. We're all a bit stunted. So anyway. I gather from upset-Husband in SE10 that the Giants squashed the Eleven (David and Gollaeth is a fable afterall) and have probably since put them on the bbq and actually eaten them half-cooked, cricket bats as skewers and the balls, well, enough said.
I realised as I drove down to SE10 that I was the only cricket wife attending from Husbands' team, except for my gorgeous sister in law (who forgot her cake...) and I realised why as the teams got on with their standing around on the pitch for 5hours. The cricket tea and the kiddy-care. Its all left up to the wife (and her loyal wife-helpers). I mean. I like my kids and I like tea. But somehow on the side of a cricket pitch it just doesn't have the same delightful ring to it.
So I had this ridiculous conversation with one of the team-players of Husbands team whilst Husband was on the pitch having Giants chuck fast balls at his balls (not sure I noticed his jock-strap going on - hm, potential for real pain I thought, and when I was sorting out the tea, I found a jock-strap, kind of scrumpled up and a bit sweaty looking right by the sandwich box. A bit un-savoury thought I, and then I thought, (cue evil laughter) I could just pop it ON the sandwiches and the boys would never know... A bit like the waiter spitting in the pea soup...).
Anyway, conversation went along the lines of:
me: so, how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, about 26 overs.
me: right. so how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, yes. well, probably in about 182 balls.
me: look you stupid fuck, I don't work in overs or balls. just tell me how many minutes?
him: (looking at me with fear) I don't know.
So I got the tea stuff out and cut the sandwiches thinking, wish I'd rubbed the jock strap on these and I hope they go stale and curl. That'd show them! I mean, god...tell the time in sodding OVERS what is THAT about?
So. That was cricket tea.
It's really good fun. Michelle, you'd have loved it. Honest to god.
XX
And today was Husband's cricket match against the Greenwich Giants. That makes them sound like an exotic team of Americans. But what I mean is that they're actual biological giants. The average height of the opposing team is probably about 6ft-4inches. The average height of the Ladder Eleven is what, maybe 5ft-2inches? The air is more polluted up in N8. We're all a bit stunted. So anyway. I gather from upset-Husband in SE10 that the Giants squashed the Eleven (David and Gollaeth is a fable afterall) and have probably since put them on the bbq and actually eaten them half-cooked, cricket bats as skewers and the balls, well, enough said.
I realised as I drove down to SE10 that I was the only cricket wife attending from Husbands' team, except for my gorgeous sister in law (who forgot her cake...) and I realised why as the teams got on with their standing around on the pitch for 5hours. The cricket tea and the kiddy-care. Its all left up to the wife (and her loyal wife-helpers). I mean. I like my kids and I like tea. But somehow on the side of a cricket pitch it just doesn't have the same delightful ring to it.
So I had this ridiculous conversation with one of the team-players of Husbands team whilst Husband was on the pitch having Giants chuck fast balls at his balls (not sure I noticed his jock-strap going on - hm, potential for real pain I thought, and when I was sorting out the tea, I found a jock-strap, kind of scrumpled up and a bit sweaty looking right by the sandwich box. A bit un-savoury thought I, and then I thought, (cue evil laughter) I could just pop it ON the sandwiches and the boys would never know... A bit like the waiter spitting in the pea soup...).
Anyway, conversation went along the lines of:
me: so, how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, about 26 overs.
me: right. so how long till I need to get the sandwiches out and prepare the tea?
him: oh, yes. well, probably in about 182 balls.
me: look you stupid fuck, I don't work in overs or balls. just tell me how many minutes?
him: (looking at me with fear) I don't know.
So I got the tea stuff out and cut the sandwiches thinking, wish I'd rubbed the jock strap on these and I hope they go stale and curl. That'd show them! I mean, god...tell the time in sodding OVERS what is THAT about?
So. That was cricket tea.
It's really good fun. Michelle, you'd have loved it. Honest to god.
XX
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
spiders
You'll be delighted to hear that Mothersruin is back up and firing on most cylinders once again. After Saturdays shenanigans I was beginning to doubt I'd ever squeeze the last drop of Lauren Perier out of my soggy muscles, but as it turns out biology (in't biology bwilliant!) won over and I am pure once again.
Which means that in the absence of Husband (got to pop off to Sardinia luvvy, back on Wednesday... oh. work or pleasure?) I have achieved achieved achieved. My house is a haven of beauty and smells like freshly baked cakes (not much change there then) and my garden could have been lifted from Hampton Court so well pruned and tweaked is it. I wouldn't be surprised if a scout from Elle Deco dropped by to congratulate me on my success.
But has anyone noticed that the spiders are back? Or is it just my house and its strange Haringey location - plonked between two bachelors' houses on top of a steep hill, a magpie nest in a nearby tree and cats everywhere - it sounds like the makings of a witches den... Often there is a strange old man who sits on my roof, in a moss-green-cloak, I can't see his face, but he holds a crow and cythe... I don't know, all very suspicious.
Anyway, back to the real world. So, I have spiders in every nook and cranny of the house.
First thing in the morning - I get into the shower. The shower door is currently housing a spider and web. Not an obvious place for passing flies and grubs, perhaps Winkworths has been applauding itself on another fantastic rip-off sale in the neighbourhood...
In the kitchen above the kettle if I follow the path of the steam as it boils (takes forever our kettle, I could read War & Peace AND watch Broke Back Mountain and it'd still be on the warming up stage) there is a spider just to the side of the spot the steam hits. Again, not an obvious location. What's it doing there? Is it waiting for me to be hungover again and then fall happily onto my nose? Bastardo.
Outside the front door there is a whoppa who each night weaves a complicated and probably quite beautiful web which I put my head through every morning (well, for the last two mornings when I've been first up & out of the house, Mol appears to be below web-level so doesn't get that clingy stringy thurpy ug ug stuff in her face). Gross.
And then just today, as I was doing my wonderful tweeing-up of the garden it was a constant stream of hurl-inducing-webs - on my legs/arms/head/hair, even my eye-lashes (so long and lustrous are they). As I climbed the ladder to chop a very spiky bit of neighbours hawthorn (SUCH an antisocial bloody thorny bush to plant) I saw a seriously ugly spider, well, more ugly than the rest, in that it was greeny-transparenty-long-leggedy-grosso-ey make-me-slightly-screech/wretch at the same-time-y. Of course I wasn't physically vomiting and I didn't kill it but my natural reaction was to kind of flick it with a very globby paint brush.
And then the man in the cloak on my roof waved his cythe at me and his crow delivered a message in its croaky voice: do not interfere with even the ugliest of spiders, great strife will fall upon your shoulders. I'm like shit. But yeah, like, its well ugly and its on my ladder and for god-sake I'm imagining that Death is sitting on my roof so I really suspect great strife has befallen me deja, ya?
And now, after freaking myself out with my strange ramblings, I am actually quite looking forward to Husband returning tomorrow.
Which means that in the absence of Husband (got to pop off to Sardinia luvvy, back on Wednesday... oh. work or pleasure?) I have achieved achieved achieved. My house is a haven of beauty and smells like freshly baked cakes (not much change there then) and my garden could have been lifted from Hampton Court so well pruned and tweaked is it. I wouldn't be surprised if a scout from Elle Deco dropped by to congratulate me on my success.
But has anyone noticed that the spiders are back? Or is it just my house and its strange Haringey location - plonked between two bachelors' houses on top of a steep hill, a magpie nest in a nearby tree and cats everywhere - it sounds like the makings of a witches den... Often there is a strange old man who sits on my roof, in a moss-green-cloak, I can't see his face, but he holds a crow and cythe... I don't know, all very suspicious.
Anyway, back to the real world. So, I have spiders in every nook and cranny of the house.
First thing in the morning - I get into the shower. The shower door is currently housing a spider and web. Not an obvious place for passing flies and grubs, perhaps Winkworths has been applauding itself on another fantastic rip-off sale in the neighbourhood...
In the kitchen above the kettle if I follow the path of the steam as it boils (takes forever our kettle, I could read War & Peace AND watch Broke Back Mountain and it'd still be on the warming up stage) there is a spider just to the side of the spot the steam hits. Again, not an obvious location. What's it doing there? Is it waiting for me to be hungover again and then fall happily onto my nose? Bastardo.
Outside the front door there is a whoppa who each night weaves a complicated and probably quite beautiful web which I put my head through every morning (well, for the last two mornings when I've been first up & out of the house, Mol appears to be below web-level so doesn't get that clingy stringy thurpy ug ug stuff in her face). Gross.
And then just today, as I was doing my wonderful tweeing-up of the garden it was a constant stream of hurl-inducing-webs - on my legs/arms/head/hair, even my eye-lashes (so long and lustrous are they). As I climbed the ladder to chop a very spiky bit of neighbours hawthorn (SUCH an antisocial bloody thorny bush to plant) I saw a seriously ugly spider, well, more ugly than the rest, in that it was greeny-transparenty-long-leggedy-grosso-ey make-me-slightly-screech/wretch at the same-time-y. Of course I wasn't physically vomiting and I didn't kill it but my natural reaction was to kind of flick it with a very globby paint brush.
And then the man in the cloak on my roof waved his cythe at me and his crow delivered a message in its croaky voice: do not interfere with even the ugliest of spiders, great strife will fall upon your shoulders. I'm like shit. But yeah, like, its well ugly and its on my ladder and for god-sake I'm imagining that Death is sitting on my roof so I really suspect great strife has befallen me deja, ya?
And now, after freaking myself out with my strange ramblings, I am actually quite looking forward to Husband returning tomorrow.
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