Jamie Dornan and I wish you a Happy Friday and a lovely weekend…
N.B. I’d just like to say that whilst I found 50 shades dire (both book and film), I can appreciate that this is a very nice looking man.
Jamie Dornan and I wish you a Happy Friday and a lovely weekend…
N.B. I’d just like to say that whilst I found 50 shades dire (both book and film), I can appreciate that this is a very nice looking man.
I don’t know if i’ve ever mentioned our neighbour before? I have started calling him “Prod” because it rhymes with his name and it just seems altogether more appropriate for the lecherous old twerp.
When we moved in, Prod took it upon himself to come over and tell us that the previous owners used to park one car on the drive and one on the road, which made it very difficult for him to get out of his drive so he was pleased to see our car on the driveway. Frankly Prod, if you can’t get out on to the road because our car is parked there, you shouldn’t be driving. He also takes it upon himself to come over and direct David on how to cut the grass. Prod, i’ll tell you now, we have young kids, we don’t give a shit if the lawn has stripes, we’re not hosting Wimbledon on our front lawn, we just want the job done. Not to mention, my Mother in Law came down when we were on holiday to trim our hedge (BLESS HER). Prod apparently came ambling over to ask her how much she charges. HA! I believe she told him she was the Mother, not the gardener. He then said something along the lines of ‘Oh well, that’s decent of you.’
She replied ‘Well it’s one less job on their list of things to do, they have young kids and David works long hours so it’s hard to find time to do these jobs.’
‘Well you MAKE TIME for these things.’ says Prod. What a twat.
‘I see now why you dislike him’ my MIL said to me later.
Not only all this but in that first conversation we had with him, he dissed Merv (his next door neighbour, our directly opposite neighbour). You can’t diss Merv, Merv is awesome, he gives us fruit and veg from his garden and he brings my bin in for me on bin day. More people should be like Merv.
These things are minor though, compared to last year when I bumped into Prod when I was out on a walk:
‘I thought I recognised that bottom.’ he said to me.
Well reader, I nearly vomited all over him. I went home to David like I was Trump ‘WE’RE GOING TO BUILD A WALL!’ I said, miming a massive wall with my arms ‘ WE’RE GOING TO BUILD A YUGE WALL TO KEEP THE PERVERTS OUT!’
‘What the fuck are you talking about now?’ David said, completely nonplussed.
‘That pervert over the road is looking at my bottom every time I go out there. That’s IT, i’m not cutting the bloody grass out there anymore, he’s watching me! He’s looking at my bum! I don’t even feel like I can lean in to the car to strap the kids in anymore because he’s LOOKING AT MY BUM THE FILTHY OLD PERV!’
‘What? But isn’t he like 80?!”
‘Bit ageist darling, he’s still a person but WHY CAN’T HE PERV ON HIS WIFE AND NOT ME!’
‘That’s disgusting, how dare he, you’re mine, he’s not allowed to look at your arse, that’s my arse, it belongs to me!’
‘ACTUALLY it’s MY ARSE, IT BELONGS TO ME! GIVEN THAT IT IS ATTACHED TO ME! I’m actually confused because generally people stare at my tits! (In fairness, it’s hard not to, they’re just THERE).’
‘Well yes alright but… anyway, maybe i’ll go over and say ‘Oi Prod. Stop looking at my wife’s bum and for God’s sake, button up your shirt, I don’t want to look at your gut when you’re out gardening.’
Shudder. Anyway, I lament this invasion of my privacy on Facebook, as you do and then I think nothing more of it for a couple of weeks, UNTIL, I bump into a friend’s Mum who lives on the street and knows of Prod.
‘Oh he’s terrible’ she says ‘known for it. Apparently he and his wife were swingers back in their day.’
I am agog at this new piece of information. I relay this to my Mother.
‘Ooh does he have pampas grass growing out the front of his house?!’ she says, between hoots of laughter.
‘Er no, he has a perfect Floral Gardens type garden but the house next door to him does so what does that mean?!’ (N.B. I don’t know if you know of Floral Gardens but my Mum and her sisters had it when they were growing up and I got to play with it at my grandparents’ house; think rockeries, think crazy paving, think designing your own tiny garden out of tiny plastic flowers and shiz, it’s truly marvellous).
‘Well, in the 70’s if you had pampas grass growing outside your house it was to signify that you were up for swinging/wife swapping/shenanigans.’
‘I don’t want to know how you know this Mother but the thought of Prod and his shenanigans has made my mind vomit all over itself and explode all at the same time.’
‘Oh don’t worry! It’s just one of those things that people know, it’s not from personal experience.’
Well thank Fuck for that then.
Decide that I will have to wear a burqa or wrap myself in a duvet or SOMETHING every time I go outside the house. UGH.
I don’t have to deal with Prod again for a while until recently, we acquired another car. Now when I say car, think of a Smart car, now halve that and THAT’S ABOUT THE SIZE OF OUR SECOND CAR. Now I have to say, it is a FAFF to switch the cars around, so David has taken to parking the TEENY TINY car out on the road at the weekends so that we can ferry the kids about in the family mobile without having to switch the cars. There are no double yellow lines, we are ALLOWED. But no, oh no no no. Prod takes umbrage with this. Prod who is not going bloody anywhere, apart from on some pervpatrol probably.
David is out cutting the grass (not to Prod’s exact specifications I might add but that’s another matter). Prod comes ambling over and says ‘Now David, I hope you don’t take offence but would you mind not parking the car there as it makes it very difficult for me to get my car out.’
David looks at him and says ‘If my car is ever blocking you in, please just come and give me a knock and i’ll happily move it you FUCKING PERVERTED FUCKWIT (he doesn’t say that last bit but I WISH HE HAD).’
A few days later, i’m heading out to school with Tom in the pram. As usual, i’m running late. Prod is out on the street, perhaps he’s touting for business… anyway, he comes over from his side.
‘Hi Prod, i’m actually just heading to school and i’m running late…’
‘I won’t be a minute. I just want to say that I do hope you weren’t offended by my asking David not to park his car there.’
I decide that acting nonplussed is the best way to go about this.
‘I’m sorry, i’m not sure what you’re talking about. I really have to get goi…’
‘Well I asked David not to park there as it makes it difficult for me to get out of my drive.’
‘I really don’t know, he hasn’t mentioned anything to me’ i.e. you are not important enough to feature in our conversations, get the message PROD.
‘Oh well, I….’
‘Look Prod, i’m sorry but i’m late to get to school, as I said, I have to GO’
And I half walk/half run off down the road.
Well reader, the most wonderful thing has happened: Prod has started blanking me.
Continuing my appreciation of men in suits… Friday is brought to you by Chris Hemsworth.
About two years ago I had a breast incident, which i’ve been meaning to write about for ages but somehow got lost along the way.
One day I was examining my boobs and found a weird sort of dimple in my left breast, I went to see the doctor who said that she didn’t think it was anything to worry about but to keep an eye on it. A few days later, I noticed that the dimple had become a whole row of dimples, I saw a different doctor this time who looked at it in HORROR (very reassuring) and said that I needed to go for an ultrasound.
‘Right, i’ve written to the hospital, if you haven’t heard from them in ten days, then let me know and i’ll chivvy them.’
Ten days?! TEN. DAYS. I might be dead by then, the cancer (I was certain it was because obviously I had consulted Doctor Google also, who had informed me that I was basically dead) could have spread EVERYWHERE in ten days **I do not know how long it takes for Cancer to spread, please note this is my overactive anxious mind**. And that’s not even for the appointment, that’s just to hear from them to make an appointment.
I return home in a panic, my Mum, who was watching the boys says ‘This is unbelievable, just arrange to go privately, i’ll pay.’
So David rings around (because I am in too much of a state of panic about my impending death) and manages to get me an appointment at the Spire Leeds with Mr Kieran Horgan.
I spend the next couple of days not sleeping, slightly dazed and crying over the fact that my children are not going to have a Mother. David looks at me sympathetically, he’s clearly already written me off and is probably thinking about what kind of wife he wants next; I think it’s somebody less dramatic, who doesn’t complain and spends no money on herself.
I go to see my friend Emma.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Er no, i’ll have a green tea please. I’m drinking it because it’s meant to be full of cancer fighting shiz and i’m totally avoiding caffeine.’
‘Green tea is full of fucking caffeine.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that. I’m just trying to do whatever I can to be healthy and fight cancer.’
‘Drinking your own piss is meant to help fight cancer. Are you going to do that?’
‘You don’t have fucking cancer anyway, I just know.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’
The next day, my nerves jangling, David and I head down to the Spire Hospital.
We sit in the waiting room and are eventually called in to see Mr Horgan, who turns out to be a jovial Irish man and instantly puts me at ease.
‘Now I suppose you’ve been googling everything and you’re expecting the worst’ he says with a grin.
‘Er, yes actually’ I say sheepishly.
‘Well, you’ve your age in your favour so i’d say it’s highly unlikely but i’ll examine you and we’ll have an ultrasound done anyway.’
We run through the usual battery of questions. Is there any breast cancer in my family? Yes, my Mother’s Mother but not until she was much older. After which, his nurse takes me through to the examination room and I strip my top half down and sit on the bed. Mr Horgan comes in and chats away as he examines me. David later tells me that I was absolutely bright red but wouldn’t you be? It’s not an everyday thing to sit in a room of people (ok, David, the nurse and the consultant) with your tits out… unless you’re Katie Price. I dress and we go back through to the office.
‘Well, I think what you have is phlebitis, or Mondor’s disease, which is nothing to worry about but we’ll send you for an ultrasound anyway to make sure.’
‘Oh ok, so what is that?’
‘So it’s when a vein becomes inflamed and what has happened with you is that there’s a vein in your breast which has become like a knotted rope and that’s why it looks the way that it does. There’s nothing that we can do, it should clear up by itself within a few weeks.’
‘What could have caused it?’
‘Well there are several factors, but had you done lots of exercise or anything like that?’
‘I had cleaned the house very thoroughly. Do you think I shouldn’t do that? Would it be advisable to get a cleaner?’ I say, looking sideways at David.
‘Haha, no I don’t think so but I should take it a bit easier. I have to say, it’s quite a severe case of phlebitis, I haven’t seen anything quite like it before. I was just wondering, I teach at Leeds University and do you think that we could photograph it so that I could show it to my students.’
‘Um, ok’ I say weakly. Can imagine nothing worse but i’m so relieved and overwhelmed that it is not cancer, I think I would have agreed to him suggesting I skip naked through the streets of Leeds. It’s not something that I really want to do and have horrifying image in my mind of myself and my weird boob sprawled over page 3 of the British Medical Journal.
‘Well great, we’ll have somebody call you to arrange that then.’
Happily, I never received a phone call to arrange having the photos taken and the phlebitis cleared up within a week of that appointment but I did feel very lucky that that was all it was and I regularly examine my breasts now and advise you to too!
Please take a gander at the below and share with your friends. X
Have a good weekend everybody. David is back from Canada, coming up from London today. Just waiting to see if this has been brought back…
Or if not, hopefully at least this…
And if not either of those, this at the very very least…
David comes homes from work one day and announces that he has to go to Canada in a few weeks.
‘I have to go to Canada. I am very busy and important.’ Well he doesn’t actually say this, but it just feels like he does.
‘Oh right, what are you going for?’ I ask.
‘I am going to a conference for busy and important people. It is the busy and important people conference on how to become even more busy and important.’ Again, slight artistic license going on here.
‘Oh right, how long for?’
‘A few days. Don’t worry, i’ll bring you something from business class. Haha.’
BRING ME SOMETHING FROM BUSINESS CLASS? I DON’T WANT SOMETHING YOU’VE NABBED OFF A PLANE YOU TIGHT GIT, I WANT A PROPER PRESENT!
I share this sentiment on Facebook but think if I put about him flying business class, it will make me sound like a bit of a twat so I edit and say “David ‘I have to go to Canada but don’t worry I’ll bring something back for you.’ 😑😒🤔I hope he’s not going to think he can palm me off with a crap bottle of maple syrup. If he’s bringing me something from Canada, I want Trudeau.”
One of my friends comments and says “A moose! Ask for a moose!”
Other people defend the maple syrup so I have to say that of course I love maple syrup but a bottle of that is not a proper present because it’s just fucking not. It’s the same as if he bought me a hoover or a packet of j-cloths. It’s just a household essential.
David keeps rubbing salt into the wound:
‘I’m actually quite looking forward to Canada; I mean, I know I have to be away from you guys but at least I get to fly business class, so I guess i’ll get to have a couple of G&T’s, watch a film or two and maybe sleep.’
I mean, really? You’re saying this to a Mother of three? This is a hardship? Somebody brings you booze, whilst you watch a film and then you have a sleep?’
COME ON. If you’re not saying ‘FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK’ along with me, then what is wrong with you. I’d also just like to note that the last time I flew, was with a 2 year old and a 4 year old in CATTLE from fucking Australia. ON MY OWN.
So because David is verr, verr jealous, I decide to rub a nerve:
‘I know what I want you to bring me from Canada; Justin Trudeau.’
‘Yep, I want Justin Trudeau, on a moose, with a bottle of maple syrup.’
‘What? What is wrong with you? You’re married to me.’
‘Yes but I like Justin Trudeau, he has nice hair (SORE POINT WITH DAVID), a nice smile and he wears nice suits.’ (I’m just not into the whole Tom Hardy type bloke. Please send clean cut bloke in suit and i’m happy).
David sulks for a while and then turns around and says
‘I will bring you your own fitbit’
‘Yeah alright then. And some touche éclat.’
‘Ok. And a moose. If you can.’
‘What the fuck?! Where would you actually keep a moose?’
‘In the garden.’
I don’t feel this is an unreasonable request. We could ride the moose to school. THINK OF WHAT WE WOULD DO FOR THE ENVIRONMENT.
‘How do you expect me to get a moose on a plane?’
‘Disguise it in a mac and one of those glasses and Groucho Marx ‘tache combos. If you love me, you’ll do it.’
‘Have done the equivalent of pushing a melon out of my nostril three times for you. If you love me, you’ll find a way.’
I await my moose.
On the last day of our holiday in Cornwall, we head to the park in Padstow so that I can feed Tom and David can run into town to pick up pasties for the looooooong journey home. It’s fairly quiet so I plonk myself on a bench and scan Facebook as Tom drinks his milk until I hear a woman say ‘Um it was this little boy’s turn first’ and I look up to see that Ruari has shoved his way in front of a little boy.
‘Ruars, it was that boys’ turn first, let him have his go’ I say. Oh dear, I am THAT Mother on her phone not paying attention.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interfere’ says the woman, smiling at me. She’s wearing some really nice coat thing. In fact her whole outfit is really cool, and something I wish that I could wear but I know that I couldn’t carry it off. Know thy limitations and all of that.
‘Oh no, it’s fine’ I say, smiling back ‘he does tend to bulldoze his way in and I wasn’t paying attention.’
She follows her kids back to another part of the park and I continue feeding Tom. The next time I look up, there’s a bloke walking past wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled down over his curly hair, he looks really familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on why. I sit there for a few more minutes until it hits me, it’s Alan Davies. He’s obviously trying to be low key and doesn’t want to be recognised so I try and look anywhere else but where he and his wife (woman in trendy outfit) are.
After a while the boys decide they want to go on one of those see-saw things that also bounce around. David is still AWOL on his pasty buying mission (turns out he also visited Stein’s deli – his favourite place, which probably meant that he spent ten minutes staring blankly at stuff, faced with too much choice). I’m holding Tom and don’t want to put him in his chair because he’s just finished his milk and if I do, he’ll throw it all back up, he needs time to digest. Jack is struggling to get on the see-saw thing, so I wander over and, juggling Tom whilst trying not to compress his tum, I hold the seat down to the best of my ability, so that he can get on. He clambers on but is sat sideways on it because, well, he’s Jack and he’s just a bit awkward like that. Ruari starts bouncing him up and down, whilst I stand there going ‘JUST NOT TOO HARD RUARSY OR YOU’LL BOUNCE JACK OFF!!!’
At that point, Alan Davies strolls past and says ‘Do you want a hand?’ to Jack. He then proceeds to shuffle Jack properly on to the seat and bounce the boys up and down. Which is very nice of him but also a bit awkward because I now know that he is Alan Davies but am pretending that I don’t know that it’s him. So I stand there like a gormless idiot, occasionally going ‘Thanks’, ‘thanks for pushing them’, ‘thanks’ whilst my brain is in overdrive going ‘Think of something else to say you idiot, think of something INTELLIGENT. SAY SOMETHING WITTY’ but sadly I cannot because I am shit under pressure. (People say to me ‘Your writing is really funny’ and then they meet me in real life and I can’t help but feel that they’re disappointed by my inability to make conversation or be amusing no matter how hard I try). Eventually he goes off to rejoin his family and i’m left with my offspring who are now making no effort to push themselves up and down, lazy sods.
Eventually David returns, armed with pasties and various items from Stein’s.
‘Ermagad, don’t look, don’t look but that guy over there is Alan Davies. DON’T LOOK. BE LOW KEY. BE COOL. BE COOL.’
‘Who?’ he says.
‘Fuck’s sake. The guy from QI? You know, Jonathan Creek?’
As we turn to leave the park, so do Davies and his family. Oh good, now it looks like we’re following them. They stop outside the gate so we’re forced to walk past them on our way back to the car. As we get nearer, they look at us.
‘SAY SOMETHING INTELLIGENT’ says my brain.
‘Er thanks again for pushing the boys’ I say.
‘YOU UTTERLY DISAPPOINTING MORONIC FAILURE’ says my brain.
We go to The Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall, I have this really strong sense of deja vu, it feels like home. Perhaps I lived here in a past life? I can’t explain the feeling, like a weight in my chest and it stays with me for TWO MORE DAYS. AND I CRY! I really don’t know, it’s bizarre. Maybe I should go for a little past life regression, wonder if Derryn Brown or some other bollock merchant could do it? Probably not an entertaining enough concept for Channel 4 though: 34 year old woman gets hypnotised to see if she lived in a house in Cornwall in a past life. It’s not the most riveting idea, I can’t see it pulling in hordes of viewers.
We have a lovely time walking around the gardens and they have put on entertainment for the children on the East Lawn: you can build teepees, you can toast marshmallows, it sort of looks like Glastonbury for kids AKA my worst nightmare. I stand around whilst David and the boys construct a teepee. One of the organisers walks past and says ‘Hm, building a teepee in the brambles. That’s an interesting choice.’
‘I have nothing to do with this!’ I reply, nodding towards a sheepish looking David.
‘Yes. Well, um, we have access to blackberries in our tent’ he retorts, as though that was exactly why he had built the tent there.
In the end he sticks to the old sheet of tarpaulin slung over rope technique, which promptly blows over the minute a gust of wind comes near or actually, when somebody just breathes near it.
We move on to The Jungle, a tropical garden filled with lush, exotic plants surrounding four ponds and a Burmese rope bridge. The boys of course, are desperate to go on the rope bridge, David takes them and I stay with Tom in the pushchair. After an interminable time, in which I think we must have all lost each other and will have to meet back at the visitor’s centre, or something unfortunate has occurred on the rope bridge and i’m having anxious visions of my husband and children hanging off as in some Looney Tunes cartoon, they appear around a corner. David is running, red faced and stressed looking behind the kids.
‘JACK NEEDS A WEE!’ he says, puffing up to us.
‘Well take him off into a bush, there’s plenty to choose from’ I say, gesturing around.
He and Jack dash off into the bushes and return a couple of minutes later.
‘God where WERE you?’ I say.
‘Sorry, the queue was ridiculous. You can only have ten people on the bridge at a time and they all stopped to take fucking selfies halfway across so it took bloody AGES. Then just as we got to the front of the queue, Jack announced that he needed a wee. We had queued for half an hour, there was no way we were leaving so I made him wait. Then Ruari said “Don’t worry Jack, shall I tell you what I do when I desperately need a wee? I just punch myself here!” and then he started walloping his genitalia so Jack copied him and they’re both just stood there hitting themselves in the goolies. Everybody behind us was laughing.’
‘And after all that, did you stop and get a selfie in the middle of the bridge?!’
‘No. We did not.’
We had back up to the East Lawn as we promised the boys a play on the climbing frames. They are happily there playing when a little girl, who must be about 4, starts shoving people out of the way, hitting people, grabbing ropes off people. She does it to Ruari who is massive in comparison. He comes over to me, looking rather like a sad labrador ‘that girl just shoved in front of me and grabbed the climbing rope’ he says.
‘Yes, she seems to be doing it to everybody. Just stay away from her’ I say.
The girl continues doing this for another couple of minutes until her parents finally drag themselves away from their conversation with another couple and come over.
‘Mia are you playing nicely?’ the dad says.
Clearly, Mia is not playing fucking nicely. Idiot.
‘Make sure you play nicely’ says the Mum and they both turn back and rejoin their friends.
Mia continues her shitty behaviour, i’m fairly sure Mia doesn’t ever really get told no. I think her parents have probably hung a horrible picture in her room that says “Though she be but little she is fierce” and this has become their motto, completely absolving them of enforcing absolutely any discipline. ‘Er, hi, your daughter brutally kicked the shit out of my son’ somebody might say. ‘Ah but we’re raising a feminist. Women have been oppressed for too many years’ they will say, nodding their head sagely ‘so it’s ok.’ Mia’s parents are thick and do not understand what raising a feminist is actually about.
Eventually she calls Ruari a butthead, shoves Jack out of the way, bites another child, grabs a rope and just sits holding it so that the other children can’t climb up the climbing frame.
‘Mum, that girl called me a butthead.’ says Ruari.
‘God her parents are twats’ David mutters under his breath. We look over at them, they are completely oblivious.
‘Right. I’ve had enough of this.’ I say and I march over to Mia and in my best “Brown Owl voice” I go ‘Hello. That rope is for all the children to play with’ and I take it off her and hand it to another little girl who has patiently been waiting for a turn. ‘AND’ I say, leaning in and staring her straight in the eye ‘Don’t ever call my son a name or push my other son again. Do you understand?’ I hiss.
She just stares at me as though I am something she has trodden in but when I turn to look at Ruari, he is staring up at me with a look of wonderment upon his face. And that’s all I really care about.
I have been taking the boys to a swimming class every morning this week, it’s an intensive course I signed them up for to try and get them ahead on their swimming, having spent months going to a completely useless swimming pool where they regressed. This one is more expensive but the class sizes are smaller and they have come on so much in only three sessions. It’s marvellous, it’s all wonderful, except for one thing: Boden Mummy.
On Monday, I didn’t notice Boden Mummy, it was only on Tuesday that she came crashing into my life. I was stood at the showers with the boys after their lesson. There are four shower heads in a row, only one of which runs continuously, the others you have to keep pushing. Ruari was under the shower and Jack was lurking around, waiting for Ruari to finish. I was rinsing the shampoo out of Ruari’s hair when suddenly Boden Mummy appeared behind me and shoved her daughter into the shower. When Ruari had finished, I said “Right Jack, now you, under the shower you go.” Upon which Boden Mummy looked at me and said “Oh well if you’re using that one can you let my daughter out so that we can go and use a different one.” What the fuck? I hadn’t moved, I wasn’t preventing daughter coming out in any way. Boden Mummy storms off to the other end of the showers with daughter in tow. I know she is Boden Mummy because she’s wearing one of their horrible skirts with a big flowery print on.
On Tuesday, I see her lurking around the pool with younger child, today’s delight is one of those full skirts that Kirstie Allsopp wears, in an owl print with a twee cardigan and no make up. But don’t be mistaken, Boden Mummy makes the choice not to wear make up, she hasn’t woken up and gone “oh fuck it, i’d rather have the extra time in bed”. Ruari’s lesson finished before Jack’s and he comes over so I say
“Why don’t you go and get the shampoo and go and get in the shower, i’ll be down when Jack has finished.”
Well Ruari walks off and suddenly Boden Mummy is there, right behind him, hopping about and trying to get past. And that’s when I realise, Boden Mummy has it in for me. I don’t know what i’ve done but she has clearly taken a disliking to myself and my offspring. When Jack has finished, we make our way down to the shower where I come across Boden Mummy saying to Ruari
“Right, now you’ve wet your hair, stand to one side so that I can wash Charlotte’s hair.” WHO THE FUCK DOES SHE THINK SHE IS?! DON’T TALK TO MY CHILD. Ruari steps aside and shampoos his hair. BM washes Charlotte’s hair and then sods off to get her dressed but not without a filthy look from me first. Now I ask you this, WHEN in life, would you do this with a shower. I don’t walk in to David in the morning and say
“Right, get out to shampoo your hair whilst I have my shower and then you can get back in to rinse off.” Nor would you do this at the gym. THAT DOESN’T HAPPEN because there’s something else in life called QUEUING. You know? Where somebody is already using something, so you wait your turn?
On the drive home, I construct a whole back story for Boden Mummy:
Boden Mummy’s house basically looks like the Great British Bake Off tent. There’s loads of polka dots, plates that DON’T FUCKING MATCH and bunting EVERYWHERE. You can’t move for bunting in BM’s house.
Boden Mummy currently has two girls; Charlotte and whatever the other one is called but she will get pregnant and have a son, who she will call Caius and will breastfeed until he’s 5. Actually, i’m not even sure if BM will assign a gender to Caius?
BM looks down on women who bottle feed their babies. It’s a perfectly natural thing to do, has been done for thousands of years and these women are evil and JUST AREN’T TRYING HARD ENOUGH. (Maybe that’s why she hates me?!)
BM doesn’t ever say no to her children.
BM allows her children to run RIOT in restaurants. Sod the other people who have paid to come out for a meal, if BM’s children want to scream and run around the restaurant, why shouldn’t they.
BM WORSHIPS Kirstie Allsopp, she runs herself ragged every Christmas making all the decorations from scratch. She printed her own wallpaper for the downstairs loo. It looks shit.
BM spends an awful lot of time on Pinterest.
BM makes a lot of declarations on Facebook about how in love with each other she and her husband are. Neither of them can remember the last time they had sex.
BM doesn’t have many friends, they all got fed up of her telling their children off and telling them how to parent because obviously BM’s children never do anything wrong, EVER. Even when Charlotte bit one of the other kids, it was their fault. BM’s ex-friends are all off drinking prosecco and going ‘FUCK parenting is HARD!’ and just generally being NORMAL. Something that BM wouldn’t ever say because parenting is obviously wonderful all the time. Even when you’ve had no sleep and have vomit in your hair.
Boden Mummy is basically a fucking nightmare. What do I do though?
a) say ‘please don’t tell my children what to do’ and explain the concept of queuing to her.
b) let her go in front and say to the boys loudly ‘HANG BACK BOYS! LET THAT FUCKING MENTAL WOMAN GET TO THE SHOWER FIRST OR SHE’LL HAVE A TEMPER TANTRUM.’
c) shove her in the pool.
Answers on a postcard. Or in the comments.
So as we search for the perfect Waltons-esque home, i.e. somewhere that we can swing a cat, combined with a garden large enough to accommodate some sort of dwelling/cabin/shed for my Mother, something good comes up. I’m trying to do the whole positive thinking, manifesting thing but there’s just a little voice at the back of my head (yes, that bastard again) saying “it’s too good to be true” and as much as I try to dismiss it, it’s just always there.
‘I have a good feeling about this!’ says David.
‘Oh yeah? Why’s that?’
‘Well, it just has a nice feel to it and it’s called The Nook!’ he says.
‘Well it’s The Nook! You know, THE NOOK!’
I have to tell you something now, i’m sorry if you’re eating but it’s quite nauseating: when I cuddle into David, I have a way of snuggling into his arm and it’s called The Nook. Have you been sick? I’m sorry. You were warned. Moving on.
‘Ok, so just because it’s called The Nook, it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t read too much into it! Remember when we looked at that house on Rail Road in Oz and Dad had just died and we went “ooh it’s a sign! It’s a sign!” (my Dad was obsessed with trains and helped build the Ffestiniog Railway) So we moved in and, well that place was a shithole wasn’t it.’
‘Yeah BUT if we get it, your Mum’s place can have its own mailing address and we should call it “The Cranny”.
‘No? Why not?! It’s great! The Nook and Cranny!’
‘Yeah! What’s the problem?!’
‘Can you think how that sounds? Imagine we’re stood there in our lovely kitchen having a lovely cup of tea (probably wine) and one of the boys is heading out the door and we say “Oh hey! Where are you off to?” and they reply “Granny’s Cranny”. Or they’re at school and they have to write about what they did at the weekend and they say “At the weekend I visited Granny’s Cranny”. That’s why fucking not.’
‘Hm. Yeah. When you put it like that I see your point.’
Granny’s Cranny. I ask you.