Seconds Away – Round Two!

The cups were soaking, the first load of washing was on the line, the second in the machine.

It was time to go BACK IN!!!

The trick is (I'm sure) to have some kind of method. An order in which you clean things which makes it all come together and gets it done in half the time.

Method and order are pretty much alien to me . I put it down to a low boredom threshold, I need variety.

No shortage of that here!

What needs doing most I thought and I'll start there. Well, the carpet, although now visible, was covered in bits of fluff, paper, string, buttons (you get the picture). Actually, I didn't really examine it THAT closely, it was just covered in a multitude of crap.

So, vacuuming it was to be.

I love my Henry, I've had him for about 20 years and he's still going strong. In all that time all I've ever had to replace is the hose last year. He's picked up everything from builders rubble to well, crap (although not ACUTAL crap you understand).

I have got a super duper Vax thingy with a light on the front but frankly, compared to Henry it's a real wimp.

Which was why when I turned Henry on and made a start I was horrified (and a little scared) when there were three loud bangs in quick succession! I hurriedly switched him off and went to investigate.

Again, BANG, BANG, by now I really WAS scared, Henry wasn't even switched on for god's sake!

Ah, it turned out to be the fun snaps that Master Mac and I had bought on April fools day. We'd spent an entertaining afternoon wandering round town dropping them in our wake making people jump.

I vacuumed one corner of the room before deciding that the skirting could do with a clean and then hmm, the walls needed a wipe down then there was this box full of 'stuff' that needed investigating.

Yes, I need a method, I need to be told which order to do things in ….....

I opted to opened the box. As I did a disembodied voice growled at me, 'You Will Not Survive'

Shit I though shutting it hurriedly, is that a SIGN??? May be I should get out while the going still relatively good.

Having just discovered a little pile of something that's either toenail clipping or rice, I kind of wish I had.

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Today I decided was THE day. A day Id been putting off for ….... well, for a VERY long time.

Today, I was going to muck out Master Macs bedroom!

I know, at aged 13 he IS old enough to do it himself. Either that or I should just let him live in his own squalor. The trouble is, Master Mac rather likes squalor.

I'm no domestic goddess myself but I have standards (pretty low ones I'll admit) but I like to occasionally be reminded what the carpet looks like (or had I stripped his floorboards? I can't remember).

Anyway, today I was feeling brave and so, armed with industrial strength bin bags, rubber gloves and a face mask, I opened the door.

I shut it again very quickly and stood outside breathing heavily for several minutes working up the courage to try again.

Slowly, with one eye closed, I gave the door a push, it promptly rebounded off the pile of dirty washing stacked behind it and smacked me in the face.

Now we were at WAR!!!

I squared my shoulders, assumed my best 'don't mess with me' expression and strode into the room. The FIRST thing I trod on was half an Easter Egg, the damn thing somehow managed to encase my foot like a chocolate foot glove, I hopped around trying to shake it of (a little like the cat when she's trodden in something unfortunate in the litter tray). That was when, with my other foot, I trod on John Cena (not the real one, that might have been a little softer and squidgier).

My scream of agony brought the dog pounding up the stairs only to be confronted with me (by now, face down on the bed), one foot sporting half a pound of Cadburys finest, the other the imprint of a WWE champions belt. He skidded to halt obviously unsure exactly what his role was in all of this.

Being a dog and being male he quickly hoovered up the shards of chocolate scattered over the floor and shot back downstairs again licking his lips.

I lay there for a while gathering my thoughts. Should I remove the egg from my foot and replace it in the foil for Master Mac to eat later??? Should I just shovel EVERYTHING into bin bags and tell him we were going for the minimalist look from now on?

I decided on the former, (I shall obviously tell him AFTER he's eaten the egg).

Master Mac's room is looking slightly emptier. That would be the removal of one and a half bin bags of rubbish, three loads of washing, seven cups, four glasses and a potato peeler.

I'm just taking a well earned break before round two, wish me luck …...................

Don't go masticating me Marigolds!

Twice a month my day starts with the realisation that another child free day stretches ahead of me

I am in the fortunate position of being separated which means that once a fortnight I have almost two whole days to be just me (I'll leave you to decide which bit of that is the fortunate bit!).

I'm not Mum, I'm not cook, I'm not teacher, I'm not referee, agony aunt or best friend.

I'm just me.

For several months I had no idea who 'just me' was. I wandered around in a daze counting the hours until my house was once again filled with noise and arguments the omnipresent TV in the background.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do!

I carried on setting the breakfast table for 3 and shouting up the stairs that they were missing the best part of the day by still being in bed only to be met with silence and a feeling of emptiness.

Then slowly, the old me started to make it's presence felt, like little bubbles of indigestion or the first flutterings of a tiny foetus deep inside, barely noticeable and so easily ignored or missed, but never the less STILL alive!

I thought I'd swallowed that person whole and digested her many years ago.

So, on these child free days, I follow my daily ritual of taking a cup of tea out into the garden if it's fine. I sit on the arbour in the early morning haze with the promise of yet another beautiful day ahead of me.

I drink in the early morning sounds of my immediate world waking up and, nearby, something MUNCHING my plants! I don't know what or who this muncher is, I can hear them but despite crawling around on all fours trying to follow the sounds I cant FIND them.

my beach hut shed

I'm pretty sure it's not slugs, they don't have teeth do they?

Well, I'm a live and let live kind of person and the marigolds, although apparent irresistible to something were given to me by a friend who had some spare and they aren't really my plant of choice.

IF however, it starts on my lavender we may well have all out chemical warfare!

morning dew

My garden is tiny but I love it.   I fill it full of pots in the summer, a riot of different colours and smells.

 I am not and never will be what you might call a wallpaper and co-coordinating border kind of person. I'm more a shabby chic with the emphasis on shabby. I yearn for stripped oak floors, unbleached muslin curtains, sofas covered in striped ticking.

I yearn for you



Kirsty clone? I think NOT!

For a while for Christ sakes I longed to be Kirsty Allsopp!!! (sans the big arse, dreadful fashion sense and annoying manner of course).

And so I spend these child free days 'creating' things.

other peoples rubbish is my treasure



obviously I just thought it was an interesting piece of driftwood!

I paint my garden chairs a variety of colours to suit my mood. I scour the local charity shops for hidden treasures. I go to the beach and pick up driftwood and shells.



You should be!

I decorate my children's bedrooms (without their knowledge or consent). I LOVE the sky blue and fluffy clouds in Master Macs room. A love he sadly doesn't share at the age of 13 and has mostly covered it with posters of wrestlers and parental advisory notices.



Glitter Arty

I also loved the hot pink of my daughters bedroom, (no, it's not womb like and claustrophobic, it's cosy!) It's soon to be turquoise (this time at her suggestion).

I may never have the house of my dreams as my dreams are always changing but equally, I'll never drown in beige.

There Should Have Been Two

Tomorrow my daughter will be 12 years old.

Tomorrow is a day of joy and celebration. There will be presents and cake, fun and laughter, hugs and kissed.

Today is about remembrance. Today is about reflection, wishes, hidden tears and sadness.

Because today, like most days I remember there should be two.

My daughter was a happy surprise. My son was only 4 months old when I became pregnant again. According to the midwife it shouldn't have been possible, all the odds were stacked against it but it happened and I couldn't find it in my heart to be sorry.

I didn't know I was carrying twins, I didn't even know I was pregnant but when I woke up in the middle of the night bleeding heavily I knew immediately what was happening.

When I was sent for a scan the following day it was really to check that my health wasn't at risk so when the sonographer turned to me with a smile and told me she could see a baby I was confused. I thought she had made a mistake. Without going into too much detail, I had SEEN my baby so how could it be possible?

It wasn't until she turned the screen and showed me my perfectly formed 13 week old baby that I began to believe it could be true.

I went home in a daze, I was a real mixture of overwhelming sadness and and joy, I didn't know what to think or how to feel. I sat holding my son, breathing in the baby scent of him alternating between tears and wonder that there really was new life inside me.

It was a difficult pregnancy. I suffered kidney infection after kidney infection and struggled with looking after my son and the sleepless nights, feeling so ill most of the time. To make matters worse I developed Symphysis pubic dysfunction, or SPD, this is a condition where the ligaments that normally keep your pelvic bone aligned during pregnancy become too relaxed and stretchy. It's incredibly painful, almost as though your legs are going to fall off. At times walking was impossible.

I think my lowest point in that pregnancy was when I was sent to the hospital to see the consultant as the midwife was concerned about my baby's growth. I wasn't too concerned, Id had the same thing in both my previous pregnancies and there hadn't been a problem.

Before even talking to me the consultant started reading aloud from my notes. When he got to the part about the miscarriage, he said (and I remember his words so well), 'twins, lost one, oh well, doesn't matter'. I felt like Id been punched! I couldn't speak. Id seen my baby, Id taken my baby to the hospital with me at my doctors suggestion. Id sat in the churchyard on my way to the hospital saying goodbye to my baby. Id handed my baby over to Histology who promptly 'lost it'! My doctor spent weeks trying to find out what had happened to my baby but no one could tell him, I had to accept that I would never know.

When my daughter was born, an easy birth after the difficult pregnancy and born right on time, on her due date she seemed to me to have an aura of glitter. The air around her shimmered and sparkled. If Id had any drugs during the birth that might have explained it but I hadn't so I cant.

I don't think about the baby I lost every day any more but she (I don't know if it was a boy or a girl but I always imagine it was a girl) is always there in the back of my mind and in April when she should have been born and October when she died I still feel that loss and emptiness,I still cry for the baby she should have been, the little girl with the sparkle that her sister still has.

A Right Royal Affair

All this talk of weddings, I guess it makes us all think of our own special day, I know it has me.

Obviously in my case it turned out to be slightly farcical in many ways but then, had everything gone smoothly no doubt many of the guests would have thought that they were either at the wrong wedding or felt slightly cheated.

Id chosen the end of May for several reasons. One because it was in May that we first met, two because hopefully the weather would be kind to us and three, because it was a Bank Holiday and so would hopefully take some of the pressure off those having to travel knowing that they had an extra day to recover.

Other than not getting married in Church (this was Mr Mac 2^nd time round) I had exactly the day that I had chosen.

A small wedding, just 40 odd guests, those people closest to me with a few exceptions of people living abroad that couldn't make it.

My day started at 4:15 am with my very elderly cat Billy crapping all over the brand new, pale honey coloured carpet Id had laid in the front room! Billy bless him was nearly 21 at the time but although his eyesight wasn't what it used to be and his teeth made a funny kind of grinding sound as he ate, there was nothing wrong with his aim!

Liquid shit from one end of the (loop piled) carpet to the other and a generous splash up the skirting and wall for good measure.



if only!



Suddenly the breakfast I'd planned lost some of it's appeal.

The wedding was set for 11:30, the registry office just a few minutes away so the car was due at 11:15.

11:15 came and went but I was calm, the brides supposed to be a little late isn't she?

Apparently NOT at a registry office! By 25 past frantic phone calls were being made, if I didn't get there within the next 10 minutes the wedding was OFF!!!

WHERE THE BLOODY HELL WAS MY CAR????

The car had been booked the previous night by a hen party, not only had the 'hen' chucked up all over the back seat but the driver, not a happy bunny, had decided he couldn't face cleaning puke up at 2:30 in the morning and had left it there for someone to find the next day!

I had a choice, arrive in a slightly damp car smelling of regurgitated WKD and kebabs or, take the alternative they would provide free of charge.

JUST SEND ME A BLOODY CAR!!! Was my considered response. So they did!

I arrived, in style, in a Minibus!

The guest, all still gathered outside were treated to the edifying spectacle of me, dress hitched up to my knees, shoes in hand, belting down the path, holding desperately onto one of my stockings because the suspender had come undone!

But I was there, all was well.

Mr Mac is a big Bon Jovie fan (Oh, how I love to share THAT with you all!) and had chosen the music that I was to walk down the' aisle' to, a slow ballad called 'You had me from Hello'. Unfortunately, rather than burn the track on to a separate disk he had brought the CD in and forgotten to specify which track!

I stood there, in my beautiful dress, holding my bouquet of roses and lilly of the valley, drinking in the joy of the occasion and proceeded to boogied down the aisle to the crashing cords of Undivided!!!

Just one more thing I though then that's my three, I'll be home and dry (cat shit doesn't count when you have an elderly cat it's a way of life).

Id assumed that when I dropped my flowers outside to the shocked gasps of the guests (VERY unlucky apparently!) that we were done, everything would now be plain sailing.

Well, sailing wasn't too far from the truth to be honest.

We had possible the most extraordinary combination of weather events I've EVER known in on day!

It alternated between brilliant sunshine, wasn't it lucky said Mr Mac when we looked through the photos later, all the photos make it look like a beautiful day. Ummm, not so LUCKY really, every time the sun appeared we rallied the troops and rushed outside for a few snaps (I don't care if you're food goes cold, get your arse out there was my mantra that day!)

The wedding breakfast was eaten mainly to the accompanying sound of hailstones the size of golf balls drumming on the roof.

The speeches were all but drowned out by the most spectacular thunder and lightening I've EVER witnessed and we all arrived at the evening reception like drowned rats due to the monsoon that hit Somerset like the end of the world was nigh!

It was indeed, the most perfect of days.

Tight Squeeze (Part 2, an early outing)

This is part 3 of my drab to fab.  If you'd like to know the full story you could take a look part 1 Womens best kept secret and part 2 Tight Squeeze part one.  And remember:

Drab to Fab is all about making the choice to treat ourselves well, so that we feel good.

If we aim to treat ourselves well, to nurture ourselves, to treat ourselves kindly, we can feel fab, instead of drab.
Simple as that really.

I suspect I may have been the butt of a very cruel joke! (Well, to be more precise, my butt was the butt of a cruel joke).


All in the name of research, and so that I wasn't entirely talking though my arse, (and believe me, THAT was effectively bound AND gagged for the duration!), I shelled out the best part of thirty quid, (and yes, that may well become a recurring theme given that for the same money I could have bought myself something sexy from the Victoria's Secrets Juliet range) on something that looked remarkable similar to that prescribed as suitable wear for for gentlemen in the Bath Corporation official bathing dress code of 1737!!

“It is Ordered Established and Decreed by this Corporation that no Male person above the age of ten years shall at any time hereafter go into any Bath or Baths within this City by day or by night without a Pair of Drawers and a Waistcoat on their bodies”

Well, I drew the line at a waistcoat but there was no doubt about it, I was wearing a pair of DRAWERS!

I'd decided to give the pants a trial run before wearing them on an actual date and I do have to admit they did shave a couple of inches off my waist and hips. What I didn't realise (until I caught sight of myself in the pub mirror) was that they had apparently transferred it all to my backside!

I now had a bottom your could park a bike in and balance a pint on!

Control pants I discovered are great for the posture. The sort that I had on started above my waist and finished mid thigh. Any attempt to bend and they roll slowly down providing me with my very own built in gastric band!

First of all I tried to sit (without bending) on a low squashy sofa in the aptly named Cosy Club, nothing doing! I bobbed up and down for a while like a demented bird in the mating season, desperately trying to get the damn things to bend with me. In the end I opted to perch (equally birdlike) on a bar stool, legs straight, body erect, hands clutching the sides of the stood so I didn't slip off and land in a heap on the floor. Obviously this made drinking a little difficult and as sucking Merlot through a straw isn't really the sophisticated look I was going for I decided to spend the remainder of the evening upright.

not actually me ;)

As the evening drew on inevitably nature called. Id been aware for the last hour or so that my foot had been swelling up. Now I've had a bit of a problem with this foot for a few weeks. So far my doctor has eliminated gout (or, as I insist he calls it, inflamed arthritis) and a problem with my circulation. Basically, he doesn't know what's wrong with it, so we now just refer to it as 'my fat foot'!

meet fatty

I made my way to the ladies at the first inkling my constricted bladder required emptying. Fortunately the disabled cubicle was free as in order to get the pants off I first has to remove my dress.

It was then I caught sight of my foot!!! It had almost doubled it's size and was turning blue, the damn pants had restricted my blood flow so much my foot was in danger of EXPLODING!!

Now I've done many things in a bar.

Fallen flat on my face, set fire to my hair, had my hair set on fire by someone else, perched on a bar stool in Amsterdam with my leg behind my head and  laid on a bar in Salisbury having cocktail syrup poured into my mouth to name just a few but I was buggered if I was going to splatter everyone with my exploding digets!

Experiment over! I rolled the bloody things off and stuffed them in my bag, I was going COMMANDO!

I was just heaving a sigh of relief when there was a thunderous banging on the cubicle door and desperate pleas for me to open up. As I did I was almost knocked sideways by a fraught looking woman who appeared to be in some considerable pain. Not wanting to leave a fellow damsel in distress (and being a nosy kind of person) I hung around to see if I could help.

Much cussing and swearing was audible from the cubicle (a few words Id not heard before too!). Bastard! Fucker!!! I HATE you!! I heard her say in a voice so filled with venom I was almost too scared to ask.

Men? I enquired sympathetically when she emerged a few minutes later. Sodding control pants she sobbed flinging the offending article on the floor (and, for good measure, stamping on it!).

The poor woman had only opted for the fully boned, super duper, burlesque style (with added flappy bits to reduce VPL). She had also made the mistake of drinking a glass or two of fizz!

Now that's just downright DANGEROUS!!

She had gradually felt herself inflating like a bouncy castle at a children's party and, was terrified that at some point the trapped gasses would find a weakness in the material and propel her across the room like a bullet from a gun. Either that or the pressure on the ridged boning would pierce her ribcage like an involuntary act of Hari Kari in front of the date she'd been trying to impress with her hourglass figure.

Sadly now time was up on the hour glass and all the sand had trickled to the bottom.

We silently contemplated our depleted and deflated figures side by side in the mirror for a few minutes and, (with one of those unspoken agreements you sometimes get with complete strangers), gathered our bags, stuffed the pants in the bin and headed arm in arm for the nearest Pizza Express.

A Tight Squeeze (part one)

This week it's all about power at The Lounge, I was a bit stuck to know what to write about really but I haven't linked up for a while so I wanted to find something.

I did a search on my posts to see what would come up if I typed in power and I was surprised just how many posts it found.

I guess this post is about seizing back the power so here it is:

you  CANNOT make these sexy!

After my post 'Women's Best Kept Secret' I had several comments extolling the benefits of control pants.

As I was writing from the perspective of someone who had never actually worn the things but had gained all her knowledge from Bridget Jones, I decided that maybe it was time I actually put my money where my muffin top is and gave them a go!




Ouch!

First of all I discovered how wrong I was in my assumption that control pants were simply control pants. I whizzed into Marks and Sparks expecting to grab a pair, my only choice being whether to choose black or natural tan. I was slightly nonplussed however to be confronted with a veritable plethora of styles, shapes and sizes.

Aargh!!!

There's the thong (I thought we were holding it in, not letting it all hang out!), a hideous looking thing, like cheese wire attached to a huge stretchy cummerbund. I'm not letting THAT anywhere near my nether regions, Id be scared of being sawn in half!

The high waisted pants, a bit like ordinary 'big' pants with an oversized waistband.


The ones that look a little like tights that have been sawn off at the knees and come right up to your boobs.


Then there were the added extras. Did I want powermesh? For some reason this just reminded me of the pressure washer and my enthusiasm last year in blasting anything and everything in the garden including half the rendering off the garden wall.


I could have a bodysuit with padding, boneing,  under-wire, detachable straps and suspenders, well, quite frankly, I have something very similar already in black silk and lace which I'm pretty sure (in the moment of passion) would detract from any errant rolls of flesh anyway.


Some of them solved the question of 'how the bloody hell do you go to the loo' by being CROTCHLESS!! Is it only me that thinks that just renders the whole point of knickers well ........  pointless?


Other have either hooks and eyes or popper fastenings at the crotch to allow easy access and flow.


You wont catch me out with THAT one!!!


I remember my clubbing days when the 'body' was in fashion. Yes it gave you a sleek outline and no, you didn't have to worry about it becoming untucked. But try going to the loo in one when you're pissed ? Forget it!!


Scrabbling round trying to undo poppers when I could barely stand unaided. Giggling like a maniac while I peered at my crotch trying to focus on itsy, bitsy hooks and eyes and eventually grabbing the material with both hands an ripping the damn thing off in desperation with an accompanying TA DA, the sound of little bits of metal ricocheting off the cubical walls before my poor over loaded bladder gave up the unequal struggle and I pee'd myself.


Many's the time I've chuckled to myself as some poor girl (having failed to lock the door properly) has come head first at a gallop out of a cubicle, jeans round her ankles, clutching her dignity and landed face down on the floor.

I did eventually narrow my choices down and so, £26.99 lighter I left clutching my carrier bag and scuttled home before I could either bumped into someone I knew who could enquire about my purchase or (horror of horrors) give in to my latent tenancy to Coprolalia and stand in the middle of the store waving my big knicks over my head shouting fuck, fuck, SHAAAAG leaving everyone in no doubt that I thought I might just be on to a winner wearing these.