musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Category: Personal

Will Power — April 27, 2016

Will Power

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Tomorrow I am going out with friends for lunch.

I do this quite a lot. To break up the tedium of housework. To compare taxi-ing schedules. To bitch about school and homework and husbands and cliques. And to discuss Game of Thrones.

But tomorrow three of us are going out specifically to celebrate a friend’s birthday.

As such I thought it might be nice to get a card. And a gift. And so yesterday, having a bit of ‘parking at school hideously early to get a spot before pick up’ time free, I walked to the supermarket and, as well as restocking the fruit bowl, I bought a card and a nice box of chocolates. There are far too many ‘nices’ in that sentence. I may edit them out later. Although editing may fall foul of the ‘nice to do’ versus ‘need to do’ rule in the frantic-ness of Cub pick up.

I often buy my friends presents based on what I would like to receive. And there is no situation, in my opinion, that is not improved with a nice box of chocolates. In this case those sea shell ones. Um, umm loverly…. (That word again sorry).

Now I like to think I am a person with quite a lot of self discipline. I am especially good if I have lists to stick to. I tend to be driven by a schedule of tasks and the satisfaction of crossing them off once accomplished. Hence my cleaning rotas. And interminable To Do lists.

I didn’t have ‘Buy card and present’ on my To Do list but still I felt good about getting those tasks accomplished two days ahead of schedule.

I felt even better about myself once I had resisted writing those tasks on my To Do list just so that I could immediately cross them off.

I went about the rest of my evening. The usual. Taxi ing. Feeding people. Clearing up pots, and sweaty kits and dirty socks. Assisting with angles revision and with drawing an exploded diagram of a sandwich (don’t ask). Brushing hair containing yoghurt. Forcing reluctant children into beds. Etc. (I feel a need to tell my angles joke…should I? Oh go on then. Here is the family of angles; a baby (acute), a mum (right) a dog (reflex) and…. a dad (obtuse)…well I like it).

Then about nine o’clock, just as husband and I settled down to watch The Tunnel, my wonderful will power gave out.

I should perhaps mention that the strength of my will power is affected by many factors. The time of the month. The thing I am trying to resist/ make myself do. My boredom/ tiredness/ hunger level. The volume the ‘little voice in my head’ is set to. Etc.

The ‘little voice in my head’ began telling me that I should reward myself for my foresight in accomplishing my unscheduled ‘Buy Birthday Present’ task in some way. I was starting to regret not allowing myself to add it to the list and cross it off…

This was unfortunate. Especially as the only thing the ‘little voice in my head’ thought would be perfect as a reward was…sea shell shaped chocolates.

I lasted until the first advert break before giving in and opening the box.

So today after my haircut I popped into Lidl and replaced the box with another, considerably cheaper yet almost identical looking, and hopefully tasting, box. I then went to a friends for coffee. And as it transpired lunch.

I had left the chocolates in the car. When I got home a couple of hours later I brought them inside.

I should explain that although it is sunny here today it feels like mid winter. This has been going on for a while. There was frost on my car this morning and I am still wearing my bobble hat. The heating is clicking on and I have yet to remove my thermal vest despite it being perilously close to May. This current weather is more than slightly worrying ahead of our camping trip/wedding to the Welsh coast in a couple of days. No doubt there will be a blog entry in that. If I thaw out enough to write it.

So despite the sun and because of the frankly chilly outside temperature I had not given any thought to the possible downsides of leaving a box of sea shell shaped chocolates in the car for a couple of hours. This was again unfortunate.

Suffice to say the chocolates are no longer sea shell shaped. But rather have morphed into a multi hued slab of chocolate adhered to the box lid.

Therefore over the next week or so I shall be able to directly compare the ‘real thing’ to the Lidl rip off version. I will let you know about that taste thing. Although the melting and resolidifying process may provide sufficient doubt to render a direct comparison inequitable.

In upshot tomorrow, ahead of our lunch, I will be buying another present. Which in hindsight might have been a better idea all along.

Flowers I think.

 

A Weighty Issue — March 8, 2016

A Weighty Issue

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weight

So last evening I sang with my choir in a Music Festival. I may have mentioned that before. I joined the choir about 5 years ago and in the run up to our first concert had to find an all black outfit.

I may have also mentioned before that I wear jeans. All the time. And not black ones at that. And so I made an emergency dash to Primarni and purchased a pair of black trousers with an elasticated waist and a black fitted T shirt. For about ten quid. Thinking that they would do ‘pro tem’. I ignored the little voice in my head mithering about child labour. And the elasticated waist.

Of course in every concert since I have reached in my wardrobe for that exact same outfit. Pro tem, it seems, is at least 5 years.

Anyhoo. Last night I pulled on the trousers and was slightly disconcerted to find that they were…a little snug.

So there we have it. There has been creep. A depositing of extra pounds around my, how can I put this politely, arse. OK so not very polite, but then I don’t feel very polite about it.

I don’t weigh myself. For a few reasons. Firstly because the batteries in my fancy fat percentage weighing scales are dead. (Don’t use in socks. It gets all confused and throws a hissy fit). And I keep forgetting to replace them. And by now a combination of the steam from the shower and leaving dead batteries in there for over a year has probably knackered them beyond all repair. Which begs the question why am I still dusting them every week? (OK, OK, every month…ish…).

I also don’t weigh myself as I do not want to obsess about my weight and transfer any eating issues to my kids. Who are already bombarded with enough ‘healthy living’ advice at school to be sufficiently paranoid that Eldest has designed his own sit up and press up routine.

But if I am brutally honest I don’t weigh myself because it is better not to know. There I said it. Ignorance is bliss. Was.

But now I have failed the ‘concert trousers’ test. And have until May to do something about it. I really don’t want to admit defeat and have to go back to Primarni and buy elasticated trousers in a (whispers) bigger size.

So this is my plan of action.

Stop buying large packets of Doritos in my Friday on line shop. I buy them to accompany our weekend salad lunches. But I have noticed a tendency between hubby and I to ‘forget’ to serve them to the kids at lunch. So we can then eat them ‘a deux’ on the sofa in the evening in front of The Night Manager.

Crisps are really my downfall. It is a well known fact amongst my inner circle. In fact so much so that on my birthday some dear friends bought me some individual sized packets of Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips. A catering sized box full. From a wholesaler. Hmmm they probably haven’t helped. Much.

Start dusting those weighing scales more often. Obviously I don’t just mean the scales but dusting and other such pursuits more generally. Housework is a great calorie burner. Although tedious as hell. But cheaper than a gym membership. And with pleasant side effects. However temporary.

Eat less biscuits. This is tricky. My afternoon pleasure is a cuppa and a couple of biscuits (unless I am still wading through a catering sized box of salty delights, oh, OK often as well as…). You know to reward myself for not dusting. Somehow a cuppa alone isn’t quite the ticket. I could chow down on carrot sticks and a cuppa. I suppose. Sigh. It doesn’t help that my children (well actually my husband) bought me two packets of luxury biscuits for Mother’s Day yesterday. So now I am in that quandary. Eat them gradually over the course of a few weeks risking staleness and poundage creep or eat them all in one sitting and ‘get them over with’? I suppose in the latter case I could just counter-act the huge calorie in take with extra (shudders) dusting.

Walk more. The weather is improving. Finally. That yellow thing in the sky has actually come back. So although it is cold still at least I feel like venturing out. And so I need to do so. And not sit on the sofa watching re runs of Friends…sorry I mean dusting.

Eat less cheese. And pork pie. Bigger sigh. I have finally finished the Christmas cheese so that will help. Pork pie is a different issue. I clearly have none left over from Christmas. That would be insane. But a medium Melton Mowbray does come up in the top ten of my ‘Favourite’ items on my Sainsbury’s on line ordering system. Says it all really. May be I should deliberately run out of Branston pickle. Rendering the pie unappetising. But that would incur the wrath of Youngest. Who is pickle mad. Dilemmas, dilemmas.

Keep going to my exercise class once a week. Which is fun. And not reward myself afterwards with an extra cuppa and couple of biscuits. Bad mummy….

That is it really. I don’t want to lose a lot of weight. Just a ‘couple’ of pounds. Or so. Obviously I don’t actually know how many I want to lose as I can’t weigh myself. But I am guessing seven will do it. By May. Do-able. I hope.

Wish me luck.

 

 

Inspiration — March 6, 2016

Inspiration

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Yesterday I received sad news. The night before that choir that I mentioned in Sing It Loud lost one of its oldest members.

The lovely thing about this choir, other than allowing me to sing, is that the participants are drawn from all walks of life. We are a non auditioned Community Choir and as long as you hit the top of the waiting list you are welcome. Whether you read music or not. Even you haven’t sung for years or never at all. It matters not. Our amazing choir mistress will still whip you into shape. So that our choir turns out good and entertaining performances which our swelling audiences are testament to.

I am not sure whether Glenys was our oldest member. But she was certainly a contender and an inspiration. She sat in front of me in the sopranos or ‘tops’ as we are more generally referred to! ‘Hands up tops’ is still a line shouted from the conductor’s dias which gets us all a titter…. There are others…the tenor ladies, hands down bottoms …  She joined in fulsomely in our hip rotating, arm waving warm ups.

She turned up almost every Monday night and was in nearly all our performances. Eschewing that chair that was always placed for her use. Despite, I believe, being in her nineties.

After the last concert at Christmas she came up to me, put her hand on my arm and told me what a lovely family I had. They had sat on the front row, my harshest critics. Even they enjoyed our fairly light hearted Christmas tunes.

It is lovely to spend time with such people. People at different points in their lives. Who provide a fresh perspective. Where else would I rub shoulders (during some warm ups quite literally) with friends nearly twice my age.

And it gives everyone hope. Hope that they too will enjoy such pleasures as singing well into old age.

This evening we took part in a Music Festival competing against other such choirs. We decided to dedicate our performance to that special lady. We came a commendable second. But in my mind we were winners. I am sure Glenys would have agreed.

I didn’t know her well. But well enough to know she was an amazing individual.

As the line of one of our songs went this evening…’Goodnight my angel, it’s time to close your eyes’..

Rest in peace.

Sing It Loud — February 7, 2016

Sing It Loud

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So here is a thing you may not know about me. I love to sing.

When I was small I sang in a church choir. That is my and my bro up there…he may never forgive me. It was a fairly serious affair involving cassocks and surplices and practices and two services on Sunday and often a wedding on Saturday. And rather thrillingly it also involved small brown envelopes containing hard cash. It was my first ‘job’ although it didn’t really feel like hard work. There was extra money for weddings.

I took exams and gained medals and rose to the heady rank of Head Girl Chorister before my family upped sticks and moved 200 miles south when I was 11. I never took it up again in the new place. Not really sure why.

Still some of my best memories of that period of my childhood come from singing in that choir. In fact the best of those was singing at sung evensong in candle light on a winter’s evening. I still have a fondness for hymns and especially psalms. It is part of the reason I go to church. To sing.

From then on in I didn’t do that much singing as instrument playing took over. Specifically double bass and for one school production percussion. Because my piano playing wasn’t up to scratch. That gig went to Rupert Wilson, he of the cello playing fame….we once did a turn in the school concert…him playing a beautiful rendition of The Swan from Carnival of the Animals and me following up with the double bass solo….The Elephant…well I guess I chose to play the bass….anyway I digress. In the event playing percussion turned out to be a blast especially banging on timpani. I often wonder why Rupert and I didn’t hook up forming, as we did, the bass string section of the school orchestra mostly single (double) handedly. But we didn’t. I like to think he still plays. His cello is probably gathering as much dust as my double bass.

Although now I think about singing at school I do remember that I was part of a quartet of street sellers in a production of Oliver in my fifth year. I can still sing the whole of my part. I was a milk maid. My boyfriend of the time was quite taken with my long dress and metal pail.

For a long time thereafter through university and work my singing was confined to the shower and round the piano at Christmas. I got a bit rusty to be honest.

Then Eldest came along.  There were many long February evenings when I was pacing up and down with a grizzly baby waiting for my husband to arrive home when I cranked up the stereo and sang along to my favourites. Frank Sinatra, The Carpenters, Crystal Gayle, Ella Fitzgerald. I like to listen to all sorts of music. But this is the stuff I like to ‘Karaoke’ to…even if only in the privacy of my lounge.

The others came along. I sang a lot of nursery rhymes. Wind the Bobbin Up? Anyone? We went to a mums and toddlers singing group which was fun. Eventually I progressed to Cub Scout campfire singalongs. But this was the extent of my limited singing opportunities. Life with small kids. Doesn’t leave much time for a social life.

Then about five years ago a flyer came home in the school bags advertising a community choir being held in another local school. I organised husband to get home in time and with a lot of trepidation set out to join. I expected a hall full of people. There were seven of them. Including the choirmaster. That brought its own issues. No where to hide.

But it was fun. We did public performances. I still go to that choir today. When I can get away on a Monday night. The choir now numbers around a 100 people. But it is still immense fun. We sing all sorts sometimes in Zulu, Spanish and most recently Maori. We do show tunes and folk tunes and a smattering of religious stuff. Rutter- my favourite. Some Mondays I almost don’t make it because the effort of getting out in time whilst juggling the kids’ stuff and often a late husband is nearly enough to tip me over the edge. But without fail I am always glad I made the effort. It cheers my soul.

All my children sing. Eldest and Youngest are in the school choirs. Eldest particularly loves it. Middlest has a great voice but is taking a sabbatical. We all sing once a month in our church all age choir with other families.

We have just returned from a practice with the church choir master ahead of Sunday’s family service.  ‘Go Tell it on the Mountain’ this time. The ages ranged from 5 to cough cough. We numbered 10 in total. It is a bit daunting for us to stand up in front of the congregation and do our turn. But we all still turn up.

Because there is really nothing like the buzz of singing in a group.

So now I have more outlets for my singing. But even so I can still often be found belting out a Carpenters track into my hairbrush whilst stirring spag bol. Because that is fun too.

 

 

Hard Drugs… — February 1, 2016

Hard Drugs…

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Well that got your attention.

This entry will probably disappoint those searching for my seedy past. Which doesn’t really exist.

No this is a post about Eldest. And before you call Social Services he doesn’t use mind altering substances either. Well unless you count sugar. And Toxic Waste. Look it up if you don’t understand that.

This weekend Eldest turned twelve. It is not much of a milestone. Well only in as much as any year is a milestone in a child’s life. And that of its parents.

And then today I was queuing up in Boots for yet another large bottle of Calpol. 6+ Calpol. And the pharmacist asked me how old the child was who was going to use it. In case I didn’t understand the name 6+ Calpol… I replied that he was twelve. And he retorted that in that case I could give him actual pills of paracetomol. And I realised 12 is actually a milestone year. He no long needs to take his pain relief in liquid form via a large, squeezy syringe.

I nearly burst into tears. Right there in Boots. Rather embarrassingly. I still bought that Calpol. As Middlest and Youngest are, well, younger. But still, a bit of me died.

Parenting is like this. There are little things that you do routinely for what seems like years. And then one day you realise that you are no longer doing them. At least for one child if not all of them.  And further, you don’t really remember the last time you did do it. It just stopped at some point. And even though you realise this it keeps happening with the same child and with subsequent ones too. It cannot be anticipated. These things just stop. On a random Tuesday. It is only in hindsight that you notice.

Some of the things are a relief. Like bum wiping. And nose wiping.

Some are heart breaking. Hand holding. Bedtime story reading. Getting goodbye kisses at the school gate.

And some are surprising. Like no longer providing pain relief in liquid form.

Ah Eldest. Where did the years go? It is a cliché. But it is true. Time flies. And before you can blink that sweet baby is as tall as you and wears shoes two sizes bigger.

He will always be my baby though. My sweet, sweet baby. X

 

You Fit Bit You — January 20, 2016

You Fit Bit You

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fitbit

So last week I turned 46. Oh my actual god.

In a bid to make me feel better Middlest pointed out that I was probably only half way through. Life I think he meant.  If I am honest that depressed me even more. I pointed out back that the first ‘half’ is probably better than the second. All things considered. Even if I live as long as 92.

Of course my children maintain that being a kid is just dreadful. All of us who are no longer kids know this to be a falsehood. How many of us wouldn’t go back in an instant now that we can see how little fun being a grown up actually is versus our perception of it when we were ten.

Once I get my reluctant children to bed of an evening they imagine me up to all sorts of fun. I don’t believe they consider emptying the dishwasher fun. And so, like me, they are going to be sorely disappointed by adulthood.

Anyhow. I have long since stopped ‘celebrating’ birthdays. I am at that difficult age. I no longer look forward to a new year in the manner of a ten year old. And I have not achieved an age where I am to be congratulated on ‘getting this far’. I imagine I will like birthdays again when I have reached 92. They will be an accomplishment. Rather than just a grim reminder of another year passed by.

Even so my husband made an effort present wise. Thanks hun.

At some point I must have mentioned my desire for a fit bit. Probably not to him. Well maybe by accident in a kind of involuntary way when watching TV of a Sunday evening. I was ,of course, thinking of Poldark. With or without a scythe. Or clothes. Not fussed really. (And no I care not that they used make up to accentuate his assets. Really people (and by ‘people’ I mean middle aged men) who are you kidding? To accentuate assets assets are needed in the first place. And plenty of those were on offer in those Cornish fields). Or at a push Benedict Cumberbatch. Sans deerstalker. Or that guy who has played a gay Renaissance painter and now some Russian aristocrat on War and Peace. Brooding either way…

Anyway whatever. What I actually got was a small black piece of plastic and a pink wrist band. It was then I fully grasped the importance of punctuation. He had bought me a fitbit. Note no space.

Well anyway nice thought. Although with worrying under tones. Maybe he was wishing I had better assets. For the accentuation of. No amount of make up, or stepping, is going to help there matey. Myopia will though. Eventually.

In case you live on Mars here is a synopsis of the fitbit. You wear the pink (I don’t think it has to be pink by the way) wrist band after charging and inserting the piece of black plastic. It then tells you how many steps you take in a day. That is it in a nutshell. Mine also tells you if you sleep well or not. And you can set yourself goals. And talk to other fitbitted people. And even challenge them. To duels of step walking.

I have worn mine since half way through Sunday.

Here are my observations to date.

It is remarkably easy to clock up the recommended 10,000 steps per day. Either it massively over estimates mine. Or some people are seriously lazy. My average count by 9am is 3k. That is just morning routine stuff. With three kids. And laundry.

It is making me more likely to do housework. In fact cleaning is starting to become attractive. Very worryingly.

Never, ever, ever accept a Daily Challenge. The person asking you to join their Challenge already has at least 20 thousand steps planned for their day. You cannot hope to compete. Especially when waiting in for a sofa delivery.

People who walk weirdly on the spot are wearing a fitbit. And partaking of a daily challenge set by someone doing a half marathon.

The app in my I pad does not register steps that I do whilst carrying the I pad. And yes I have checked. And so now I know what one circuit of my kitchen diner is. Step wise. With or without I pad. Without about 23. With zero. Odd time/ space dimension stuff happening there.

I now try not to move at all in the shower. The fitbit is not water proof and so I have to remove it. I do not want to waste precious steps abluting.

I have no idea when to charge it. Perhaps when I am in the shower? I will have to sacrifice all those lovely statistics about my sleep in order to ensure I do not run out of juice mid step count. Would anything be worse? If only the provided charger was not three inches long I could plug myself in as I sleep. But it is. Three inches long.

And ah the statistics. As you may know I love statistics. Even if they are damn lies. As soon as this is published I will be pouring over bar charts and maps cooing over the geographical spread of my readership. And so the fitbit adds another statistical frisson to my day. Lovely.

Interestingly my increased level of senior moments are increasing my steps. Which will hopefully reduce the incidence of my senior moments. Exercise supposedly being good for mental agility. But then that will reduce my steps. Cool circular argument. I must have burned 500 of the buggers scouring my house last night for that three inch charger. I didn’t find it. Until this morning. When the replacing fairy had put it on the dining table. Weird.

And so there you have it. I like it. Not sure I will get much fitter. But it is enlightening. Being a ‘stay at home’ mum is not sedentary. Nice.

 

 

 

How old? — January 12, 2016

How old?

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age

Yesterday in a meeting some one took ten years off me. Age came up. I can’t remember how. And she was apparently genuinely amazed I was 45. She had me pegged at mid thirties.

Although I believe a trip to the opticians may be in order. For my fellow meeting attendee. I was actually quite flattered.

It is a long time since someone, anyone, underestimated my age. Don’t get me wrong. On a day to day basis I don’t expect people to randomly come up to me and express surprise and incredulity at my advancing years. However nice that may be.

But historically I have always had an issue with looking too young. Once a boyfriend and I decided to go to see a film. We got wet walking from the train station to the cinema. Which probably didn’t help. I don’t remember which film it was. But it was a Certificate 15.

They wouldn’t sell me a ticket. I got out my driving licence. We were on holiday from university. Second year. So I must have been at least 20. They still didn’t believe me. Eventually I think we saw something else. Which must have been a PG as 12s didn’t exist back in the days of yore.. Slightly embarrassing.

I never bothered to try to buy alcohol anywhere. It just wasn’t worth the effort.

Even well into my twenties and once, flatteringly, in my thirties I was regularly asked for ID when buying anything considered contraband to under 18s. This makes me sound like I was a bit of a rebel buying top shelf mags and cigarettes. Actually it was things like kitchen knives and super glue and DVDs…but hey feel free to big up my past as you see fit.

Also whenever I turned up at a meeting at work when I was managing large housing company’s banking needs I could see it flit across their eyes. ‘She is never old enough to do this!’. ‘Where is the real manager?’. Sometimes I don’t think I ever won them round. Or it took an awful lot of blarney….

When I was pregnant with Eldest the midwife had to ask my age twice as she thought she had misheard my date of birth.

And so my driving licence was always about my person. It still is. I no longer need it.

Sometime. Some undefined time. A bit ago. Probably between Eldest and Youngest or shortly thereafter. People stopped asking. People stopped expressing surprise at my age.

It is actually quite depressing. If I was ever a cashier at a supermarket just every so often I would ask someone for ID just to make their day. Even if they looked as old as I clearly do.

And so yesterday was heartening. The person in question is clearly very bad at judging age. But still it was flattering.

Thanks.

 

 

Dry…Life? — January 5, 2016

Dry…Life?

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So husband decide to try a dry January. This seems to be a ‘thing’ now like growing a moustache in November and all those different coloured ribbons.

I think he made the decision on a bit of a whim when we were recently on holiday and his alcohol ran out on New Years Day. Then we got home on the 3rd and the port beckoned. Apparently that didn’t count. Not sure why. Convenience may be.

It got me thinking about my relationship with alcohol. I think it could best be described as ‘failed’. I could have a dry year and not really care. So I don’t understand the difficulty people find in giving it up. Except I guess I would feel the same about chocolate. Or cheese. Or tea. Shudders.

I was never really very good at drinking. I was brought up in a pretty dry environment. My mother had been brought up by non drinkers and so our household was the same. It wasn’t usual to have wine on the table. Just a pot of tea. We had a 1970s drinks cabinet. To my knowledge it was filled with more than a year old creamy liqueurs. In case we had a dinner party.

I became aware that my dad did like a drink. But that was a solitary affair. When we went to his mother’s there was wine with meals. My brother and I drank Ribena out of small crystal wine glasses so as not to feel left out. I have those glasses now. We get them out at Christmas. They look shockingly small. But that is a whole other story…

So I hit my teenage years not having been exposed to social drinking that much. I quickly discovered, with the help of extremely weak, cheap, beer that my alcohol stages go like this:-

  1. Pleasant glow (accompanied by bright red cheeks)
  2. Numb teeth
  3. Likely to say or do something stupid
  4. Vomiting

My problem is that the gaps between these phases are very, very small. And unpredictable.

Probably because of the weakness of the beer and its unavailability I didn’t really get to try out the ‘vomit’ phase until I got to university. There I switched to the cheapest beverage on offer at my Halls of Residence bar. Cider. Sweet. Stronger. 50p a pint.

I discovered vom phase following my first fresher week party. Not pleasant. Especially in communal toilets.

But hey drinking was what you did. So to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb I had to carry on. I learnt pretty quick to make the pints last. After all I had to go to the lab the next day and be responsible for a Bunsen burner and noxious chemicals.

And so it went on. At any social gathering I would run the gauntlet of my drinking stages. I would often get it wrong. I can remember numerous times when I saw in the New Year staring down a u bend. Once memorably due to chocolate cream liqueur. That nearly put me off chocolate. Not an easy feat.

I can recall only about two occasions when I got it right and managed to not flip over into that last phase but remain at pleasant glow, albeit with red cheeks and numb teeth.

Once I walked home bare foot with my boyfriend of the time to our student house singing, giggling and generally feeling fabulous. He had to wash my feet in a washing up bowl when we got home. I hadn’t noticed the grit and God knows what else. I didn’t care. That’s me up there. Age 19. Nicely drunk. An extremely rare occasion.

Once I started work I had to master that art of drinking on Friday lunch times. Chip butty and two pints of stout. Always best to call me on a Friday around 2pm if you needed an overdraft. Not four because by then the hangover was kicking in. And all I wanted was my bed.

That was my other problem with drinking. If I avoided the vom stage it was because I had fallen asleep. I could nod off anywhere. In pubs. On sofas. In the work’s kitchen. In nightclubs.

Anyhow. It was with some relief that five years of almost constant pregnancy and breast feeding gave me a legitimate excuse to just stop. Period.

And I have never really gone back to it. Since my kids arrived I have zero tolerance. One sniff of alcohol sends me giddy. My children think it is hilarious.

So now I am designated whatever. Driver. Parent in Charge. Etc. Any excuse.

And anyway I have got better at saying “I don’t drink actually”. And dealing with the incredulity and questions. I am not ashamed to say it doesn’t agree with me. It makes me feel awful the next day. I don’t need it to have a good time- just ask anyone who has been dancing with me or to karoke…

My husband must think he has died and gone to heaven. Not only am I a cheap date (tap water is my tipple of choice or if I am feeling reckless a pot of tea which pubs now serve) but I drive everywhere too.

Cheers…

Music… — December 10, 2015

Music…

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Recently I made a discovery.

I am becoming increasingly tired of Steve Wright in the afternoon. His radio show does not appear to have evolved much. I used to listen to him on Radio One as a teenager and the format on Radio Two isn’t much altered. Only he is now over 50. And I am over 40. And it no longer works. To my mind.

In desperation I searched in the glove box of my car. I was in that hour and a half of school pick ups and needed music.

Under the CDs of party songs for kids, nursery rhyme compilations and audio books (Dahl and Walliams mainly) I found a dusty CD. It was called Music of the Millennium. I sincerely hoped it meant the last Millennium…

I didn’t remember purchasing it. I didn’t recall putting it in the glove compartment. So I stuck it on ‘shuffle’ and gave it a go. Anything was better than more ‘factoids’.

And I am glad I did. In the manner of all good mix tapes it took a  meandering stroll through my musical history. As the first instantly recognisable strains of my favourite band of all time came over the speakers I knew I was in for a sing along nostalgia fest.  Bohemian Rhapsody. So many memories of drunken renditions. In mate’s lounges tanked up on McEwans Export, at work’s Christmas parties, at Karaoke and other places too numerous to mention. Not my favourite Queen track (which would be too hard to pick- it depends on my mood although Seaside Rendevous always makes me smile and These Are the Days of our Lives always makes me cry…). But certainly the most iconic.

Next up another favourite. One of my ‘go to’ artists. Probably because my dad liked him and had Goodbye Yellow Brick Road on double LP. In that time when LPs were works of art. Again not the track from Elton I would have picked (which would probably have been Roy Rogers- the most melancholy song in the known universe) – Candle in the Wind- ruined for me forever by its overly sentimental remaking on the death of Princess Diana. But still in its original form a classic.

Into the Eighties next. Every Breath You Take…A love song to end all love songs. Perfectly capturing the intensity and overwhelming’ness’ of my first love affairs. The claustrophobia of early teenage romances. The jealousies. The uncertainties. The insecurities.

In a weird ‘shuffle’ moment we went winging back to the 70s and my childhood. Stayin’ Alive. The furore of Grease and Saturday Night Fever when I was around eight. If you hadn’t seen Grease at the cinema 13 or 14 times you weren’t up to much in my school playground. To be honest most of it went over my head. I didn’t see Saturday Night Fever until a few years later. I didn’t really enjoy it. Except for the music. Perfect disco tracks. Still floor fillers today.

Next on, two tracks for which I often risked battery wear down using the rewind button on my Walkman. That personal cassette player was my most prized possession. I never went anywhere without it. I spent a great deal of my 4th, 5th and 6th form years walking. Between my house and boy friend’s. To school. To clubs. I was always listening. To something. Risking being run over.

Purple Rain and In the Air Tonight. Both favourites. For me accurately capturing the raw emotion I was feeling after the break up of my parents’ marriage.

Prince  (or whatever he is now known as) has always been a secret favourite. Purple Rain – messy, shouty, complete with guitar feedback- I love it. And actually this probably is my Prince song of choice.

I can clearly remember the first time I heard the Phil Collin’s track. Sitting in my ex boyfriend’s lounge one Christmas. He must have been given the album as a gift. It sounded as desolate as I was feeling. Those incredible drums startling me half way through.

The only thing missing from this compilation to totally capture that time in my life is Bruce Springsteen- specifically I’m on Fire- ‘It’s like some one took a knife, baby, edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul’- it seems almost sacrilege to me that Bruce does not even appear on the list…

And others followed as I drove and then sat in my car…Bon Jovi, university head banging, Blondie, watching Top of the Pops with my brother, U2, sixth form, George Michael, all grown up from his Wham days making beautiful music… and on.

Just as I was about to leave the car to trudge up the hill to collect the off spring a final track started up. Wuthering Heights. Ah my, now that was an anthem of some of my friends and me. Mostly sung by and in a lake. Weird. Odd. Like us. I didn’t really want to get out of the car. I played it later to the kids. They agreed. Weird.

The compilation also contains tracks that are not really up my alley. A lot of 60s. A lot of 90s. I suppose they had to. It being songs from the last Millennium. And so like all compilations there are bits I love and bits I find a bit meh and bits that get me reaching for the Skip button. Now such a thing exists. I could have done with that on my Walkman when playing Now That Is What I Call Music 4.

But in a kind of unique moment in time, just on that random Tuesday afternoon, in the banality of the hours between 3 and 4.30pm, my car CD player’s shuffle function decided to take me on a walk down memory lane.

Perfect…

15 Years and Counting… — November 18, 2015

15 Years and Counting…

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

wedding

I have a vague idea I should write something about marriage.

The reason is that today (well at 3 o’clock this afternoon) I will have been married for 15 years.

Also it is Week 3 – see Keeping Clean Sheets if you don’t understand that reference- and so I am employing as many avoiding tactics as I can. I have done three fifths of Week 3 and have re-jigged it a bit so I no longer have the family/ scuss bathroom to do- poor Week Two is the down hearted recipient- but still major avoiding needed. The Kitchen Diner is left…need I say more?

The downstairs loo is leaking again. The number pad on my PC keyboard has stopped working. I have the mother of all weeks meetings/ helping at school/ parents evening/ ferrying/ school concerts wise. And so feel like taking this morning easy before I leave the house at 1pm and do not return except to briefly stuff sandwiches into kids until gone 9pm. My ‘working’ day, always a bit odd.

And anyway Christmas is arriving after a flurry of on-line activity yesterday and I do not want to miss a courier whom I have accidentally drowned out by over zealous vacuuming.

So there we have it I thought a quick post avoiding the use of as many numbers as possible would be the order of the day. And as today is my wedding anniversary it seems like as good a topic as any. Although it involves, already, too many numerals.

I have started this entry and discovered that since I last wrote Wordpress, my lovely blog host, have decided to change everything. I cannot find buttons. I no longer appear to be able to link to my other entries in a logical way. The Save button has mysteriously disappeared. I don’t need this in Week Three, I really don’t. Don’t they know I have been married for 15 (arghh) years today?

As you may have gathered we are not doing anything special today, despite its significance. Well I am having bacon on cheesy rolls for lunch but otherwise, no.  At about 5.30am husband used the assistive light on his phone to blind me and also deposit a wrapped article on the bed. I tried unsuccessfully to fumble under my bedside table for his gift and card. He told me to leave it until later. He has probably forgotten that there won’t be a later. He ordered me to get more sleep (probably the most romantic thing he will say to me all day- in fact one of the few things he will say to me at all today) which I tried to do. It was difficult with burning retinas.

In any event that present isn’t up to a great deal. I am far beyond those times when I spent every available lunch hour devising, planning and purchasing a perfect gift for each anniversary (and birthday and Christmas). The present was purloined off his Christmas list which I only extracted from him on Saturday morning. And so although Youngest and I tried to find something more inspired between football matches and rain showers in town we failed. Fifteen years is crystal. We have enough tumblers. And what would a grown man do with a small glass animal? And in any event my mind is too full of what to buy small people for Christmas and what other people can buy my small people for Christmas and what I should buy the teachers for Christmas and what I would like other people to buy me for Christmas…. perhaps more time? It is like this every year and led me once to forget our anniversary completely. I was that ‘buying flowers in a petrol station’ cliché. My tip is not to get married in November.

Anyway back to this morning. Once the alarm went off a mere half an hour later I struggled blindly through my minimal ablutions and then took a pause to open his gift and card before rousing the kids. Do not fret dear reader my retinas are recovered. I always struggle blindly through my morning ablutions in a kind of denial. About morning. About the day to come. About, well everything really. I do not usually leave this ‘denial’ phase until the caffeine from my first cuppa has kicked in.

The gift was lovely. A pair of earrings and a necklace. Some sparkle. I love a bit of sparkle. Oddly for someone so un-girly. We recently went to the V&A in London just to do the jewellery section. It was darkly lit with everything on black velvet and looked simply stunning. Although come to think of it my retinas did hurt a bit then too…

I put the earrings in. This took longer than it should as the holes have partly closed up as I haven’t worn such adornment since around  2004 (or blank blank blank blank as my duff keyboard would have it). Which does, not unco-incidentally, co-incide with the birth of Eldest.

Not one of my children liked the earrings. It is just the shock I think. They will come round. My new hair cut (which my mother does not appear to have noticed, or if she has noticed she does not approve of enough to say anything, either is worrying) apparently calls out for earrings according to my good friend. And maybe, judging by today’s gift, silently husband.

Just so you know I have now found the Save button. But not the Review button. I shall keep going and also keep you posted. But hopefully not this entry. It is too soon for it to be posted. As I haven’t reviewed it yet. I digress.

All this anniversary guff meant we were behind schedule. The kids gasped at the clock. Corners were cut. It is likely Eldest will have to swim in Speedos out of the Lost Property basket. Is there any fate worse?

I shouted instructions through the open window of my friend’s car as she pulled out of our drive. ‘Find out your cello lesson’, ‘Don’t forget to find your snack pot’, ‘Get out quick tonight so I can get to my meeting’, ‘Please remind me you need hike boots for Cubs’, ‘For god sake do not let me forget piano again’, ‘Eat a hot school lunch it is only packed tea tonight’. Etc. Etc.

I retreated indoors to the carnage left from the morning and the relative peace. I retrieved that gift from under my bedside table and put it in the grubby Kitchen Diner where hopefully husband will see it when he returns from Cub pick up much much later tonight. I will find out if he likes it when I get in from my last meeting at circa 9.30pm. It does not have much sparkle. I do feel slightly out done gift wise. It is not as bad as on our first anniversary when he bought me a diamond eternity ring and I got him a….magazine subscription. In my defence the first anniversary is paper.

Somehow this post has got quite long and yet I have said hardly anything about the nature of marriage. Or have I?

15 years ago I walked up the aisle- well a corridor made by two sets of chairs we didn’t do the church thing- to start on this road of married life.

To begin with the road was a flower bordered bucolic path meandering through fields and by river banks. We idled along hand in hand taking in the view. Revelling in its beauties. We took long metaphoric picnic lunches and the sun shone.

Over time the road has changed beyond all recognition. It now feels more like a motorway whizzing along at breath taking speed. I do not know when this happened. When the route morphed from footpath to bridleway to A road to six lane monster.

At times it has felt like two parallel carriageways with far too few shared service stations . It can be full of pot holes and road works. Nearly constantly it is crowded by other travellers getting in the way and driving recklessly with no regard for the rules. I am not always a good driver. I go too fast or do not look in the mirror enough. I get road rage and shout at the sat nav. Sometimes I know where this road is headed but often I need a map.

But at the heart of it all there is that other person racing along too. Providing solidarity. And earrings.

Glad its you Andy.

x