“Be careful of the pricks”.
Now, whether she was referring to the holly bushes alongside the car as I climbed out or if this was an allusion to life going forward, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was sound advice.
Is It Just Me......?
This morning, taking my blonde, bobbed one to school, she sagely pronounced.....
“Be careful of the pricks”. Now, whether she was referring to the holly bushes alongside the car as I climbed out or if this was an allusion to life going forward, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was sound advice.
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I’m never sure when the Christmas Decorations should be taken down. There are the Twelve Days of Christmas (my Mum used to tell us it was bad luck to take them down before the 6th) and, in Spain, Christmas isn’t over until the 6th, The 3 Kings Day (El Dia de Los Reyes). That’s when we SHOULD do it, really. But, in our household, the decorations just become sort of *invisible*.
It’s pretty much the day after Christmas. All of a sudden, no-one cares if the twinkly lights aren’t switched on, the stockings are shoved in a bag, the Santa hats a forgotten squeal, the angel on the top of the tree looks slightly pissed, but no-one bothers to adjust the poor dear. So, they are duly removed, this year on New Years Day. I always recruit the kids to help and, to start with, they are placed lovingly in boxes (not the kids, the decs. Though, putting the kids in boxes, sealing them and storing them in the loft ’til next Christmas is alluring. Not *really*…ahem) After a while it’s just a free-for-all of hurling them (again, not the kids) from the other side of the room, dog in the way, like Piggy In The Middle, and hoping to hit the target of the half collapsed box. My body is breaking. I am veritably falling apart. Life was going swimmingly until I hit 40, then my body turned on me, like the cowardly Judus it is. It gave me a kick right up the fajazzal, and is now stomping all over me in this hypothetical rampage of destruction! I shit you not.
I have been to the doctor/hospital more times in the the last couple of years than I have my entire adult life. It’s getting quite homely in the waiting room at my local surgery. The Doc asks me how the kids are and what we got up to at the weekend. I’m half expecting her to invite me for Christmas. I basically have all these symptoms that the professionals are failing to connect together, like some really crappy 3 year old’s dot-dot-dot picture. Why do they insist on treating things one specific thing at a time? No big picture here….oh no. Headaches and dizziness - Neurologist (Nothing wrong. Must be cluster headaches). Palpitations/shortness of breath - Heart Specialist (heart beating fine in that millisecond of time. Pop a pill each time it happens). Joint/muscle pain - Rheumatologist (Not Rheumatoid arthritis, maybe wear and tear). Insomnia - drink a hot drink and have a bath (you are f&*king kidding me?). That’s it? That’s all you can give me? I’m falling apart but there’s nothing wrong? Pop heart pills and Ibuprofen every day, ideally in the bath, washed down with hot milk……? I’ve basically got Google’s Error 404 code slapped across my forehead. No-one knows what it is or what it’s for, we can only assume it signifies “We know f&*king nothing, maybe YOU can come up with something….” “So, in the meantime, we’ll just throw random pills at it, but not actually talk to eachother” Sorry for the swearing, Mum. I’m clearly still processing. My way of discharging all this relatively nonsensical rubbish is to write. I feel so much better now. *Breathes* £750? I'd want the buckles to be made of sodding kryptonite and fairies to have sprinkled magic fairy dust to make me fly to pay *that* for a pair of boots.
https://uk.burberry.com/knee-high-leather-riding-boots-p402… Let's just look at the description, shall we? I think I would quite literally shit my pants each time I turned around and saw this laying there....
I tried to deliver a packet today….the person wasn’t in, so I knocked on the neighbour’s door. No answer. I waited a bit and then started to write out a 'Sorry we missed you’ card. Just as I started writing, the door opened....
We went for a canal boat trip the other day. I’m on the front with the kids and the dog, constantly worrying that one or the other would fall in….not the calm, sedate passage I had hoped for.
We’re putt, putt, putting along when the hormonal one notices a whole herd of rabbits, must have Bottles of Lemonade hold an impossible amount of fizz. What is it in the lemonade recipe that isn’t added to other fizzy drinks? I spend stupid amounts of time gingerly opening the lid, a millimetre at a time, letting farty bits of gas out and then…..quickly closing it, before the eruption of lemonade threatens to reach the rim and drown me, the house and the surrounding villages. A little bit of lemonade goes a long, long, long…..long way. Mostly under the fridge. The edges of the kitchen draws stay sticky for a month. As does the dog. Last time we had a lemonade volcano, he sat like the good boy he is, waiting patiently for a treat and he couldn't get back up. His butthole and surrounding hairs had welded to the floor. I’m sure if we could harness that fizziness, we could top up the National Grid. I shall have to give that some thought….. My sister and I get the giggles about stuff. Stupid stuff, mainly, but especially stuff that humiliates either the one or the other, sort of stuff. You know the stuff?
One such time I still cannot help but snort at even to this day. Seriously, if I were attending a funeral I'm standing behind a girl in H&M, Christ, she can talk. Everything is *super* super, super, super. I'm all for finding things terrific and marvellous, but she's so super happy listening to her own voice, she hasn't noticed her super hapless friend's eyes glazing over.
I could see her friend wishing she would shut the f**k up. Super small, super big, super tasty, super good (pretty sure they’re the same thing), super empty, super busy, super long....she really needs to learn a new word. I’m sure her friend would be super pleased. And super super quick, before she gives her a super high five in the face. She's gone. Super. I recently went on a trip. To Italy.
Large Airports are fascinating places. You can literally see every type and race of person in the world. A People Watcher’s Paradise. The other morning I suddenly remembered something that happened at Gatwick and kind of snort/laughed to myself in the car. You know how you do, then you can’t stop smiling and snorting for Prudes need not read any further :-)
It became fashionable to significantly trim one’s downstairs lady parts about 18 years ago. I can give such a precise figure because I have a photo of an impossibly hairy bush when I was pregnant with my, soon to be, 20 year old son. It was one of those snapped photos that the husband takes, oh so hilariously, as you’re alighting from the bathroom, after a shower. Guffaw. Anyway, shortly after the side splitting photo incident, I went from mere trimming with scissors, to clipping with clippers to just full on. No. Off. Full off. I realise this is getting a It was my son’s 10th birthday yesterday. Plans were set. The BIG park (this is no ordinary park, this is the kind of park where you think someone will jump out the bushes and say ‘Excuse me madam, have you paid?’, that kind of big park) and then, Treatz Ice Cream Parlour for afters. We were meeting up with my eldest son, a massive nerd, and his massive nerd mates, who were going to be sparring with
I love my Dad……but he’s a bit of a plonker sometimes. I don’t mean that in a bad way, just, I sometimes wonder if he’s winding me up.
I will give you an example and you can make up your own minds. |
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AuthorRandom, but thoughtful, witterings about the comedy of every day family life and some, quite frankly, incredibly sharp insights into what other people really should, or should not, be doing, in my opinion. I spend a lot of time thinking, is it just me? Writing actually gives me an outlet for all the debris bouncing around in my mind and makes a little room ... ArchivesCategories |