tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91507105849189655952024-03-13T00:34:04.403+00:00Moaning Mum
Motherhood..."That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger..." (umm...right?!)"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.comBlogger545125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-74561676746871848122017-09-22T16:46:00.000+01:002017-09-22T16:46:16.895+01:00Dis(REP)utable...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A few months ago, whilst under the influence and egged on by a mate, I impulsively put myself forward as class rep for Dumpie's class. I promptly forgot about it until three weeks ago when school started up, and in the words of Morrissey, "...that joke just ain't funny anymore."<br />
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Putting ME in charge of anything requiring organisation, memory or spreadsheets <i>is</i> a joke (the husband will vouch for this). I actually feel bad for Dumpie's class as I boast a long tarnished history of sending my children to school dressed normally on dress up days, without proper signed permission slips for class trips, and all manner of other parental faux pas I'm too ashamed to confess.<br />
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I would say I'm forgetful, but that's not entirely true, as I can clearly remember every lyric of every song I've ever loved - and with something bordering on autistic genius, can accurately recall the location and price of every sought after treasure in the world's most bustling market places.<br />
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This leads me to believe that the giant filing cabinet in my head is unfortunately slanted toward the niche/highly irrelevant sphere, and sadly school and parenting issues have been allotted a tiny pull-out drawer somewhere far in the back near a dangling, sparking lightbulb.<br />
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I've already messed up twice. Having been given the task of compiling an up-to-date class contact list, I promptly misplaced the new pupil's details, deleted the wrong child, and discovered I have not the faintest clue how to edit a spreadsheet. With the husbands help I eventually managed to muddle through, only to send it out under another classes name.<br />
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Today, sporting a lethal hangover, I nonetheless dragged myself to a coffee morning whereby within minutes of arriving, sent my mug of earl grey splashing across the spotless kitchen cupboards whilst trying to remove my jacket.<br />
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I'm pretty sure this is only the beginning. I can't even organise my own life let alone the lives of an entire sixth grade class. It would appear that my ineptness has been discovered, judging by the amount of 'offers of help' I have been given in the past few days.<br />
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When quizzed this morning, I truthfully couldn't even recall the name of Squitty's teacher - only that it begins with a 'C'.<br />
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And this dear parents, is the reason I have never stepped up for the role in these many years. I am hopeless. Ask me to bake a cake, throw a smashing cocktail party, find the perfect dress or write a tune in under ten minutes and I will not disappoint.<br />
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Ask me to keep abreast of scheduling requirements, deadlines and the myriad of other 'all-blending-into-one' school activities, and I will draw a blank. I will disappoint.<br />
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What have I done....<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-88566643715596462032017-08-02T18:20:00.001+01:002017-08-02T18:20:45.437+01:00"Where's The Cat In The Hat When You Need Him?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today it rained...all day. We are due to fly to Canada for the duration of August in mere days, so it would have been the perfect time to get a head start on packing.<br />
<br />
Or perhaps I could have had another crack at the verbally/mentally challenged human(?) from the dodgy energy company threatening to sue me for non-payment of £57.09 from two years ago. Yesterday I squandered an hour I'll never get back, trying to communicate with someone who shouldn't be allowed to speak on the phone - let alone order at a restaurant. <br />
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Despite my immediate assessment of the situation, implementing only universal slang vernacular and purposely omitting any words cheeky enough to be more than two syllables - it still failed to yield a result. By the forty-five minute mark, I'd clearly lost the plot and should have just hung up, taken a valium and sunk into a hot bath to calm my nerves. Instead I tried one last time to make her understand the purpose of my call, nose-diving deep into 'use only in emergency' patronisation, which of course was equally unrewarding for both of us.<br />
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"The bill is in your name so you have to pay it," she said for the 47th time.<br />
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"Yes but we have never been with you, and even if we had, why would it take you almost two years to send me the bill?! Why is this the first I'm hearing of it, and why are you threatening to sue me and take me to court in two days?"<br />
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"Umm...the bill is in your name so you have to pay it."<br />
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"TWO YEARS THOUGH?!" I yelled. "You are not making any sense! We were never even your customers!!"<br />
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"The bill is in your name so you have to pay it." Click.<br />
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So as I was saying, today it rained all day. I had two bored as hell male specimens trashing the house, one of whom has just gotten braces fitted and as such has been refusing all food save berries and Pringles, so I had to cart them both to an emergency orthodontist appointment on foot and bus. They refused to don appropriate wet weather gear or carry umbrellas. Ergo they got soaked, cold, miserable, and we were forced to nip into a rather sad, down on its luck charity shop to get dry, whereupon Egg immediately demanded I hand over my phone in order that he be allowed to set the stop-watch for 10 minutes or else I owed him £20.<br />
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We must have looked (and sounded) a pathetic sight, for within minutes (8.42 to be exact, as Egg was sat on a stool announcing random time countdowns), the sweet fellow manning the shop alongside a Cyndi Lauper lookalike (think she had a soft spot for me on account of our matching bright red lipstick) took pity on us.<br />
<br />
"Good for you for getting your kiddies out on a day like this," he kindly said.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Squit is grabbing all manner of junk (think brightly coloured stick on fake gems which will be decorating our house for months to come...'bathtub crayons' because there are still areas of our walls not yet graffitied, and armfuls of stupid dvds...), Egg is continuing his verbal time keeping tirade at full volume, and I'm trying to frantically peruse the bookshelf for ANYthing to take my mind off my internal, pitiful hell.<br />
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Hence the purchase of these:<br />
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Anyway, the point is, at the cash register where I was rooting around inside my rain-sodden wallet, they kindly told me that every two weeks there is a bus trip, funded from the charity shop, which takes young people like my two, out to the countryside for a day to give them a bit of fun.<br />
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"And it's a break for you too Love," Cyndi Lauper's doppelganger kindly offered.<br />
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I sighed. I was gracious. I told them that I'd definitely keep it in mind, and wished them a good rest of the day before barrelling back out into the deluge, into the nearest Cafe Nero, and buying the little buggers whatever they wanted just to BE QUIET for FIVE MINUTES. We then proceeded to miss not one but two buses, whereupon I lost all desire to continue existence in my current form.<br />
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As if things couldn't get any worse, once home Egg ended up watching an unbelievably tragic teenage cancer movie, got teary-eyed and wanted to discuss death for an hour, then escaped to his room to do some serious frenzied twisting of his 57 odd Rubik's Cubes and put his world back to rights. Given that there are no Pringles and only a handful of blueberries in the house, all he has eaten today is a lemon-poppyseed muffin I barely recall purchasing in a frenzied, depressed state. Egg is adamant that he needs a Masala Dosa, and if I can't provide that, he will not eat for the remainder of the day.<br />
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All this to say, as I look down at my semi-naked five year old who has not only stolen my iphone and locked me out for another fifteen minutes, but refuses to wear any bottoms and has kept up a ceaseless "I'M BORED!" mantra chant for the past forty-five minutes, I say to myself that maybe Mummy needs to pick up her newly purchased hard copy of Valley of the Dolls and bury herself into the lives of women possibly more tragic than herself. (Or maybe not.)<br />
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Oh yeah, and the fact that I'm now wearing trackie bottoms really says it all.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-55003753915712730652017-07-09T21:20:00.002+01:002017-07-09T21:21:25.635+01:00"Poo-Poo to To-Do"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With London summertime positively sizzling and whizzing by at breakneck speed, it seems as good a time as any for a summing up:<br />
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A creative summation requires little more than a glance at any one of my ever-expanding 'To Do Lists' scattered randomly about (iphone, laptop, notepads, family calendar, online Google shared calendar (which to my husbands chagrin may as well not exist), uber-cool Japanese diary (luxury gift from the husband), or my current favourite, - barely legible 'mental patient' scrawls on the back of an Apple instruction booklet which accompanied my latest prized acquisition - 'Beat' wireless headphones (the insertion of which not only facilitate the immediate tuning out of unwanted whining, whingeing and all manner of domestic ear pollution, BUT helpfully also double as fetching 24/7 neck candy).<br />
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Confession time: undoubtedly the most <b>shaming </b>item on my list is a reminder to collect on a travel insurance claim from seven years ago (yes, I know, but please don't judge, as I blame entirely the Virgin operator who back in 2010, glibly informed me that since the case was now logged I had 'no time limit' in which to claim...something i obviously took literally).<br />
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Almost as bad is the reminder to claim for Squit's lost pushchair, which Air Canada managed to lose en route to Canada three years ago (something i attempted to rectify in an almost autistic manner for numerous weeks with countless repetitively futile conversations with disinterested staff sweltering in Mumbai call centres). All efforts culminated in a potential Netflix pitch which saw me increasingly uneasy as I was given a personal tour through an abandoned airline warehouse by a creepy contender who definitely would have made the final cut in a 'Who most resembles a serial killer' pageant (should such a thing exist). The only thing which stopping me from permanently erasing this chore is the fact that were I to actually get the financial compensation we deserve, I could so justify the glorious new trainers I've been lusting after for a few months now...so you see.<br />
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Most current I suppose is the reminder to pay our local vet £288 for our cat's triple-whammy of an op this past week (micro-chipping, castration and surprise hernia). Bloody heck. The vet informed me that Ghengis is one of the naughtiest kittens she has ever come across given how the vast amount of administered anethesia appeared to have little effect as minutes after she had sewn up the last stitch he determinedly embarked upon the immediate removal of said stitches decorating his entire underside. For his sins, he has to wear one of those ridiculous cones around his little head for the next two weeks, but if anything it makes him slightly more endearing, and foolish looking enough to garner sky high ratings on comedic value alone.<br />
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Of course it didn't help that the day after his op I went to pieces when Ghengis went AWOL for several hours after we had sacrificially deprived ourselves of any relieving breezes throughout this most unusual killer London heatwave, only to discover that he'd somehow pulled a Houdini and escaped where no escape was possible???<br />
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All I kept replaying was the vet sternly admonishing me about the need to keep him indoors at all costs, given that any sort of athletic trailblazing over neighbours fences would likely mean certain death due to the likely rupturing of his unfortunate genetically thin-as-tissue-paper stomach muscles.<br />
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Squit was somewhat distraught and between bouts of playing with his beloved toy cars would look for him periodically. Dumpie was disgusted, labelling me a 'cat killer' claiming it was all my fault if he was dead (though strangely felt no inclination to leave his online gaming to actually ascertain that his pet had definitely passed into the next dimension). True to form, Egg teared up ever so briefly upon hearing the news later that evening after a gruelling cricket match, but after a single half-hearted garden shout-out, retired upstairs to his bedroom for the remainder of the night in order to brush up on his cubing skills in advance of his upcoming Cube Championship.<br />
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The husband, shattered from a hard day at work, returned to find his kids shouting 'Ghengis is gone and probably dead!', his wife manically folding shirts on the bedroom floor feeling like a total and utter loser, merely shook his head (probably adding up the pointless financial costs of such a short pet undertaking), simply muttered something demoralising under his breath about this being yet further proof of our family's inability to lead a 'normal life'.<br />
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It was much to everyones surprise later that evening when the doorbell suddenly rang and we found our neighbour clutching our pathetic looking cone-headed kitty, incredulous that he had managed to fit through such tiny trellis holes with his new head gear. As with most things in life, the thrill was relatively short-lived and as we breathed a sigh of collective relief we simultaneously went back to focusing on the biggest cat issue at hand: OUR HOME REEKS OF CAT SHIT.<br />
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It would appear that despite the cat eradicating the scurrying vermin problem (they are thankfully now out of sight but annoying appear to have set up shop inside the wall cavity of our master bedroom), the price we pay for the cessation of my phobia is the permanent disgusting stench of our home. No amount of posh aromatherapy candles, room sprays or creative placement of the litter box has managed to slightly dent the ever present smell of poo.<br />
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As for me, a life long cat despiser, though still trying to warm to said cat, I've inadvertently stumbled upon a most surprising delight. Every morning I'm blessed with a wake up ritual not unlike a poor man's head massage. The kitty leaps onto my pillow, tangles himself up in my not unsubstantial mane, and in the process of detangling himself, inadvertantly administers a most pleasing sort of head massage not unlike the ones I happily fork out for in Goa. So there you have it...a silver lining. The buzz saw purring is a small price to pay for pleasure, and it's only cut short when the cat is lobbed one handedly off the bed by an irate husband who has woken to rightly ascertain the too close proximity of someone else's butt-hole to his face. Fair enough.<br />
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To end on a positive note, I need merely to refer to the jubilantly scratched out 'MUST FIND NEW CLEANER!!!!' to recalibrate my current self-worth. After the best cleaner in the universe quit suddenly a month ago (upon which i immediately rang my sister who also uses her to ascertain that she had also been ditched), I had a regrettable two week trial with a woman my age who clearly felt cleaning beneath her (Don't we all lady?! Don't we all?! Me with my university degree, dreams, as of yet unrealised potential, reduced to spending a huge percentage of every day sniffing male underpants to ascertain whether they're dirty or about to be needlessly laundered again, on my knees at the toilets trying vainly to eradicate semi-permanent pee stains from boys too lazy to lift lids?) and was worryingly way more interested in rifling through my charity bag of fashion cast-offs than hoovering. Things culminated in a rather ridiculous late night texting war which neither of us won, and was only proof that we are clearly both not in a terribly good place at present.<br />
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So 'hello again' to whomever you are, whatever you're doing right now, and might I strongly suggest that if life is currently beating you down, try and avail yourself of some wireless headphones as a coping mechanism. I may appear to be just another world-weary female statistic in her middle years, but ear pods inserted, tunes blazing into my weary skull, I'm a force to be reckoned with...and these days, that's good enough for me.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-83594478955192920792017-05-19T18:39:00.000+01:002017-05-19T19:02:02.244+01:00"Kissy-Kat, Kissy-Kat, Where Have You Been?"Two things of note happened this past week: I face planted onto wet pavement in my slippery Converse during the school run, emerging bloody, rips in my new Current Elliott jeans and humiliated beyond belief. Secondly, we acquired a pet.<br />
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We are now proud cat owners of a 12 week old Tabby(?) whose name we have typically spent the past week vehemently arguing about ('Kismet' vs 'Genghis'). To some, this news would be no big deal, but as a self-confessed 'dog person' and up until now, life-long 'cat despiser' (sorry, but to me, cats have always been a bit like Zara - nice but no Prada.) They can't be taught tricks, aren't any impediment whatsoever to a potential burglar, and are merely fur-shedding, stand-offish creatures who slink around arrogantly, giving back very little value in the way of affection. Or so I thought...<br />
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Meet "Kissy-Kat", a feline with a penchant for french-kissing (should one accidentally leave ones mouth ajar during the thrice daily minimum make-out session he requires. "Kissy Kat" loves nothing more than climbing up onto your chest, a bit of brief foreplay nuzzling around the chin area, then straight into a marathon session of langorous licking: eyelids, nose, lips, then back again, ad infinitum, until your face is as clean as a whistle and there remains not even a hint of your former eye makeup. This can literally can go on for hours, or until the smell of cat food breath and stray cat hairs make you want to choke...but much like a hot guy with bad B.O., he's cute so you let him get away with it.<br />
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I blame one of our oldest and best friends, 'That in the Hat'. Not unlike "The Cat In The Hat" he's prone to turning up randomly, unexpectedly, turning your world upside down for a few days (in the most delightful way of course), and then suddenly disappearing when there is no more havoc to be wreaked. Until the next time of course. Ergo a Friday night of much good natured lively chat, excessive wine consumption, and a mere few hours sleep before an 7:30 am wake-up to watch Egg play in an important school cricket match a fair distance away. <br />
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This would all have been fine except for the fact that upon waking I had shot back a triple shot cappuccino like it was nothing, resulting in severe insomnia and subsequent sleep envy once the husband had crawled back into bed after having fortuitously ascertained that Egg could catch an early ride with some other poor soul.<br />
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Queue a lovely Saturday morning snuggle in bed with the middle son, absentmindedly googling Rescue Home cats and dogs, resulting in this picture randomly popping up on screen:<br />
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Dumpie and I look at each other. We are so alike.<br />
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"I think I just found our cat," I said with wonderment.<br />
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"Yeah, he's the one. Let's buy it."<br />
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"Should we ask Dada?"<br />
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(We glance in the direction of the snoring hunk of man meat to our left. No response, even after a firm elbowing to the ribs.)<br />
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"I don't want to pay that much money though. What if I offer her less and if she takes it we just go for it."<br />
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"Yeah, do it," Dumps agreed.<br />
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So I did. The random stranger accepted my offer, we agreed to collect the 12 week old kitty later that day, then immediately began rousing the husband to share the good news, shoving the 'kitty porn' screen grab into his sleeping face, eventually extracting a vaguely positive-in-nature grunt which we decisively concurred to be a firm 'yes'.<br />
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Skipping over mundane details, having eventually garnered a resigned "Whatever" from the husband once fully awake, a few hours later found us all rattling through London in our aged camper van, hungover friend in back with our sqaubbling offspring, headed off to watch our son play cricket - and buy a kitty.<br />
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Stumbling across the cricket grounds, looking none too impressive (ie. feeling 'last scene in Breakfast Club' but coming off like pilot episode of 'Shameless') I was struck with a sudden burst of paranoia. I mean, if we were going to acquire a family pet for the next <i>fifteen odd years</i>, surely a random google search resulting in the impulsive online purchase of a brokered discount kitty from some woman with questionable communication skills, <i>after </i>a night of excess and barely <i>any</i> sleep, was not <i>ideal</i>?<br />
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Frantically I googled, coming upon an even younger, maybe cuter(??) tiny ball of black fluff, only 8 weeks old, available immediately and fortuitously just around the corner from Egg's school.<br />
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"What do you think of this one?" I asked the husband, shoving my phone in his face.<br />
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"What? I thought you said the other one was 'the one'? He glared at me.<br />
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"I know, but this one is even younger and I think I like the shape of the face more and is it cuter? Is it? I can't tell. Also I think it would suit our house more...you know? What do you think?"<br />
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Around this point the husband walked off, clearly disgusted, throwing a pissed off scowl my way, turning his attention once more to the game. I studied the contrasting pics on my phone for some minutes before realising that there was only one thing for it: I had to 'phone a friend.' In this case that meant sending said pics to a rather random group of family and friends to illicit their opinion. The feedback was mixed. I decided that we simply had to see both kittens and hoped that we would 'just know.'<br />
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An hour or so later found the lot of us charging into a strangers' tiny kitchen, surveying a sorry lot of feline specimens.<br />
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"Which one you here for then?" the woman asked.<br />
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"Umm...the black one?" I offered.<br />
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Immediately, a tiny dark fur ball shot past my legs and hid behind a tired old washing machine. No amount of cajoling would force it out, and after several minutes of awkwardness, the rain beating down relentlessly outside, I started to feel like we should just get the heck out of there, go home to bed and re-think the whole thing. However just then the angry little fur ball was captured trying to escape upstairs by a sullen towel clad teenage girl who stoned-faced, held it out to me. Clawing my All Saints jumper, staring angrily out of slitty yellow-tinged eyes, I quickly shoved it at the husband.<br />
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"Here, you hold it. You love cats" I mumbled, wanting now <i>definitely </i>to leave and wondering how I could do it without looking like a fickle freak (I had sounded <i>so sure</i> on the phone in order to get her to agree to an immediate visit).<br />
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Somehow I managed to get us out of there by spouting some nonsense about a family chat being needed at a nearby imaginary pub before most likely coming back to acquire the evil kitty for a sum. She bought it, the kids bought it, and even the husband seemed to.<br />
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"Urgh...no way," I declared as we buckled ourselves back up in the van. The family surveyed me with confusion. Apparently they had not deemed this creature as horrid as I had, and were as a group, terribly annoyed. Whatever.<br />
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At this point our sleep-deprived and hungover houseguest began to seriously lose it in the back seat. We proceeded to lurch and halt our way through vile London weekend traffic across town for the next forty-five minutes or so, until he categorically demanded to be let out at the next pub and be collected later. We obliged, eventually making our way to the home of a young single mum with a tiny daughter living in a small council flat near the river. Once again we trundled inside en masse, but this time instead of encountering a demon fur ball I looked down to discover a creature not unlike 'Gizmo' from 'The Gremlins'.<br />
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Several cuddles later, after much stroking, and that face, that adorable little face, I instructed the husband to hand over the money in his wallet and we swiftly departed clutching our newest family member and a shopping bag full of cat accessories. I was pleased...very pleased. Mission accomplished. Why on earth did I ever doubt my initial instincts? I felt smug, not unlike the time I marched into a designer sample sale emerging shortly thereafter with the prize steal of the century.<br />
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So there you have it. We have a cat. We are proper, official cat owners. Puzzlingly, five days in, the monsters seem rather nonplussed with the new arrival. They are treating it like a Christmas toy: momentarily ecstatic, a quick play, slightly less enthusiastic the next play in, then gently pushing it to one side whilst picking back up their respective devices and losing all interest.<br />
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The husband has taken to our new little friend with the same delight as the arrival of our third son. He graciously concedes that it was a fortuitous move on my part, has swiftly grown rather fond of the delightful little mogwai, and is utterly charmed by the fact that the kitten has chosen as his new comfort place/sleep zone, his ramshackle bicycle collection in the corner of the basement.<br />
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As for me, I feel like I just ticked that parental 'expose children to pet' box, and as a bonus, appear to have been gifted with an affectionate feline that loves cuddles and kisses. Perfect. Love without the hardcore responsibility of a dog. But most of all I love that face, that adorable little face. Who knew hey?<br />
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<b>(Dislaimer: Truth be told, I got the bloody cat simply to put an end to the periodic mouse problem we appear to have in this old house of ours. Since his arrival there has been no sign of them, and the resulting peace of mind has been so worth it. Given that I hate bad smells, need more responsibility like a hole in the head, and can't bear cat hair getting onto my furniture or beloved clothes - PLUS have a sister whom we adore who happens to be wildly allergic to cats - is proof of how desperate I was for some vermin-related piece of mind. Now, I just have to continue to sell myself on the idea, and as the husband knows, being criminally cute helps...it helps <i>a lot</i>.)</b><br />
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-8861259130526562592017-04-16T07:37:00.000+01:002017-04-16T08:34:13.145+01:00"Goan Deep Down"<div class="p1">
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Today I reached the zenith of escape from my usual existence as a harried, often bored, Mama-of-three, hamster-wheeling through life in a Groundhog Day-esque vision of middle-class mediocrity back in Ol' London Town.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Watching Egg and Dumps climb a waterfall in the middle of the jungle, then sitting sweat-soaked, huddled in a mere three inches of rock pool (on account of the freakishly large fish which were feasting upon our extremities with great gulping miniature jaws should one dare to venture any further out), I realised that at last I had achieved the much longed for separation from my life as I know it. </div>
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This waterfall visit had been preceded by a glorious two hour drive on the back of le husband's beloved purple Enfield to a magnificent Spice Farm where we proceeded to tuck piggishly into delicious 'Thali's' and then rid ourselves of an obscene amount of money (okay fine that was all me) by buying up countless packages of spices that realistically have a one in five chance of ending up forlorn on a shelf somewhere a year from now. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>With the wind in my hair and the winding tree-lined vistas that we roared through showing off with all manner of views and glorious fauna, we were utterly transported. Oh how we needed that...</div>
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"It's good for the kids to see us in this context," the husband roared over the engine as we overtook the sulking children in the air-con taxi, staring out resentfully at us as we roared past.</div>
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"Yeah, totally," I yelled back, bouncing my head in time to the music from the bluetooth headphone I'd snuck in one ear.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>After countless years of returning like homing pigeons to this sacred bit of beach in this special part of the world, I love watching our city slicker boys go local. After about a week they stop complaining about every little thing "There's a bug in my milkshake"..."I got another mosquito bite"..."How come Netflix won't download"...and start tearing around with other kids on the beach, hitting up strangers for money to buy sweets, wearing the same shorts for four days in a row (even though stiff with dirt and beginning to spawn their own eco systems), and attempting to learn tightrope walking on the hastily erected ropes outside our glorified shack on the beach.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtX24UrnfyNx5Mpv49l01Z2eUz7OpgOuGURz3jc8eosK7HNIVNykDsT5u6dVekvgphFi4P5__W427WYVIC2plsk9hORVjKzDvCxExfLQDq3dOx06CIH1ZzUrLuYb3PDzZuXAxU4tL3oeW8/s1600/IMG_1833.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtX24UrnfyNx5Mpv49l01Z2eUz7OpgOuGURz3jc8eosK7HNIVNykDsT5u6dVekvgphFi4P5__W427WYVIC2plsk9hORVjKzDvCxExfLQDq3dOx06CIH1ZzUrLuYb3PDzZuXAxU4tL3oeW8/s400/IMG_1833.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmmr-7QH-ByHQDPs9oDxP7EWLTWtmNNy5DCNAamnqAwp_-KCHC0rv0-_HThO6Q2sRXCFO0hREF3QcTumPbxCcMrI2u9Fqz9oH0xnQaug-LcfWmhkFbcsdSG6H4lnhPCzun4fd-kjWw8aD/s1600/IMG_1768.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmmr-7QH-ByHQDPs9oDxP7EWLTWtmNNy5DCNAamnqAwp_-KCHC0rv0-_HThO6Q2sRXCFO0hREF3QcTumPbxCcMrI2u9Fqz9oH0xnQaug-LcfWmhkFbcsdSG6H4lnhPCzun4fd-kjWw8aD/s400/IMG_1768.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>I love how the all encompassing heat makes allies out of the husband and I, who are way too hot and tired to do more than raise a lazy eye if we see the other doing something we're not completely on board with. We are slower, gentler versions of ourselves here, and though the decompression process is not without its challenges (submitting to the inevitable squalor of perpetually sandy beds, mattresses no wider than a slice of Hovis, and random bugs which fall periodically from our slanted, desperately-in-need-of a-mend roof via the click-clacking fan...) once we've cracked it, we've cracked it, do you know what I mean? Simply put, night after night, toes buried comfortingly in the sand as we dine under the stars, we feel like the luckiest people in the world...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8c_a1Kfuk6dEQecV3l1LWjWmlUa4ZBIycsqXsJ8us8PtLz9rZklcxfg4QD870a8Io-oe8gGwmlvyg3YqqtsursXtv46b2_OvfGyTENFi1BP8OS_Ca8HJHX5L6DPzx6kMkrKVVDEahIm0B/s1600/IMG_1794.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8c_a1Kfuk6dEQecV3l1LWjWmlUa4ZBIycsqXsJ8us8PtLz9rZklcxfg4QD870a8Io-oe8gGwmlvyg3YqqtsursXtv46b2_OvfGyTENFi1BP8OS_Ca8HJHX5L6DPzx6kMkrKVVDEahIm0B/s320/IMG_1794.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmEaYBnrTlCRL0Pg680k_C19Qbjt3VmJbux5ihC8SCCDBDin4LqUzuG4QdFk2G8NEZy8u556OuqIZHxdhcrttPhudSSpYO1UL7a8stKcecK10tdPpAAfHwZsnRDfZP1i8UtPDLKAvuF87/s1600/IMG_1756.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmEaYBnrTlCRL0Pg680k_C19Qbjt3VmJbux5ihC8SCCDBDin4LqUzuG4QdFk2G8NEZy8u556OuqIZHxdhcrttPhudSSpYO1UL7a8stKcecK10tdPpAAfHwZsnRDfZP1i8UtPDLKAvuF87/s400/IMG_1756.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Our boys (who are never happier than when all crammed cozily in our bed) love the proximity of this place and the fact that we are living on top of each other. It makes them feel happy and secure (the husband and I less so, nightly fighting claustrophobia as we laughingly attempt sleep, glued together like gummi bears, in what amounts to a double bed).</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Still, I remind myself that these days are precious. Egg, who I so clearly remember toddling about with "Wanna cuppa tea?" and nightly indulging in post-bath nudist dancing to Goldfrapps 'Number 1', is almost a teenager and the other two can already kick our respective arses in the card memory game (any memory-related exercise to be honest), and I'm patently aware how numbered these days are have recently resolved to start appreciating this period of my life more than I have been doing so of late.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"> </span>Saying that, if one more little bugger pulls out the charging cable from my iphone, it's going to be cheeky backhands all round.<br />
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-36254957862412324952016-08-30T01:15:00.000+01:002016-08-30T01:17:09.097+01:00"Oversized Baggage"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So we're back on UK shores after a three week sojourn in Canada. It feels weird to be honest, though I'm sure having thousands of miles between us and unlimited supplies of Tim Horton's Timbits is a good thing - no I know it's a good thing.<br />
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The night before we left, the National Lampoon classic, "European Vacation" was on telly and I giggled through my favourite scene (the one where the family are on a train, so fed up that they purposely try and annoy each other, wishing desperately to be shot of their fellow family members), only to reenact it twenty-four hours later at the airport.<br />
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First off, the husband was barely speaking to me on account of the amount of luggage I had acquired in three weeks. Never mind that most of it was baked goods and sundries you can't get here in the UK (anyone ever try making Rice Krispy Squares with UK marshmallows? The whole mess congeals into a burnt blob of gelatine and stubbornly refuses to melt). He was livid that we were returning to London with four pieces of checked luggage and 10 pieces of carry-on. (Unfortunately for him, some internet sleuthing several days earlier had unearthed the surprising fact that Air Canada allows not one but two 10 kilo pieces per person to be carried on board - no matter that in our case one of the passengers happened to be a four year old incapable of carrying anything heavier than a teddy.)<br />
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Also, we have a long-standing conflict regarding airport timings. I hate getting there too early and like to leave myself JUST enough time to cruise through and right onto the plane. The husband prefers to get there in enough time to give himself time to sink an overpriced pint and still get halfway through his holiday read.<br />
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This time my cousin was giving us a lift in his jeep and despite the cramped conditions (Dumps on my lap, Squit on the husband's lap, and all of us with bags piled up to our necks and numb extremities) we made it there in plenty of time to ascertain that our flight was going to be delayed (surprise surprise) and that somewhere along the line, the delicious slice of cold pizza I had stashed in one of the 10 carry-ons had fallen out and I'd have to make do with a soggy creme cheese bagel instead.<br />
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But get home we did, and with no excess baggage charges to boot. Forty-Eight hours later and the husband is only just thawing out, and this despite the horrendous discovery that not only did we cart back an insane amount of stuff, but a raging case of head lice to boot (thanks Egg)....we're talking legions.<br />
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So here we are, (not really) ready to start the Autumn term, with fast-fading suntans from the near tropical daily heat of Toronto, and massive sugar and cocktail come-downs. Even the end of holiday Espresso Martini the husband and I just balefully downed barely touched the sides. <br />
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Now I have the small matter of where (and how) to stash the year's supply of edible goods I brought back - though I am greatly enjoying the novelty of fitting out my kitchen with all manner of cool gadgets I couldn't resist. However all that will have to wait as my first job tomorrow morning is to find a glazier to replace the glass on our french doors which Egg rather randomly smashed this afternoon.<br />
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We're back alright.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-30834088244905302942016-08-19T00:49:00.001+01:002016-08-19T01:03:00.131+01:00"'Toronna'...'Toronna'...I Love You 'Toronna"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So we're back in good ol' 'Toronna' (Toronto, Canada to those not acquainted with the sometimes local vernacular) for our annual summer trip back to visit family and stock up on North American baked goods (I kid you not, should Customs and Excise ever decide to pull me over I shall be accused of trying to open an illegal corner shop).<br />
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Due to logistics (and fairness - truth be told - especially in light of the husband's recent 8 day solo bike trip through the Alps) I have had the unique pleasure of being rid of any parental or spousal duties for the past fourteen days now...and oh, how easily and quickly I have adapted.<br />
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Perhaps due to having temporarily shed the mantle of responsibility for anyone but myself, I have shockingly quickly reverted into somewhat insolent teenage behaviour.<br />
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Case in point: the other day (in hindsight, rather rudely but not without humour) I donned one of my usually elegant Mums' outfits and proceeded to do an impromptu fashion show complete with comedy gait and pursed lips (Derek Zoolander would have been proud), clad in a boxy linen blouse and shapeless, calf-length denim skirt. I collapsed in giggles whilst my mother, raised eyebrows and all, tried to talk me out of wearing said outfit over to her condo as a dare, where my sister was going to meet us.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's all in the stance...</td></tr>
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Whilst admitting it to be a ludicrous get-up when viewed from the vantage point of spectator, my mum nonetheless defended her right to wear it for the sole purpose of dog walking.<br />
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Her inability to concede that it was a fashion faux pas on an apocalyptic level merely prompted a comedy walk down the hall, into her packed lift, into the car park, up another lift (all the while my mother nervously trailing behind, muttering under her breath, hoping we didn't run into anyone she knew) and into the condo where my sister satisfactorily roared with laughter. I then did an about face onto my mum's 19th story balcony and in a burst of admittedly childish rebellion, stripped off and chucked the whole sorry mess into the air and over the edge.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"One is <i>not</i> amused..."</td></tr>
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Something about wandering these Toronto streets connects me back to my rebellious seventeen year old self, and prompts me to don bright orange nail polish, a trucker hat, oversized shades and storm the streets to my favourite spotify playlist, sucking on ice-lollies, chewing bubblegum and buying up vintage rock t-shirts. (Mind you, it's not like I sustain from this sort of behaviour ensconced in my middle-class London enclave...)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FYI this is how you do a bathroom selfie Kim Kardashian...</td></tr>
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All this to say that it is with some trepidation (yet honest yearning and delight - I adore and miss those little monsters) that I anticipate the boys' arrival to downtown 'Toronna' from Mississauga tomorrow when the husband drops them off and likely scarpers - not to be seen until the departure lounge at Pearson Airport one week hence. I imagine there will be a slight adjustment period wherein I sternly have to remind myself that it's not a good example to have two glasses of Pinot Grigio and a family sized bag of Smartfood popcorn for dinner - nor is it acceptable to storm through human barricades of 'five abreast' tourists on downtown sidewalks in my hurry to get an iced-coffee, despite possibly causing bodily harm to the young and elderly.<br />
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And don't even get me started on the fear that accompanied the husband's final email to me last night regarding the recent regression of our four year olds toilet training habits:<br />
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"There is still an evil bag of shitty clothes awaiting me." (fyi i'm pretty sure he means actual shit)<br />
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URGHHH.....<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-84126086348447109522016-06-27T00:17:00.001+01:002016-06-27T08:37:02.394+01:00"Slummy-Single-Mummying It"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the last things the husband said to me yesterday before departing for his much anticipated eight day cycle adventure from hell (well, hell by my standards anyway...I get winded just pedalling my Brompton up the slight incline to our street) was this: <b>"Remember, it's all about survival. Just give them what they want and make it easy for yourself."</b><br />
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He was of course referring to the monsters and the creeping dread I've had about 'single parenting' whilst he's away. For him, a typical afternoon jaunt with the boys in tow almost invariably ends with a protracted solo visit to the pub after dropping them back home, shaking his head in defeat and muttering something like, "I wasn't cut out for this," as he legs it out the door to my plaintive, "Well I wasn't either!...Hey, when are you coming back? You are coming back?....Please come back..." In other words, he gets it. He knows that by day three I'm likely to start panic texting him in the Alps (where he's cycling a gazillion kilometres up and down mountains from Geneva, Switzerland across to Venice, Italy with one of his 'besties' - another like-minded MAMIL (middle aged man in lycra), demanding he return AT ONCE or will have to collect his offspring from various temporary foster homes upon his return.<br />
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Okay, so I'm sounding a wee bit dramatic as the boys are not exactly terrors <i>per se</i>, but when the planets align such that they ALL kick off at the same time, <i>and</i> I've not had much sleep, and Squit has wet not only his bed again but <i>my</i> bed as well (having snuck in for a cuddle in the middle of the night) and Dumpie has lost the power cord for his ipad (the only thing keeping him from staging an impromptu coup just for the fun of it) and Egg has just discovered a plastic Sainsbury's bag under Squit's bed containing a multitude of plastic pieces which in its previous form was a beloved limited edition Japanese speed cube...well, you get the picture.<br />
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Now to be fair, I must confess that for the next few days Egg is away on a school trip, so at least I'll only have the two to contend with. That means I don't have to wake and fall asleep to the persistent sound of lightning fast creaking cubes being relentlessly twisted into submission and can temporarily remove the not insignificant number of sweets and biscuits I've been forced to stash in my wardrobe (the most recent hiding place, for it changes weekly given Egg is a renowned sugar junkie and if left to his own devices would devour every E-number in sight until falling into a diabetic coma). On the other hand, neither Dumps, Squit nor my good self are what you would call 'morning people.' Egg however can be reliably counted on to 'wake and cube' starting round about 6:30am daily. There is no danger of sleeping through an alarm on a school day when he's around. So to that end, I have about five alarms set for tomorrow morning and as a further precautionary measure am sleeping with my blinds open, so on the odd chance it's sunny I'll be woken with a jolt of migraine-inducing rays. Well that's the plan anyway.<br />
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Going to sign off now. Watching Coldplay close Glastonbury on the telly is proving rather distracting. The worst dressed man in Rock is currently doing some hardcore autistic piano bench rocking and incorporating some rather confusing high kicks into his stage choreography. If I didn't know any better I'd say that he was attempting the first ever Hokey Pokey on the infamous Pyramid Stage. He's sporting such a crazy grin that I can only assume that he's either on the best drugs <i>ever</i> or has recently joined Scientology and is having a major Theta moment. <br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-6815193337529004122016-06-17T01:48:00.000+01:002016-06-17T01:48:00.266+01:00"Which Came First...The Boy Or The Egg?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tomorrow my darling Egg turns twelve. And that people, is Egg-xactly how fast life goes.<br />
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One minute you're in agony in a hospital overlooking Big Ben as your husband feebly plays around with his new camera in the background (purchased with the sole purpose of catching such a life-changing moment - but instead proving such a giant distraction that his old school chum is almost allowed to charge right into the birthing room and witness your most vulnerable moment ever as a human being...but i digress).<br />
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The point is, I recall the agony, the stupendousness of giving birth to my first, to dear little Egg, as if it happened yesterday. That twelve whole years have passed since then is almost inconceivable, and I shudder to think how quickly the next twelve are going to whip by (I for one, am SO not ready to be twelve years older than I am now...if I think I have facial contouring 'challenges' cropping up now...goodness me).<br />
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Anyway, as is my tradition, thanks to a vile film I saw years ago starring Uma Thurman (the ONLY good thing about it, and I do mean ONLY, is how in the film she has a tradition of taking a picture of her children as they sleep, the night before each birthday) I have taken the prerequisite picture, filled his room with Happy Birthday balloons and put a few 'Breakfast Pressies' on his dresser for when he wakes up. I grew up in a family where birthdays were magical in every way, and I've tried hard to carry on that tradition with the monsters. To that end, I've been studying for hours online, the best way to try and create a Rubiks Cube Lemon Poppyseed Birthday Cake from scratch.<br />
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Why Rubiks Cube you ask? Well, let's just say that the boy is obsessed...and no, that is not too strong a word. In the preceding months he has collected around 26 cubes of varying shape, size and difficulty, mastering them to the point of insanity (14 seconds anyone?!) and started his very own Youtube channel with almost as many subscribers as I have for my blog. I kid you not.<br />
Am I proud? Hell yeah - but more on that some other time.<br />
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For now, I just want to make a public declaration about how lucky I feel to be a M.O.E. (Mum of Egg). He is truly unique (and at my ripe old age I totally appreciate how rare that really is) in that his amazing brain has not relegated him to wallflower nerd status as one might suppose, but rather the boy has surprised us all the past few years with his amazing athletic prowess - no thanks at all to his rather un-athletic and somewhat oblivious parents.<br />
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Turns out he's a proper sportsman with a wicked arm for bowling in Cricket and such a natural when it comes to table tennis that he recently at a festival remained undefeated for hours against a growing crowd of adults cheering on the unbeatable 11 year old and queuing up to have a go themselves. Recently on school photo day, he apparently had to scramble into seven different uniforms for all the pictures - ridiculous I know. But that's Egg you see: whatever he is 'into' he is 'really into'. He has always been that way. First it was Maths...then remote-controlled ANYthing...then...well you get the picture.<br />
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But all of that matters not a jot really. What makes me truly proud is the absolute kindness the boy inherently possesses. He certainly didn't get it from me or the husband, that's for sure. Egg has always possessed a genuinely beautiful and gentle soul. When he was a toddler that manifested itself in spontaneously hugging and kissing other little ones on the playground (me chasing behind in his wake, trying to explain to parents and their sometimes bawling offspring that he meant no harm) and now manifests itself in generously often giving all his money away to those less fortunate than himself and keeping local newsagents in business by buying bucket loads of sweets for all his mates. He is generous to a fault, and sensitive in a way that brings tears to my eyes - and his at times.<br />
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He is also very funny...and sweet...and has the most expressive dark rimmed green eyes with lashes to die for, which - if lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them through the silky blond hair he still insists on wearing way too long - have the ability to make you melt in an instant.<br />
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Simply put, I adore this boy. I love him to the moon and back, and getting him as my first, my eldest son, remains one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I know we don't deserve him, and that probably out there somewhere is a Professor and his wife puzzled with their brute of child, who grunts and plays video games 24/7 while scratching at a never ending itch on the nether regions who would have done wonders with a boy wonder like Egg. Instead Egg has been allocated two flawed but well-intentioned parents who have often stood by with a mixture of wonder and confusion (and sometimes annoyance - I shan't lie - imagine the sound of energetic and constant 'cubing' as the soundtrack to your life) and thought, "How on earth did we birth this boy?!"<br />
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Egg, we salute you...all twelve years of you. You are an amazing person and we can hardly wait to see what you do with your life. We know that you want to leave home and go off to Uni already (or in your more frustrated moments stage a Drew Barrymore-esque emancipation petition) but stay with us awhile longer please...years in fact. We love you and couldn't be prouder of you, and until you're unleashed into the world and no longer our precious little secret, we intend to enjoy all the madness and joy that you bring into our lives.<br />
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I Love You...<br />
Mama x"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-2613366792530027122016-02-23T10:53:00.000+00:002016-05-10T10:55:36.556+01:00"The 'Nammie Man' Has Left The Building"It's been a pretty big month round these parts. Firstly, a few weeks ago, my 'baby' Squit turned four to much fanfare and a bright red ride-on mini Ferrari. The first thing he did was run over the husbands foot and then reverse into his 18-month old cousin. To be fair he was fairly jubilant and likely high on the giant wedge of Red Velvet birthday cake he'd just scoffed...but still.<br />
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A few days after this momentous day, I had parent teacher meetings and it was gently suggested that given Squit was now four and showing no signs whatsoever of giving up his beloved nappies, I might want to seek professional help.<br />
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That was it. I think it triggered some form of primal parental shame which had puzzlingly remained intact up until this point.<br />
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I strode home and marched straight up to Dumpie - who was so focused on one of his 'addictive as crack' video games that he let me stand there like a moron for a few minutes before bothering to even acknowledge my presence.<br />
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"Make Squitty go on the potty and I'll give you twenty quid."<br />
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He glanced up, only mildly interested.<br />
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"Fine. But you don't have to pay me that much money. I'll do it, but can you buy me some more gold coins for my game?"<br />
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"Done," I said, and with that, he led Squit into the bathroom, firmly shutting the door, and proceeded to work some manner of goodness knows what manipulative magic on his adoring little Mini-Me. A short while later, he emerged, triumphant and victorious, yet entirely nonplussed.<br />
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"Okay. Buy me the coins please."<br />
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Bish bash bosh. And that, people, is apparently how it's done. What has taken me years to totally fail at, Dumps managed in ten minutes. <br />
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And so thus ends yet another era, another parental milestone crossed off the list: the 'baby/toddler' stage dispensed with sans fanfare and ceremony (save the special thrill of permanently deleting nappies from my online shopping lists and realising with a small burst of joy that my weekly spend on 'nammies' can now be used in the purchasing of a fine bottle of Rioja. Nice one.)<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-26054309902931401472016-02-06T10:36:00.000+00:002016-05-10T10:37:25.829+01:00"Squitaliscious"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So I'll officially never be the parent of a three year old again. And honestly, I'm going to miss it. <br />
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Three remains one of my favourite ages as little ones possess just enough chubbiness to hang tentatively on the precipice of babyhood, but are clever enough to start using language in unintentionally hilarious ways. Age three has always epitomised 'Munchkinhood' and a part of me will from this day forward be in mourning for that sweet baby smell (garnered from the back of the neck or the forehead in a pinch) and the sweet cherubic smiles and silly eggbeater-esque running gait (or maybe that's just Squit...in fact, I'm pretty sure it is).<br />
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At any rate, Squit turned FOUR(!) on the weekend and as usual, we celebrated with balloons, cake, too many pressies and plenty of boozes for the attending adults. As a special treat, this year Squitty had his beloved Grandpa in attendance - who good-naturedly put up with the insistent birthday menu request of Domino's double cheese and pepperoni pizzas and diabetes-inducing million-calorie Red Velvet Cake smothered in rich vanilla icing and covered in about 500 Smarties.<br />
(To be fair it was divine and the next day the remains were fought over bitterly, with yours truly pathetically indulging in deliberate subterfuge with the under-twelves in order to secure the biggest piece. Oh, the shame.)<br />
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But the highlight was the 'yes-we-know-it's-disgustingly-indulgent-but-it's-our-last-little-one-so...' miniature bright red Ferrari motorised car (sigh). Thing is, I've ALWAYS wanted one, ever since I was a little kid around Squit's age, and snuck off in a huge mall and sat hiding for hours in a toy car just like this one, whilst my parents and store detectives stood wringing their hands, on the verge of calling in the police to report an alleged kidnapping. <br />
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Obviously Egg and Dumpie were writhing with envy, and who can blame them? We were forced to drag out the husbands scale and weigh Egg in order to prove that he was WAY over the 25 kilo weight limit of the little car (38.5 kilos to be exact) even though he had somehow miraculously managed to wedge his pre-teen lanky frame into its confines. Even Dumps is a touch too heavy (26.5 kilos) but adores it so much that he has managed to take possession of one of the ignition keys and has claimed it for his own.<br />
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And so proper boyhood beckons for our littlest fella and it's bye-bye forever to the Fat Baby. And in a few months or so when the monsters have managed to trash the little red sports car (I'm calling a head-on into Dada's precariously constructed 'DJ Booth') we'll also have a giant piece of recyclable junk which we'll probably never manage to dispose of properly and will sit out back in the garden slowly rusting and becoming a world class hotel for wayward snails.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-71154017615641898452016-01-31T23:38:00.000+00:002016-01-31T23:38:37.729+00:00Housewarming Hullabaloo...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In a life filled (mostly) with the mundane (ie. childcare, domestic tasks, bills, blech blech blech...) I think it's important to carve out moments where you make memories that will amuse for years to come. Memories which will sustain you when/if you end up drooling under a blanket, being spoon fed jello by disinterested care workers in ill-fitting blue uniforms somewhere in Slough. Everyone past the age of 70 says the same thing: they dine out on all their good memories forever more, and you can never have too many - because I mean, the same few will get a tad boring after a while non?<br />
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Last night we finally had our long-awaited Housewarming Party. We felt we absolutely needed to mark out a proper celebration for what has essentially been two years of utter hell and disappointment and delusion. Third time lucky we turned out to be, and are now ensconced in the perfect house FOR US. (That's the important bit...sometimes the house finds you and pulls you in...and sometimes it's not the 'dream home' you had imagined but something infinitely more suited to you regardless.)<br />
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Last night, looking around at all the smiley faces, dancing like teenagers, making way too many cocktails and basically being entirely too silly for anyone over the age of 25, I realised that we not only have a great mass of amazing mates who span twenty odd years, but even some new ones who seemed to fit in seamlessly with our old crew. <br />
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My darling 81 year old father surpassed all levels of amazingness by taking not one but all three(!) of the monsters off our hands for a sleepover last night...without any help! I hope I'm that cool when I'm his age. As a result, we were able to be really loud, really silly, and not fear the plaintive 3am cry of 'Muuuuummmmy!.....DaaaaaaaDaaaaaa!' (a sound which will put the fear into the heart of any parental type).<br />
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Much amusement was had by guest number 7 and onwards, when our giant wall-mounted coat rack fell from the wall under the weight off too many coats, and from thenceforth, all coats were relegated to Eggie's bedroom. The husband can program the heck out of any computer, but is not terribly anal about the outcome of any haphazard DIY work, so it's to be expected I guess. I'm not much better I suppose. It became pretty obvious last night after umpteenth comments, that I've somehow transformed out home into something more resembling an exclusive members club - than any semblance of a practical home. The place is littered with fairy lights, mood lighting, candles, and giant fluffy pillows. Elegant it may not be, but it's cozy to be sure. So there.<br />
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Before the party I had sat the husband down and explained that since I had not had time to clean all the boys bedrooms etc. that he kindly refrain from showing people around last night. He sort of nodded and appeared to agree, but then I found him conducting group tours a-plenty throughout the evening...so much so that to my utter bewilderment/amusement, I found our albeit large but old fashioned and Moroccan inspired en suite turn into the pop-up VIP room of the night. No comment.<br />
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So to all those who came, I thank and salute you. To those who were not able to come...c'est dommage. And to our new home: You officially rock. We thank you and intend to enjoy every last little corner and crevice of your ancient creaking form. <br />
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And to our neighbours: Please don't hate us. We are so so sorry.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">next morning carnage</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-mH61_6eYWhuO5FpT66ayRI2_xEdguSGkrfzc5QNHdBbBTNcD8xMaUWeQsNOagVvwhEWN-KKIScuX8WCroVe2xwCULpItJzfzGuzeW_nM5UfqnE6cRV3DmXonxqbaCyYng2P7cUGIfu3/s1600/IMG_1402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-mH61_6eYWhuO5FpT66ayRI2_xEdguSGkrfzc5QNHdBbBTNcD8xMaUWeQsNOagVvwhEWN-KKIScuX8WCroVe2xwCULpItJzfzGuzeW_nM5UfqnE6cRV3DmXonxqbaCyYng2P7cUGIfu3/s1600/IMG_1402.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">close up carnage</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-89898638493268325902015-12-18T21:27:00.001+00:002015-12-18T21:27:18.571+00:00"Must NOT Step On Pet...Must NOT Step on New Pet"Ok so it has been awhile...but 917 boxes of unpacking are a force to be reckoned with. Believe me.<br />
<br />
We FINALLY moved into a new home...OUR new home. Two years and as much headache ended with us taking possession of a brand-spanking-new set of keys three weeks ago to the day, to a domicile avec garden in SW London after two long years of hardship trying to acquire said domicile. Of course this momentous occasion couldn't go down without some sort of incident, and in our case it was the shrieking loud burglar alarm which went off for a good twelve minutes which alerted our new neighbours to our arrival. Clearly the husband and I were not paying enough attention during the instructional run-through of our new place to make note of the CORRECT four digit sequence to stop the alarm. (Not unlike our wedding when we publicly displayed our utter disregard for the previous nights rehearsal, and blithely led bridesmaids and groomsmen outside of the church during the wrong hymn, a good ten minutes before the service had concluded.)<br />
<br />
The initial euphoria has morphed into something resembling mild panic and exhaustion as we have come face to face with the fact that we are hoarders. (The husband would of course refute this, but I stand by the fact that although I confess to have somehow acquired enough shoes, handbags and jeans to stock a small L.A. boutique, his bike paraphernalia and tools and boxes and bags of random, miscellaneous crap takes up WAY MORE SPACE. End of.<br />
<br />
Anyway, all this to say: To those who continually ask us, 'How are you getting on in your new home?' I have this to say: "Umm...it's cool and we love it but Dumpie has been wearing the same pair of socks for days now."<br />
<br />
In such a rush to move out of our old flat, we (and by 'we' I mean 'I', as I am a mother, a female, and hence apparently in charge of all things hygiene and domestic related) neglected to pack intelligently.<br />
In all fairness, we were so beaten by life at the point of move, that we splurged on the 'all-inclusive-we-will-pack-all-your-belongings' option, in the hopes that it would negate a one or both voluntary admission into the Priory come January.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, our (mostly Serbian) movers became fairly unmotivated to shift our millions of mirrors/picture frames/vases/etc. by the second day, and instead were discovered taking selfies on their phones in our (former) bedroom by the husband. I kid you not.<br />
<br />
All this to say, for the first week after we moved in, the boys were having to wear the husbands' hole-ridden Rapha socks to school, and I was forced to wear TRACK PANTS in PUBLIC(!) for going on five days, for the simple reason that we could not locate our essentials among the millions of boxes littering the landings and bedrooms. After a week or so of manic unpacking I have completely given up, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of 'stuff' I never knew I had (thanks to not one but two storage units) and have adapted to my new environment of chaos and just about manage to muddle through most days. Just about.<br />
<br />
If that weren't enough, I desperately attempted (and succeeded) in winning the opportunity to bring home Squitty's nursery pet (a giant tortoise named 'Lightning') for the holidays. Lightning is FAST. (Hence the name.) He's also big into exploring, and has already been lost once in the six odd hours he's been at ours. I'm desperately afraid that either Egg or the husband will accidentally step on him at some point given their predilection for being 'otherwise mentally indisposed' at various points throughout the day and have even half-composed my apologetic grovelling rant to the Nursery teacher should it indeed come to pass (sigh).<br />
<br />
At any rate, we've had him for a mere eight hours thus far, and the husband has already managed to torch the instructions thanks to an over-eager four-wick candle on the kitchen table. Nuff said.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-15061149314595365562015-11-07T09:41:00.000+00:002015-11-07T09:41:33.737+00:00"Moaning Mum Lives Up To Her Namesake"If there's one adage I have never paid attention to it's : "If you can't say something nice, then don't say it."<br />
<br />
I mean, that's the whole point isn't it? Saying something not nice is ofter funnier, definitely bitchier, more therapeutic and infinitely more interesting (if unkind) than being all hippy dippy happy and 'Everything's great man'.<br />
<br />
I've been warned numerous times by certain family members that my constant moaning about our seemingly never ending house woes are not unlike ones' dreams and holiday pics: <i>no one</i> but yourself is <i>ever</i> interested.<br />
<br />
And then there is the fact that much of the world is in turmoil at present and being preoccupied with what is essentially a first world problem is, I understand, off-putting at best. But if we have to sit through ridiculously sappy Christmas commercials on telly in early November, then maybe there is a place for the odd self-obsessed rant here and there, non?<br />
<br />
At any rate, I've been unable to blog for a week now because everything I have to say is 'house hell' related and going to be horrid and mean and denigrating to those in question (our evil and hirsute freeholder and useless and curmudgeonly solicitor for example).<br />
<br />
But just now I was forced to drop everything and sit down and type out this '<i>totally</i> going to regret it tomorrow' blog. You see if I don't, given what I've <i>just</i> learned, means I'm either going to suffer a massive heart attack (brought on by sheer rage and a rather unhealthy wine dependancy as of late) OR I'm going to send an unedited, completely emotional and ultimately destructive email to certain unsuspecting parties, bringing this whole hellish house on wheels nightmare to a grinding halt. <br />
<br />
I almost don't care.<br />
<br />
Next week is on course to be the most stressful week of the year. It is the culmination of two years of house viewings, two broken hearts over two dream homes lost, and two very at the end of their ropes people who are probably technically perfect candidates for divorce.<br />
<br />
Next week we are juggling three transactions (two sales and one purchase) and I have just been informed by the husband (who has passed Upset, not collected any Good Humour, and is hovering around Old Kent Road ready to figuratively knife someone...or maybe that's me) that our utterly lackadaisical solicitor has booked a weeks holiday to Italy - get this - NEXT WEEK!!!<br />
<br />
There are no words. Part of me wants to be all "What will be will be, Man" about it and just chill the heck out. That is 1% of me. The other 99% of me wants to scream, run naked through the streets, and get picked up by mental health services, before being pumped full of enough calming narcotics to knock out a horse.<br />
<br />
As it sit here with scowling resting face (take that, bitchy resting face) swinging my leg in a manner not unlike a soon-to-go-on-the-rampage-mental-patient, I can take solace in the fact that we've this week finally exchanged on one property, and are thus therefore 1/6th of the way there.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, tomorrow we have to haul three kids back to our old flat and spend the day packing up tons and tons (and tons) of crates of old belongings and furniture and nostalgic items from our 'yoof innit' (the whole reason I can't just chuck the whole lot out...nostalgic sucker that I am) then spend hours ferrying the whole mess back to our already heaving home, where it will sit until we move.<br />
<br />
If we move.<br />
<br />
URGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-76302846156465319682015-11-01T01:04:00.000+00:002015-11-01T01:04:37.396+00:00"Holloween"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2_ODqIVjZA1r92QsQ91AKqjfFxoM5DZxQI8VCOHRSb5wtEGLySgnMwdTcjwgcz2Hon_xZEBoojqpZirEK-i2oF0NEkIcxbWOggEKFh9f31xWaQ6otMn6cJf78xSioI92mToybExt14U1/s1600/Photo+on+2015-10-31+at+21.51+%25232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2_ODqIVjZA1r92QsQ91AKqjfFxoM5DZxQI8VCOHRSb5wtEGLySgnMwdTcjwgcz2Hon_xZEBoojqpZirEK-i2oF0NEkIcxbWOggEKFh9f31xWaQ6otMn6cJf78xSioI92mToybExt14U1/s320/Photo+on+2015-10-31+at+21.51+%25232.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason eat your heart out...</td></tr>
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So Halloween (which for the sake of posterity shall be known as 'Holloween' this year) was both a raging success and an abysmal flop.<br />
<br />
Weeks ago Squitty and I came across this great picture on the internet of a kid dressed up as a piece of Lego. We decided there and then that it simply had to be <i>his</i> Halloween costume. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlV53ZwiCAOKXx-nAUE1yMA-sg3XImEQrmhlCceZxAvnK8oov6SgcorADyu4QFsawaAe8S4AT_xIAuPTKnAgz7-JLVxYaUyCA31MLGot20MpShNfwn2IivFZN1XtiBdnlESi5EISVInl7/s1600/483120_10151151690204123_196216924_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlV53ZwiCAOKXx-nAUE1yMA-sg3XImEQrmhlCceZxAvnK8oov6SgcorADyu4QFsawaAe8S4AT_xIAuPTKnAgz7-JLVxYaUyCA31MLGot20MpShNfwn2IivFZN1XtiBdnlESi5EISVInl7/s320/483120_10151151690204123_196216924_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The picture which inspired...</td></tr>
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(It was likely post-wine-watershed, when Mama, flushed with a growing sense of possibility, quashed any niggling doubts, and infused with a false sense of belief in her non-existent crafting skills, promised her cheeky cherub that he would be transformed into a piece of Lego on the 31st of the month.)<br />
<br />
But then the weeks rolled past, until finally last weekend, thanks to an overzealous Auntie and a can of red paint, we found ourselves journeying back 45 minutes on London Overground armed with a giant red cardboard box, complete with cut-out arm holes, and a breezy, "You guys can take it from here, no?"<br />
<br />
Apparently we could not. The husband washed his hands of any of it, and so this afternoon after a trip to the cinema with Egg and Dumpie, followed by a leisurely layabout, darkness fell, and with a start I realised that we had to leave for Trick or Treating in half an hour. <br />
<br />
As I learned tonight, half an hour is decidedly <i>not enough time</i> to glue 12 plastic red cups upside down onto a piece of painted cardboard and expect the cheap white hobby glue to set and harden in time. And so we departed somewhat late, with everyone trying not to bump into Squitty so as not to dislodge the cups. We gingerly wove our way through the streets, stopping every few minutes to pick up little red dixie cups as they pinged to the ground, at first trying unsuccessfully to adhere them back on, then later giving up completely and binning them as we went.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHjtl_T_IFM2man-03g1Mv0d8JhaEE3lAdGjGV_g72JUWKs8hkNSDNsNjUwiQXkNhIQyt0smqiReAxLgJVX-7JbvmAv5JByd3VMhzjceD_3LuIQLHJ0wEM-HAyI0W2R2VBiqM_WiisxGUM/s1600/IMG_0804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHjtl_T_IFM2man-03g1Mv0d8JhaEE3lAdGjGV_g72JUWKs8hkNSDNsNjUwiQXkNhIQyt0smqiReAxLgJVX-7JbvmAv5JByd3VMhzjceD_3LuIQLHJ0wEM-HAyI0W2R2VBiqM_WiisxGUM/s400/IMG_0804.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who needs cups on the back anyway?</td></tr>
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Eventually, after ringing several doorbells, and being knocked into by various ghosts, goblins and princesses, we conceded defeat and removed the rest of the cups from the back (the side that had been glued last) and instead basked in the glow of being with the most imaginatively costumed child for miles. Holding the hand of a giant toddler-sized piece of Lego garnered much attention, and Squit became quietly enthralled with all the attention he was getting, as people commented openly on his costume, declaring it to be the best of the night.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0sQPs-EHNSk82Ar0GdZ7BErcnTv3gAcqnaXcB_QrR-8zo3T1M3p44O_8rWVft7Cn-xaTZhojwJ7tef9pv-2dj_q4ydKQLJ36mpKufWhDMUFNpu_Kq0TsYit0viAK6kjEEx6wdNSvhlxK/s1600/IMG_0800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-0sQPs-EHNSk82Ar0GdZ7BErcnTv3gAcqnaXcB_QrR-8zo3T1M3p44O_8rWVft7Cn-xaTZhojwJ7tef9pv-2dj_q4ydKQLJ36mpKufWhDMUFNpu_Kq0TsYit0viAK6kjEEx6wdNSvhlxK/s400/IMG_0800.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trust me it looked waaaay better from far away (ahem)</td></tr>
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"Ha!" I said to the husband triumphantly at one point, who thanks to an earlier visit to the pub, hadn't been able to contain his (un)constructive comments about my lack of artistic skill and the fact that <i>he</i> would have used tape instead of glue to stick the little red cups on.<br />
<br />
So you see, even though Squitty had the dodgiest outfit ever, which deteriorated quite literally as the night wore on, he also had the best outfit too. And frankly it made his night, being fawned over like a celebrity by everyone who came across him on the streets (drunken twenty-somethings being the biggest fans).<br />
<br />
Dumps unfortunately declared that this was the worst Halloween <i>ever</i> in the history of his life. This was fair enough as he returned this evening with the most meagre haul of sweets ever, due to the fact that most doorways lay dark this year, and of the few homes which <i>were </i>participating in this seasonal sugar orgy, only one in ten had any sweets left by the time we strolled up to the door.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSigMBWiwQXoNxhCU-Azi6cAD22lmExthvr8mGo3YISeeDLliJJbtl7tNqoOfTS3LtWlnis7ytUHLiCRYS5xOUFLtzw4FMbeQntIA-GUnpDXvLkxb_4X8mtEDVMw6SFOq_oS6uomOugar9/s1600/IMG_0822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSigMBWiwQXoNxhCU-Azi6cAD22lmExthvr8mGo3YISeeDLliJJbtl7tNqoOfTS3LtWlnis7ytUHLiCRYS5xOUFLtzw4FMbeQntIA-GUnpDXvLkxb_4X8mtEDVMw6SFOq_oS6uomOugar9/s320/IMG_0822.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dumpies haul...too paltry to even pinch :)</td></tr>
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(Note: Now it has to be said that folks over here in England <i>still</i> don't seem to get the gist of Halloween: buy a TRUCK LOAD of sweets for the millions of rugrats roaming the neighbourhood, whose Halloween you will <i>totally</i> ruin, should they encounter dozens doors in a row, sporting the ubiquitous 'No more sweets sorry' sign taped up on the outside of the door. Actually, worse than that are homes where they feel so bad that they've run out of sweets that they've turned over the place and unearthed what they mistakenly believe will suffice in the absence of proper real treats... feebly pawning off stale Christmas sweets, old football cards (I kid you not), and the piece de resistance - a single personalised skittle with the name Marcus on it.)<br />
<br />
For the record, Dumps was clad in all black, wearing glow-in-the-dark skeleton gloves and a bright gold pirate skeleton mask which his Auntie found for him last weekend at a hipster market in Dalston. <br />
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Eleven year old Egg decided to roam with some of his school chums and I have yet to see him clad in his 'Mad Scientist' outfit (consisting of a pull-on fabric Dr. Jekyll mask and his way too small, bespoke, ancient lab coat we had made years ago in Goa when he became obsessed with the film, 'Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs').<br />
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As for me, I smeared on purple lipstick and donned a platinum wig which made me look like Rita Ora (if she had rocked up to a Poundland staff costume party, having never 'made it'). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNs3YnHfm2dfjUjSeE_Gg0ui6xfWtbESLAs6XUXQgPSuT43_bXAJIZxMIfh-QiiNmHEfVLzQoBK_VTxGR9Rybbmun1O9k4XLE_ZTyDekubKN7fia2Mg-16ABNX-O4gYqKRGX6jeClbSzO/s1600/IMG_0810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNs3YnHfm2dfjUjSeE_Gg0ui6xfWtbESLAs6XUXQgPSuT43_bXAJIZxMIfh-QiiNmHEfVLzQoBK_VTxGR9Rybbmun1O9k4XLE_ZTyDekubKN7fia2Mg-16ABNX-O4gYqKRGX6jeClbSzO/s320/IMG_0810.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hmm...maybe I should have given the blond thing a proper go?"</td></tr>
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The husband merely chucked on a Captains hat which he had ordered for a costume party months ago but had arrived too late to wear. Waste not want not.<br />
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So there you have it people. That's how we roll. Shambolic to the core.<br />
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-1922614280161756472015-10-09T18:00:00.001+01:002015-10-09T18:42:06.661+01:00"Beware The Parents Evenings..."<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Thank God my iphone was charged, </i></div>
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<i>Thank goodness his was too.</i></div>
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<i>Thank heavens he carries a Swiss Army,</i></div>
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<i>Or who knows what I would have had to do...</i></div>
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Last night was a fairly important event. It was a chance for all the parents in Egg's class at his new school to meet each other at an evening mixer. Everyone knows that once established, first impressions are hard to dislodge and as such, I was determined that the husband and I make as favourable a one as possible by presenting ourselves as 'normal' - for Eggie's sake.</div>
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For the husband that meant that ripped jeans and RAPHA were banned, and for me, an embargo on anything leather, Rock Chick or glittery. As we waited for our Uber to arrive, first Egg then the husband cast a disparaging glance down at my footwear and suggested I reconsider. (For the record I was wearing a magenta dress and elegant, dark brown knee-length boots with a camel coloured cashmere cape...an outfit which wouldn't have looked out of place in Kate Middleton's wardrobe.)</div>
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"You look good Mama but don't wear those boots. They say, 'Look at me I own the place,'" Egg said.</div>
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"Yeah," mumbled the husband in agreement. "You don't want to wear those boots."</div>
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"What are you talking about?" I asked, incredulous. "These boots are what <i>make</i> this look. It's understated and elegant. Black ankle boots would be inappropriate."</div>
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The husband, stuffing the last few bites of curry in his mouth shrugged and said, "By the way Egg, the word you're looking for there is 'dominatrix.'"</div>
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Begrudgingly, I changed my boots, glanced in the mirror and confirmed that I now looked like I was headed to a London fashion week party and not a subdued middle class gathering of parents of privileged progeny. So I quickly switched back again.</div>
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"Why do I even listen to them?" I thought. Why was I taking fashion advice from an 11 year old boy and a cycling cap aficionado?</div>
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We arrived at the venue, and armed with a glass of wine and a pint respectively, proceeded to make small talk with strangers. The husband managed not to make any off colour jokes, and I managed to be friendly without putting forth any strong views which might offend. An hour in and I was feeling rather proud of us.</div>
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"We can totally pull this off," I thought. I began to feel silly for having worried that we'd do something to embarrass Egg and turn him into a social pariah for the remainder of his Secondary School career. </div>
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Then I excused myself and disappeared off to the loo.</div>
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The toilets were located a level down in the otherwise deserted club house and I took the chance to have a breather and check my phone for messages. I used the facilities and then tried to exit the cubicle.</div>
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The door wouldn't open. I twisted the lock the other way, heard a satisfying click, but it still wouldn't budge. Annoyed, I put my phone back into my purse and tried using both hands to manoeuvre the lock. No luck.</div>
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It was then that I noticed this sign:</div>
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Oops.</div>
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Panicking, I peered up, and with a sinking feeling realised that despite having taken up running again, unless I could somehow morph into an anorexic spiderman, there was no way I'd be able to climb the slippery tiled wall and slip through a gap no wider than about a foot.</div>
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Totally screwed, I rang the husband, praying he'd answer. Meanwhile, starting to panic, in the likelihood that he didn't answer, a string of potential scenarios began to play out in my head - each one more horrific than the last:</div>
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Scenario 1<i>: I attempt to contact a school employee out of hours, interrupting someones dinnertime whilst I try to explain who I am, where I am, and how I need to be rescued - and could they please not call emergency services...</i></div>
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Scenario 2:<i> I scream myself hoarse, disrupting the quite calm in the upstairs clubhouse, causing a stampede of parents to thunder downstairs under the assumption that they are about to bear witness to the first stabbing in the history of the school.</i></div>
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Scenario 3:<i> In desperation I remove my brown leather boots and try and use my now heavily perspiring bare feet as suction cups to grip the tiles, making it to the top before getting just my head wedged through the top gap - where too ashamed to call out, I remain until the end of the evening, until rescued by an incredulous and slightly inebriated gentleman relieving himself next door.</i></div>
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That's as far as I get when husband suddenly answers. Never was I so happy to hear his voice, though to be fair, I would have appreciated a slightly less outrageous guffaw when I explained my predicament.</div>
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"Shhhhh!! Don't say anything," I begged. "Don't make a big deal, don't let anyone know, and just slip out and come save me...NOW!" I hissed, in case he harboured any intention of finishing his current pint first.</div>
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Moments later I heard the husband whistle to make sure the coast was clear, then he strolled into the otherwise empty bathroom and attempted a cursory unlocking attempt.</div>
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"You're stuffed," he said. Three pints in, this struck him as rather funny, but I was quickly losing my sense of humour.</div>
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I started to whimper and beg. Luckily he's a resourceful fellow and for as long as I've known him, has been in the habit of carrying around his beloved 'Minichamp' - a small swiss army knife, which he magically produced from his pocket and began jamming into the lock with determination. My love knew no bounds. After a few minutes of quiet tension, he triumphantly set me free and strolled out as casually as he entered - like a 'Banksy-esque' version of James Bond - leaving me to compose myself and breathe a sigh of relief.</div>
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Within moments of joining the upstairs gathering again, I'd been swallowed up in a riveting conversation about kitchen extensions - no one the wiser about the near disaster which had just been averted. And shortly after that, we met Egg's teacher who, predictably, commented upon our eldest sons' inability to see through the worlds' longest-ever fringe. I then admitted (possibly regretfully in hindsight) to trimming his fringe in his sleep, and on that bombshell Egg's teacher quietly excused herself and the party began to break up.</div>
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All in all I suppose it was a fairly successful evening. However for Egg's sake I reckon that moving forward, it's probably best that the husband and I make like Victorian children of old: seen but not heard. Actually, not seen and not heard is probably better. It's only a matter of time before we justify driving our 'Kamper Van with a K' to a school function and mortify Egg for all eternity. I'm calling it now...</div>
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-76560321568925169422015-10-04T18:18:00.002+01:002015-10-04T18:18:45.600+01:00"Having A Blonde Moment"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In my humble opinion it's never advisable as a woman, to make big decisions on the cusp of yet another birthday. Sometimes I suspect myself of self-sabotage...ie. doing things <i>to</i> myself, for no particular reason (the more extreme and random the better) <i>just</i> to wind myself up. Yesterday was the perfect example.</div>
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Lately at bedtime I've been watching 'Suits' on Netflix (very funny show due mostly to wise-cracking, handsome, arrogant, and supremely clever lead) in an effort to completely disengage from reality. </div>
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For you see life continues to be a struggle with the double bonus of being both stressful and soul crushingly mundane. The house sale is dragging along to such an extent that any excitement I'd felt about moving has now dissolved into a distant cold ache. I feel like a kid contemplating next years Halloween costume the day after Halloween, who has just been told there is a strong chance the family might convert and become Amish in the meantime. </div>
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To make matters worse, we are dealing with a freeholder who may or may not be a vengeful sociopath, and prays the sale will fall through so that he can offer up a paltry sum and take the flat off our hands for the cost of a Christmas Ocado order. (He also exhibits, in my opinion, all the behaviour of someone who is incredibly sexually frustrated, and due to his difficult nature and profoundly hairy back, I hold out little to no hope of that situation rectifying itself anytime soon.)</div>
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Anyway, I digress. The monsters are now producing so much laundry per day as to make two daily loads a necessity. Mostly I feel like a Cinderella who gets up hoping to go the damned ball every single bloody day, but doesn't stand a chance because it's laughable that she'll be able to complete her daily chores. And so I try (I really do try) to be as positive and good natured as one can be whilst sniff-testing other peoples dirty pants. I even on occasion even find myself humming along to fetching melodies with the in-house spiders and the odd blackbird - but to be frank, I am beginning to sink into the quagmire of the mediocre and mundane, and no amount of mimicking Mary P. is going to change that.</div>
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Ah, except another birthday looms on the horizon...this week in fact. Not one for celebrating my birthday (after twenty-one it's all about diminishing returns), I caught a great line on 'Suits' the other night where someone is commenting on the leads expensive haircut, and I thought to myself, "It has been AGES since I've had an expensive haircut." (In fact, my last haircut was done by yours truly one night a few weeks ago when I rather fancied a few extra layers, and I did not too bad a job thank you very much - good enough anyway to fool the owner of the salon a few days ago when I went in for my consultation.)</div>
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So this year for my birthday, instead of adding to my outrageous collection of coats and black ankle boots, I decided to treat myself to a truly expensive haircut. Like the guy in 'Suits.'</div>
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At the salon, I randomly floated the idea of 'balayage' (an expensive free-hand painting technique to add texture to your waves...and a great word to boot). I was quite clear about my personal abhorrence of orange tones (once having spent a summer dousing my brunette locks in lemon juice and emerging like a Latino gang member at the start of school in September.) I tentatively pulled out a picture of a brunette with blond bits at the end and the hairdresser clasped his hands and declared, "Then that is what you shall have!"</div>
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And indeed that is kinda what I have. I didn't <i>exactly </i>expect to be quite as blond as I am - or as 'frosted' - as the husband has dubbed it. Last night in the salon, with all the mood lighting and candles it looked rather California sun-kissed and cool. However this morning, in the harsh light of day, (and without the benefit of the two complimentary flutes of Prosecco I was given throughout the three hour procedure), I do look a touch...unnatural. However, I am already composing an email to the lovely hair stylist (who made the grave error of giving me his personal email address last night), suggesting ways he might like to try and 'tweak' it. I fully expect it to end up in his spam folder.</div>
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I read somewhere that our thoughts can have an effect on our outer appearance (hence all those self-affirming mantras we're supposed to say to ourselves in front of the mirror) and given the early onset dementia I keep nattering on about, I suppose it <i>is</i> time to retire the 'brainy brunette' look and give way to the blond that is desperately trying to get out (if only she could remember the way)...</div>
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-58412426532115833072015-09-26T09:20:00.002+01:002015-09-26T09:20:16.662+01:00"Carry On Camping..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Not having had a terribly restful sleep (I woke in the middle of the night to find the lights still on and husband snoring in time to dance music blasting from the radio - "sleep timer much?"), it is with some trepidation that I face the day. True, it's gorgeously sunny, and this weekend is meant to be the last hurrah of summer with temperatures predicted to hover around the 20 degree mark, but you won't find me sprawled on my customary place on the Common, lazily flipping through Grazia and steadily making my way through bouteille numero deux of a chilled Oyster Bay.<br />
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Instead, I'm apparently to be deposited in some giant field somewhere a few hours outside of the big smoke, courtesy of our 'Kamper Van', alongside four smelly boys, a load of undefrosted bacon and a giant bag of marshmallows. (Note to self: must remember the 'Night-Time Advil'.)<br />
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The husband tells me we'll be 'making a memory' for the boys, and that our boys need to get into a large field and run like dogs. True though that may be, the fact is that our boys are going to be bent perpendicular over their respective devices (ipads/ipods/nicked iphone), oblivious to anything around them, cramming marshmallows down their gobs and having simultaneous freak-outs when their batteries run out.<br />
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I can see it already: the husband will dutifully fry up some bacon, warm up some beans, and enthusiastically prepare food for all of us, revelling in his portable stove, the great outdoors and his ability to 'live off the land' (courtesy of Waitrose and the bottle of scotch he has no doubt already procured and stashed in the van somewhere). No one will eat anything and he'll be left scoffing the whole lot and feeling sick for the rest of the day. Squitty will enthusiastically agree to go on a long walk and then two minutes in will start his customary wail of, 'My LEGS are TIRED!" and the husband will have to hoick the chubby chicken up onto his shoulders where he will squirm, complain and rip his hair out in an attempt to hang on, before the walk is abandoned and we all return to sit in or around the van, plugged into our respective devices whilst the husband gives up on the whole lot of us and goes off to hang out with strangers camped nearby for the remainder of the time.<br />
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I know how this story goes, but am powerless to stop the wheels already in motion. Now where's that bloody Night-Time Advil????<br />
<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-26508691216774454032015-09-24T11:26:00.001+01:002015-09-24T15:04:37.984+01:00"Like Sands Through The Hourglass...So Are The Days Of Our Lives"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We are now fully into the shambolic rhythm that signifies our version of 'family life'.<br />
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The husband dutifully prepares the morning cappuccino and thumps it down on the bedside table at precisely 6:37am. I blindly reach for the nearest paperback and place it atop the mug in an attempt to keep it warm until I can actually sit up and partake.<br />
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Egg wanders in, shirt untucked, hair an absolute mess and tries to nick one or both of our phones before exiting again, grumbling into his mobile that we haven't started following him on Instagram yet and where the heck is a charger that works?<br />
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Squitty will either be snoring in bed between us (he's suddenly taken up middle-of-the-night visitations again after a long hiatus, and sometimes I'll wake with a start at 3am to find a silent, large-eyed child just standing there staring at me) or downstairs with Dumpie building a fort in the front room and staining sofa cushions with soggy Special K.<br />
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Egg usually tears off at 7:30 in a mad rush to catch his bus and I'll either slip into running gear and take off into the damp sunny cold for a 30 minute run (a handy substitute for Prozac) or I'll shuffle downstairs and begin preparing the most potent but somewhat vile 'SuperJuice' for the husband and I. Squit will refuse to get dressed, saying he hates school and wants to play on my phone, and Dumpie will refuse to brush his hair and lie calmly watching cartoons in his pjs mere minutes before the school bell goes - completely oblivious to my manic protestations of "You're going to be late! What are you doing?! Have you even had breakfast?!"<br />
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Eventually, at 9:15am, I'll head over to Nursery to drop Squit off for two hours and say hi to the giant tortoise 'Lightening' (who after a forced rocky start to friendship I've now decided I love and am hatching plans to kidnap), and settle Squit on his little cushion for circle time. For the first week of Nursery Squit was hesitantly intrigued and all was fine, but by the second week it suddenly dawned on him that school was going to be permanent and not just an amusing side note and drop-offs consisted of him hysterically screaming, "NO! DON'T LEAVE ME MAMA!!!" whilst being prised off me by well-meaning teachers and pulled away thrashing.<br />
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I'm pleased to say that this week this behaviour has suddenly ceased - helped in no small part by me reassuring him that he 'doesn't smell of wee' (not entirely true), and that his teachers are fine with him still wearing nappies (they don't know). Also, after pointedly refusing to sit down for circle time and stubbornly standing in the corner holding his elbows and refusing to take part since school began, he has suddenly conceded to join the rest of his classmates on the carpet on the condition that he gets his own special cushion to sit on. I kid you not.<br />
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Egg has taken so enthusiastically to Secondary School that in an attempt to avoid FOMO ('fear of missing out') he's joined pretty much every club going - except netball which is for girls only and frustrates him as he loves it and knows all the rules (the sum of which I heard, verbatim, over dinner last night). He's apparently on the water polo team, the football team, the cycling team, the 'fivers' team, and in some sort of maths/chemistry/I.T. club. Having recently been informed that he possesses a uniquely high, beautiful, and as of yet 'unbroken' voice, he has also been persuaded to join the choral club - though the fact that travel plays a big part is no doubt responsible for much of his enthusiasm. Egg's also threatening to try out for hockey too - on the basis that his school remain undefeated champions for ten years running now and despite no previous interest whatsoever in the sport, I suspect the lure is too much to resist.<br />
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Dumpie is taking things in stride as is his nature. He's like a little version of me, and as such I'm onto him. More concerned with the social fabric of junior school than the actual work, he is a clever boy who can easily achieve decent grades with very little effort but is not motivated to excel when he'd rather play with lego or run a trading cards racket from the playground (from YoYo Bear Fun Facts cards to Football cards to Pokeman cards in the space of only six months I can barely keep up).<br />
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As for the husband and I, we're pretty much managing to hold it together - some days more successfully than others. We've sold our home at long last but with things moving at a snails pace and simultaneously trying to sell our other flat to finance the purchase of the 'Chestnuts- roasting-on-an-open-fire' home (yep, we're back in the running with that one) despite the best efforts of a petulant, resentful and uncooperative freeholder trying to thwart our every move, it's proving to be incredibly nerve-wracking.<br />
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Plus, the 'early onset dementia' jokes are becoming less funny with each passing month, and we are seriously reconciling ourselves to the fact that we are getting stupider and stupider as the children get smarter and more canny. If this continues, in a few years time, we fully expect to be ensconced in the loft, a la 'Flowers in the Attic,' being pacified with electronic ciggies, a recurring Wine Club subscription, and only Spotify and our Sonos speakers to amuse, whilst the three boys take over the running of the household (in no doubt superior fashion) and implement novel but illegal ways to finance their addiction to ipads, iphones, Netflix and Pringles.<br />
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Bring it on I say...<br />
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-16371864474693292622015-09-10T11:45:00.003+01:002015-09-10T11:45:53.477+01:00"The Age of Amazing-ness"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How can I not sit here today and take a moment out from my washerwoman duties to highlight the fact that this is the first time in a millions years (okay...over a decade anyway) that I can sit here, however briefly, kiddie-less, in our House of Shambles and NOT hear the distant drone of CBB's telly on in the background...or plaintive wails of "I'm hungry...what should I eat?...I want something crunchy...no something soft...no something _____"<br />
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It's true. I think I jumped the gun yesterday when I announced that our last, littlest weeny sprog had hatched the nest so to speak, and ventured off to Nursery for the first time. Really it's today that must be marked as truly historic, for after dragging a reluctant Squit off to school, I actually got to leave him there and have a little bit of time to myself. (Shamefully, I got round the highly traumatic 'leaving' issue by setting him up in the little kitchen and rattling off a litany of foodstuffs I expected him to prepare for lunch upon my return. The little guy totally fell for it, and began mixing and pretend pouring in earnest as I hightailed it out of there, expecting a plaintive wail which never came. Well I'll be...maybe after all this time the little guy is in need of more stimulation that he's thus far gotten watching me clean, launder and grocery shop these many months.)<br />
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So what did I do with my newfound freedom? Nip off to my local coffee shop, laptop in hand, and celebrate with a double shot cappuccino? Come back and have a leisurely bath and rearrange my wardrobe? Catch up on a few chapters of my latest book with a cup of tea?<br />
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Nope. True to form I spazzed 90% of my first day of freedom on kitchen cleanup, bed making, yet another load of laundry, and concocting a killer green juice from scratch courtesy of my Dualit juicer (which unfortunately takes eighteen times as long to clean as it does to conjure up said juice.)<br />
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Anyway, in two minutes I must dash across and collect little Squit and then likely get told off the entire way back about how i deserted him and be informed in no uncertain terms that there is <i>no way</i> he is going back.<br />
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I have news for you little man. You are SO going back and moreover, tomorrow I shall not squander my 2.5 hours of morning freedom. Oh no...housework be damned. I am going to use my time decadently artistic fashion and see what comes of it.<br />
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Perhaps a new tune is just waiting to be put down...or that novel that for years I've been meaning to write is going to be birthed at long last...or maybe I'll just get to grips with the mountains of paperwork and documents which need to be sorted and collated in order to move us out of here and into a new home.<br />
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Whatever it is, I do know that last night when the husband asked me whether I had felt teary dropping off our youngest 'onto the conveyor belt of the rest of his life', it took me a millisecond to realise that I had not. Not at all. Yes, it's the end of an era, and yes, that munchkin voice and eggbeater run of Squit's is on the way out...as are tiny jeans, baby breath, and blowing kisses. I know that in a blink of an eye I'll be a ladyshape in the midst of four big menfolk, sniffing the testosterone in the air and being held ransom by infinite smelly sweat socks. But...I will also get my life back. And while the boys grow monstrous and come to see me as little more than a meals on wheels/drycleaning service, I shall quietly be concocting my next move on the sly. <br />
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I am already daydreaming my future incarnation into being as we speak...<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-38455529022351791912015-09-09T12:31:00.002+01:002015-09-09T12:31:28.738+01:00"And Another One Bites The Dust"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today was the first day of the rest of Squitty's academic life - and if early indications are a sign, then he will be a-okay in my opinion (as long as none of the nursery teachers peep below his waistband and spot the tell-tale crinkly nappy sticking out). <br />
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Yes, it's true (sigh). Despite swearing to the contrary (and now feeling an absolute failure as a parent) I have indeed sent my 3.8 year old child to school whilst still in nappies. The shame of it.<br />
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Still, you can't really blame me. Especially if you had say peeked through our bathroom window yesterday and seen me trying to hoist a half-naked writhing toddler onto a big blue plastic potty seat whilst he screamed and tried to punch me all the while making sure I knew who wore the (nappy) pants in the family.<br />
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"I will NOT go on the potty! Never, never, never Mama! You can't make me!"<br />
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It would appear the little fella is spot on. I couldn't, didn't, haven't and hold very little hope of being able to at some future point.<br />
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All that remains to be seen is how long into term we can get before getting caught out...and by caught out I mean having to drop whatever I'm doing in order to race over and deal with a steamy poo-pants mess. I dread it already but know it's inevitable.<br />
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This morning Squitty and I went to nursery together for just an hour as it was his first day, but tomorrow he goes by himself (though if you were to ask him to confirm that fact he'd deny it vehemently).<br />
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We arrived and after blatantly ignoring two friendly teachers trying to say hello, he showed mild interest in a giant Tortoise named 'Lightning' (it moves bloody fast - no joke), which they kindly took out of its cage for him and plopped onto the grass, only for Squitty to nearly step on it before losing interest completely and making a beeline for the play-dough inside. (I of course felt obliged to take OTT interest in said Tortoise since they'd gone to all the trouble of taking it out, so subsequently ended up in stilted conversation about tortoises with a bemused Frenchman who was no more interested in the subject matter than was I.)<br />
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Meanwhile Squit was fashioning up blue play-dough sausages elsewhere and making a messy glue and feather paint picture - which he informed me he had no interest in taking home with him. Fickle artist.<br />
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As I could have predicted, we ended up in the sandbox. There he commandeered the shovels such that his only other companion - a shy blond little french girl - was muscled out and ran off, only for Squitty to tire of the whole thing and take off for train tracks and dump truck manoeuvring elsewhere.<br />
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So that was that. A cursory glace round suggested that Squitty's class is made up of all rather nice children from all rather nice homes...the progeny of all rather nice parents.<br />
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As for me, the only interesting conversation I had was with a 22 year old blond Aussie nanny from Bondi Beach with a strong accent and a rather striking undercut. <br />
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Says it all really.<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-52555665484516172102015-09-02T11:37:00.000+01:002015-09-02T11:40:24.842+01:00"Egg....Egg...And Away!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This morning the alarm went off at Stupid O'clock (ie. 6am or so...) as the husband was determined that Egg <i>not</i> be late for his first day of Secondary School. Given that our sole family vehicle is a stuffed-to-the-gills Camper Van and that only one of us is in possession of a valid UK drivers license, the plan was that the husband would drop Egg off in a taxi and the monsters and I would collect him later via the 37 through Brixton.<br />
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Last night over a Spaghetti dinner, we tried in vain to convince Egg that he absolutely had to have his hair at least trimmed for today, as his shiny dirty blond locks fall over his eyes and we know there is absolutely no way his shaggy muppet hairdo is going to fly at his new school. He begged to differ.<br />
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Egg has this thing about his hair. As in, no one is allowed to cut it or alter it in any way. Every few months or so, we have an almighty row, screaming matches, and it all ends in tears and an uneven jagged hairline after I am at last allowed to make say five snips before Egg catches his reflection in the mirror, declares that I have ruined both his hair and his life, and tears out of the kitchen in hysterics - stubbornly donning a hoodie for the next few days to make a point.<br />
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Auntie Ba had begged the husband and I a few weeks ago to make sure that we gave Egg a relaxed send off to this new chapter of his life, and this promise was ringing in my ears last night when Egg predictably refused to allow me to rearrange even a millimetre of the hair obstructing his lovely green eyes. I shrugged, put away the scissors and calmly told him that I would wait until he was asleep to give him a trim. <br />
<br />
"Whatever Mama! I'll just stay up all night then...you'll see!"<br />
<br />
I smiled...continued washing the dishes, and an hour later, did just what I told him I would do.<br />
<br />
The husband looked incredulously at the snippet of hair I triumphantly held aloft before binning.<br />
<br />
"I can't believe you did that. Wow. Egg is going to lose it when he wakes up. I'm not sure you should have done that...invasion of privacy and all that..." the husband mumbled.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I find it's necessary to make good on the odd threat...keeps people on their toes. And also, believe it or not it's actually easier to trim Egg's hair when he's unconscious and passed out in a pile of perspiration on his pillow than when he's dodging me in the kitchen, trying to whip sharp scissors out of my hand and shrieking "No! No!" as we try and negotiate the number of snips I'm allowed (I bet even Nicky Clarke couldn't cut under those conditions).<br />
<br />
Anyway, this morning Egg woke up, donned his new uniform, and I barely noticed the mockery coming from the husband over my diabolical name tag sewing-on efforts (hey, I'm good at lots of things but sewing ain't one of them), so curious was I to see if I'd get rumbled.<br />
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I didn't. Go figure. Although somewhere between the husband sorting out Egg's tie and Squitty trying to nab my iphone, I managed to sneak in a few snips and mostly even out his fringe.<br />
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Having neglected to remember to purchase Egg new black school socks, I instead handed over a new pair of mine (we are now the same size...!), took some pics, gushed at how handsome and grown up he now looks (when did that happen?!) and ushered Egg and the husband out the door and into a taxi in the nick of time before collapsing with the September issue of Vogue, and a cup of Earl Grey as I stared out the window and watched them pull away.<br />
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Life is so weird. Birth to Secondary School...like that...in a heartbeat.<br />
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-56895572731711612402015-08-24T22:29:00.001+01:002015-08-25T00:58:05.920+01:00"I Love To..."Never one to shy away from a dare - especially one made under the influence of a rather poky Mojito - I found myself traipsing about Toronto the other day adorned as such:<br />
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It's kind of a running joke with my sister that for years now, whenever I come back to Toronto for a visit, I derive a rather primitive joy from power walking through the city's downtown, shoving aside dawdling,waddling passersby as I (earphone clad of course) rework my own version of Massive Attack's 'Unfinished Sympathy'.<br />
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However in my case it's more like 'Unfinished Shopping' as whenever I'm here I get this kind of 'Betty Crocker on Crack' panic, and feel I can't rest easy until my suitcase is bulging with baking supplies and other foodstuffs not available in the U.K.<br />
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Whereas others might flit about buying designer wares, I scamper excitedly through giant grocery stores, filling baskets to the brim, which eventually become too heavy to lug around, thus forcing me into transferring goods into a giant steel trolley, which even <i>I</i> can't pretend will translate into an acceptable luggage allowance of 23kilos at the airport.<br />
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My sister always smirks when she catches sight of the mounds of bags propped up by my suitcase after such excursions. I think - no sorry, <i>know for a fact</i> - she thinks me a mentalist, but she also knows by now that somehow, I always get the stuff back home.<br />
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There's the time that I sat with a giant glass biscuit jar stuffed full of 'Freezies' on my lap for the entire eight hour flight. And the time I wore not one but three winter jackets (one of which had a fluffy Eskimo hood) home in the dead of summer - shuffling through security like a Marshmallow Man - thereby necessitating an unfortunate detainment for questioning. And of course the time I almost missed my flight running through the airport with pockets stuffed full of lingerie which I couldn't cram into my luggage, and had to endure the humiliation shortly after take off, of a man three rows ahead quietly returning my satin pink push-up bra which had fallen in the aisle as I boarded. <br />
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When it comes to luggage, where there's an iron-clad will, there's a way - even if it means wearing a 'Jaktogo'. Seriously...check it out...it's on my wish list for Christmas:<br />
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Anyway, I digress. I simply wanted to point out that I love being in Toronto - even if it's mostly because I live in London, England and can thereby, by virtue of not feeling 'stuck' in the country of my youth (however lovely a place it may be), appreciate its finer qualities when doled out in sunny summer holiday-sized portions. <br />
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As a child I vowed that one day I would live in London. My father had adored practicing medicine in London for seven years before I was born, but ventured to Toronto for a six month research project, met my Canadian mum and the rest is history. Blame the bands, the lifestyle, the culture, the accent...even biting sarcasm. Whatever it is, <i>it</i> got hold of me when I was but a wee thing, and when the husband and I permanently decamped in '96, we didn't look back...not even once.<br />
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So, I found it fitting that I should at the very least make my 'City Crush' public, and proudly wear an overpriced (thanks for springing for it Sis!) piece of 'Toronna Tat', proudly proclaiming my stance.<br />
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What I neglected to realise, until after an hour or so of wearing it in public, was that when paired with a somewhat bold hat, big sunnies and lashings of my usual lipstick, certain male members of the public would find it too difficult to refrain from calling out, "She loves to...______!!"(insert various lewd rejoinders).<br />
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(The bloody shirt designers had unfortunately decided not to spring for the two periods/full stops needed in order to read 'T.O.' instead of 'To...', thereby proving too tantalising not to comment upon for some.)<br />
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Oh well. I still love my shirt, and plan on wearing it in London too. And my suitcase is going to once again prove a logistical challenge to pack. <br />
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And today, even though I'm off to the dentist shortly, I can't help but feel a touch smug that the sun is blazing hot here in T.O. whilst in London it's about to be a deluge for the next three days and there are rumours that more tube strikes are imminent.<br />
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See why I love T.O.?<br />
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<br />"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-79065428908187600582015-08-18T15:36:00.001+01:002015-08-18T15:36:25.925+01:00"Let's Talk About...Labiaplasty"The monsters and I are currently on a whirlwind, late summer trip to see family in Canada. This hasn't been without its trials (namely vomiting, onset of Noro Virus to various family members, and last minute decision to get bad UK dental work remedied).<br />
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Yesterday, on my way to spending several hours in a dental chair (which thoughtfully came equipped with inbuilt 'kneading action' like the kind you find in pedicure spas), I was most amused to find this huge ad above my head on the 'subway' ('tube' to all you UK luddites).<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AGrU0Z5LMhAzk021BLDRVuNeqfrw8srMcVR2jw0ehhCJclBClSqI0IZqtT4JWmWNyHe9YiqxhewI8Acb0iZzMW2a3vzzFCGKWa8AWO4RBpzkg_LVFMRa5hSQpuGZTctPZBnmhvBKxBvi/s1600/IMG_0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3AGrU0Z5LMhAzk021BLDRVuNeqfrw8srMcVR2jw0ehhCJclBClSqI0IZqtT4JWmWNyHe9YiqxhewI8Acb0iZzMW2a3vzzFCGKWa8AWO4RBpzkg_LVFMRa5hSQpuGZTctPZBnmhvBKxBvi/s400/IMG_0125.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">"LABIAPLASTY & VAGINOPLASTY"</td></tr>
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I suppose the constant rumbling motion of train on tracks might induce some discomfort in long rides, which might lead to a casual cursory thought regarding ones undercarriage, which might in turn - with a haphazard glance upwards - lead to thoughts of tampering with ones ladybits. Or maybe not.<br />
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You do wonder why this particular advertisement is chosen to be one of a dozen on a train. It must be profitable for the company to spend a fortune advertising here. But even more confounding is the red hot sexy picture of a supermodel type, seductively smirking like a smug temptress who knows that her previously standard sweet meats have now been rearranged into the Taj Mahal of vaginas and given this fact can barely restrain herself from getting off (and I don't mean the train). <br />
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Seriously? The irony is that if one looked like THAT, one could easily 'get off' without the help of a Vagina Doctor - no matter what sort of shambolic state ones bits were in (for example if one had just had the misfortune to give birth naturally to sextuplets). I found the juxtaposition disturbing. Let's just leave it at that.<br />
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My other 'deep thought' of the day whilst riding the 'subway/tube' was how small and compact and claustrophobically tight the seats here are:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Seats this size would never fly in the UK...</td></tr>
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Now, forgive me dear Britian, oh adopted land of my youth, but your people are too large-ish and too 'het up' most of the time to tolerate such intimately narrow and restrained seating. I mean, I'm average size, and when a hygenically-challenged man sat down next to me, sealing together with vacuum grip our respective thighs in the 90 degree heat (one hairy and sweaty...the other smooth and lotioned) I did what any self-respecting Brit would do: I sniffed aloud (but not too loud - that wouldn't do), wiggled myself over as much as I could, and went out of my way not to make eye contact or even acknowledge the man who had so rudely infringed upon my personal space.<br />
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I can't even imagine the amount of fights that would break out in London tubes with such close proximity. People would become 'Fat-ists' and glare menacingly at their extra-large fellow commuters, intimidating the very people most in need of 'taking a load off' into remaining standing for the entire journey lest they be hacked to death with biros in random acts of 'Tube Rage'. </div>
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As is the case with many things, those 'extra few inches' that we have on our tube seats in the UK make such a difference, and really, the only choice people of a certain circumference would have, would be to lunge for a rare aisle seat and then perching ever so delicately on the edge, attempt an epic splay and steady themselves for the journey. Not unlike this woman here:</div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpjHGhyphenhyphenu8qi-amOGCMMGKs3_FMK09ZkeCEYoEQh6bhqbh2FMim8c3hwZIC9Dyz2tTW4B9SoK99gpPI_KMn8ef9YN5yFuTyO4nfjrgZrKQRgrGjJ7ooJu45df-NYoJcGid84kbzwa3ArdGr/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpjHGhyphenhyphenu8qi-amOGCMMGKs3_FMK09ZkeCEYoEQh6bhqbh2FMim8c3hwZIC9Dyz2tTW4B9SoK99gpPI_KMn8ef9YN5yFuTyO4nfjrgZrKQRgrGjJ7ooJu45df-NYoJcGid84kbzwa3ArdGr/s400/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">A very well executed 'splay'<br /><br /></td></tr>
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Anyway, I digress. Though not even loaded up on pre-op painkillers (a fact I would later come to bitterly regret) with their usual accompanying dreamy thoughtscapes, I just thought I'd share my two insights of the day en route to what would ultimately be a rather lengthy, tiresome and painful procedure, and which in hindsight, would make labiaplasty and vaginoplasty seem like a walk in the park.</div>
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"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9150710584918965595.post-20133178979537584212015-08-14T13:24:00.002+01:002015-08-14T13:24:28.162+01:00"And Survey Saaaaaaaaays........"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I certainly didn't have to wee on a stick to put myself out of my misery this morning. All I had to do was turn on my laptop.<br />
<br />
I saw the familiar email address from the agent, followed by one from the husband. And then I just <i>knew</i>.<br />
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Deliberating momentarily I couldn't decide whether fashioning a frothy cappuccino was in order before clicking to read my fate, but decided in favour of a short, hard, fast shock to the system. Either way I just wanted the suspense to end. And it did.<br />
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Were we going to live happily ever after in 'Dream House No.3'? or were we destined to continue wandering property porn websites like addicts in search of the elusive 'hit'. Were we going to find ourselves chucked out on the street in a few months time, into some lacklustre rental stop gap? Or would we be roasting chestnuts on an open fire at Christmas? (I mean this literally as it so happens that 'Dream House No.3' has a delightful working fireplace positioned regally between two banks of bookcases in the grand Front Room.<br />
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But never mind all that. We didn't get it.<br />
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Of course we didn't. It would have been too easy, too seamless, and too perfect to have sold and found a new house all in the space of a week. It would have been too good a story.<br />
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Besides who likes chestnuts anyway?"Moaning Mum"http://www.blogger.com/profile/11703637188468340871noreply@blogger.com0