wotnopeoplecarrier

crikey!!!

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 20:43:36 +0200

It's dusty in here. Haven't poked about in this section of my life for a while - so you'll have to excuse me if there are a few dust induced sneezes as I fumble for the light switch and try to remember why I kept a blog.

oh it's coming back to me now - well it would.... I've just tripped over a pile of ranting about something so it seems I blogged to rant. I rant therefore I blog.I blog therefore I rant. Anyway...

I've calmed down a bit these days.....very serene...almost nirvana like...

but as I'm here again and before the old blog lightbulb pops, I just want to mention that it's a bad idea to tell anyone, especially a village football team child welfare officer (eye rolling moment thankyou) that your son has an allergy to peanuts.

Now i'm no expert on the beautiful game - but I am pretty honest so when the form came home to be filled in I sleepwalked into the 'does your child have allergies' section and confessed that yes we do own an epipen.

An epipen. Not a nuclear warhead. And we've never used it despite repeated accidental attempts on his life with prawns and runny egg. Ok not repeated but let's just say finding out what makes him swell into a zeppelin and lose his eyeballs has been through trial and error.

Anyway, this flaming busybodied child welfare officer (which means she owns a fire extinguisher/blanket in her kitchen and has probably plied an ofsted person into registering her as a childminder) has decreed that I must at all times be poised by the training pitch or the match pitch with epipen at the ready.

Really. Not for my boy the delight of going off with his mate and mate's Dad to footy without his mother fussing about. Oh no. I have to stand there like a confused miniature spear thrower in case a freak gust of shellfish or coconut flash flood takes hold while he's trotting about in defence.

I did of course challenge the child expert....but perhaps misjudgee the tactic by simply saying that the rugby team he plays for doesn't nancy on about something so trivial (in the context of sport obviously - not trivial if he had joined a nut and oyster tasting society with regular training and away matches) and this seemed to inflame things.

So that's that. If Charlie wanted some independence and saw footy as a way of getting it he's been scuppered.

I think it's a human rights issue .

Mine.

I hate standing in the cold with women who come to show their new tattoo off whilst hoping a coach might do something interesting with their tackle on the way home.

Feels more like home now in here....yes this is definitely my blog. I've missed you blog. I have blog guilt....

Comments

Tag festival

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 18:08:31 +0200

In a thrilling last minute team change Charlie got the call to play in the county tag rugby festival.

I wanted to deck a particularly annoying father but apart from that a great day was had by all and what a delight it is to watch your 7 yr old on the wing grinning from ear to ear.

He bulldozes his way through does Charlie, not for him the lengthy pretty run round the back, he just pushes his way through and somehow in a scrappy scruffy way gets the try.

I ate too much picnic then went out for a late lunch and then met the new child bride girlfriend of a good mate of ours who has dumped his 50 yr old wife.

She was rather dull, (the girlfriend) but had the 'please take me roughly right now' look about her that some men appreciate.

I resisted asking how she helped when his piles flare up - which they do from time to time - and decided to let her enjoy her aging stud for a while. But it was odd....I have intensely disliked the company of his wife for the past ten years, and I felt strangely disloyal chatting to the shiny new model with the skinny jeans and the low cut top. Odd that, I was actually comfortable disliking his wife because it was what I was used to.

Anyway, the new squeeze is firmly on the scene now and her new dad,, sorry boyfriend is besotted. But it's all a bit false really, her hanging around with us oldies, and frankly talking about hollyoaks was enough to make me cheer a team i didn't know to look busy.There's no fool like an old fool, but he looks a happy fool and you can't argue with that can you?

But what a try kiddo, what a flippin try....

Comments

erm, is that normal?

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 23:18:55 +0100

It's all a bit baby centric in my life currently - I have 3 pregnant colleagues and a newborn niece. So I feel a bit like an aging expert on all matters maternal and was absurdly pleased to have remembered how to burp and settle a two week old baby at the weekend and then smugly declare it might be time for a little glass of something while the 'owners' fretted about whatever it is you fret about with something the size of a galia melon that's sleeping anyway.

And that's the thing - you can't bloody well remember! Truly - I cannot remember my sons as babies. Yes I recall the tiredness and the exhaustion and in my case the whole 'will they ever leave hospital' but the day to day daily stuff you forget.....no you do...

'Did yours feed every 4 hours?'

'ermmmm'

'Did they like a bath?'

'Err...'

'Did they settle themselves or was it a case of holding them all the time?

'hmmmm'

The plain fact is that after your brain's been addled by 2 kids in 3 years you can't remember jackcrap about anything much. Yes I know I fell in love with my newborns. Yes I am pretty certain they did the eye following thing that tells you they're einstein and yes they probably did support their heads really well and were probably described as 'very alert'

(I'd be alert if someone was constantly tampering with a nappy on my undercarriage but there you are)

i just don't remember the details ok? Yes they're adorable yes I love them but actually the love is very much in the present tense. i remember hoping my first baby would never walk or talk - not in a sick way but because he was just so squidgy and gorgeous that I never wanted his pudgy legs and feet to need anything more than a nibble and a tickle (not rugby boots like now) and then suddenly I can't imagine not having a little tag rugby scruff who loves his Mum and xbox equally.

Amnesia - all parents have it.

Sorry who are you?

Comments

The boardroom

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 23:01:18 +0100

We have a very large boardroom where I work. In it is the biggest table ever made on planet earth. It makes the UN table look intimate - it's vast - it has a strip of branded coloured lighting going down the middle of it (which no human arm can reach) and it says 'Look at the size of my nob' Figuratively speaking of course. It's designed to strike fear into the heart of anyone sitting at it, and it does this very well. It is so enormous that it's got built in microphones all over it - and if you sit at one end you need opera glasses to see who's wittering on at the other end.

So anyway, I don't like the boardroom because it doesn't actually represent anything the company stands for anymore. Yes when the old MD was there it did, but life has moved on, and he and his nob (small clearly) are elsewhere. So it isn't often we go in there, only VIPs.

The last time I went in there was when the global HR something or other paid a visit and we'd been primed and primped to say our piece. There were about 18000 people sitting round the table and, not scared of public speaking, even I went a bit wobbly just before my turn. I needn't have worried though, because having listened intently to everyone else and made notes at appropriate moments, this global guru took a call on his mobile and then walked out as i was mid sentence.

'But I was just warming up....don't go!' I protested in vain as everyone looked at their feet. 'I'm just getting to the good bit! come baaaaack!!!!' People laughed, I was mortified, and became a legend after having made the global chosen one feel small. He didn't of course, people just said it to make me feel better.

The very first time i went into the big tabled room was to hear about a reorganisation that might mean losing my job. I wanted to scratch 'jules woz ere' in the veneer but decided against it and probably wisely as I'm still very much employed there.

And today I had to go in there because we were doing a VBP (very big presentation) I wont bore you with the content but the audience was mainly people for whom sitting on the board doesn't mean a week in Newquay. We're talking heavyweight big brains in the commercial sense. The kind of people I find rather intimidating, men in blue shirts with nice pens who you just know supply expensive ponies for their daughters and 6 holidays a year for their perfectly formed wives.

Nothing like me then.

I hate ponies and have sons.

So in the food chain with people like this I'm somewhere between mollusc and amoeba. And yet, due to last minute flapping and faffing, somehow, from a project team of great and almighty, I ended up doing part of the VBP (do keep up) Only a bit - but the expression 'punching above weight' sprung to mind when I found i was to speak about subjects not exactly in my area of specialism. And with slides someone else had prepared. Fatal.

But I was pretty relaxed this morning despite the obvious pressure, got a coffee and chewed the weekend over with the team as always.

I noticed we were looking very tidy and thanked them for the spring clean

'Yeah, I OCD'd your desk' said my planning analyst ' cleaned it too'

Thanks

And then the visitors started

'Hey JPR - you OK? All ready? ' This was my big big boss

'Beyond ready'

'Now I'm scared'

how we laughed!!

5 minutes later

'Hi JPR - all set? anything you need? Feeling nervous?' This was the project manager

'Er, no. All ok. Should I be nervous? Was feeling er OK....'

10 minutes later

'Hey - you happy with the slides? All good to go? Any amends?'

'Erm, no, as I've said a few times I'm not nervous but now really getting quite nervous because everyone's so interested in my nerves could do with...' am cut short by another visitor

'Thank you so so so much for doing this today - really - it's so so appreciated'

Good. Good then. So everyone's happy that I'm not nervous only I am now and I wonder what the hell they're expecting from me. Cirque du soleil? I have a reputation for being creative and I now realise perhaps for being a 'risk'

'Um, Julia, I was thinking, if people don't laugh you would change to things that aren't funny wouldn't you?'

OK so plainly there is feverish debate one hour to go about whether mollusc should be unleashed on lion. Arguably not but it's a bit sodding late to change things.

i am asked to go to a run through. Bloody hell - now I'm really nervous.

Am nervously halfway through it when in the true tradition of that fecking big tabled room someone burst in - the HR director in fact - looked at me and said

'Why are you practising? Christ almighty - you're making me nervous Julia! I don't prepare because I know you don't have to!'

Good........

It went OK, noone keeled over or vomited during my slides which was a bonus of sorts. I didn't fall over some fresh air like I did at the conference at Olympia, nor did I get snowed in like I did for the key note speech I was meant to give at the RAC club on the Mall.

I await feedback - but something in the eyes of the project manager told me that being invited (unrehearsed) to open the intros with

'Yep - I was just thinking that at a time like this what you really need is a piano player' may not have hit the spot.

But at least the table looked good. I should know - I was cleaning the sodding thing with an improvised giant cotton bud made from a flip chart and a duster half an hour before kick off because once lit the dust of a thousand boardroom skirmishes was pooling unpleasantly in the middle of it.

I'm nothing if not versatile.

Comments

Ever

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 21:10:09 +0100

had one of those days where just about every single thing you wanted to do didn't happen through no fault of your own? As though some cosmic trip wire had been laid in the night and you tumbled over it before even opening your eyes?

So today there were a few things going on...

1. 8am planned c-section for latest addition to brother's brood and because it was breech etc I wasn't judging but planning a marvellous lady bountiful aunt type trip to see them all first thing tomorrow. Niomi Rose - welcome to the family - sorry and all that...

2. Deadline for VIP (very important proposal) at work which despite having a day of leave I had planned to review at least on email and if possible see in person at the office before it was sent to people far more important than I am who won't understand a word of it.

3. Food shopping. Not as major as a new life but fairly major to me and my kids if we're at home all day

4/ And most important - a day of fun and merriment with my boys which they'd always remember.

What actually happened then

1/ 7.30 am unmistakeable sound of heaving and vomiting. Checked it wasn't me or Mr PR and concluded correctly it was a child. Charlie went on to vomit green doctor who bile over the entire upstairs in his attempts to get to a loo.

2/ 8am Realised had missed all important 'good luck with large cut in belly god help you' text opportunity to sister in law.

3.realised planned trip to bestow pretty pink baby clothes everywhere on newborn infant with oddly spelt name was now not going to happen. Risk of infection etc. As someone who had to scrub up for 3 months to visit her second born I am nothing if not aware of the danger of bugs from vomiting 7 yr old that will nestle happily in a carseat and jump out on arrival at a hospital ward.

4. Was very - no - beyond disappointed about trip being cancelled. Dude. Man. Bummer. Really wasn't good had been very excited about it. Typical.

5. Then learned that random mental email issue meant no way I could forward proposal to yahoo to print off and read before deadline. i mean, yahoo.....not working.....it's not possible.....it's like Will Carling having skinny thighs.....unthinkable...mmmm rugby players

6. Then no food crisis hit, as did 'Mummy feel better now let's go out'

7.Yes! Get food get toys get whatever just get out!!!!

8. BrhghgasdiuggRogGPUHG - Henry did he get all that vomit in the bag? Did he? Mommy can't stop Mommy is on a motorway.....DID HE?????

9. It's OK - Mommy is now stuck in a huge tailback and will probably have time now to examine the precise contents of the bag and therefore Charlie's stomach as night will surely all before they clear this latest A1M bit of carnage.

10. Home in time to think oh damn about tomorrow and visiting baby again and then realise it was THE SLEEPOVER today. Nothing major, just something Charlie has been looking forward to and talking about for, oh, 5 weeks.

Sleepover cancelled.
Weekend cancelled.

Just one of those days.

Comments

time to dust off the cobwebs!

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 23:42:10 +0100

Aha! i've found it! My blog! knew I'd left it somewhere but since i GAVE UP SMOKING and JOINED A GYM and was told I DON'T HAVE GLAUCOMA BUT DOLLOND AND AITCHISON HAVE CALIBRATION ISSUES I have been in a frenzy of busying myself being smug and fit.

So now that's over and I realise that actually smoking and drinking and all those things are in fact the things I really like and now I even bore myself with my inner chats about my inner thighs I feel the need to give the world an update on all things me.

1. I still have a job despite loafing about pointlessly most of the time in an attempt to be selected for the chop - yesirre I actually seem to be in more demand than ever.

2. My car, the big girly wussy pathetic girls aloud of the vehicular universe is my least favourite thing since just one snowflake renders it incapable of movement. I have dug it out no less than 9 times during the few days of snow while Ford ka's and little berlingo's whizzed past me. I think supermodels are less diva like and for this reason if global warming means an ice age I'm getting rid. Oh yes Audi, I mean it.

4. Mr PR was 50 a few weeks back and my wonderful weekend of surprises and thrills ended another 'feud' leaving me to conclude I should never ever ever bother to do nice things. Sorry!

5. i've got fatter since I joined the gym

6. no really, i am in fact heavier and bulkier than I used to be

7. Think Fatima Whitbread minus the javelin (and moustache thanks)

8. My eldest said ' he gets on my tits he really does' in front of everyone at the holiday club

9 My eldest was player of the week at rugby

10. My new fridge sucks it's smaller inside than the old one somehow

That's it really.

Comments

Danger fridge

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 15:36:08 +0100

I bought us a new fridge last week. Very exciting. Trundled round Currys for ages gawping firstly at something I resent having to pay for at all, and then gawping at the excitable women explaining to bored men why smeg was the only possible way to go in the coldness department. As the men yawned, the women smelt triumph, and so did the saleschild (sorry they are children I don't care what the labour laws decree - currys and comet employ children)

I can't get het up about fridges. As far as I can tell they're all the same but if you really are crazy you pay for a smeg one, if you really have pretensions to the american dream you buy one bigger than my car and everyone that sees it will outwardly ooh with envy but inwardly say ' wankers who do they think they are the Ewings?' and that leaves you with thin ones in silver or black or white.

Charlie and I agreed that a fridge should not be the focal point of the kitchen

'Get that one Mum, it's got a water thingy'

Oh dear, the only gadget in sight and he spotted it.

I was by now beyond bored and realising that no amount of wandering round 20 foot high fridges would make them free so I got the one with the water thingy.

400 quid lighter I went home and lost the receipt/delivery note etc. This didn't come to light till midnight the day of delivery and Mr PR threw a minor hissy fit about how when HE buys things from Currys all is good and when I buy things from Currys it all goes wrong....cheek...

'Sorry love it doesn't say we'll take the old one'

Mr PR rolled his eyes and his nicotine patch

'Hang on, I expressly asked the saleschild, Charlie was his name, to put this on the order'

'Well he hasn't'

'Well that's not my fault - why would I want to keep the old one? He's made a mistake!'

Luckily the nice one of the two relented and said they'd take it - and I gave them a tenner.

We unwrapped our new toy, with the water thingy that we don't need, and there was much oohing and ahhing at the sheer sparkliness that is a new fridger freezer.

Bored by now I wandered off to flick through the instructions, mainly I wanted to know what superfreeze was. Could I point it at the children like a gun when they were naughty I wondered?

Anyway, I learnt two very impportant things.

Number 1 - never ever put a living thing (eg pet or child)in the freezer. The instructions say so - ensure that everything you put in there is already dead. Phew....lucky I read it eh?

Number 2 - before disposing of old fridge, remove all shelves - but be aware that in doing this you will have created a 'Child Entrapment Danger' Make sure, as the fridge is taken away on a trolley, that all of your children are present and correct and not in fact hiding in the old fridge (as they do) because the fridge will go to a recycling plant and little johnny may spend the rest of his days as an icecube tray.

So - don't say I didn't warn you.

Still none the wiser about superfreeze....but I think it was reading time well sepnt don't you?

Comments

New doctors

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 13:50:23 +0100

For most elderly people,the gap between xmas and new year is a good opportunity to have a nice sit down at the local GPs and bore everyone senseless with the latest bunion complications (gout usually) December and January are peak times for popping off, it's true, ask your local undertaker and they'll do a kind of gleeful and mournful grin which means oh yes baby business is booming once everyone's 'hung on for xmas' So doctors shift with sheer boredom in the twilight working days between xmas and yet another year to get through, while the elderly (who may pop off) ramble on about 'this chest doc'

I joined in this morning. Oh yes. And the excitement of seeing the GP was heightened only by the fact that this was my first appointment at my NEW doctors! Oh joy! I was going along to try and get someone to please refer my high pressured eyeballs to someone who knows about such things...it's only taken me 6 weeks...still best not to rush these things at my age.

So, I wandered in and stood aimlessly looking at the empty and vast reception desk. I also looked at the crowds of receptionists sitting in the back area who clearly had no intention of doing anything. Hmmmm

And then I saw the self serve check in. Very high tech. My old doctors required you queueing to announce your attendance but often the queue was so long you'd be ten minutes late for the bloody apppointment and be made to rebook...

So I was impressed.

I then sat down to wait and started to contemplate the feng shui of waiting rooms. I did this because this one was arranged in rows, like a cinema, and everyone sat watching the digital display on a far away wall that rolled on with its messages....everyone by the way was about 85.It was like a bizarre theatre of the ill.

The messages were quite interesting

'1301 appointments were missed in 2008' Not me I thought, didn't live here then must be you lot.Shame on you.

'216 appointments were missed in November 2008' Everyone looked, blinked, looked down again, it was like a kind of appointment missing brainwashing class.

The next one was a bit more upbeat

'Free condoms are available' But only if you haven't missed any appointments presumably. And probably not much use to most of the visitors I could see in there.

Then we had
'Please don't take it out on reception if the duty doctor is running late'

Blimey, did they mean people actually attack the desk? Cos there ain't noone there that I can see!

And then...then...it flashed up

Mrs Julia ** * Dr Hodgson room 3' Everyone looked, I was relieved it didn't spell out the reason for my visit ' Dodgy balls' or something. All rather disturbing. Not sure I want everyone in there knowing my exact name and maritaL status. But it was too late to argue ...I then went through the big door and was immediately lost in a maze of rooms and numbers thatvwere like something out of charlie and the chocolate factory (except for the choccie) And either I was going mad or the corridor did actually stretch and I was getting bigger as it got smaller. Dr Hodgson, Dr Lane, Dr Amazon (sounded hunky) Dr Depp (just kidding) and on it went. Hundreds and hundreds of rooms with doctors in them.

I forgot where I was meant to be

'Lost?' This was, in the half hour I had been there, the first time another human had spoken. It quite threw me

'Er yes, gosh isn't it huge?'

Probably not the thing to say to Dr Small admittedly but I was lost. At my old place it was all very different, two doctors if there was an ebola outbreak and that was your lot.

I found my lovely Doctor at the back of the maze. She referred me to someone in Hitchin, she thinks I won't die from glaucoma this New year, all is well.

Comments

When parents are dangerous

Tue, 23 Dec 2008 23:48:29 +0100

So the whole point of childhood, to sane people, is that it isn't adulthood. There's no tax, no nasty stuff, no famine or disease, no X Factor. But to other less sane people childhood is an opportunity to vent their own anguish/neurosis.

Happy Xmas by the way.

So at my play a couple of weeks back (it went fine thanks - no prompts just one wardrobe malfunction which rendered me unable to turn my back on the audience) I bumped into an old acquaintance.

'Jules! You were amazing!'

'Sarah! Blimey! It's been years! (since you tried to seduce me in a bizarre evening I've been blotting out for the last 13 years)

'Jules I have a baby now!'

Thank god I thought. You've obviously discovered that boy bits are more entertaining than mine....I'm still in counselling from that unfortunate lunge in the Hare and Hounds.

'Wow! Really? Pink or blue?!'

And so on - it was pink - Tallulah or something achingly chavvy, I admitted to having two babies of my own called achingly uncool names and so we quickly progressed onto the whole xmas presents business

A serious expression crossed her face.

'Jules - tell me you haven't lied to your sons'

I thought about this...there was the time I told them the police had installed CCTV in their bedrooms, oh and the time I told them if they moved while the roof was down in my car they'd fall out....but no....not really a parental liar

'I dont quite follow'

'All that Santa crap. Tell me you haven't lied to them'

'Er, well they believe in him if that's what you mean' This was worse than the clumsy attempt at a snog that only a well-timed fag saved me from....

'Julesyyyyy, how could you? I've told Tallulah how it is. Mummy and Daddy buy her presents'

'Oh. How nice. How old is she?'

'32 months'

I hate parents that do that - my maths isn't good enough - at 12 months they become one why can't everyone agree on that?

'Oh. So no santa then?'

'No - I could never let my daughter suffer the trauma I did when I found out my parents had lied to me - it's abuse'

'Really? What about the tooth fairy?'

I was by now quite annoyed

'Come on Julesyyyy;

'That's Julia actually'

'Juliaaaaa - it's all lies. you should tell them the truth. My god, an intelligent woman like you subscribing to all that crap'

I seethed a bit, and then asked her if she also subscribed to the school of thought that childhood immunisations were a bad idea. I did this because I came across someone whom I'd credited with some intelligence as having 3 daughters who aren't immunised against ANYTHING because it's all a cosmic conspiracy and wearing recycled knickers would protect them against polio, tetanus, meningitis...pretty much anything.

'Well now you mention it, I don't want Tallulah growing up thinking drugs are the answer'

I took a deep breath.

'Then I'm afraid, lovely as she undoubtedly is, I want your poor neglected daughter nowhere near my sons. You see, I think childhood is all about fantasy and being a kid, and I think my job is to keep the world of adults away from them for as long as I can. They have been immunised, they have been lied to, they are safe little boys who live in the world I create for them. '

'Julesyy...are you saying you don't want a new year playdate? I have my blackberry on me to arrange a time'

' I think that's what I'm saying'

Comments

Just when

Fri, 21 Nov 2008 23:49:32 +0100

I thought I had plenty to think about - the play opens on Dec 9th and no.. I still don't quite exactly know my lines, oh then there's the small matter of moving house on Friday - and no I still don't quite exactly know what packing a house should involve....and of course the relentless demands of a job that's getting so big I think my blackberry is getting stretchmarks....OTHER than that everything was fine. Busy but fine.

Until Wednesday. Don't want to get too detailed about things but let's just say that I began the day taking my 4 yr old on an adventure which ended at the doctor's for pre school jabs (look I know how important they are but please don't try to tell me that the look of hurt betrayal in their eyes when the needle goes in isn't more painful than measles and tetanus put together after a month of diptheria because I won't believe you) and ended the day with poorly eyes.

Poorly eyes...hmm....have had them before. Have poked them over the years with masacara sticks while trying to drive, have bleached them inadvertently with contact lens cleaner, have even scratched one once...but this poorly eyes thing was a bit more serious.

Ironically, I had bounded into the opticians flashing my 'I'm 40 now so I get free sight tests because my mother had glaucoma' smile at everyone and joked about how useful it was to be short-sighted and to be able to benefit annually from my late mother's affliction. Not that I'm mean - it was just a bit exciting and possibly the only good thing about turning 40 as far as I can make out. Unless the periods stop and I can save tampax money every month.

Anyway this optical rapture came to a swift end when the serious optician stopped waffling on about how scratched my glasses are and how I should rest my eyes from contact lenses (yadder yadder) and the gravely told me I had what appeared to be a symptom of glaucoma. Well two symptoms to be precise, each eye was bulging with pressure it shoudn't be. Not that I look like Marty Feldman (in case you're wondering) but something isn't right.

Immediate reaction

'I'm too fucking busy for this'

Followed by

'Sodding typical - utterly bloody typical so that's it I'll be blind by next week - I knew something would stop me enjoying my new house'

Followed by

'Er, how bad is it?'

Stupid question

'Bad - bad enough for you to come back'

'OK, er let's see, how about second week of Jan?'

''How about next Monday?'

'How about I rewind my day to some time before Henry looked at me with confused bewilderment in his eyes about being stabbed twice' I thought

'OK - you're upset'

'No, not really - just wondering if it could be anything else?'

'Not really - come back in an hour - we'll test again'

So I wandered off for some retail therapy and timed my only clothes buying trip for ten years in M and S (definitely getting old... surely this is a more conclusive sign of old age than the onset of glaucoma?) precisely 7 hours before they announce their 20% sale.

Went back muttering about badly calibrated equipment and the result?

Even fecking higher.

OK...it's not life threatening, it's only sight threatening and yes I KNOW it can be controlled with eye drops etc.

But....but....my eyes are the only body parts I like, and it seems a bit unfair that 6 months past my 40th birthday my corneas are diseased. This will be confirmed next week in the next round of tests no doubt. Why couldn't my cellulite have got some kind of random medical issue? Why the only two parts I have never criticised despite them being a bit near sighted?

Hmph.

Comments

Can't sleep

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 02:02:29 +0100

Which is unusual - I am usually an expert sleeper - strictly only till 6.45 am however....my sleep pattern doesn't care about weekends but this is useful when you have 2 young sons and a husband who spends many long nights out and about doing brave stuff.

Last night he answered his mobile and said that a tanker was on its side - just another Friday night then - I tried to lighten the impending seriousness of the situation by proclaiming that a wanker on its side must indeed be very serious and couldn't they just roll him the right way up.

Made me laugh.

So today I had a 4 hour rehearsal for what is rapidly becoming the biggest regret of my 'yep no problem' attitude to life. I can't remember my lines, I can't remember which ones I can't remember the most....and it's all going wrong. Opening night could well be the final curtain on my acting career. Should have stayed in retirement.

The boys began the day by trying to set the house on fire, and ended it by flooding the upstairs. At least the elements were balanced, but I could do without the place falling down before my triumphant departure scheduled for November 28th. They are snuggled together in the eldest one's bed - and it's the most peacful time of the day/night/morning.

I don't know why I can't sleep. Perhaps I'm nervous for DO Robinson doing his marching thing at the cenotaph tomorrow. He has to report to the drill ground at 6.15am. But I suppose compared to going over the top or a spell in Helmand province it's peanuts.

I'm a bit cross about being awake if I'm honest - but luckily by writing drivel I am boring myself to sleep. Sorry if I lost you 3 paragraphs ago....I'm listening to a track from a very upsetting Kevin Bacon movie (Death sentence) which I hated. But this song, 'I will love you' (NOT WHITNEY THAT HAD AN ALWAYS IN IT) by Fisher is just wonderful. Kind of sad, kind of happy, the perfect song to stroll through the leafy avenues of the long term memory.

And with that (AND NO IT REALLY ISN'T WHITNEY'S NAUSEATING BASTARDISATION OF DOLLY PARTON'S MASTERPIECE) I'm off to stay awake doing something useful like ironing.

Comments

It's a sad fact

Fri, 07 Nov 2008 23:07:00 +0100

That you get to a certain age, and, interspersed between the invitations to 40ths, divorce celebrations and god childrens' teenage booty parties (or not), you also find yourself at the funerals of other people's parents. This is all rather depressing. I am something of an authority on parent funerals having (mercifully I now feel) got both of mine out of the way for want of a better expression. I don't have to dread the day I lose them, or wonder how I'll cope because I have been there and done it. The only good thing about having lost both parents by 38 is that I will never have to go through it again.

I was thinking about this today as my friend and I turned up to the funeral of another friend's mother. The local crem was busier than Wembley after a stones gig, and really it was the undertaking equivalent of the flightpath at terminal 5 where every 30 seconds another one appears on the horizon, only in this case it was a hearse about every 30 minutes.I looked at the faces of my friends with living parents, and knew what they were thinking. Namely, oh god this will be me before long. The folks won't go on forever. Must make more effort.

It was the usual sombre affair, a reading, a poem and the cracked voice of her only son, and the singular faux awkwardness that is the english funeral. The place smelt a bit odd to me, that horrible mix of souring flowers and broken hearts. I wondered (as we all do) who might turn up to mine. I can't help getting a bit anxious about it....I wasn't sure that the reading about her did her justice. Sounded like alot of lace making and needlework to me, I made a note to ensure that I write my own eulogy.

I looked around and not surprisingly reflected on my own mother's funeral, and how utterly everyday the whole business is. And yet for those in that awful front pew, how just being in that place means that life will never be the same again. I was quite relieved to hear some useful things about earthly pilgrimages and things not ending, but looking around it's all a load of hooey for the man clutching at his son knowing he's on his own now and his remaining years won't be the way he planned them.

Being the 'young friends' we sort of lurked together - all three of us. Rachel said she wanted to smoke but appreciated my suggestion that could be bad outside a crem. She related the story of her grandfather's funeral, and I wanted to fall over laughing but didn't. It's always struck me as odd that every departed soul had a wondeful sense of humour, an infectious giggle and a warm love of fun and merriment, and yet on the one day you might pay homage to that you'd rather eat your own tits than actually laugh out loud. Maybe it's just me. Anyway, Rachels' grandfather...the sad day coincided with a random appearance by the water board to install a water meter, something that had almost brought her parents to divorce anyway. The random visit wouldn't have mattered if they hadn't gone to all the trouble of digging a large coffin shaped hole in the front garden of her parents' house as the funeral cars arrived bearing mourners for the post burial piss up.

Outside the crem, eyeing pitiful flower displays (makes me competitive - I made Rachel promise not to let me be the one with a small mean bowl of pot pourri when everyone troops out - and we settled on a full sized grand piano crafted from black roses in case you're interested -don't laugh.. my uncle had a small 2 seater sofa from cream chrysanths for his late wife - she had apparently missed the delivery of her new sofa and never lived to sit on it) Even in death we can't help forming an opinion of someone because they've got small displays. And there's always show-off Winnie over there who's got GRANDMA in ten foot roses. If you see what I mean. You can't help looking at other people's flowers!Admit it! Blimey they were in there only half an hour ago - being commended and blessed etc. The pamphlets with the same prayers and hymns had Edith/Ted/Joyce's picture on a few seconds back. It's a miracle they don't mix them up.

I related the tale of the funeral cake for mother-in-law's boyfriend Bill, when I cut the damn thing between the B and the ILL and tried in vain to stick it back together for the rest of the wake as various people tutted (I still don't get the funeral cake please tell me if i'm missing something)

We shuffled about, and were awfully polite. That's what you do. We admired the flowers, cloying though the smell was, then deliberated about which way to go to get to the car park. I wanted to avoid swimming upstream through the 4.10ppm mourners, so walked for ages, hopelessly lost, wondering who thought a perilously slippery bridge was a good idea outside a crematorium. Surely they're not drumming up business, the place is flippin packed I muttered as I teetered along wishing i'd worn wellies.

My point is that the whole business is of course terribly sad - nothing shatters the heart more than the loss of someone you can't replace. I still only believe my own mother isn't here when, with each birthday that passes, there is no envelope on the mat with her neat writing on it.. Because she was a stickler for cards, and it was unthinkable to anyone that she might not have one in the post well before the special day. The mat, empty as it is every year of a white envelope with a Boston postmark on it is a jarring and unwanted reminder.

And because of this, I don't think it hurts every now and again to look at a dismal crem, and the borderline thug funeral directors wrestling with flower displays looking as out of place as they would holding a newborn baby, and taking a second to think what I thought...

This is it. This is bloody it. I can see about 25 people here, none of them looks anything like upset enough in my opinion considering I am about to be commended or committed or whatever, there's one over there even smiling. SMILING. There's a bloke I never met ushering my nearest and dearest about, another bloke I never met has just forgotten to tell everyone that I really was ok. Not god, not perfect, but OK. And now there's someone who thinks opening up some kind of soup kitchen in my house is OK and oh dear lord the place looks a tip!!!! I wish I'd told him what I thought, I wish I'd shown I loved them a bit more, I just wish I had one more day.

Comments

Happy Birthday boys

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 22:43:56 +0200

In a whirl of work, rehearsals, flying about organising the big move (5 weeks today not that I'm counting down to leaving Watford or anything) it suddenly turned out to be October 24th.

And October 24th is a big day in this house. And it gets bigger every year...this year Charlie was 7 and Henry was 4. They shot out of bed at 1am and stumbled about the landing looking for the birthday fairy. I appeared in my non matching pyjamas and encourgaed them back to bed. This worked really well, so well that I spend the night feeling like King Canute as I tried to stop them launching downstairs into their presents.

At 5.35am I gave up - and then, still in non-matching jim jams watched with as much joy as you can muster (a fair bit all things considered) as they whooped and yelled with glee at the new bikes, torches, spongebob money boxes and assorted paraphernalia (ie crap) that makes a little kid's birthday special.

Mr PR snuck back to bed at 7am (LIGHTWEIGHT) and I drove to work pondering as I always do that on October 24th
1. I have always had baby boys
2. At least I did in 2001 and 2004
3. That I'm so lucky to have them - Charlie arrived 7 weeks early, and Henry had the fight of his life when he arrived 12 weeks early weighing just 2 pounds
4. Then I pondered how lucky they are to never know the misery of watching a sibling have a birthday when you don't (like 99.9% of the population
5. I wondered if it will always be so much fun and decided it's my job to make sure it is
6. Then I thought about their 18th and 21st and said a little prayer that Mr PR and I will still be compos mentis enough to appreciate their fit mates and buxom girlfriends at the party I will insist on throwing.

A lovely day, marred only by them being at school and not squidging and kissing them all day. Probably a relief for them then.

Happy birthday Charlie and Henry - my wonderful boys.....

Comments

Sleb psychologists and me

Sat, 18 Oct 2008 10:05:18 +0200

I think having a big gob is a hazardous thing, because people assume that you are happy to use your big gob at anytime and to order. This, I feel, is how the majority of air wasting slebs get by.

So I think my big gob may be the reason that it was me who got volunteered to be the PR voice/face of a new campaign at work. I can't go into too much detail here, but let's just say I was driven to a studio somewhere in London in a very big car at an ungodly hour on Wednesday. I had sort of read my briefing document....sort of....I hadn't quite grasped just quite how big a deal this 'launch' was. I faffed about chatting to the driver, played around with the many lights bells and whistels in his car, and laughed at his one man Rumanian revolution against google. Yes. All a bit surreal for 6am when my usual journey to work is a fight against stroppy kids, heavy traffic and a realisation that either odd shoes or no make-up will scare oncoming colleagues for the rest of the day.

So there I was. Looking like someone important (I'm not of course, so don't be impressed ever again when you see people in the back of gigantic cars reading papers)

We got to the studio and I started to feel a bit nervous. Hot coffee was required so I wandered off to get one, and decided to call a colleague for a chat reasoning that as a pregnant insomniac she'd probably be awake. This worked, nerves calmed down a bit, and then I realised I'd wandered off without actually noticing where i'd come from. And obviously as I'd had a driver I hadn't bothered to worry about things like addresses.

Blessed with the sensory skills of a an unripened blueberry, I was therefore slightly panicked. I managed to get out of the costa, but had literally no clue at all about where to go.

Luckily the PR guy called on the mobile so I was saved. Looked stupid but was at least saved.

By now the sleb had arrived. and I must say she was a delight. I don't know many slebs, (met John Noakes once and my Mum had tea with Morgan Freeman) but this lady was down to earth and charming. We hit if off so well that in no time at all I knew that she'd had her cocyx broken whilst giving birth to her first child. That was some baby I commented.

Being a true radio pro,. she had no problems with the earphones.I did. More on this later. She and I sat in our booth, (very swish it was too) and looked through the glass to the 5 or so people twiddling about and the people there making sure I didn't say something stupid. Being a true sleb pro, she was totally on the ball and utterly unphased by the prospect of live/recorded radio interviews one after the other for 2 hours. She also didn't have itchy ears. My ears itched like mnad under the sweaty earphones and one furtive scratch sent one sound engineer over the edge. Something about amplification.....

So the job seemed easy on paper. Talk to radio stations, be jolly be upbeat be real. But now my mouth was dry. And then I found I wanted to call the sleb Holly all the time. Which was a pity as her name was Honey. And then I realised I was tongue-tied. During the absolute silence when you wait for the station to dial in(sure it's more techie than that) I felt very very lonely. I couldn't hear anything, not even my own breathing. It was eery...I think it's the closest i'll ever be to being on the launchpad at cape canaveral while ground control make their final checks.

Yes. This was exactly what it must be like!! Mind was wandering..... then I heard....

'Ready? OK girls..here we go, this is talk radio in Edinburgh talk about Scotland somehow'

Wha?

I looked at Holly/Honey/Sleb person who wasn't panicking and gaped in awe as she smoothly charmed the DJ and let me join in so that I didn't look stoopid.

By the fourth interview I was getting rather cocky, suddenly I too was a pro.

Two interviews later I heard the sleb say 'easier for twiddling around with all your nobs' and had an internal eruption of mirth which almost caused an aneurysm in my head. Everything I had was straining to keep the laughter in. I sooo did not want to end my sleb radio career with a red card for laughing uproariously at the word nobs.

Recovered, I sailed through the next 2 interviews, getting bolder and cockier and then suddently it was over.

'We're letting you go' said the PR guy Greg.

'Oh' I said, crestfallen ' I was just starting to enjoy myself'

He gave me a look that suggested that may be the reason for me going home, but then someone else chipped in with 'You can get home in time for your interview with the Sunday Times this way'

ST??

Sunday Times???

Oh my lordy. Don't sweardon'tsweardont'sweardon'tswear was all the driver who took me home heard.

It might be in tomorrow.Might be.

Something to show the grandchildren

'Look, this was your grandma Julia when she thought she was very clever and important'

Just for the day though. Unlike many I come across....

Comments

Pumpkin outifts and dictaphones

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 22:33:23 +0200

Tonight I achieved the hitherto impossible. As a mother I have always wanted to dress one of my gorgeous boys up as a pumpkin (I don't know why so please don't speculate) and Charlie has resisted this with fists and farts since birth. Henry however was most compliant this evening, so along with the spooky (actually fecking terrifying pirate skeleton costume complete with blood dripped torso) attire that Charlie approved of and hurtled himself into (though secretly I know he's scared of his costume because he's put it in a VERY SAFE PLACE under my bed) I finally got to see a baby pumpkin. Henry was delighted to be a pumpkin, he wouldn't hear of any other costume. The stripey green and black tights were a bit much but he was thrilled with the stalk bit. Oh the joy of an unexpected stalk eh?

So, Halloween taken care of (yes I know it's only Oct 13th but the spiders and cobwebs disco has been in Charlie's diary for weeks) I have now progressed to actually trying to learn my lines for the play I'm in. Well, actually, it's more of a 2 people doing monologue stuff which is all well and good until you forget your lines and realise there's no chorus to shuffle into and hide till you remember them.

I've ordered a digital dictaphone. Yes, it's still called a dictaphone despite the side splitting hilarity of the word and nowadays you can get all clever and transfer it onto your ipod and bore the whole family rigid in the car with the script. Marvellous. So convinced am I that this 'effortless learning' is the answer to my increasing panic about opening night on December 9th that I have now lost the script altogether. Last week I carried it everywhere, no meeting with a lull in it was safe, there I was feverishly trying to learn another line. But now, one order to Amazon and I've become a bit, er blase.

So therefore I will look a berk in December and no dictaphone will be able to dig me out of it (so to speak)

Comedy aside, these last few weeks have seen major activity around preparing to move house. Mainly this involves me buying new things so our present home is now heaving with the sumptuous goodies that will adorn the new pad and as a result Mr PR thinks the removal estimate might be a 'bit totally wrong' His words not mine. What's an extra sofa or two for Lord's sake?? Tut....

Also I have taken up knitting again after finding out that my brother's unborn child is female. Somehow I think knitting in the correct colour may help me to finish the hat I started 2 days after the positive pregnancy test and we're now exactly halfway through gestation. Well, normal gestation, if she gives birth when I popped Henry out I've got just 8 weeks. That is a scary thought.

Charlie and Henry will celebrate their 7th and 4th birthdays a week on Friday. This of course means lots of presents, planning, and meticulous attention to the all important party bags.

Or not.

This year it means 2 new bikes, chosen and ordered, a party at a Hollywood bowl where they can go berserk on someone else's flooring, a sleepover at Grandma's and a massive cake each. At some point we will no doubt take them to their favourite dining experience (Frankie and Benny's) and explain that actually there are 2 cakes and please can we have 2 ear splitting renditions of the pre recorded Happy Birthday.

Another year...my little baby will be 4.

Am broody.
Am very hot actually so perhaps the menopause set in about two sentences into this post.

Am not broody am in fact barren stock.

Lock stock and smoking barren possibly.

Am going to bed it's been a very long day.....

Comments

Island and cheerleading

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 21:46:37 +0200

I mentioned before that Charlie was an enthusiastic member of the cheerleading club at school. And that this had been a difficult message for burly Mr PR to digest. We've had a few conversations about it, and Mr PR was reassured that he is not raising Julian Clary when we both saw the bouncy busty teacher in front of the club display at the end of term concert. Charlie it seemed, was mainly interested in the hubba hubba lady doing the cheerleading lessons.

That was then

'Daddy? I want to go to rugby'

'Rugby? OK Charlie! OK!'

Mr PR made a poor job of hiding the fact that this statement must mean that Charlie is obviuosly all red blooded male, and I smiled to myself as I always do because unlike alpha males I can't get het up about a 6 yr old boy enjoying physical activity - even if it does involve pom poms'

But then over supper the rugby thing became clearer...

'So, Daddy, when we go to rugby I think I'll need proper pom poms'

I should state that we have never gone so far as to buy pom poms for Charlie, but this was a new development

'Why? Why do you need pom poms to play rugby Charlie?'

'No! I'm not playing rugby! We do the dancing before and there's THOUSANDS of people watching and I really want to go!!!'

Oh Lord. The cheerleading club (I dimly remembered) is run by the Saracen's cheerleading dollies and Charlie's sudden interest in rugby suddenly lost its shine for one of his parents.

'Yes OK' I said, tempted to kick Mr PR under the table 'We'll come and watch and get you some pom poms'

'How about a little skirt?' muttered Mr PR

And then Charlie jumped up and did a pretty spectacular if not entirely butch demo of his latest moves. Mainly it's about moving arms, and jumping, but he's now onto hip swivelling which had Mr PR reaching for the valium. Actually Charlie is the ONLY person I know who can keep a hula hoop whizzing round his waist for hours on end, so it was a pretty awesome hip wiggle.

'Oh dear GOD' said Mr PR 'Gay as a maypole'

I followed him into the kitchen to defend my little boy who is after all just a baby...

'Bloody hell - it's not as if he's singing 'I am what I am' or 'Somewhere over the rainbow' he's just a little boy!'

'Well why the hell is it suddenly OK for little boys to be cheerleaders? Eh? Why oh why has someone decided to make little boys prance about with fecking pom poms while the real men play the game???!!! CHEERLEADERS ARE SLUTS!!!!'

He has a point. About the sluts. But given the choice of streetdancing or cheerleading Charlie decided to be taught by a bouncing babe rather than a suspect hoody on a scheme from Watford Borough Council. And who can blame him?

So the cheerleading debate rages on - I think if he still wants to do it at 14 i may intervene but for the time being I get unbridled joy watching him count his moves fervently and smile with delight as he remembers another bit of what I call 'slagoreography'

We went to see the new school today , usual chilly slightly hostile and ever so slightly chip shouldered Head teacher - same as every other I've met. After that we went to check on the house. Well, actually I wanted closure on the whole kitchen island thing which has become something of an obsession.

I can confirm that there is an island.

Just call me Nigella. Really, I am domestic goddess with island. Somewhere to keep Charlie's pom poms if nothing else....

Comments

The mystery island and spongebob

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 21:58:39 +0200

We got a letter inviting us to a 'demo' of my new house. Demo? Does it walk and talk then I wondered? Maybe you can drive it? Blimey. All we wanted was a new house.

So I called to fix the appointment

'Ooh Julia, the kitchen's in'

'Is it? That's exciting' And I really was excited because actually this whole house gestation is quite thrilling, one minute walls, then doors, next thing you know the kitchen's in and you're getting a demo. At this rate I might even get to live in it.

'Did you know it's got an island?'

'Er, no. Didn't know that. Sounds pretty cool though'

So at this point I am, in my head, wafting around in a plunging black dress a la nigella (as opposed to salmonella which is my default kitchen status) with hot red nails pointing helplessly to my over priced le creuset collection dangling over said island hoping Mr PR will reach it for me. Back to the real world

'Julia, it's amazing'

With that I felt I should share my lucky windfall kitchen island news with my team. Everyone was very excited. We don't know anyone with an island. One of them commented that her bathroom was probably the same size, and another one demanded whether the island had a hob or a sink in it. The island conversation took up a good half hour, we fantasised and ruminated about whether garlic would look good hanging over it, we agreed that any island was better than none, and all in all it was quite heady news (another quiet day in recruitment then)

'Have you told Doug? He'll be so excited!!'

Now I knew better than that, to be fair 2 positive pregnancy tests only elicited the need for a lie down, but carried away with this unexpected bonus arrival I sent him a little text. He replied wanting to know what the 7 deadly sins are so that gave me some insight to his excitement levels about the whole island thing.

I got home, ready to pounce with my daily bulletin on how many days till the big move, but just had to mention the island first.

'What about the island then? Eh? I feel like I'm properly posh! Properly sarfistykated'

Mr PR immediately got his hose out (figuratively speaking) and dampened down my island frenzy.

'It's not an island. Chris just rang me'

Now. At this point I should introduce you to the house stalkers. No I hadn't heard of such a thing either. But they do exist. Trust me on this. It starts with 'Gosh! You're moving there?! Why, that's a few doors from us! Shall we keep an eye on the place for you? Give you updates?'

Innocent enough. But we've had a few bungles, like when Chris rang to say he'd been looking through the letter box and the kitchen was in. No it wasn't. And that the turf had been laid. No it hadn't. And then when we went to admire his new house, his evening dinner guests arrived early and after we'd gone they (total strangers to us) were taken on a tour of OUR new unfinished house.

A bit weird.

So yesterday, house stalker called Doug from inside MY kitchen (god knows how he's flannelling his way in there) and Doug asked him about the island.

'Island? No, there's no island. Just a random unit they've assembled for the utility room which they've left in the middle here mate. No island no sirree'

I'm not sure what piqued me the most. Having to tell my team that the boss-with-kitchen-island was bogus, or finding out from someone I've met once in my whole life who will probably have decorated it for us before we move so much as a teabag in there.

'He's just excited for us' said Mr PR

'Excited?? Excited?? Obsessed more like!!' I uncharitably said.

I haven't really got a problem (though writing it down is making it even more weird), I think I'm suffering with island envy. So near and yet so far.

Without an island I am nothing. An island I didn't ask for or really need admittedly, but how can I be Nigella now?? It's all gone wrong!!!

To bring me back to earth, I lugged home 3 tons of spongebob and lightning mcqueen bedding, chairs, rugs and cushions tonight.The boys were excited beyond belief (beyond breathing in Charlie's case), but the spongebob duvet was giving me a headache so I was keen to get it all upstairs and out of sight.
So I foolishly agreed to inflate the sodding lightning and spongebob chairs with a foot pump which was about as effective as an asthmatic gnat.

I have pump cramp in both hands. So to speak.

Comments

The skip

Sun, 28 Sep 2008 22:23:11 +0200

I dno't know who was more terrified when I opened the front door, me because without glasses on all I could see was thick fog and someone in luminous green at 7.30am - or the guy with the skip lorry who was confronted by me looking like I'd been caught in a hurricane half in and out of my bright green polka dot robe. Anyway - we both went 'AGGH! and ten minutes later the skip was waiting to be filled.

But thanks to some stupid night club catching fire in Hatfield 'let it fecking burn' was my advice, Mr PR had spent the entire night out (yeah I know - great story) So after one hour of sleep he didn't really feel like skip filling. I attacked the kitchen and pretty soon was on a real roll. I hadn't noticed that Charlie was also on a roll and was lobbing in perfectly nice and even new stuff so I had to clamber in and retrieve it.

However, paranoid about some tosser filling the still almost empty skip in the dead of night, I kept waking up to check on it. Rather like when I had babies and would leap out of bed for no reason convinced they'd stopped breathing and would then wake them up, relieved to hear a hearty 'why don't you just DO ONE nutter' scream and pad back to my bed.

Today however we cracked on with some energy. We even found time to cook a roast and plane the table. We weren't meant to be planing it, I had just sort of bodged about with some wire wool to get rid of the indelible marker pen and slapped some waxy stuff on it, but dismayed by my patchy effort Mr PR took a break from dangling from the loft and went to buy a new tool Any excuse.

I found the whole 'massive clear out' very cathartic. As Watford council gives us bin large enough to hold one used straw we do seem to have accumulated some clutter. Junk even. Mainly old toys, broken slides rammed in the garage, old trampolines that seemed so indestructible 5 years ago, and a plethora of, well, stuff.

So it was cathartic. And the house feels as though we've let its waistband out a bit. We're moving because we want a bigger house, but this one has done us proud and I almost felt sad about ripping out the cosy contents of its loft. Yep. This time we really are clearing out for good we were saying.

Anyway, not being the sentimental type I then almost broke down when confronted with a bag of baby clothes. Precious tiny things that the 2 hooligan boys I now have cheekily jumping up and down on the skip as it got ever higher would never need again.

'Did I wear that Mummy?' Henry demanded

'Yes you did, when you were my little baby...'

'Well he isn't now - nor am I - we're big boys - cor Henry did you smell that fart?!'

I pored over my memories, and was back in early motherhood and wishing I could go back. And then another box appeared. Now I was back in 1986 - 'JULES UPPER 6' tippexed all over a navy ring binder. I think it was A'Level history, but my main preoccupation seems to have been a certain young man called Graham and frankly I think he's the reason I failed the bloody thing. I read the old essays, yellow now and still crap, and wondered what 'JULES' would make of the 40 yr old woman weeping over a tiny babygrow. 'GET A LIFE' probably knowing me back then.

Then there was a torrent of baby stuff, old car seat, old baby bouncer thingy, it was all going. Really going.

'We're not going to mull over every old bit of tat are we Julia?' asked mr PR.

'No! Course not!'

Half an hour later I found him picking through the remnants of his daughter's school books, and a card he'd been sent 25 years ago when she was born. Noone is immune to a quick glance over the past.

Finding his mother's gigantic underwear bag (as in gigantic knickers) was emotional for a different reason. As I produced bra after bra Mr PR looked anxious, sweaty even, but then as the huge pants and fake china bric a brac emerged we realised it was some of the stuff she didn't take to Spain when she moved there 8 years ago. She splashed her possessions over each of her 5 kids and has been hunting them down ever since she came back. Well the pants have gone, seeing Charlie with them on his head was quite disturbing.

So there we have it. The skip is full - crammed with memories we no longer want the physical evidence of - I know the boys were babies once it doesn't mean I have to keep their clothes!

But....I couldn't resist a few bits....just a few...honestly hardly any...I didn't like to think of them under a salvage sheet on my drive facing oblivion.

Like I said - nothing sentimental about this house moving business. Nothing at all. God help everyone the day we actually go...I didn't realise how much this house has soaked into me and me into it - the place has seen it all.

Even Margaret's pants.

Comments

The new (er second hand thanks Deb) mobile phone

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 22:06:50 +0200

(High pitched northern accent for this please) Hi!!! I'm hammy the hamster!!! I'm a bit chubby and looking for love!!! I want to find someone I can
.,..

(shout this bit_'GRAB BY THE EARS AND ** HER UP THE AND WIPE MY ALL OVER HER FACE AS I STICK MY CLAWS UP HER *'!!!!

Choice. And a lesson learnt in this house this evening is that when you recycle a mobile kindly given by a dear friend you may wish to delete the more adult comedy from it before your 7 yr old son finds it deep in the media memory, plays it and almost asphyxiates himself and his young brother from laughing. I wasn't at home when this happened - Mr PR was in charge.

I have been in rehearsal all week for the play I've signed up to. Not much to report other than a real struggle to stay awake and a pressing need to learn lines all bloody week. However, I have learned that the cockney accent is alot harder than it seems and am now glued to eastenders so that I can convincingly bawl 'git outta myyyy pab' or something....

This week also saw my second conference speech to a para military organisation called the Chartered Institute of Personnel Development. Nope I'm not a member - I haven't bothered with their poxy exams - so I felt I should confess this and am now being pursued by someone wanting to offer some kind of dodgy membership. Fab.

This week I also went to teach some young offenders how to write a CV. This isn't the first time I've been dozing when the corporate social responsibility chuggers have come calling, so I had to schlep off and sit with some borderline scary blokes who would cheerfully kill an old bird with a nice car who has no clue about crystal meth.

This meant meeting Jonny - a kid I bonded with well. It also meant meeting Kaylen (see previous entry about boys' names..) and having an unseemly row about basic manners.

Once the Miss Jean Brodie act was done, I went back to work to deal with the mounting turds that land in my email and on my desk everytime I step away. And to think people wonder what I do all day!! Why, I clear up poop. I am an HR pooper scooper!!

So today is our 5th wedding anniversary. And we got married on a day like today, a sunny Friday in September when all those I loved were near and nothing seemed impossible. 5 years on, we've covered some ground. Another son, a lost mum. That's about it. Take away the new house new cars and the general noise of material gain and that's what the past 5 years have meant. The important thing is we've done it together.And to my shame I am wearing a stunning new bracelet and I didn't even get round to buying a card. Shame on you Mrs PR (I could list my extenuating circumstances but you won't believe me..)

Speaking of which, First Choice wrote back about our holiday fiasco.

'Dear Mrs PR

FUCK OFF

Thanks again for contacting First Choice

So that's another meeting with another lawyer.

Tomorrow our 6 yard skip arrives! Aha! Phase one of the 'big clear out' prior to the BIG MOVE on November 28th. I'm looking forward to this....oh yes...

'No Mummy, we can't throw THAT away'

And so on. I'll probably end up keeping the bloody skip because the boys will get attached to it.

Comments

Just when my plate was full

Mon, 22 Sep 2008 21:15:53 +0200

I decided to heap another big dollop of mashed potato on it. And more gravy, and sausages, so that now my large enough plate (or platter perhaps) is spilling all over my lap and so high is what's on my plate I can't see round it to find my cutlery...

Ooh I could go on for hours with this weak analogy but I haven't got time.

And that's the thing. I am a one woman continuum stretcher - I do things with my 24 hours that no particle accelerator could ever manage. I squeeze about a fortnight of activity into every waking day (that's how it feels - work with me on this)

So, Q3 performance reviews are on the horizon. Another sign from the great HR clock running my life that another 12 weeks has ticked by and it's time to appraise performance. It also means I am twelve weeks nearer the grave and I think I've mentioned before how this whole quarterly review business makes me uneasy. 12 weeks? What did I do in them?

1. I spent 9k on a holiday to Kefalonia thanks to a deceitful bitch slut of a first choice travel agent.
2. I wrote a long complaint letter and am now being corporately ignored.
3. We bought a new house
4. We sold our house to pay for it.
5. I scuffed my alloy wheels (badly)
6. Then someone bodged a stilletto into the side of my car

I should say that all of this unagreed objectives have in their own right each ticked away more hours of my rapidly decreasing life span in the knock-on SHIT they lead to.

7. I sourced new schools for the boys
8. I got them places (do NOT understimate this as a time chomping challenge)
9. I managed to totally cock up sending back signed contracts on the new house. Twice.
10. When someone said 'Hey Jules how about being in a play? Which opens on December 9th?' I said 'OK! GREAT!'
11. I agreed to speak at a CIPD militia meeting this week and still have no recollection of doing so.
12. I agreed to give career coaching advice (not time management you will notice) to trainee landscape gardeners to a) help and b) not sure but it's something to do with our corporate social responsibility agenda
13 So yes on the subject of CSR am also going a day of career coaching to neets - neets are like sheets only they aren't as useful (Not in Education, Employment or Training ie ne'er do wells as my nan would have said)
14. I have 25 rehearsals between now and December 9th - a four HEFTYYYYY monologues to learn
15. I said my sister in law could come and stay for the weekend
16. I' ve agreed to go to a wedding that really and honestly I don't have time to go to.
17. I'm looking for loving childcare for my boys in our new village

Speaking of which, I went to work...and did 85 lengths of the house each day tracking laundry and missing school dinner lists and 'show and tell' items.

18. I talked Charlie out of having a tarantula only to be told he now wants a cobra (and he doesn't mean beer)
19. I have learnt how to re wad and reset the rockets (previously was only allowed to re wad and fold the parachute have been promoted to loading the depth charge or whatever the hell it is)
20. Then there's the writing project I really want to get stuck into...

So that's my 12 weeks. I think some coaching and feedback is needed around saying no, possibly over-committing, agreeing to too much and then still finding time to document it like an obsessive can't-relax-at 9.12pm-when-everyone-else-is.

Anyway, time's a bit precious at the moment but if anyone needs anything just shout - always happy to help...

Comments

If you tried to do this you would fail

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 22:06:32 +0200

I used to be a bit cynical about Health and Safety. I used to say things like, well it doesn't matter what I said,but sometimes their advice has seemed ridiculous. I went on the course as a responsible senior manager, and now I wish I'd listened more carefully to the excitable rotund one with a clipboard pointing out exactly why tiny breaches in health and safety led to the Piper Alpha disaster. Really. I even scoffed at the idea that this insight might help me to protect the 15 people who work for me in a state of the art purpose built luxry office campus. Yes, campus, not block or tower - it's a campus ok?

One of the things that Health and safety often reminds us of is that in the wrong hands hot drinks can be dangerous.
'Really?' I used to say 'You mean there are latte and mocha terrorists? Throwing foam bombs? Dear God surely not'

Yes I used to laugh. But I took the rule about not having hot drinks on the stairs very seriously , must not EVER use stairs if holding hot drink, or cold drink...or empty cup for that matter.

And then today I did something so painful that truly I think I should share it with you. And I think it should go into to the Health and Safety Executive handbook under 'Potential hazard of hot drinks chapter 82 subsection 5 clause 8.01'

I bought my Americano (with hot milk and this is more relevant than you might think) and wandered, bumbled, ambled to the lift (so I could be safe)

As I did this, I was distracted by a colleague and while I was distracted by her (note the domino effect here, just like all disasters) I was then also distracted by an itch in my ear. Not a major god I should wash my ears more often itch, but one of those random itches that just cannot be ignored.

So, doubly distracted, I then continued to walk to the lift whilst talking to my colleague. Some synapse then decided that the itch could not be ignored any longer, and my right hand headed for the ear without me even realising. This was the point of no return though I was unaware of this at the time.

Unfortunately the synapse dealing with the itch did not communicate with the synapse that decides which hand to hold hot coffee in...so as a result there was a mid air collision of the (large) starbucks cup and my ear, but there was no spillage. Confused by this I wondered at my stupidity, and then felt a colossal burning sensation inside my bloody ear as the hot coffee I had poured into it worked its way to my anvil. Or drum. Or whatever.

So the little plastic lid, with the silly hole in it, was exactly the right size to administer a searingly painful dose of caffeine into my lughole and leave me kind of speechless (in the lift)

Let me tell you, this was possibly the most effective way I can think of to both stun and silence someone. I might write to the Met about it as a possible crowd control tactic. I was, and remain, incredulous at how my carelessness could have led to such a bizarre accident, and am just grateful that I can hear again and although my ear hurts I think it will recover.

I didn't really want to tell anyone about it, but with a piece of tissue soaked in cold water poking from my ear it was difficult not to. But yes it was embarrassing. once the laughter had died down and they'd stopped calling me Shrek (something about ears) someone did sweetly ask

'Has the itch gone JPR'

Funny. Really funny. Don't come running to me when you have an industrial accident love....

Comments

My rocket my rules. Your rocket your rules.

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 22:04:20 +0200

This was the grim pact Charlie and Henry made this morning as they prepared for lift-off of the treasured rockets. Each child has a rocket, Henry's is pretty big and Charlie's is pretty huge. Each rocket has its own launch pad, electric launching thingy with a light on it, and each has a parachute that I now finally know how to fold properly

'Mum you forgot the wadding!'

So last night Charlie asked me when it would be morning, I glanced outside and took the lazy option which was about his streetlight going out. I regretted this at 5am when he came to tell me it had gone out and therefore could we prepare for lift off.

The answer was swift and deadly.

So, two little boys, two rockets, and then a curved ball called their nephew Louie coming to play today.

'Mum, does Louie have a rocket?'

'Er, no, I think your Dad is trying to create one from the remnants of previous rockets'

'Right. I don't like Louie' Yep I knew this, don't like was rather mild I felt.

'I don't like him one bit, and if he comes near my rocket I will go spare'

'Spare' echoed Henry from the other car seat.

'Well, perhaps you could share and play nicely' it was a weak and defeated woman saying this I don't know why she bothered.

'My rocket my rules. He doesn't touch it, he doesn't try to launch it unless I say so and he definitely doesn't try to catch it. Right Henry?'

'Right. I love Louie'

'You love Louie? Do you? (genuine confusion at this concept) OK then - your rocket your rules. My rocket my rules'

Charlie was suddenly a trade union spokesman in no mood for arbitration. His face said it all.

So me and the rocket boys (Mr PR being main rocket boy) headed for the park and set about the fiddly faddly business of getting the rockets ready to go. Quite a crowd gathered, as usual, and I've got quite used to this as though it's the most normal thing in the world to stand in a park setting up 2 2 foot rockets.

They launched, they were heroic, they tore into the blue sky and we all stood, momentarily 6 again, in rapture as they drifted back to earth ready to be re wadded and relaunched. I should say I am now quite adept at rocket maintenance should you ever require assistance.

And then, on second launch, which Charlie had allowed Louie to trigger, Louie made the fatal error of picking up Charlie's rocket after it landed. Charlie was quite apoplectic about this. His little beetroot face ran through 'the rules' for his slightly aggressive nephew who couldn't see that this rocket has to be carried very very carefully and only by its true blood owner.

I left to buy a pudding for lunch, and on my return Charlie advised that Louie had thrown a casement from the incendiary device at 'my big teeth mummy. I told you I don't like him why do you keep letting him in?'

He sees Louie as an unwelcome stray, and one that attacks him occasionally at that. I'm not sure how this will pan out, Charlie is brighter and stronger. If Charlie is determined to set rules I think the turbulence will continue till I'm too senile to care.

Rockets though. What a great way to spend a Sunday morning.

Comments

All footwear should be commensurate with marching and standing still

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 09:15:59 +0200

The other day I squashed my fingers in the door of my car in front of about 30 people at my local petrol station. I don't quite know why my right hand decided to fetch its handbag and keepsakes while the rest of me evacuated the car, but stay behind it did and as a result I now have a very painful hand.And limey aren't doors heavy? Haven't done this since I was about 8 and I can tell you the door of my Dad's Maxi was nothing like as heavy.

Obviously at the time with people looking and wincing I couldn't let on it hurt. Oh no. But I think by internalising the excruciating pain I have somehow messed with my bruising mojo. The middle finger continues to swell like an excitable sausage but as yet no bruising. Is this normal? Today I am meant to be bowling - but will have to retire as I'm injured. Today I am meant to be ironing - but ditto. And then there's the cooking to do oh dear my life is in ruins.

So, finger aside, I also need to do some reading and thinking today. In that order.. I've been asked to take part in a production about suffragettes which I must read, but I also want to start thinking more about my own ambitions to take the world by storm and write something for telly that I'd actually watch. Hornpipe perhaps.

Mr PR often reads. He reads alot of worky stuff. He sits most evenings reading lengthy investigation documents, or crewing stuff or just about anything you can imagine might need reading if you run a fire brigade. But last night he was reading and I had plainly not been paying attention because when he said

'Jesus that's early!!!' it was with more passion than usual from someone who considers 11am to be a bit uncivilised.

The reason for this outburst? Well Mr PR is placing a wreath on the cenotaph at this years remembrance service, and while I thought he could just turn up place it and then join me and the kids in Hamleys it seems the organisers have other ideas. Basically, and I need to be careful because what he was reading has 'Restricted' on top of it which makes it even more fascinating.. he's got to be somehwere very early in some part of London to do a whole lotta marchin'!!

Yes that's right! MR PR will be beasted and bawled at by someone else in a uniform for a good few hours before he even gets within spitting distance of any floral stuff. The rules about what to wear are very strict, not least footwear. Special shoes for marching and standing still!! And no stillettos it says - Mr PR raised an eyebrow as I pointed this out. Chicks can't march was what he seemed to be saying.

A few weeks ago I gave him the benefit of my Gok Wan runway march complete with dramatic pirouette and dropped down left hip at the end of my imaginary catwalk - and I suggested he could fling the wreath with attitude.

He of course won't be taking any notice of that. He'll be too busy wondering why he's marching round our capital before even the kids get up.

'Wil you meet me up there?'

'Er, well it's not much fun for the boys, and a right hassle getting into town on a Sunday, might be better to watch it on the telly and point alot when you do your bit. That'll be really exciting!!!'

'Traitor' was the look I got.

So November 9th watch out for a really solemn and moving occasion wrecked by 2 little boys hurtling towards their father probably in the midst of one of their 'who can shout the word bollocks the loudest' competitions while a stately if dumpy woman attempts to rugby tackle them to the floor.

The robinsons do the cenotaph. Oh god.

Comments

Er, sorry , where's the bloody hornpipe?

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 23:08:12 +0200

No, not hosepipe. Hornpipe. As in naval pipe or something.

So as a classically trained pianist, with a fine degree from a fine university in fine music under my ever increasing belt, there's nothing I like better than a spot of jingoistic flag waving aka the last night of the proms. Now I know it's a serious music festival, and yes yes I know it's all about introducing challenging new repertoire blah blah, but let's be honest, it's all about the Rule Britannia and the HORNPIPE.

So, qualified as I am to comment on all matters classical, I must say I was a bit dismayed (no, royally pissed off) to find that this year for some reason we now had to have Prom pundits sitting on a squashy sofa in a studio somewhere making inane comments about the music. It quite put me off.

'Well it's a piece of 2 halves; loud bit quiet bit'

'Yeah well I was pleased with the way we played, obviously a bit disappointed not to get the result in the last cadenza but we're really looking ahead now to Carnegie hall and what I'd say is watch this space'

OK so it wasn't quite like that. No. Worse. One evening, someone actually said this

'It's all about the music really, and everyone playing at the same time'

Now if I wasn't already a total classical music snob, I could see how this might put off your average punter looking for X Factor and stumbling across a Beethoven piano concerto by mistake. What a load of tossers was my conclusion, and I hurriedly flicked away from the sodding sofa to Corrie.

So after a day largely devoted to building new rockets for tomorrow's Robinsons outing (2 large rockets fully loaded what's the worst that can happen as MR PR and I snooze through tomorrow morning and Charlie and Henry decide that using open spaces for rockets is so last year) I was quite looking forward to the last night of the proms.

Two things ruined it. Well three actually. The first was Mr PR's badly disguised irritation at my singing, and then an 'almost row' when I allegedly 'ground my foot into his leg during Molly Malone' which caused me to miss the bit about the fever which always makes me cry.

The second thing was the 'new piece' commissioned by the BBC for the last night (I just had this awful feeling...and flashback to the composition students I did my degree with) Sure enough, proving that if you put a 34 yr old woman with big teeth and an intact hymen in charge of a symphony orchestra there can be only one cacophonous outcome, we endured her.. well, let Mr PR's description cover it... 'shit' for about 10 minutes (actually it was hilariously entitled Froms) but it was OK because inside I knew that the hornpipe was on its way....

But it wasn't.

No.

No Hornpipe for me tonight (so to speak)

I like the hornpipe because it's fast and loud and everyone's very silly and the orchestra always always wins and since I was 4 I have loved every second of this single performance. Truly loved it. Yes I love Vaughan Williams, and Shostakovich, and all that stuff, but the hornpipe is just beyond daft.

And why wasn't it played??? Well, if I had the energy to find out I suspect it would be because too much time was given to the deaf virgin's musically arthritic attempts to impress her cats, and of course the fat pointless pundits on the sofa.

BBC - listen to me. Stop with the whole getting clever with the proms thing. Do not mess with something bigger and better and funnier than you'll ever be.

Stop. Now.

Comments

to have and to hold till I smash up the kitchen

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 22:06:01 +0200

It was all go here yesterday. But if I thought my house resembled a post holocaust scene - it was nothing compared to what then 'kicked off' chez the source of my holiday gossip. In other words, what seemed to be a fairly serious stutter in the sentence that is the marriage (no pun intended) of our friends, took on a whole new grammatical turn at about...ooh...two sips into my rejuvenating remains of a bottle of red..

So, to quickly recap, boy (Mr PR's pal and colleague) meets girl 30 years ago while both in mid teens, boy marries girl and joins fire service, boy and girl produce 2 kids, boy realises that dipping his hose only in his home fire is not much fun and decides to (eew) spray it in other fires. Girl tolerates but becomes cold. Chilly even. After a couple of infections you can't catch from loo seats girl realises her teen dream is in fact a nightmare. Boy and girl trudge through marital misery till kids grow up (into singularly unpleasant kids begging the question why did they bother) girl hits menopause. Boy also hits menopause and gets a convertible peugeot and starts looking a bit, er blonder. Also perhaps more gay though I only confused Mr PR by hinting that the boy's in denial about best fire to put his hose in....

Ahem. In recent weeks boy goes on rampage with his hose his helmet and anything else he can brandish in hotel rooms at young impressionable PR officers/admin ladies, and girl finds new talent for stalking him. This leads to some 'terrible scenes' with unstowed fire equipment and the sense in our house that any minute we were in for a flashdance...or flashover not sure. Backdraft perhaps. You get the gist.

And last night, as Hurricane Hannah and hurrican Ike whirled from my house they both converged on the house of the boy and the girl. I think when the boy sent a text to say he was drinking himself silly (like a sad old lonely git I helpfully added) we both knew things might go awry. But neither of us expected the girl to make an SOS call to Mr PR along the lines of

'Please come over he's going to smash the house up'

Now at this point I was both concerned, and, if I'm totally honest, itching to go and poke my nose in. She has never been our number one fan - she thinks Mr PR led boy astray when Mr PR was properly single and liked playing with page 3 girls.

Moving on... I think they both need some special coaching and frankly I reckoned I could do it. Mr PR reluctantly pulled himself from the bath, and decided that yes a damsel in distress (especially one as scary as her) did warrant a visit. He tried to contact the boy who was being cryptic about his whereabouts...so off he went and I hopped about desperate to know what was happening. I should say that Mr PR has a talent for stepping between fights and getting hurt, he famously used his jaw to stop a squaddie's fist going through someone's head years ago and I'm still annoyed about the dental bill.

I heard nothing for 2 hours. Eventually I sent a text, trying not to be nosy, saying nonchalantly 'UR A LONG TIME'

All i got back was 'I AM OK' Great . No update then Doug!!! The last time the boy lost his rag was about 12 years ago and he put his arm through a glass door. And almost died.So what I did know was that this boy, when drunk, and as unstable as he presently is was a frightening prospect for anyone.

And so he was. For his kitchen anyway. By the time Doug got there, the door was off its hinges and all manner of breakages were splattered across the room. I don't think even Doug was expecting this, much less having to then stand between the boy and girl when they physically went for each other. It's tragic. The death throes of a 30 year marriage laid bare for all to see (the doors were open)

So, when Mr PR got home I pounced. Let me get this right I said, he's been behaving like a 16 yr old with his first stiffy but decided to smash up the house. I don't get it.

No said Mr PR. Neither do I. It's a terrible mess. The kitchen certinaly is. (Odd how boys worry about damage to joinery in these situations)

Apparently to calm things down the boy had then set about the Jack Daniels, always a soothing move when you've drunk your body weight in stella artois. Doug ventured into marriage guidance territory (unwise but very cute) and apparently gave his sage views about how a teen romance can indeed go tits up. As he did this, the girl was nodding her head vigorously and then stuck 2 fingers up behind the boy's back as he attended to his wounded hand.

Mr PR did the right thing. He walked away and left them to give their marriage a decent burial.

Which didn't happen because the minute he left the boy then smashed up another part of the house and walked out. At 3am Doug was still texting him trying to impart some reason and support into his addled and unravelling head. Eventually he gave up.

I woke up and found Mr PR absent - not unusual given his work - and jumped out of bed eager to see if he'd disappeared again. I tripped on Henry's new fire station and banged my head....enough Julia. Stop being so bloody nosey!!!!

And so what now? Funnily enough I've lost my appetite for this gossip - and not just because I banged my head...I think I've had enough of it.

As Mr PR got into bed I said

'Doesn't it make you glad?'

'Glad today's bloody over. I've had a gut full'

'Actually I meant that we're ok you dope'

Oh yeah'

Comments

The nuclear family

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 18:38:23 +0200

I think I understand why this phrase was coined - I used to believe it was to do with having a couple of kids in the 80's when Frankie was singing about two tribes and every 5 seconds someone wanted to show you a film about just what precisely would happen to tall buildings and human skin in the event of the apocalypse. I remember reading Z for Zhakariah at school- a hilarious ditty about radiation sickness somewhere in the countryside after some damn Russian had pressed the 'THE END' button.

But today I have realised that this is in fact not the case. No. A nuclear family is what happens when you put my son Charlie and his nephew Louie together. Charlie is 9 months younger than his nephew, and since Louie and his mother (my step daughter) and niece (her younger daughter younger than Uncle Henry and uncle Charlie but not much - none of these people is over 7 oh do keep up) reappeared from the blue last weekend it's fair to say tensions between the younger cubs have been rising.

Today, we decided it would be lovely to have them over again and have Grandma over too. Or great grandma for Louie and Isabel, because obviously Mr PR is grandad. Confused? Yeah well so am I... but get with the programme because this nuclear family is here to stay!

There has been something of a fall-out this afternoon.

'HE NEARLY BROKE MY LEGGGGGGGG!!!!'

Now I've heard some blood curdling screams in my time (I was after all a student of the violin for a while) and I've seen some am dram in my time but the spectacle of Louie and Charlie at WAR took drama to a new level. I thought I was a drama queen - I'd even say I can be neurotic, but these two slugged it out (until Mr PR separated them) with such screeching and yelling as to make my outbursts seem quite tame. Now boys can scrap, i've experienced it many times, but this was a whole new level.

'Charlie - did you try to break his leg?!'

'NO - I TRIED TO STRANGLE HIM AFTER HE WENT FOR ME AND I MOVED AND HE WHACKED HIMSELF ON A CHAIR AND I LAUGHED'

'I NEVER EVER WANT TO BE IN THE SAME HOUSE AS CHARLIE AGAIN. I HATE HIM. I WANT TO GO HOME!!! I HATE CHARLIE!!!I HATE HATE HATE HIM!!!'

And so it went on. And on. And on. And my ears started to ring. I was wandering around between the warring factions offering wine and chocolate pudding and ice cream like some kind of mummybot which was in a situation beyond its programmed capabilities. Mr PR and his daughter physically had to separate them several times - it was all rather viscious, and I have to say I wasn't terribly amused or impressed by histrionics of my step grandson. Ouch that hurt.

'I do so love these family get togethers. Pudding anyone?' I was saying this on a loop, I think MR PR was concerned I might have short circuited.The decibels remained at a steady totally unsodding acceptable for the entire afternoon - I was sure my ears were bleeding at one point.

An uneasy truce was called eventually, some perfunctory handshaking took place and I held my breath for the next bout. This wasn't normal scrapping, there was true hate in their eyes. These two blokes are not going to get on I thought, and I'm not sure that breaking the news to Louie that Charlie is his uncle will do anything to improve things.

Henry, a boy who dislikes confrontation, quietly took himself off to reflect on what life might have been like had he been an only child, he also spent some quality time with his new and very smart fisher price fire station.

I feel as if I have had hurricane Hannah here for lunch, the trail of destruction and the SHEER VOLUME of the day has left me feeling very old, very grumpy, very tired and very much in need of what's left of a bottle of red.

'Blimey Mummy, Louie's a bit naughty isn't he?'

'Well neither of you were angels Charlie - Mummy needs a lie down'

'I think the problem is that he's spoilt - you know - likes his own way. And he didn't like it when he went to kill me and ended up nearly being strangled'

'Quite Charlie'

'Can I go and have a sleepover next weekend?'

I'm undecided - I don't think hurricane Hannah has blown herself out over the pacific or whatever they do - I suspect she will resurface into what I think may well become the most volatile relationship in Charlie's life.

Where's the damn wine?

Comments

Unicorns and unicycles

Thu, 04 Sep 2008 21:29:13 +0200

I've always had the ability to put my size tens in it. Spectacularly and epically tactless - that's how I'd describe myself (not all the time - thank god - a little goes a long way)

I mentioned in my last missive that I was going to visit an old friend in hospital. This friend and I go back many years, he's a part of what I think of as my old life ie playing in a band, being in and putting on shows, teaching and playing piano - a very different life to the corporate life I now lead.They were great days, and I made some great friends.

So Andy is another musician/all round techie genius. He knows more about sounds systems than is healthy probably, and could rustle up a PA system to shame Wembley by tinkering around in his flat. I last saw him a few years ago, during a 'blimey what have we all been doing not seeing each other?' reunion.

It wasn't great therefore to learn that he has had both legs amputated and little use of one arm since he was admitted to hospital in May in a diabetic coma. So, full of genuine good will I tracked down Andy's email address and sent a message to say hi, can I visit? Nothing more, nothing less. I was delighted that he replied which meant a)he knew who I was despite yet another surname change (ahem) and b) he was up to visitors.

In my haste to convey to Andy that I'd bring him anything, I said this - yes I really said this...(see above re tactless)

Hi Andy! Can I bring you anything? As long as it's not a unicorn, unicycle or nuclear waste just say the word!

Yeah. Unicycle. I actually wrote, in my alliterative fever, unicycle. To a man who no longer has legs. I didn't realise this till the next morning, when the enormity of my faux pas hit me as I drove to work. I hurriedly wrote an apology. I sweated, I had nightmares, I wanted to kick myself very hard in the balls (if I had any)

He replied that I could visit as agreed. Phew. But I was a bit anxious about it all and rather shame faced - but determined to see him and try to stop my big fat gob from doing anything else. I considered just miming during my visit, I didn't want to upset him.

Andy humbled me with his cheerful smile, his open and frank acceptance of the shower of shit that has landed on him quite remarkable. 'You don't seem to be full of self-pity' I commented 'Oh I am' he said ' But what's the point?' He didn't even know he was diabetic, not till he woke up in intensive care and was told he was the luckiest man alive to have had a mate concerned enough to get the police to break into his flat. He was funny, we laughed together, I didn't even say anything stupid.

As I was getting ready to go I felt I should apologise again for the unicycle gaffe, I couldn't not mention it.

'Didn't you get my email Jules?'

'Only the one saying I could visit'

'Oh, I thought I'd sent you the one about the fact that I own a unicycle. It's in my loft, probably won't be riding it again, but yes I do have one. Not only that but I got arrested once for riding it in the wrong place at the Ednibrugh Fringe while I was promoting a friends' show. Front page news I was, on me unicycle, arrested for it.'

He chuckled to himself, and I just thought - WOW.

I think it's called a cosmic reprieve.

Andy - get well soon.
xx

Comments

The arrivals area is getting busy

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 22:03:14 +0200

Ok so just as I recover from apparently regaining a much loved 12 yr old nephew - fresh from the carnage of a divorce from long ago and just emerging from the venom that my ex sister-in-law marinaded it in - I now seem to be collecting new arrrivals at quite a pace.

Obviously, as I mentioned before, usually as one family comet comes into my solar system another disappears into darkness(most recently much loved and very stroppy niece who,once immune from the venom has now decided to devour it as it feeds her view that anyone who comments on her behaviour is satan especially if related to her father. Bugger)

However, in the past week I was overjoyed to get a text from my sister in law with a photo of the first scan of her baby. And my brother's of course. This little black and white picture meant more than I thought it would. New life is always pretty exciting, but somehow this baby heralds a properly new start for my tiny family. I'm sad that it'll have no grandparents on our side, and oddly daunted that I'll be its eldest female relation on our side, and very very excited to hold that fresh new life and promise that I'll do more to protect it should my brother's life implode again. It won't I'm sure....but just in case....it wasn't even his fault.. but even so....

Up until I had my second child news of a pregnancy had me gnashing about whether I was ever going to have a second. I craved a companion for Charlie, it meant the world and almost cost me everything you can't value in money to achieve it.

Now when I see someone glowing about their tests results I feel two things:

1. Immense relief that my baby rearing days and associated stress and lack of sleep are over
2. Immense relief that my baby rearing days and associated stress and lack of sleep are over.

And when that's passed I do this

1. Mentally calcluate what childcare alone has cost me in the past 7 years (14k per annum the rest is history)
2. Cancel that out with the incalculable joy I have had and continue to have every single day from my baby boys
3. Wonder just how many hearts they will break
4 Plan what me and Mr PR will be doing when they are away from the nest our work is done - except for being cashpoints obviously.

So overall I feel like someone at a sensible and safe distance from the action, I have wisdom about the reality, and no desire to go back there.I smile at the exciting retail trips the expectant ones plan, I'll pore over which buggy to choose (knowing babies don't care) which cot to choose (ditto) and which classical music to play it (ditto) Which makes me a jolly good sister in law/friend to have I think. Except for any late stage pregnancy issues of course, I have never got past 33 weeks so the whole concept of getting fed up with being pregnant is something to avoid when talking to me as I'm likely to offer stories of ventilators and sepsis and 2 pound babies as an alternative to 'really wishing it was out now' grrrr

And then, as arrivals is today's missive, a whole pile of frineds ghosts and feuds of long ago found me on facebook. My god, I've been overwhelmed by everyone's news. I can't even remember why some of us aren't in touch anymore - just kids, jobs and life I guess. And that's how come I'm visiting a very dear old mate on Saturday who has had 3 limbs removed to save him from a diabetic coma. A healthy jolt of reality for anyone thinking of whining about life I'd say...

And finally, the biggest arrival of all, my step daughter - missing in action after a 5 year strop - came to see us on Saturday with her 2 kids. My, er, er, step grandchildren. And charming they were. And she, after all these years had this extraordinary ability to walk in as if we'd seen her just the day before. So she's back, and it was bizarre watching Mr PR tenderly wipe the hands of his 18 month old grand daughter. Bizarre but touching somehow - and she for her part, and her big brother Louie, were delightful. I didn't confuse Charlie and Henry by announcing that Zoe is their sister (eh?) and that the children were their niece and nephew (can you imagine trying to explain that one) and will gently introduce the matter some time in the future.

We are still getting Charlie past wanting a pet tarantula, obsessing about having a fifty pound note, and convincing Henry to do a pooh in the garden (yes it's an oldie but a funny and took my mind off the ironing tonight)

Advanced family stuff is not a priority conversation right now. And I for one am keen to ensure the departures lounge stays empty for long enough for him not to be totally confused.

I'm confused enough....

Comments

swimming with sharks + EWCM

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 19:27:40 +0200

When I was pregnant with my first boy someone suggested I join an internet forum for mothers to be (or something) and it was all a bit of an eye opener. I duly joined and occasionally posted a little message about something fascinating (at least I thought so - it made a change from northernbritney101's endless questions about the size of her nipples that everyone seemed desperate to reply to) and would muse important matters like oh my god does this mean I have to buy a people carrier (yep that's where the blog name came from) and what precisely was the strength of drugs used and was it possible to give birth while unconscious without actually being cut open.This was and still is my preferred birthing experience - as yet I'm not aware it's available.

Needless to say I was a bit of an oddity on the board but watched with bemused interest as I got more and more addicted to deciphering the abbreviations people used.....such as...

1. I got my AF = am not pregnant aunt flo just paid a visit (yeuch!)
2. BFP! BFP! = big fat positive I am indeed pregnant and god help me when my husband who is infertile finds out (ok I'm making that up)
3. BFN = I'm not pregnant thank the lord wasn't sure what colour it might be/ damn that's my new council house down the pan (hands up that last bit is also not true)

And my absolute favourite - which I found on the 'trying to get pregnant board' which I went onto by mistake....drum roll please....EWCM. Now this took weeks to figure out....and it means - well, have a guess. A prize for the winner. Clue - it's gross and it's entirely possible that only a woman obsessed with conception would ever know.

So, having wombled about in this cyber world of chattering and sometimes bitching brood mares ( oh man the virtual hair pulling was awesome!), and avoiding the bossy one who insisted on organising everyone into due date, sex if known etc jesus the list went on. Oh, nearly forgot my other favourite....

BD (this took nearly my entire pregnancy to work out) = baby dancing ie shagging.

Having wombled in - I realised that sometimes things can kick off. I mean really really kick off. I learnt what a troll is - and I loved the outrageous bored (bloke probably) who posted something like 'I think any woman who works and doesn't breastfeed should have her children taken away' Oh the sheer joy of reading the outraged and pompous indignation of Grace123 was beyond joy. I really did enjoy the whole thing for all the wrong reasons.

So when it kicked off on the board and people got really nasty the moderator would pop in with some self righteous rhetoric about how everyone has a different view etc and sometimes she would even delete posts! The ultimate red card!!!

Things progressed when I had Henry and joined up again for 9 more months of entirely justifiable gossip and silliness - and when he arrived 3 months early my 'friends' sent me an email via the moderator asking for my address and a large bouquet and a teddy bear arrived 'From your friends on Jan 05 (even though technically now you should join Oct 04 but don't worry)

All very bizarre. I was reflecting on this yesterday as I logged into another site where you could request advice on holiday cock-ups. I had indeed joined and requested advice - but unfortunately not realised that the entire board is populated by defensive, deranged and looking for a punch up travel agents.

So I almost fell off my chair to see about 39 posts after my fairly candid (ok - I slated them) note about how First choice have royally screwed me and how I will get medieval with their asses to recover my 4 grand.

It might have been wise, as the moderator (YES! A YELLOW CARD!) pointed out to have perhaps familiarised myself with the board before sticking my message up. Part of me wanted to just walk away, but no, I just had to post a sarcastic message saying 'I'm so sorry - but I think the clue I followed was in the whole please post your complaints here section which I foolishly interpreted as a place to post a complaint. Silly me. Whatever next? I'll be trusting a travel agent!' This got the full RED CARD treatment and I am now the proud owner of what could probably be called a travel agent fatwa (fat arsed travel wanker agents for short) and should probably get police protection.

The good news is that before getting my head kicked in i did get the name of a lawyer who gives free travel advice.

EWCM - worked it out yet???

Comments

it was the baby's fault

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 19:07:07 +0200

Yesterday we went to see some friends and had lunch with them. Nothing exciting really, just a few bottles of wine (Mr PR and I have an unspoken arrangement that he always drives - I think it's 30 years of dealing with road carnage that makes him this joyous and heroic way) and, recovered from the Kefalonian rose incident I launched at the wine with enthusiasm.

The food was less than heroic, and these particular friends of ours, much as I love them, have given their ENTIRE house over to wall to wall TOYS. Every single room is a shrine in primary coloured plastic, and it's, well, a bit busy. OK it's a bloody mess and, actually it's a bit dangerous....

We met these friends (Brian and Michelle) when she and I were in adjacent beds in Watford General with broken waters and nothing much to talk about other than leaking fluid. We ranted together about how crap it all was, what with the whole expensive maternity outifts not worn yet etc, and we bonded in a way you can only bond when you've both got pillows in your pants and every 5 seconds some nosy busybody checks for signs that labour might be starting. You get my drift.Euuw.

So Nathan (her first son) and Charlie (my first son) were both born on 24th October 2001.She got a c-section - I didn't and was slightly resentful of this until I saw the car crash she was 5 hours later. Nathan weighed 4 pounds 8, Charlie a podgy 4 pounds 11. They were both 7 weeks early and we bonded even more over the whole SCBU experience. Brian helped me to control my unruly nipples (as you do) on the ward and coached me on how to get one in Charlie's gob. Considering Brian was, then, just some plumber I had exchanged nothing more than nods and smiles with, I think it's fair to say we'd all clicked.

Fast forward to 2004, they'd moved to Scotland for no apparent reason, hated it and moved back south. Just in time for the next obstetric episode in our friendship called Henry - also born on October 24th. Spooky we said- 3 boys between us with the same birthday. And then to show off Michelle produced Liam and Sophie in the space of about 8 weeks, or at least that's how it seemed to me, weary knackered and way past the whole 'how exciting you're having a baby' thing.

And so now when we get together there are 9 of us. And I drink with them. And all is well. But for some reason in the past 24 hours I have been a bit clumsy where the little people are concerned....

I was trying to get through their very stiff (and on a strange step) sliding door yesterday, to escape dishwasher loading or something, and as I did, their 14 month old daughter decided to do the same. She'd been irritating me since we'd arrived, bawled when I closed the freezer door, bawled when I went to cuddle her, and bawled when I tried to play with her. Not a likeable kid I decided - well I did - let's be clear here just because they're little doesn't mean you can't have issues with them.

So anyway she deliberately pushed between my legs, which were half in and half out of the door (so I was on one leg) and then all broke loose when she fell head first onto the conservatory floor. I couldn't really go anywhere as it would mean stamping on her - but she milked it for everything (I think asking if she had conjunctivitis and being told no her eyes always look like that was the start of hostilities)and then I heard MR PR shout

'Jules!!! What the hell have you done to the baby!! She's upside down on the floor!'

Thanks. Yes I could see she was but I kind of couldn't help without breaking an ankle. As it was I sort of twisted and helped him and Michelle pick her up. She was OK, Fine. No harm done.

So this morning it became clear that I was not fine. Oh no. I have back pain, knee pain, big toe pain, and elbow pain. And have I had any sympathy whatsoever? No..If I'd been brought down by a grape or loose paving everyone would be telling me to sue, but one wobbly baby that should be in a play pen and suddenly it's my fault!!! Honestly...!!!!

So, the elbow injury I sustained on Saturday. Most accidents happen in the kitchen they say, and this is especially true when your husband decides to pole vault onto a work surface to get his toy helicopter down and collides his big hard (knee) with your elbow. This really was the mother of all kitchen accidents.

'You're in the bloody way!'

'No. I am preparing a meal'

'Exactly!'

And tonight, as these things go in threes, while I was drying Henry on the landing I somehow stood on his testicles. He actually said to me

'Mummy you stood on my clacks'

I checked everything was OK, (like I'm an expert) he wasn't crying or anything so I'm guessing he'll hook up with one year old Sophie when he calls childline.I've explained that when I say 'stand up Henry' and he doesn't, I will continue to dry him regardless and perhaps the footwork ain't so pretty - I think he's learnt a useful lesson in life.

At least I didn't hurt my sodding foot on them.

Comments