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...
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Monday, 26 September 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
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.
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.
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