Girls are Messy
Ok, I'm not perfect. My dad bought me a painting once. A sofa, draped with books, cushions and a teacup on the floor: "Dull Women", the painting proclaims, "Have Immaculate Houses."
Thanks Dad! Such a compliment... at least I think it is.
My children are messy too. They put ME to shame. Today is the annual Massive Cleaning of Bedrooms. Wibs can do her own she announced. Ten minutes later it was finished,TEN MINUTES? Where was the washing? Hrmm. I checked to see, and couldn't open the door for a flip flop wedged under it. Purposely. "Itttttt ISSS DONNNNE!" Wibs yells. I leave he to it, and attack Bonny's room.
I can't begin to describe how appalling it is... Bonny cannot throw ANYTHING away. We used a whole roll of bin bags. Cans, plastic bottles, and an entire Bolivian rainforest worth of paper (lots of drawings and notes for friends - Heidi you are my BBF!) Packets of glitter on the rugs, boxes of beads popped open and emptied under the bed, half of M&S knicker dept stuffed down against the wall. Cd's, DVD's, Bratz dolls with their spooky missing feet, all jumbled together.
Wibs wanders in snootily later, wet haired and smudgy eyed from her bath in her silky pyjamas. "Poo" she says. "It smells." No sodding shit Sherlock.
Perhaps the scent was me, eau de non stop frigging toil. We put on an audio book so that we didnt have to talk to each other. I was ready to spiflicate the child.
I'm sat now, listening to the washing machine which was on its last legs anyway, groaning away as it spins its 7th load of the day. The clothes aren't dirty mostly ... they are clothes I have washed and ironed once, and left by her door "for hanging". Hanging! Ha, ha haaaa.
So, you get the children you make. I leave the dusting, I really can't be arsed. Better to read a book, play a game, paint a picture. It's my own fault.
I go out later for cigarettes. Driving home, its Vaughn Williams on the radio, and a MASSIVE moon, like a mother of pearl disc sliced precisely in half hangs over the estate. I can feel my frustration dissipating, then when I get in, Wibs has made me tea and Bonny kisses me a sorry.
Tomorrow I think, we'll get cracking on having fun instead.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
BonnyLogic
Shopping today for school uniform. Most children pass the time spent on a long journey by playing the red car blue car game... not Bonny. She uses the time it takes to get to the next big town, by musing on inventions. Past inventions have included a tube that goes up ones bottom to enable poop to emerge stripey and rainbow coloured, a la Aquafresh toothpaste. This is, apparently, to cheer us up. We have had to draft a letter to Ford Motors which suggests a single top mounted windscreen wiper (like a train has?) instead of two which sweep in arcs across the screen. No reply.
Today, after discussing the swine flu epidemic (down nationally, way way up locally) Bonny suggests that someone needs to design an outfit to keep swine flu at bay. This outfit will consist of trousers, hat and jumper. These items are peppered with valves which puff out sprays of disinfectant, and should be worn in all public places. A letter to Versace may do the trick.
Other fantastic news - whilst standing outside Asda to receive an important phone call, a sudden gust of mean spiteful wind resulted in my skirt whipping up around my chin. There were no wolfwhistles, however a surge in the purchase of over the counter anti emetics was reported at the pharmacy counter in store.
Shopping today for school uniform. Most children pass the time spent on a long journey by playing the red car blue car game... not Bonny. She uses the time it takes to get to the next big town, by musing on inventions. Past inventions have included a tube that goes up ones bottom to enable poop to emerge stripey and rainbow coloured, a la Aquafresh toothpaste. This is, apparently, to cheer us up. We have had to draft a letter to Ford Motors which suggests a single top mounted windscreen wiper (like a train has?) instead of two which sweep in arcs across the screen. No reply.
Today, after discussing the swine flu epidemic (down nationally, way way up locally) Bonny suggests that someone needs to design an outfit to keep swine flu at bay. This outfit will consist of trousers, hat and jumper. These items are peppered with valves which puff out sprays of disinfectant, and should be worn in all public places. A letter to Versace may do the trick.
Other fantastic news - whilst standing outside Asda to receive an important phone call, a sudden gust of mean spiteful wind resulted in my skirt whipping up around my chin. There were no wolfwhistles, however a surge in the purchase of over the counter anti emetics was reported at the pharmacy counter in store.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
The Measure of a Man
When a man tells you you who he is, believe him. Maya Angelou, apparently (and unfortunately) but it is a fabulous quote anyhow... I was reminded of this recently by The Fish, and she is right. So why do we not do this? Trust your instincts, we remind others, with a sage nod of the head, yet we are SO shit at managing to do this for ourselves. We meet someone, we like them. We pluck out the fabulous things about them and wave them in the air gleefully, like a prized nugget of gold. What we should do, is remember to take note of the stinky silt that surrounds the gold. (Not that we dont have stinky silt of our own of course)
Once, I dated a man a couple of times. The first time we met each other with mutual friends and much wine was drunk, rendering the evening hazily pleasant. The second time, we met with just our own selves, and went to a popular and by all accounts excellent Turkish restaurant in Islington. I am going back several years here, the name of the restaurant but alas not the details of the date, elude me. The service was shocking. The food was borderline edible, being barely warm and rather overcooked. This was compensated for by a liberal use spices and herbs. My mouth was cold yet hot. The courses were half an hour apart, allowing the diner to drink too much and not mind the shocking service, the surly waitress and the crappy food. Top marks for distraction techniques Islington Turkish Restaurant. Anyway anyway anyway, the end of the meal and the bored and tetchy waitress clears the table (with her hands, though she could've blown the pots to the kitchen with her sighs of irritation and boredom).
"Please give the chef my finest compliments!" beamed my date. I searched for a hint of irony. None. "The meal was fabulous!" he gushed, oil of a million shish kebabs oozing through his every pore. The waitress stared at him as though he was mental. She knew it was crap. I knew it was crap. He was mental, I think. I wanted to slide under the table. She walked away, without even answering.
After the meal, he walked me to the train station, and attempted to kiss me. I got on the train. Yet, I STILL met this man again. Why? Because I couldn't quite believe my instinct. I didn't believe how he was, though he'd shown me.
Some years later I met a man who made me laugh. In a pub on our first date, he shocked me with his intensity. We sat outside in the snow so he could smoke, which he did angrily. On our second date, he belittled a Polish guy, who (whilst being a bit of a tosser and a bit of a pillock) was pretty harmless. In a manner designed to confuse the polish guy, he was over friendly (whilst accepting his whiskey and beer) and gave him his phone number, whilst all the time poking fun, dragging me into it by the very dint of me being there. Nudge nudge eh Pesk?
He rarely spoke to people who served him in shops. Just took his change and walked, leaving me to smile and say thanks. He shouted at a train clerk sarcastically and rudely. Vile. Did I believe the man he showed me he was? No. I ploughed on regardless for at least four more dates. What a prize pillock I am.
A man I used to know, planned everything, and if I didn't fall in with his plans, or fancied doing something else, he drove over me like a tractor in springtime, a man on a mission to get his work done. Eventually I always concurred. Did I spot this? Nope. Klaxon HOOTED at me on one particular occasion, but no, my ears were stuffed with the Cotton Wool of Hope and Admiration. In restaurants he was polite without being oily which was good, but generally distant. And with me too. Didnt see that either.
I date someone now who is gentle. In restaurants, he sets himself up to become the butt of a joke between the waitress and myself. I like this. This is sweet. This is a man who sets others at ease. Will there be something I am not seeing? Stay posted.
When a man tells you you who he is, believe him. Maya Angelou, apparently (and unfortunately) but it is a fabulous quote anyhow... I was reminded of this recently by The Fish, and she is right. So why do we not do this? Trust your instincts, we remind others, with a sage nod of the head, yet we are SO shit at managing to do this for ourselves. We meet someone, we like them. We pluck out the fabulous things about them and wave them in the air gleefully, like a prized nugget of gold. What we should do, is remember to take note of the stinky silt that surrounds the gold. (Not that we dont have stinky silt of our own of course)
Once, I dated a man a couple of times. The first time we met each other with mutual friends and much wine was drunk, rendering the evening hazily pleasant. The second time, we met with just our own selves, and went to a popular and by all accounts excellent Turkish restaurant in Islington. I am going back several years here, the name of the restaurant but alas not the details of the date, elude me. The service was shocking. The food was borderline edible, being barely warm and rather overcooked. This was compensated for by a liberal use spices and herbs. My mouth was cold yet hot. The courses were half an hour apart, allowing the diner to drink too much and not mind the shocking service, the surly waitress and the crappy food. Top marks for distraction techniques Islington Turkish Restaurant. Anyway anyway anyway, the end of the meal and the bored and tetchy waitress clears the table (with her hands, though she could've blown the pots to the kitchen with her sighs of irritation and boredom).
"Please give the chef my finest compliments!" beamed my date. I searched for a hint of irony. None. "The meal was fabulous!" he gushed, oil of a million shish kebabs oozing through his every pore. The waitress stared at him as though he was mental. She knew it was crap. I knew it was crap. He was mental, I think. I wanted to slide under the table. She walked away, without even answering.
After the meal, he walked me to the train station, and attempted to kiss me. I got on the train. Yet, I STILL met this man again. Why? Because I couldn't quite believe my instinct. I didn't believe how he was, though he'd shown me.
Some years later I met a man who made me laugh. In a pub on our first date, he shocked me with his intensity. We sat outside in the snow so he could smoke, which he did angrily. On our second date, he belittled a Polish guy, who (whilst being a bit of a tosser and a bit of a pillock) was pretty harmless. In a manner designed to confuse the polish guy, he was over friendly (whilst accepting his whiskey and beer) and gave him his phone number, whilst all the time poking fun, dragging me into it by the very dint of me being there. Nudge nudge eh Pesk?
He rarely spoke to people who served him in shops. Just took his change and walked, leaving me to smile and say thanks. He shouted at a train clerk sarcastically and rudely. Vile. Did I believe the man he showed me he was? No. I ploughed on regardless for at least four more dates. What a prize pillock I am.
A man I used to know, planned everything, and if I didn't fall in with his plans, or fancied doing something else, he drove over me like a tractor in springtime, a man on a mission to get his work done. Eventually I always concurred. Did I spot this? Nope. Klaxon HOOTED at me on one particular occasion, but no, my ears were stuffed with the Cotton Wool of Hope and Admiration. In restaurants he was polite without being oily which was good, but generally distant. And with me too. Didnt see that either.
I date someone now who is gentle. In restaurants, he sets himself up to become the butt of a joke between the waitress and myself. I like this. This is sweet. This is a man who sets others at ease. Will there be something I am not seeing? Stay posted.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Happenings and Holidays
I finished my work today. I have Five Weeks Off. Five whole weeks! Now all we need, is for the rain to finish.
Three patients saw a ghost on Sunday night. Hmm. The fact that two of the patients were in one bay, and one in a side room a few yards away makes it a little more interesting, but meh, as my younger friends say. During shift handover, staff nurse was matter of fact, describing the ghost as though it were a new patient admitted to the ward at 4am... "Mid forties, female, shortish brown hair".
"It's me, I said. "This place has sucked all spirit out of me"
Glances were cast. Ah well.
Bonny however is terrified by and interested in this hospital ghost. Wibs seizes on this interest and tells her that she has seen a ghost in OUR house, sitting in an empty bath. "I see it when I clean my teeth" she nods, evilly and seriously.
"Rubbish", I tell Bonny "As if Wibs EVER cleans her teeth". Bonny nods, but she has wide eyes, threatening to spill fat tears. Wibs, encouraged, adds further details to her spook. "He has a beard" she says, "and he opens his mouth WIIIIIIIIDE like he is screaming in agony..."
Bonny begins to cry. I thank Wibs, who is delighted with herself and cackling away like the worst witch herself. I glare at her.
Wibs apologises and says that she was only joking. Bonny is not convinced and is still boohooing in the way only an 11 year old with a vivid imagination can do.
"Come onnnnn" says Wibs. "What could a ghost do to you ANYWAY?"
"Punch you with it's misty fists?" I offer.
Wibs looks at me. "Misty Fists?" she says.
Bonny looks at me. "Misty fists?"
"Yes. It could run at you and start punching you. With its fists, made of mist." I say solemnly.
"Misty fists...." muses Bonny, offering a ghost of her own, that of a smile.
I grin.
Wibs grins.
"Misty Fists!" we all shout, and soon we are rolling around, hooting and shrieking with laughter, punctuating our mirth with breathless "misty fists!"
Maybe you had to be there. I think its holiday madness. Five weeks off!
I say.
I finished my work today. I have Five Weeks Off. Five whole weeks! Now all we need, is for the rain to finish.
Three patients saw a ghost on Sunday night. Hmm. The fact that two of the patients were in one bay, and one in a side room a few yards away makes it a little more interesting, but meh, as my younger friends say. During shift handover, staff nurse was matter of fact, describing the ghost as though it were a new patient admitted to the ward at 4am... "Mid forties, female, shortish brown hair".
"It's me, I said. "This place has sucked all spirit out of me"
Glances were cast. Ah well.
Bonny however is terrified by and interested in this hospital ghost. Wibs seizes on this interest and tells her that she has seen a ghost in OUR house, sitting in an empty bath. "I see it when I clean my teeth" she nods, evilly and seriously.
"Rubbish", I tell Bonny "As if Wibs EVER cleans her teeth". Bonny nods, but she has wide eyes, threatening to spill fat tears. Wibs, encouraged, adds further details to her spook. "He has a beard" she says, "and he opens his mouth WIIIIIIIIDE like he is screaming in agony..."
Bonny begins to cry. I thank Wibs, who is delighted with herself and cackling away like the worst witch herself. I glare at her.
Wibs apologises and says that she was only joking. Bonny is not convinced and is still boohooing in the way only an 11 year old with a vivid imagination can do.
"Come onnnnn" says Wibs. "What could a ghost do to you ANYWAY?"
"Punch you with it's misty fists?" I offer.
Wibs looks at me. "Misty Fists?" she says.
Bonny looks at me. "Misty fists?"
"Yes. It could run at you and start punching you. With its fists, made of mist." I say solemnly.
"Misty fists...." muses Bonny, offering a ghost of her own, that of a smile.
I grin.
Wibs grins.
"Misty Fists!" we all shout, and soon we are rolling around, hooting and shrieking with laughter, punctuating our mirth with breathless "misty fists!"
Maybe you had to be there. I think its holiday madness. Five weeks off!
I say.
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