Downloaded an app for my phone. 'sleep talk'. Ridiculous idea really as I have now completely weirded myself out. It recorded me talking. Which I guess was the idea. But I didn't think I talked in my sleep.
"Dane, Dane."
'yes'
"I love you. And I'm a dog. A nightmare dog."
This is abnormal behaviour in my book. And I am rather ashamed to be admitting having done it. But what really worries me, is that I might do it again. Dane seems to think it's remarkably funny, and that I really am a nightmare dog.
As a normal human being, I truly believe (like many others I assume) that sleep talking is something to do with witchcraft. I don't like it one bit. I have no control over what I say and when I say it. I also have a habit of falling asleep rather quickly in public places if I have someone to lean on.
I would prefer not to tell someone all my life secrets on a train to Euston, or even divulge bedroom information in front of my grandparents.
The bottom line is... I'm terrified. Petrified of my sleeping self. I mean what was said last night wasn't even true. Of course I'm not a dog. And I'm the polar opposite of nightmare. So now I'm scared of lying in my sleep.
Good god. I could cause all sorts of bother. Wrongly predicting lottery numbers, confirming alien existence, a 7 year affair with President Obama, a dislike for chocolate. I hope not.
I looked it up. It can happen because I'm stressed. I wasn't. But I am now. It can happen because I'm pregnant. I'm not, but may have sleep-said I am. It can be the start of a psychotic episode. Oh dear god. What does that even mean?!
I'd much rather sleep normally. Maybe wriggle the sheets off or remove my pyjamas while I sleep. But not this. This is worse than snoring.
I can't think about it anymore. There has to be some little being (maybe an imp) climbing into my ear and changing sleep me into something odd. There are no cures for that listed but I'm certain that's what I have. A very bad imp. I should tell my GP at once.
Probably best not to.
31 December 2011
29 December 2011
Realisation of the flaws of womankind
As a woman, I tend not to notice the odd little things we do as a gender. I am plentifully aware of men's odd little quirks, as I live with probably one of the quirkiest. And I can't help but pick up on the habits of children under 5 (owning 3, and having to predict their every move). But I have never sat and thought about how odd WE are. Truth is... Very.
Again, I lie in the bath pondering my existence and all that goes therewith. And I come to wonder about time management. We don't have a lot of it. So why do we waste so much? We don't think for long enough to even realise it. If we did, we would of course, have much more time for ruling the country and completing our own menial DIY tasks (on the first time of being asked).
Why? I ask myself. Why do I paint my toes in winter? When there is only Dane and I to see them. And hopefully, anytime I'm hot enough to be without socks, it won't be my feet he will be looking at.
Why do I sit longer in the bath the cleaner I am? If I bathe in the morning and bathe at night, I'm in there pruning up my fingerprints and playing the hot tap on and off for hours. But if I'm dirtier, I'm in... Washed... Out. Surely I need more washing time?
Why do I ALWAYS clean and tidy the kids bedroom first? Even if we are due visitors. Why?
Why do we want our men to find us hot, sexy, gorgeous, and then moan when they talk to our breasts? I admit, I am one of those women who needs her man to tell her/show her that he finds her physically attractive. But I do hate it when he stares at my boobs as I tell him where I want the shelves hanging.
The list goes on. We cut and file our fingernails before having long extensions glued on. We spend more on transparent cheese wire lingerie than we do on belly knickers even though they contain 90% less material. We wear heels in snow and ice, and have even decided that wedge heeled wellies are a brilliant idea for the fashionable chihuahua walkers amongst us. We buy very large handbags an very small mobile phones. We eat before going on a date so as not to look greedy. we complain of our complexions if we have red cheeks, so we cover them with concealer followed by a Rose tinted blusher.
I could go on all day.
Men give us such a hard time for being the less intelligent sex. We aren't doing a great deal to prove them wrong really are we? Dane thinks that ornaments are pointless because they fill space. I have to admit I thought that was quite a good thing. If you have seen Dane's dust and polish technique and the speed he is back on his arse with a newspaper, you'd probably be boxing your vases and au Clair monts for immediate Oxfam collection. What time we would have if we lived like men. But of course, nothing in life would be pretty.
I would like to vow to live more primally. Simply, like our simple minded mates, but a world without scatter cushions, throws and tie backs wouldn't be a world worth living in. And of course, we would be teaching our children to grow up as apes. Evolution has to be protected. Defended by us women. We are the stronger, more beautiful, happier, cleverer, insatiable sex after all. It's up to us.
Again, I lie in the bath pondering my existence and all that goes therewith. And I come to wonder about time management. We don't have a lot of it. So why do we waste so much? We don't think for long enough to even realise it. If we did, we would of course, have much more time for ruling the country and completing our own menial DIY tasks (on the first time of being asked).
Why? I ask myself. Why do I paint my toes in winter? When there is only Dane and I to see them. And hopefully, anytime I'm hot enough to be without socks, it won't be my feet he will be looking at.
Why do I sit longer in the bath the cleaner I am? If I bathe in the morning and bathe at night, I'm in there pruning up my fingerprints and playing the hot tap on and off for hours. But if I'm dirtier, I'm in... Washed... Out. Surely I need more washing time?
Why do I ALWAYS clean and tidy the kids bedroom first? Even if we are due visitors. Why?
Why do we want our men to find us hot, sexy, gorgeous, and then moan when they talk to our breasts? I admit, I am one of those women who needs her man to tell her/show her that he finds her physically attractive. But I do hate it when he stares at my boobs as I tell him where I want the shelves hanging.
The list goes on. We cut and file our fingernails before having long extensions glued on. We spend more on transparent cheese wire lingerie than we do on belly knickers even though they contain 90% less material. We wear heels in snow and ice, and have even decided that wedge heeled wellies are a brilliant idea for the fashionable chihuahua walkers amongst us. We buy very large handbags an very small mobile phones. We eat before going on a date so as not to look greedy. we complain of our complexions if we have red cheeks, so we cover them with concealer followed by a Rose tinted blusher.
I could go on all day.
Men give us such a hard time for being the less intelligent sex. We aren't doing a great deal to prove them wrong really are we? Dane thinks that ornaments are pointless because they fill space. I have to admit I thought that was quite a good thing. If you have seen Dane's dust and polish technique and the speed he is back on his arse with a newspaper, you'd probably be boxing your vases and au Clair monts for immediate Oxfam collection. What time we would have if we lived like men. But of course, nothing in life would be pretty.
I would like to vow to live more primally. Simply, like our simple minded mates, but a world without scatter cushions, throws and tie backs wouldn't be a world worth living in. And of course, we would be teaching our children to grow up as apes. Evolution has to be protected. Defended by us women. We are the stronger, more beautiful, happier, cleverer, insatiable sex after all. It's up to us.
14 December 2011
Star Studded Facts
A friend told me tonight, that frogs don't go ''RIBBUT''. (I was totally devastated). Apparently they go ''EEEEEEEEEE''. How dull. That's a mouse, gerbil, rat and hamster noise. Its too common and not diverse enough to keep it interesting. The frogs in Hollywood make the ribbuting sound, and that's what we hear in films. So before we had frogs in England, we only heard them in movies and they said ribbut because they are local to that area! Then everyone in this country thought that it was the noise everyone's frogs make. I love qirky little facts like that!
I also learnt recently that the clouds are made of water, and space. And the electric bits of water called electrons rub together when they bump past the little pieces of space and that's why clouds make thunder sounds and can float (although water is heavier than air!) because they are full of lots of minute pieces of space.
In the same conversation I learnt that wind makes noise by moving and bouncing off other particles and then when the air rushes through a thin gap, it makes a whistle sound like when we whistle. We make a tiny gap so the air rushes through and makes a noises. I'm certain it has to be related to vibration in some form but my friend said, ''No''.
Science is completely weird but amazing. Truly amazing. Who would ever have guessed that you can't touch clouds, until a scientist experimented with it? I know I wouldn't! How did we find out that stars, planets and moons exist? From Earth, they all look like dots or tiny circles and they could all be the same thing. I wish I was a scientist. A nature scientist. It would be so much fun learning amazing new things, and even more fun teaching other people. They wouldn't believe you at first. Like the man who found out about the world being round. Everyone thought he was nuts until someone (possibly him) sailed all the way around it.
The Earth and the space around it are like magic. Everything we see is like a clever spell. Appearing from nothing, transforming from one thing to another in front of our eyes, moving in cycles and rhythm and creating new life and substance. It really is fascinating!!!
I can't help but imagine God as a magician now wearing all the get-up. He's still a man though (I wish I could imagine God being a woman) and he's still pretty old. He has a wand that's a bit like a sonic screwdriver and he does amazing things like smiting people and burning whole villages made from mud and straw. Oh, that can't be God.
But like the biggest disagreement ever still stands about whether God created the universe, or whether it was the Big Bang or Richard Branson, I would like to think someone made it all for us. Someone made us a pretty gift and gave it to our ancestors. Whether that person 'God' is still around somewhere keeping check and playing with how long people live for, is another matter. I don't give my Mother wash sets for Christmas and then stick around, peering through the steamy shower screen to check she's using them. I give my gift and leave. Maybe that's what this person did.
I'd like to know. I don't think we ever will though. Whoever it was must be very shy and modest. They have made the most beautiful thing anyone has ever seen. It nurtures our children and provides us with life. They would need more than a delivery from Interflora and a box of belgian seashells.
I am going to make it my mission to learn things about science. And if and when I do, I'm going to tell you all about it.
13 December 2011
Do We Really Need Men?
Why do we need men? Other than for reproduction and level shelves. I don't think we really do. But we want them. We complain about them to our friends, colleagues, mothers, taxi drivers, bank clerks, any who listen. But we can't seem to live without them. We find SOMETHING sexy about them. But what and why?
There are so many different types of men to fit all the types of different women out there. Tall, dark and handsome ones. Short slim, athletic ones. Big, strong protective ones. Kind, sweet pathetic (and usually ugly) ones. Fat ones, slim ones, addicted to the gym ones. Smooth ones, hairy ones, creepy, weird and scary ones. Poor ones, wealthy ones, drug addict unhealthy ones. Clever ones, thick ones, really massive.... you get the idea right?
I am a firm believer that there is someone out there for each of us. And however many times we THINK we have found them, when we actually have, we KNOW. Everyone has at least one horror story, at least one sweet puppy love story, and hopefully, before their time is up, most people will have their 'The Notebook' story. *swoons*
This, is something it took me a fair few years to learn, and I know a lot of people never do learn it. But the key to a great, amazing relationship (in my opinion).... is humour. Don't take yourself, each other, or your life together too seriously. My other half and I are best friends, totally, completely, unarguably, inseparable. We laugh about anything and everything. We laugh at ourselves, and we laugh at our arguments. Fair enough sometimes it take a little while to see the funny side, but once we have, it takes the staleness from the air in seconds. And seeing the cheeky little glint come back in his eye, I fall in love with him over and again every single time.
Of course, my man isn't perfect. He's a little annoying and he stutters when he's lying. He has a condition common in males called toiletseatupitis. He doesn't understand that being asked to help out with something means now, not after the episode of Countryfile that he's all of a sudden really involved in. And the worst bit of all, is that he is so so similar to me, its shocking. Thus making it very difficult to tell him off when he misbehaves, very difficult not to laugh (which encourages children, men and badly trained pets to continue with bad behaviour), and impossible to resist getting drawn along too. But looking at the good, the bad and the ugly... Look at yourself, know you're not perfect and therefore appreciate that he isn't, otherwise he wouldn't have looked at you twice! No one is perfect, but if you find someone you gel with like that, you have the best thing you will ever get... You found someone perfect for YOU.
In a sharp swerve to avoid reaching a higher level of slushiness, I feel I must point out, that it is healthy to loath our men. Healthy to look at them and want to stab them in the eyeball with a fork. Healthy to be angry at their parents for ever creating them. Believe me, they feel the same about you sometimes. I sometimes hate mine when I can't even see him. He called me from Scotland (yes, still working away) on Sunday, during my favourite programme X Factor (the final). OK. Quite a sweet move as we normally watch it together at home. However, he then proceeded to talk ALL the way through it and tell me how rubbish it all was. I'd missed most of it because of him telling me about his terrible nights sleep the night before, so I couldn't devise my own opinion as to whether it was awful or not. Thanks babe. I could have got mad at him for ruining my programme, slating my favourite act and breathing loudly when Gary Barlow was talking. But I didn't. I sat there and just smiled. He was talking his little head off about his day and what we'll do when he gets home. He misses me. And that's his way of telling me. He's still a complete cow's boob for making me lose out, but looking at the bigger picture, I gained this amazing fluttery feeling in my chest that was far superior to watching gerbil face and her mates win a record contract.
Whether we like tall, short, fat, thin, black or white men, they are all horrible. They are all unsanitary, lazy, unromantic, self obsessed pain in the asses. But you have no idea how bad we are in lots of different ways. I know for a fact that if I was Dane, I'd leave me. And probably kick me on the way out.
I love my man, good, bad and ugly. Looking at the positives keeps it fresh in my mind, just how lucky we are to have found each other.
You may now be sick.
11 December 2011
09 December 2011
I think it's best that we keep you in.
On a recent trip to Accident and Emergency, I realised how oddly people behave when they are sick. And a Friday night makes it worse! The rules, etiquette and social standards completely go out the window.
People wander around aimlessly warbling about their pain. They lose their temper over drugs, as if their lives depended on it. (Maybe they do, I wasn't quite nosey enough to find out). People shout out the names of people they met just before they got kicked out of the club and ran over, just so they're not alone. I even heard a man asking for 'the potty'.
Its worse on the wards. People wearing hospital gowns are glared at like the kid whose parents forgot 'none uniform day'. They have a tiny square clinical cubicle, and they feel such a need to personalise it and make it 'homely' for their stay, that they fill it to the brim with crossword books, bottles of cordial, photos of them holding their cat, and mints (probably because they've forgotten how to walk to the bathroom to brush their teeth since retraining onto a potty and being fed in bed).
Everyone invents their own stealth way of charging their mobile whilst ensuring it stays well hidden amongst the sheets and grapes. Because no one is sure yet as to whether mobile phones in hospital is still an actual sin.
There's a new rule I have noticed has been recently introduced. NO FLOWERS. The decor must not have been quite drab enough. And people were not quite as miserable as perhaps they should. One person had a potted plant. No pollen apparently. How unusual. This was on an elderly patients ward though. Elderly people know everything about plants. There are plants that will cure everything according to my Gran. Probably even arrogance or dyslexia.
The doctors are normally a battle. You have to be fluent in Urdu, Swedish and Cockney before you can injure yourself these days. The worst doctor I ever saw was Irish. He looked and sounded very inebriated, but I didn't ask because I wouldn't have understood his answer. I think I came home with a broken cold and a sprained chest on that occasion, but we'll never know. They don't translate accents.
You always get a cleaner or a 'not quite a nurse yet' who comes and makes friends with you. They always like your coat and come from Romania. Sometimes I wonder if the NHS have a policy to make sure that they employ someone from every country in the bloody world. I wouldn't mind if they taught them decipherable English before letting them inject me with drugs that sound like they are named after exotic musical instruments.
I am glad I'm not in hospital right now. For sure. My bed may not have a specialist corner-tucker making it every morning, but at least I know who's been sleeping in it.
People wander around aimlessly warbling about their pain. They lose their temper over drugs, as if their lives depended on it. (Maybe they do, I wasn't quite nosey enough to find out). People shout out the names of people they met just before they got kicked out of the club and ran over, just so they're not alone. I even heard a man asking for 'the potty'.
Its worse on the wards. People wearing hospital gowns are glared at like the kid whose parents forgot 'none uniform day'. They have a tiny square clinical cubicle, and they feel such a need to personalise it and make it 'homely' for their stay, that they fill it to the brim with crossword books, bottles of cordial, photos of them holding their cat, and mints (probably because they've forgotten how to walk to the bathroom to brush their teeth since retraining onto a potty and being fed in bed).
Everyone invents their own stealth way of charging their mobile whilst ensuring it stays well hidden amongst the sheets and grapes. Because no one is sure yet as to whether mobile phones in hospital is still an actual sin.
There's a new rule I have noticed has been recently introduced. NO FLOWERS. The decor must not have been quite drab enough. And people were not quite as miserable as perhaps they should. One person had a potted plant. No pollen apparently. How unusual. This was on an elderly patients ward though. Elderly people know everything about plants. There are plants that will cure everything according to my Gran. Probably even arrogance or dyslexia.
The doctors are normally a battle. You have to be fluent in Urdu, Swedish and Cockney before you can injure yourself these days. The worst doctor I ever saw was Irish. He looked and sounded very inebriated, but I didn't ask because I wouldn't have understood his answer. I think I came home with a broken cold and a sprained chest on that occasion, but we'll never know. They don't translate accents.
You always get a cleaner or a 'not quite a nurse yet' who comes and makes friends with you. They always like your coat and come from Romania. Sometimes I wonder if the NHS have a policy to make sure that they employ someone from every country in the bloody world. I wouldn't mind if they taught them decipherable English before letting them inject me with drugs that sound like they are named after exotic musical instruments.
I am glad I'm not in hospital right now. For sure. My bed may not have a specialist corner-tucker making it every morning, but at least I know who's been sleeping in it.
08 December 2011
Catch 22
I'm teething. I'm growing new teeth. My mouth doesn't have room for new teeth. I think they are growing at the beginning of my throat. Teeth are not meant to do that. I'm going to the dentist and telling him I don't need the extra teeth, thank you very much. I'm quite happy having just the teeth I've got. Even if it does mean I miss out on the wisdom they bring. I clearly have enough as it stands.
Its weird how you are born and you can't feed yourself, you wear nappies and can't walk. Then you become an adult and you can do things for yourself. But then you get old and the cycle comes around again. Nappies, bibs, spoon feeding and buggies. Plus you get sent to expensive boarding school, where they teach you how to suck boiled sweets and take you on school trips on minibuses to see Blackpool illuminations.
Old people wear uniform every single day. My Grandad is such a snazzy dresser it takes him an hour to get ready to go anywhere, and that's after he's made it up the stairs and worked out which way round his vest goes. He wears a blazer suit every single day. With a shirt and tie and cuff links and shiny shoes he shines himself at the back door whilst whistling a merry tune. My other Grandad's a bit the same and so are my Gran and my Nan.
Nan spends longer ironing pleats into her skirts than she does wearing them. She does a weird old person thing, which again, all of my Grandparents do. She gets changed to go to the post office for her pension, and then puts exactly the same clothes on when she gets in. How does she decide which Marks & Spencer lilac cardigan is the posh one she doesn't mind Barry the cashier seeing her in, and which Marks & Spencer lilac cardigan is for brushing the dog in? They are the SAME. She also buys and loves, shoes that look like slippers. Yet she wears slippers that look like work boots.
My Gran is a whole other kind of weird. She is nearly 71 years old. She goes to the gym and swimming daily, and does aqua fit, aquaerobics and some sort of water dancing class. She lunches with her friends twice a week, and she is literally NEVER in the house. However, she doesn't understand where her petrol goes, why she doesn't lose weight after her gym, swim and cream cake, and then she complains no one ever goes round to see her. Well. To even think about trying to explain it to her, would result in you losing your head.
She does have a tough time with my Grandad. He has Alzheimer's (we think) or something similar. But he will not go to the doctor and say something isn't right. He has been arrested 6 times in 3 years, set fire to his garage, his lawn and his 14ft conifer. He is barred from every pub in a 5 mile radius of his house, and he NEVER knows where his glasses are.
He genuinely does keep everyone on their toes. So you would think it a huge relief when they disappear on holiday. This week, they have spent 4 days in Torquay (in the rain) and now are about to embark on 3 further days in St Ives (in high winds and torrential downpours). My Grandad has bought an iPad to keep him busy. And forgotten it. So he and Gran have undoubtedly spent their time so far, looking for second hand expensive things in charity shops that they can bring home and play 'Guess How Much' with my Mum and I.
Gran will be seething all week because she hasn't had a hit of the Gym Endorphin for 5 days.
Whenever they go away, it results in more bother than when they are home. My Grandad has been to New Zealand twice, and been mugged there twice. My Gran went to see the mermaid at Copenhagen and broke her wrist and scaphoid bone. They both went to Kosovo, while there was a war on, because it was 'a bargain'. I wish I was lying. It has been so bad that my Mum has had to break into their house to get insurance details because my Grandad drove the wrong way down the Autobahn in Germany in 2006. He had only been back 6 weeks when he went to Malaysia and had his trousers stolen while he was asleep on the bus. He does odd things like buys lots of kids clothes from charity shops and hands them out in Africa in exchange for mangoes and starfruits. There's a heart in there somewhere!
Grandparents bother me. They scare me. Its a bit of a catch 22 situation in my opinion because I do love them, I do think they should probably be in homes under lock and key, I do believe they should lose all rights to own driver's licenses and passports at the age of 60, and I also believe there should be a special lane for them on the pavement. However, I love them. Dearly. It makes me feel sad when I think of my life without them in it. It makes me feel empty. I love them to bits, especially my Gran and Grandad Kieth because they raised me from an egg. I don't think I want them to be uncreated in reverse fashion to babies. I quite like the idea of their decrepit old faces and shiny plastic teeth hanging around. I just wish we could pause the rate of ageing when they hit 'ever so slightly annoying'. It really is a terrible shame that my Grandad has already reached 'unbearably torturous'.
I would like to leave you with a few quotes. Mainly to show what we genuinely have to deal with from our loved ones.
*phone rings*
Me: Hello?
Grandad Kieth: This iPad...
Me: Grandad, not now I'm bathing the kids.
Grandad: Well, which is more important?!
Me:.....iPad?
Grandad: Well, I was having my tea when you rang anyway.
*phone hangs up*
Gran: Do you fancy coming to town?
Me: Oh, yeah OK then. I'll just brush Sienna's hair.
Gran: Oh. Well, I'll just wait around all day to ferry you around shall I?
Me: You literally just ASKED me if I wanted to go.
Gran: I'm not a charity shop you know!
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready
Grandad: OK.
*half an hour passes by*
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready.
Grandad: OK
*an hour passes by*
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready.
Grandad: About bloody time. You been catching the cow for the beef?
Me): Let's change our lunch date this month because Gran's going to Birmingham for a Christmas Market
Mum: Yes OK. I'm alright with it.
Gran: Oh yes. Trust you to have to go to bloody Birmingham. Always changing our plans for you. Well what if I'm not free? Your Dad wants to go away again.
Mum: Its you that's going to Birmingham, Mum.
Grandad: Who's had that bloody camera now? Everything you put down! Every bloody time! Can't have nothing in this house!
Me: You posted it.
Grandad: Bloody posted it? I bloody never! Don't talk so bloody stupid. Posted it where?
Gran: You sold it on Ebay.
Its weird how you are born and you can't feed yourself, you wear nappies and can't walk. Then you become an adult and you can do things for yourself. But then you get old and the cycle comes around again. Nappies, bibs, spoon feeding and buggies. Plus you get sent to expensive boarding school, where they teach you how to suck boiled sweets and take you on school trips on minibuses to see Blackpool illuminations.
Old people wear uniform every single day. My Grandad is such a snazzy dresser it takes him an hour to get ready to go anywhere, and that's after he's made it up the stairs and worked out which way round his vest goes. He wears a blazer suit every single day. With a shirt and tie and cuff links and shiny shoes he shines himself at the back door whilst whistling a merry tune. My other Grandad's a bit the same and so are my Gran and my Nan.
Nan spends longer ironing pleats into her skirts than she does wearing them. She does a weird old person thing, which again, all of my Grandparents do. She gets changed to go to the post office for her pension, and then puts exactly the same clothes on when she gets in. How does she decide which Marks & Spencer lilac cardigan is the posh one she doesn't mind Barry the cashier seeing her in, and which Marks & Spencer lilac cardigan is for brushing the dog in? They are the SAME. She also buys and loves, shoes that look like slippers. Yet she wears slippers that look like work boots.
My Gran is a whole other kind of weird. She is nearly 71 years old. She goes to the gym and swimming daily, and does aqua fit, aquaerobics and some sort of water dancing class. She lunches with her friends twice a week, and she is literally NEVER in the house. However, she doesn't understand where her petrol goes, why she doesn't lose weight after her gym, swim and cream cake, and then she complains no one ever goes round to see her. Well. To even think about trying to explain it to her, would result in you losing your head.
She does have a tough time with my Grandad. He has Alzheimer's (we think) or something similar. But he will not go to the doctor and say something isn't right. He has been arrested 6 times in 3 years, set fire to his garage, his lawn and his 14ft conifer. He is barred from every pub in a 5 mile radius of his house, and he NEVER knows where his glasses are.
He genuinely does keep everyone on their toes. So you would think it a huge relief when they disappear on holiday. This week, they have spent 4 days in Torquay (in the rain) and now are about to embark on 3 further days in St Ives (in high winds and torrential downpours). My Grandad has bought an iPad to keep him busy. And forgotten it. So he and Gran have undoubtedly spent their time so far, looking for second hand expensive things in charity shops that they can bring home and play 'Guess How Much' with my Mum and I.
Gran will be seething all week because she hasn't had a hit of the Gym Endorphin for 5 days.
Whenever they go away, it results in more bother than when they are home. My Grandad has been to New Zealand twice, and been mugged there twice. My Gran went to see the mermaid at Copenhagen and broke her wrist and scaphoid bone. They both went to Kosovo, while there was a war on, because it was 'a bargain'. I wish I was lying. It has been so bad that my Mum has had to break into their house to get insurance details because my Grandad drove the wrong way down the Autobahn in Germany in 2006. He had only been back 6 weeks when he went to Malaysia and had his trousers stolen while he was asleep on the bus. He does odd things like buys lots of kids clothes from charity shops and hands them out in Africa in exchange for mangoes and starfruits. There's a heart in there somewhere!
Grandparents bother me. They scare me. Its a bit of a catch 22 situation in my opinion because I do love them, I do think they should probably be in homes under lock and key, I do believe they should lose all rights to own driver's licenses and passports at the age of 60, and I also believe there should be a special lane for them on the pavement. However, I love them. Dearly. It makes me feel sad when I think of my life without them in it. It makes me feel empty. I love them to bits, especially my Gran and Grandad Kieth because they raised me from an egg. I don't think I want them to be uncreated in reverse fashion to babies. I quite like the idea of their decrepit old faces and shiny plastic teeth hanging around. I just wish we could pause the rate of ageing when they hit 'ever so slightly annoying'. It really is a terrible shame that my Grandad has already reached 'unbearably torturous'.
I would like to leave you with a few quotes. Mainly to show what we genuinely have to deal with from our loved ones.
*phone rings*
Me: Hello?
Grandad Kieth: This iPad...
Me: Grandad, not now I'm bathing the kids.
Grandad: Well, which is more important?!
Me:.....iPad?
Grandad: Well, I was having my tea when you rang anyway.
*phone hangs up*
Gran: Do you fancy coming to town?
Me: Oh, yeah OK then. I'll just brush Sienna's hair.
Gran: Oh. Well, I'll just wait around all day to ferry you around shall I?
Me: You literally just ASKED me if I wanted to go.
Gran: I'm not a charity shop you know!
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready
Grandad: OK.
*half an hour passes by*
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready.
Grandad: OK
*an hour passes by*
Gran: Kieth, your tea's ready.
Grandad: About bloody time. You been catching the cow for the beef?
Me): Let's change our lunch date this month because Gran's going to Birmingham for a Christmas Market
Mum: Yes OK. I'm alright with it.
Gran: Oh yes. Trust you to have to go to bloody Birmingham. Always changing our plans for you. Well what if I'm not free? Your Dad wants to go away again.
Mum: Its you that's going to Birmingham, Mum.
Grandad: Who's had that bloody camera now? Everything you put down! Every bloody time! Can't have nothing in this house!
Me: You posted it.
Grandad: Bloody posted it? I bloody never! Don't talk so bloody stupid. Posted it where?
Gran: You sold it on Ebay.
Land of Make Believe
I sometimes do struggle with what is real and what is 'make believe', and throughout my life I have had my poor brain (and heart, in a way) tipped upside down and shaken, until all the sparkle that I had as a child, fell out. Sound terrible? Feels it a bit to be honest. As a child you are told stories about Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, Wee Willy Winky, the Toothfairy, the Boogieman etc. And you believe. And if you were anything like I was, and my children are, you believe to the point of speaking to them on the phone, writing letters to them and sending them parts of your body in return for a pound. The afore mentioned 'mythical creatures have different effects on different children, but as I have grown, I think my parents were trying to kill me.
As a little girl I was told that Santa was real, like everyone else. I believed my parents. Afterall, lying was a bad thing to do. So why would parents do it? Otherwise Santa wouldn't come for them. I was taken to a shopping centre to sit on his knee (not completely sure that should be legal, but that's another topic for another day). I would tell him all about how good I had been apart from the once I completely accidentally told my 3 year old brother that if he believed hard enough, he could turn into Peter Pan. (Gran caught him on the porch roof in his Pyjama's and I got in a world of trouble). I confided in my 'Santa Claus'. I told him I had tried to be good but sometimes people didn't do what I wanted them to so I bit them, but that was an accident too. I told him, truely believing that all would be forgiven, like in confession, and my presents would come because I admitted it, and I knew that I had to start behaving angelically as soon as Advent calendars appeared. I trusted him, and I trusted them.
I was always taught that fairies were real. There was one for every occasion, and some... just because they felt like it. Tooth fairy, Birthday fairy, Christmas Tree Fairy, Flower fairies, Season fairies, Get Better Fairy, Sleep Fairy, even the Too Much Noise Fairy. Each one having its own job, helping to keep the world running smoothly, children behaving peroperly, and making our surroundings beautiful for us to live in.
The toothfairy took my teeth and swapped them for pennies. I dont know what she did with them but I didn't care. You could actually still buy 100 sweets with a pound back then!
The Birthday and Christmas Fairies checked I was behaving and not being too 'selfish, spoilt, or just plain rotten'. They could see me no matter where I was, even if I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Once I took my Mum's nail polish and painted my kitten's nails in the shed. And the Birthday Fairy TOLD ON ME!
The Christmas Tree Fairy just sat on top of the tree with her 'I've a branch up my ass' face. She always hated me. She was a fairy with zero yuletide cheer and absolutely no goodwill. My stocking was nearly empty one year apart from a Gameboy and some earrings, and I always knew it was her that took the cool stuff like bouncy balls and chocolate coins, I could just never prove it.
Flower fairies and Season fairies were lovely though. They always made our garden beautiful. One would use an acorn shell and blow into it like a horn, everytime the season changed and the Flower fairies made different coloured flowers appear. The season fairies wore beautiful dresses and silken slippers made from flowers and silk given to them by silk worms. They woke up the sun or sprinkled springtime dew, or seived a layer of powdery white glistening snow over the patio and the lawn. They painted butterflies and flew with baby birds, and gave dew-drop spectacles to lost moles. I always wished I could be a Season fairy. I just never decided on my favourite season.
The Get Better Fairy was brill. If ever anyone had an accident the Get Better Fairy would send my Mum some amazing cream that you rubbed on and the hurt went away. It was real true magic (or so I thought).
The Sleep Fairy sprinkled special dust into my eyes at night that made me sleepy. She was so elegant and quick that I never once caught her doing it, but I always washed away the sleepy dust from my eyes in the morning. She must have been like a little ballerina, swirling and twirling around sprinkling her sleeping dust like golden glitter.
The Too Much Noise fairy was petrifying. She would give my parents a key. A horrible invisible key that they would put into an invisible keyhole on my tummy that made SILENCE come out of my mouth. It was so frightening, and the silence wouldn't stop until they turned the key back again because the Too Much Noise fairy had decided i was allowed 'one more chance'. I had nightmares about that fairy. I think she was probably more likely an imp when i think about it in hindsight.
Wee Willy Winky was a crazy old man with an eerie voice and VERY LOUD STOMPING FOOTSTEPS. He ran about town in his nightgown and an odd little hat and steel toe capped boots, making sure that all the children were in bed and asleep for eight o'clock. There was even a song about it that was so traumatic I can't even remember it.
Easter Bunny seemed alright. He hopped about in late March/Early April, leaving chocolate eggs from chocolate chickens all over our garden. He was disorganised but at least he didn't threaten to take my voice or my teeth. At Christmas our presents were at the end of our beds and under the tree. At Easter we had to go in the rain to find our chocolate. And then We had to make sure we didnt chew our Easter hunt baskets because the Easter Bunny needed them back for next year. I accidentally chewed mine a tiny bit once, so the next year he sent the chewed one back to me, which I suppose I deserved.
A good way to make sure your children fall silent turned 8pm every night, is to tell them that if they do not go immediately to sleep, the Sandman/Boogieman will come and take them to be in a ghost circus. Dear Lord, I did NOT want that. My brother went once. He had to put his shoes on and his coat and my Dad walked him to the end of the drive to meet the Boogieman's minibus, but luckily for him he missed it by a couple of seconds. From that night on, we were deadly silent as soon as the light went out (except the night I had forgotten about homework and I stapled my finger).
There were also some monsters. A monster under the stairs who got you if you dawdled up the stairs instead of going at a 'proper speed' to bed. A monster under the bed who got you if you dangled your arm or leg out, a Plug Monster who got you if you wouldn't get out of the bath, and a monster in the bleach cupboard who got you if you even touched the door handle. None of us ever found out what happened if one of the monsters 'Got' you, because none of us were stupid enough to get Got.
Now as an adult. I think back to these things and think yes. Yes some of these things were quite nice things, with nice stories to go along with them, but some were completely evil, an uncalled for amount of evil actually. Myself and my siblings spent our childhood terrified of things that, not only weren't going to happen, but didn't even EXIST. Everytime I thought of another scary thing or spooky story, I would be really quite upset and want to know why... but the sad thing is, it's made me question my parents' sanity and levels of stability. If I dared to question them, would they destroy me because I had worked out too much? Would I become one of those people who just... disappeared? I doubt it, but I would probably be laughed at, and repeatedly publicly humiliated at Christmas and other embarrassing family gatherings. No I won't ask but I will try some of them on my children. In fact, I already have...
As a little girl I was told that Santa was real, like everyone else. I believed my parents. Afterall, lying was a bad thing to do. So why would parents do it? Otherwise Santa wouldn't come for them. I was taken to a shopping centre to sit on his knee (not completely sure that should be legal, but that's another topic for another day). I would tell him all about how good I had been apart from the once I completely accidentally told my 3 year old brother that if he believed hard enough, he could turn into Peter Pan. (Gran caught him on the porch roof in his Pyjama's and I got in a world of trouble). I confided in my 'Santa Claus'. I told him I had tried to be good but sometimes people didn't do what I wanted them to so I bit them, but that was an accident too. I told him, truely believing that all would be forgiven, like in confession, and my presents would come because I admitted it, and I knew that I had to start behaving angelically as soon as Advent calendars appeared. I trusted him, and I trusted them.
I was always taught that fairies were real. There was one for every occasion, and some... just because they felt like it. Tooth fairy, Birthday fairy, Christmas Tree Fairy, Flower fairies, Season fairies, Get Better Fairy, Sleep Fairy, even the Too Much Noise Fairy. Each one having its own job, helping to keep the world running smoothly, children behaving peroperly, and making our surroundings beautiful for us to live in.
The toothfairy took my teeth and swapped them for pennies. I dont know what she did with them but I didn't care. You could actually still buy 100 sweets with a pound back then!
The Birthday and Christmas Fairies checked I was behaving and not being too 'selfish, spoilt, or just plain rotten'. They could see me no matter where I was, even if I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Once I took my Mum's nail polish and painted my kitten's nails in the shed. And the Birthday Fairy TOLD ON ME!
The Christmas Tree Fairy just sat on top of the tree with her 'I've a branch up my ass' face. She always hated me. She was a fairy with zero yuletide cheer and absolutely no goodwill. My stocking was nearly empty one year apart from a Gameboy and some earrings, and I always knew it was her that took the cool stuff like bouncy balls and chocolate coins, I could just never prove it.
Flower fairies and Season fairies were lovely though. They always made our garden beautiful. One would use an acorn shell and blow into it like a horn, everytime the season changed and the Flower fairies made different coloured flowers appear. The season fairies wore beautiful dresses and silken slippers made from flowers and silk given to them by silk worms. They woke up the sun or sprinkled springtime dew, or seived a layer of powdery white glistening snow over the patio and the lawn. They painted butterflies and flew with baby birds, and gave dew-drop spectacles to lost moles. I always wished I could be a Season fairy. I just never decided on my favourite season.
The Get Better Fairy was brill. If ever anyone had an accident the Get Better Fairy would send my Mum some amazing cream that you rubbed on and the hurt went away. It was real true magic (or so I thought).
The Sleep Fairy sprinkled special dust into my eyes at night that made me sleepy. She was so elegant and quick that I never once caught her doing it, but I always washed away the sleepy dust from my eyes in the morning. She must have been like a little ballerina, swirling and twirling around sprinkling her sleeping dust like golden glitter.
The Too Much Noise fairy was petrifying. She would give my parents a key. A horrible invisible key that they would put into an invisible keyhole on my tummy that made SILENCE come out of my mouth. It was so frightening, and the silence wouldn't stop until they turned the key back again because the Too Much Noise fairy had decided i was allowed 'one more chance'. I had nightmares about that fairy. I think she was probably more likely an imp when i think about it in hindsight.
Wee Willy Winky was a crazy old man with an eerie voice and VERY LOUD STOMPING FOOTSTEPS. He ran about town in his nightgown and an odd little hat and steel toe capped boots, making sure that all the children were in bed and asleep for eight o'clock. There was even a song about it that was so traumatic I can't even remember it.
Easter Bunny seemed alright. He hopped about in late March/Early April, leaving chocolate eggs from chocolate chickens all over our garden. He was disorganised but at least he didn't threaten to take my voice or my teeth. At Christmas our presents were at the end of our beds and under the tree. At Easter we had to go in the rain to find our chocolate. And then We had to make sure we didnt chew our Easter hunt baskets because the Easter Bunny needed them back for next year. I accidentally chewed mine a tiny bit once, so the next year he sent the chewed one back to me, which I suppose I deserved.
A good way to make sure your children fall silent turned 8pm every night, is to tell them that if they do not go immediately to sleep, the Sandman/Boogieman will come and take them to be in a ghost circus. Dear Lord, I did NOT want that. My brother went once. He had to put his shoes on and his coat and my Dad walked him to the end of the drive to meet the Boogieman's minibus, but luckily for him he missed it by a couple of seconds. From that night on, we were deadly silent as soon as the light went out (except the night I had forgotten about homework and I stapled my finger).
There were also some monsters. A monster under the stairs who got you if you dawdled up the stairs instead of going at a 'proper speed' to bed. A monster under the bed who got you if you dangled your arm or leg out, a Plug Monster who got you if you wouldn't get out of the bath, and a monster in the bleach cupboard who got you if you even touched the door handle. None of us ever found out what happened if one of the monsters 'Got' you, because none of us were stupid enough to get Got.
Now as an adult. I think back to these things and think yes. Yes some of these things were quite nice things, with nice stories to go along with them, but some were completely evil, an uncalled for amount of evil actually. Myself and my siblings spent our childhood terrified of things that, not only weren't going to happen, but didn't even EXIST. Everytime I thought of another scary thing or spooky story, I would be really quite upset and want to know why... but the sad thing is, it's made me question my parents' sanity and levels of stability. If I dared to question them, would they destroy me because I had worked out too much? Would I become one of those people who just... disappeared? I doubt it, but I would probably be laughed at, and repeatedly publicly humiliated at Christmas and other embarrassing family gatherings. No I won't ask but I will try some of them on my children. In fact, I already have...
07 December 2011
Cottage Pie
George Michael. Everybody knows him, everybody recognises him. Some people even love him. I am one of the latter. I thought, 'Yes, what a cool guy. What catchy music. A great looking gay man in leather'. I will never forget the way I swooned over his ability to draw people in when performing live, and the way he moved on screen. I decided when I was five years old, that when I grew up, I would be a man because my Mummy said that George Michael was a funny sort of man who only loved girls as friends, but he liked to kiss men. So that was what I would do.
Turns out you can't really, unless you have big savings and a longing to own a penis. No thankyou. So from the moment I found that out, my love for unbelievably sexy gay men, became sisterly.
But, I heard one day from some media source somewhere (I forget) that George Michael had been found to have been cottaging. What a terrible thing to do. My lovely, gorgeous George. Stealing from cottages. What an awful thing to do. Everyone knows only pensioners live in cottages. Talk about easy targets. And didn't he have enough money?
My faith in George dwindled to almost nothing. Until one evening whilst I was enjoying a beverage or two with friends, it came into conversation, that an old teacher of ours had also been cottaging recently! Oh no! Those poor old people. They had worked all of their lives for that money. Been taxed as they earned it, only to be retaxed when drawing it as a pension, and then have it stolen from their own homes. What was wrong with these people? And why was it only extremely camp people doing it?! Mr Spink had never actually said he was gay, but he had the walk, the wrist, and the constantly shocked expression.
Apparently Mr Spink, had also ransacked a tea room. With men he didn't even know! It gets worse.
I do have a passionate loathing for Google. It shows my flaws, of which I didn't think I had many.
But on this occasion, I would have dropped to my knees and kissed the feet of Google, rather than get the right royal ripping that I got. Of course I was more naive back then (and probably still am now) than a ten year old with twitter. You will have known what an idiot I was, throughout my telling of this tale.
For clarity's sake, and for the sake of George's reputation (not that it will improve it that greatly in this judgmental world). Cottaging is not robbing old people of their miniscule pensions and World War 2 medals.
And for Mr Spink's rep, I feel I must make it clear, that ransacking one's tearoom, is the same thing as cottaging, only not in this country. Australia or the US if i remember correctly.
Teribbly sorry George and Spinky. My mistake. Keep on with whatever it is you... do.
Turns out you can't really, unless you have big savings and a longing to own a penis. No thankyou. So from the moment I found that out, my love for unbelievably sexy gay men, became sisterly.
But, I heard one day from some media source somewhere (I forget) that George Michael had been found to have been cottaging. What a terrible thing to do. My lovely, gorgeous George. Stealing from cottages. What an awful thing to do. Everyone knows only pensioners live in cottages. Talk about easy targets. And didn't he have enough money?
My faith in George dwindled to almost nothing. Until one evening whilst I was enjoying a beverage or two with friends, it came into conversation, that an old teacher of ours had also been cottaging recently! Oh no! Those poor old people. They had worked all of their lives for that money. Been taxed as they earned it, only to be retaxed when drawing it as a pension, and then have it stolen from their own homes. What was wrong with these people? And why was it only extremely camp people doing it?! Mr Spink had never actually said he was gay, but he had the walk, the wrist, and the constantly shocked expression.
Apparently Mr Spink, had also ransacked a tea room. With men he didn't even know! It gets worse.
I do have a passionate loathing for Google. It shows my flaws, of which I didn't think I had many.
But on this occasion, I would have dropped to my knees and kissed the feet of Google, rather than get the right royal ripping that I got. Of course I was more naive back then (and probably still am now) than a ten year old with twitter. You will have known what an idiot I was, throughout my telling of this tale.
For clarity's sake, and for the sake of George's reputation (not that it will improve it that greatly in this judgmental world). Cottaging is not robbing old people of their miniscule pensions and World War 2 medals.
And for Mr Spink's rep, I feel I must make it clear, that ransacking one's tearoom, is the same thing as cottaging, only not in this country. Australia or the US if i remember correctly.
Teribbly sorry George and Spinky. My mistake. Keep on with whatever it is you... do.
06 December 2011
Help Save an Unfortunate Parent this Christmas
No one is as miserable as my daughter. No one in the world. She will sulk and argue and tell you the sky is green and the grass is blue. But I most definately have to keep her. I made her, I carried her, I gave birth to her (none of which were that much fun, if I'm honest). Now I have to put up with her 'terrible two's'. What did I do to deserve it? Why won't they do a trade-in if not a full refund? This one, for sure, is faulty.
She told me today that ''No Mummy. Actually if you want to be here next to me, you must get a drink of milk with pink in. And put Cbeebies games on.'' I think I may be under the thumb, because no matter how I grumbled and cursed as I scurried down the stairs and back up again with the pink milk, I still did it. I did as I was told, by a two year old, despite the fact that I knew it was silly. Why? For an easy life. For quiet and tranquility. ''Fine, you take my laptop, my internet and all of my money. I shall sit here and sulk myself because I feel hard done to, and mistreated by my child''.
Childline should be for parents to call when they really feel like putting their head in a vice and turning and turning until their skull caves in. ''Hello, yes. I have a child here, Childline. And I'm rather unhappy with it actually. It will not give me a moments peace, will not eat anything other than Petit Filous and has told the man at the park we'll have one of his puppies. What am I to do?''
The problem is, I don't know what they could really do about it. They could take her away, but then I would be quite upset by that. I need a behavioural trainer. Like for dogs. Only for children, not dogs. Dane would of course completely disagree. ''Oh don't.'' He would coo. ''She's only little. And she's a princess.'' Well no actually, she really really isn't. She does physically resemble one, however, inside there's one of those crazy burping greedy things off the Gremlins. If her looks resembled her personality, at this moment in time, she would be beastly. People would scream and run in horror at her deformed melting face.
I even feel slightly guilty writing this tonight as she did used to be rather cute. I remember it sometimes on the rare occasion when shes not foaming at the mouth and her eyes aren't red. She can look at me sometimes and I see my miracle little cupcake who survived premature labour and 9 weeks in a greenhouse, wearing only a nappy, and her body covered in stickers and wires. She was alright then. She was amazing actually. I thought ''Yeah. She's a stubborn little fighter.'' I wasn't wrong.
''Mummy, its not time for tired. I'm awake and all open.''
''Mummy, get up now its morning. Santa has poo'ed snow on the garden and Wee Willy Winky has stolen the Christmas lights.''
''Mummy, if you don't let me off this naughty step I'm going to be naughty again.''
''Mummy, I want a bath.'' Not now Sienna, I'm cooking. ''I'm going to put the plug in and turn the tap. See you when you're shouting.''
This cannot be normal behaviour. Something has happened to my baby. It's grown up all crazy and mean and I think I'd really like it to go away now. I'd also like a holiday and a pair of Manolo Blahnik's, but that'll never happen either. I'll give her a month. That's what I'll do. Then I'll call the dog whisperer and see what he suggests. Or the English nanny that helps American families, and dresses like a scary nanny because it works.
She told me today that ''No Mummy. Actually if you want to be here next to me, you must get a drink of milk with pink in. And put Cbeebies games on.'' I think I may be under the thumb, because no matter how I grumbled and cursed as I scurried down the stairs and back up again with the pink milk, I still did it. I did as I was told, by a two year old, despite the fact that I knew it was silly. Why? For an easy life. For quiet and tranquility. ''Fine, you take my laptop, my internet and all of my money. I shall sit here and sulk myself because I feel hard done to, and mistreated by my child''.
Childline should be for parents to call when they really feel like putting their head in a vice and turning and turning until their skull caves in. ''Hello, yes. I have a child here, Childline. And I'm rather unhappy with it actually. It will not give me a moments peace, will not eat anything other than Petit Filous and has told the man at the park we'll have one of his puppies. What am I to do?''
The problem is, I don't know what they could really do about it. They could take her away, but then I would be quite upset by that. I need a behavioural trainer. Like for dogs. Only for children, not dogs. Dane would of course completely disagree. ''Oh don't.'' He would coo. ''She's only little. And she's a princess.'' Well no actually, she really really isn't. She does physically resemble one, however, inside there's one of those crazy burping greedy things off the Gremlins. If her looks resembled her personality, at this moment in time, she would be beastly. People would scream and run in horror at her deformed melting face.
I even feel slightly guilty writing this tonight as she did used to be rather cute. I remember it sometimes on the rare occasion when shes not foaming at the mouth and her eyes aren't red. She can look at me sometimes and I see my miracle little cupcake who survived premature labour and 9 weeks in a greenhouse, wearing only a nappy, and her body covered in stickers and wires. She was alright then. She was amazing actually. I thought ''Yeah. She's a stubborn little fighter.'' I wasn't wrong.
''Mummy, its not time for tired. I'm awake and all open.''
''Mummy, get up now its morning. Santa has poo'ed snow on the garden and Wee Willy Winky has stolen the Christmas lights.''
''Mummy, if you don't let me off this naughty step I'm going to be naughty again.''
''Mummy, I want a bath.'' Not now Sienna, I'm cooking. ''I'm going to put the plug in and turn the tap. See you when you're shouting.''
This cannot be normal behaviour. Something has happened to my baby. It's grown up all crazy and mean and I think I'd really like it to go away now. I'd also like a holiday and a pair of Manolo Blahnik's, but that'll never happen either. I'll give her a month. That's what I'll do. Then I'll call the dog whisperer and see what he suggests. Or the English nanny that helps American families, and dresses like a scary nanny because it works.
If none of that works I'll send her to Hogwarts. She'll be gone for ages then. And I know where I can get Slytherin costumes from at very good prices.
05 December 2011
The Depths of Time
Imagine they had never invented a clock, or a sundial. What would we do? How would we know when to get there, or if we were running late? No one would ever be anywhere on time. It pickles my brain just thinking about how disorganised everything would be. I don't think we could cope. And I want to know who invented the clock and why everyone decided to listen to their idea of how many hours and minutes there should be. I should think it was a bit of a rush job, seeing as they could only think of twelve names for numbers so we had to use them all twice in one day. But otherwise a rather good invention.
If we had to live by guessing the position of a shadow of a tree of something, the margins of error in that are shocking. You couldn't run classes, or catch trains. There would be no opening times and lunch hours. We would, quite simply, be living like beasts. Relying on our stomachs to tell us when its mealtime. How terribly unfortunate that would be.
There has to be another way though. Otherwise, some quick thinking wise guy has earned himself a very good name for not having a great idea, but the only idea. I would like to think that there is more than one way to look at everything. Like marmite. Thats a big 50/50 really. But this. This is complex. Pure migraine material. And I'm your man (woman doesnt sound as good).
So looking at it from a day length point of view, from sunrise to sunset. The day would always be a different length dependant on season. And if we look at it from a sunlight percentage point of view, we have to consider clouds, rain, fog, things passing in front of the sun, and eclipses. That wouldn't work either.
Maybe it is all about counting. All about rhythm and pattern. Of course, it has to be to keep things steady, organised, functional. If there was a counting man. Who counted all the seconds up. No, a computer counter. Which counted all the seconds up. And a bell went off everytime it had reached every 10,000 seconds then we all have to change what we are doing to the next thing. No, damn thats still time though.
I think time just happened. I don't think anyone could possibly have just invented it, surely not. The clock seems to have just been a way of displaying said time. A way that everyone could keep time the same as each other if they attended the same pilates session or book club. I think that the clock man, was probably a very clever man after all, but I don't think he deserved the credit he got for creating time. Although I'm aware now that it probably was just me giving him that credit. And upon noticing this, I am realising that my mission to out-do the man who held all of time in his fist.... was probably a bit rubbish. And I should probably look for something else to try and win at.
I bet Google could have told me this without the headache.
If we had to live by guessing the position of a shadow of a tree of something, the margins of error in that are shocking. You couldn't run classes, or catch trains. There would be no opening times and lunch hours. We would, quite simply, be living like beasts. Relying on our stomachs to tell us when its mealtime. How terribly unfortunate that would be.
There has to be another way though. Otherwise, some quick thinking wise guy has earned himself a very good name for not having a great idea, but the only idea. I would like to think that there is more than one way to look at everything. Like marmite. Thats a big 50/50 really. But this. This is complex. Pure migraine material. And I'm your man (woman doesnt sound as good).
So looking at it from a day length point of view, from sunrise to sunset. The day would always be a different length dependant on season. And if we look at it from a sunlight percentage point of view, we have to consider clouds, rain, fog, things passing in front of the sun, and eclipses. That wouldn't work either.
Maybe it is all about counting. All about rhythm and pattern. Of course, it has to be to keep things steady, organised, functional. If there was a counting man. Who counted all the seconds up. No, a computer counter. Which counted all the seconds up. And a bell went off everytime it had reached every 10,000 seconds then we all have to change what we are doing to the next thing. No, damn thats still time though.
I think time just happened. I don't think anyone could possibly have just invented it, surely not. The clock seems to have just been a way of displaying said time. A way that everyone could keep time the same as each other if they attended the same pilates session or book club. I think that the clock man, was probably a very clever man after all, but I don't think he deserved the credit he got for creating time. Although I'm aware now that it probably was just me giving him that credit. And upon noticing this, I am realising that my mission to out-do the man who held all of time in his fist.... was probably a bit rubbish. And I should probably look for something else to try and win at.
I bet Google could have told me this without the headache.
Crazed Mother of Three Threatens E-On in Mad Rage over Keys and Snow
I may have reached the end of my life. The end of a wonderful, beautiful life. I also may not. But for this moment I am choosing self pity, above all else, as it is a Sunday evening (weekend), and I'm alone, as Dane's away in Scotland with work, a man from next door, and a lot more snow than I've got. There is probably nothing more wrong with me, than a small headache, and a little light headedness due to lack of sleep and too much noise from 2 year olds.
Typical how it happens though. You have the weekend. A lovely full weekend, with the OH and kids around you. Then BANG, as you're about to go back to the grindstone, a headache kicks you in the temple and there's no one around to squeeze your hand and support you through the terrible ordeal that is 'PUSSINESS'.
So for my next trick, I will be waking at 6.30am to get 3 children ready to walk a mile downhill in snow to school. THEN, just to show off, I will push two of them back up in the buggy, clean the house and do a headstand whilst licking both my nipples. -_-
And then the men have the bloody nerve to say, ''Washing up? oh I don't think so.'' ''Fix the what? On a Sunday? Are you gone MAD?'' Ahh, a woman's work is never done. I have a doctor's appointment and a school play to attend, food shopping to buy, library books to return, Christmas presents to buy, wrap and remember to buy tags for, New drawers and cupboards to rearrange, a hallway to strip, a hallway and a bedroom to paint, a 2 year old to tame, a rabbit hutch to clean out, and a BIG problem with a BIG electrical supplier to sort out. And my deadline is 5 days. lots of afore mentioned tasks are to be completed in working hours, and all tasks are to be completed without a car! Don't forget the menial day to day tasks and endless nappy changes (add potty training to the list). I think I need a holiday.
However, Although I moan about the grumpy, 6ft 2, ogrish, self obsessed, slightly camp, grumbling, miserable bastard (who I know sneakily reads this blog), and my loud, annoying, bossy, snotty children (who can't read but know 's' and 'a'). I have to take a second to say how much I love them all. And writing it with a smile, I know I'm really a very lucky hypochondriac blonde idiot. And it warms one's insides to realise it. :)
Typical how it happens though. You have the weekend. A lovely full weekend, with the OH and kids around you. Then BANG, as you're about to go back to the grindstone, a headache kicks you in the temple and there's no one around to squeeze your hand and support you through the terrible ordeal that is 'PUSSINESS'.
So for my next trick, I will be waking at 6.30am to get 3 children ready to walk a mile downhill in snow to school. THEN, just to show off, I will push two of them back up in the buggy, clean the house and do a headstand whilst licking both my nipples. -_-
And then the men have the bloody nerve to say, ''Washing up? oh I don't think so.'' ''Fix the what? On a Sunday? Are you gone MAD?'' Ahh, a woman's work is never done. I have a doctor's appointment and a school play to attend, food shopping to buy, library books to return, Christmas presents to buy, wrap and remember to buy tags for, New drawers and cupboards to rearrange, a hallway to strip, a hallway and a bedroom to paint, a 2 year old to tame, a rabbit hutch to clean out, and a BIG problem with a BIG electrical supplier to sort out. And my deadline is 5 days. lots of afore mentioned tasks are to be completed in working hours, and all tasks are to be completed without a car! Don't forget the menial day to day tasks and endless nappy changes (add potty training to the list). I think I need a holiday.
However, Although I moan about the grumpy, 6ft 2, ogrish, self obsessed, slightly camp, grumbling, miserable bastard (who I know sneakily reads this blog), and my loud, annoying, bossy, snotty children (who can't read but know 's' and 'a'). I have to take a second to say how much I love them all. And writing it with a smile, I know I'm really a very lucky hypochondriac blonde idiot. And it warms one's insides to realise it. :)
30 November 2011
The Extinction of Daddy Long Legs
Although Daddy Long Legs are a common sight in England. I cant help but wonder how. Physically, it has to be impossible surely. It all started when I met Dave, the Daddy long legs, during my bath tonight. I noticed he had 6 legs, which at first i deemed normal as he wasn't really a spider, he just looked a bit like one. however, on one side he seemed to have half a leg extra, so i guessed they probably are meant to have eight, as 7 would be bad for balance and walking straight etc.
So as Dave and I bonded over a mug of hot chocolate and some Pink Jasmine Radox, I really started to wonder how long he has been alive. How many millions of gazillions of years, decades, centuries? He didnt really look old, but how do you tell a pensioner Daddy long legs from a Club Med Daddy long legs? He flew pretty well, and seemed spritely, maybe slightly epileptic but overall pretty healthy. So how did he lose his legs? How, after all this time, has he still got 6 if he's been clumsy enough to lose two.
As you may be aware, (fully i should hope) Daddy long legs aren't great at holding a conversation. they have miniscule attention spans, and they dont sit still for long enough for you to examine them. plus, if they get bubbles on their wings, they crash. the last point being completely accidental, not part of my experiment, and although unintentionally ridiculously cruel, rather humorous.
So Dave was unable/unwilling to tell me the answers to my questions. I tried and tried to come up with a logical explanation for this. I really did. But it seemed there were none. It took a good while to come to this conclusion, my fingers were pruned, my water was cold and Dave had pulled the lightbulb after one too many sips of bubbly. I decided to google it. After all, it was my belief that Daddy Long Legs are all male (hence the name) therefore they must live either forever, or a very VERY long time for there to be any of them left.
I shall not go any further with this story. All I will say is that my relationship with Google is starting to suffer. I have lost all trust in him. Everyday his tales become more and more far-fetched and incomprehendable. But he swears they're words of truth, and the most annoying thing, is that everyone in the whole world believes him over me.
So as Dave and I bonded over a mug of hot chocolate and some Pink Jasmine Radox, I really started to wonder how long he has been alive. How many millions of gazillions of years, decades, centuries? He didnt really look old, but how do you tell a pensioner Daddy long legs from a Club Med Daddy long legs? He flew pretty well, and seemed spritely, maybe slightly epileptic but overall pretty healthy. So how did he lose his legs? How, after all this time, has he still got 6 if he's been clumsy enough to lose two.
As you may be aware, (fully i should hope) Daddy long legs aren't great at holding a conversation. they have miniscule attention spans, and they dont sit still for long enough for you to examine them. plus, if they get bubbles on their wings, they crash. the last point being completely accidental, not part of my experiment, and although unintentionally ridiculously cruel, rather humorous.
So Dave was unable/unwilling to tell me the answers to my questions. I tried and tried to come up with a logical explanation for this. I really did. But it seemed there were none. It took a good while to come to this conclusion, my fingers were pruned, my water was cold and Dave had pulled the lightbulb after one too many sips of bubbly. I decided to google it. After all, it was my belief that Daddy Long Legs are all male (hence the name) therefore they must live either forever, or a very VERY long time for there to be any of them left.
I shall not go any further with this story. All I will say is that my relationship with Google is starting to suffer. I have lost all trust in him. Everyday his tales become more and more far-fetched and incomprehendable. But he swears they're words of truth, and the most annoying thing, is that everyone in the whole world believes him over me.
29 November 2011
Road Tax for Reindeers
Firstly,
I think today I HAVE to start with a little rant...
A Thermos keeps hot things hot right? and cold things cold? yeah, sure! right, so why the HELL, can Dane not collect some Scotland snow for me in said thermos, and bring it home for me to see?? Pure selfishness, thats why! Trying to keep a whole COUNTRY full of snow to himself, and not even share one thermos full with the love of his life. Fine. At least I know where I stand. Suitable punishment yet to be concocted.
Terribly sorry about that. Rant over. Let us continue...
Naive as I may sometimes appear, I fear that I am merely misunderstood, and it is not a lack of intelligence being displayed, but an overload of intelligence, causing over analysis of everyday topics and situations, causing wrong calculations to be made. As sometimes, there is no reason for the crazy things in our world. Like cows horns. Why? Ahh, no reason. Turkeys? Chickens, but bigger, uglier, and less tasty. No point at all. screw fitting lightbulbs? Just showing off. Bayonet fittings are much easier to fit. Simpler to make, and look more like little aliens when you turn them upside down. Anyhow, I digress. Just pointing out the fact that judgement isn't good, look deeper. Try to see why. I am completely, absolutely an intelligent, normal person, with just this little bit of a slightly unusual way of looking at things. You may now read on...
I asked, quite innocently, do reindeers exist? Apparently so. However, I have to have a license if I want to keep one as a pet and I cannot simply stable one like your basic horse. Fine. This license does not give me permission to drive my reindeer. (waste of money). Reindeers also, it turns out, can NOT actually fly, unless they are attached to Santa's sleigh, therefore drawing magic from it. So who'd want a reindeer anyway?
Following on from the reindeer conversation, we entered into a rather comical conversation about chameleons and unicorns. One of which is real, the other MYTHICAL. Yes that is correct. Just ONE is mythical. Of course, before you scoff at me, I knew Unicorns were. But that would mean that chameleons were real. colour changing, eyelid-less, lizards. Hmm sounds less likely to be real than a horse with wings. At least that could have happened by accident in a lab. but, all hail Google. Chameleons are real. 100% bona fida REAL. So I still have a chance of catching a fairy, a pygymy and a mermaid then. Brill. My hopes kept alive, and another thing learnt.
As I go on learning and processing things through my unarguably complex brain, i notice a pattern. If something makes sense. Its probably bollocks. So from now on. We will try this philosophy. Only believe people who seem like they are talking complete and utter shite. You'll look less like a prick, and people will THINK you're intelligent, although you're actually not even thinking for yourself. I'm going before I talk myself out of it.
I think today I HAVE to start with a little rant...
A Thermos keeps hot things hot right? and cold things cold? yeah, sure! right, so why the HELL, can Dane not collect some Scotland snow for me in said thermos, and bring it home for me to see?? Pure selfishness, thats why! Trying to keep a whole COUNTRY full of snow to himself, and not even share one thermos full with the love of his life. Fine. At least I know where I stand. Suitable punishment yet to be concocted.
Terribly sorry about that. Rant over. Let us continue...
Naive as I may sometimes appear, I fear that I am merely misunderstood, and it is not a lack of intelligence being displayed, but an overload of intelligence, causing over analysis of everyday topics and situations, causing wrong calculations to be made. As sometimes, there is no reason for the crazy things in our world. Like cows horns. Why? Ahh, no reason. Turkeys? Chickens, but bigger, uglier, and less tasty. No point at all. screw fitting lightbulbs? Just showing off. Bayonet fittings are much easier to fit. Simpler to make, and look more like little aliens when you turn them upside down. Anyhow, I digress. Just pointing out the fact that judgement isn't good, look deeper. Try to see why. I am completely, absolutely an intelligent, normal person, with just this little bit of a slightly unusual way of looking at things. You may now read on...
I asked, quite innocently, do reindeers exist? Apparently so. However, I have to have a license if I want to keep one as a pet and I cannot simply stable one like your basic horse. Fine. This license does not give me permission to drive my reindeer. (waste of money). Reindeers also, it turns out, can NOT actually fly, unless they are attached to Santa's sleigh, therefore drawing magic from it. So who'd want a reindeer anyway?
Following on from the reindeer conversation, we entered into a rather comical conversation about chameleons and unicorns. One of which is real, the other MYTHICAL. Yes that is correct. Just ONE is mythical. Of course, before you scoff at me, I knew Unicorns were. But that would mean that chameleons were real. colour changing, eyelid-less, lizards. Hmm sounds less likely to be real than a horse with wings. At least that could have happened by accident in a lab. but, all hail Google. Chameleons are real. 100% bona fida REAL. So I still have a chance of catching a fairy, a pygymy and a mermaid then. Brill. My hopes kept alive, and another thing learnt.
As I go on learning and processing things through my unarguably complex brain, i notice a pattern. If something makes sense. Its probably bollocks. So from now on. We will try this philosophy. Only believe people who seem like they are talking complete and utter shite. You'll look less like a prick, and people will THINK you're intelligent, although you're actually not even thinking for yourself. I'm going before I talk myself out of it.
27 November 2011
Are Chickens Birds
Dane (the OH) seems to think I am completely and utterly braindead. I think it amazes him that the children and I are still alive when he comes home of an evening/weekend. But no, I do have plenty of clever things to say. They just come out wrong. And my theories may not always be correct, however they do have good logical thought behind (most of) them. for example...
Birds. Birds fly. Right? Of course they do! Therefore, how can a chicken be a bird? How can a penguin or an ostrich or an emu, be a bird. Well they dont fit the bill do they (excuse the pun). So I delve a little. These animals must have a name. They must slot into a family, a group, a category. Aaah, a chicken. Poultry. So they are poultry. Makes perfect sense. Learnt something new that day. Taught it to myself, quite impressed. Along comes Dane, ruiner of all confidence, scupperer of all plans, disector of all theories. ''Well, no actually.'' he scoffed. ''All of them are birds, however they are flightless birds. Still birds im afraid.'' Hmm, well I KNOW chickens are poultry. So hes gone wrong somewhere. ''Well, no actually''. -_- ''Poultry is a type of bird. Some poultry are flightless, some arent.'' Very helpful Dane Thank you. So basically everything that lays an egg is most definately absolutely, a bird. ''Well no actually'' AAAAARRGGGHHH. Ok? ''Actually crocodiles, turtles and other reptiles lay eggs also, but they are not birds of course!'' Great. Ok. So you have to have wings AND lay eggs to be a bird, but you can pick if you fancy flying or not? ''Well, no actually.'' Stefan next door interrupts. ''Flightless birds have no choice in the matter, their wings are simply too small to carry the weight of their overfed, farmed bodies.'' Righto. So only birds have wings, but you can also lay an egg if you are a crocodile or a turtle. Right got it. ''Or a fish.'' Oh for god's sake.
Birds. Birds fly. Right? Of course they do! Therefore, how can a chicken be a bird? How can a penguin or an ostrich or an emu, be a bird. Well they dont fit the bill do they (excuse the pun). So I delve a little. These animals must have a name. They must slot into a family, a group, a category. Aaah, a chicken. Poultry. So they are poultry. Makes perfect sense. Learnt something new that day. Taught it to myself, quite impressed. Along comes Dane, ruiner of all confidence, scupperer of all plans, disector of all theories. ''Well, no actually.'' he scoffed. ''All of them are birds, however they are flightless birds. Still birds im afraid.'' Hmm, well I KNOW chickens are poultry. So hes gone wrong somewhere. ''Well, no actually''. -_- ''Poultry is a type of bird. Some poultry are flightless, some arent.'' Very helpful Dane Thank you. So basically everything that lays an egg is most definately absolutely, a bird. ''Well no actually'' AAAAARRGGGHHH. Ok? ''Actually crocodiles, turtles and other reptiles lay eggs also, but they are not birds of course!'' Great. Ok. So you have to have wings AND lay eggs to be a bird, but you can pick if you fancy flying or not? ''Well, no actually.'' Stefan next door interrupts. ''Flightless birds have no choice in the matter, their wings are simply too small to carry the weight of their overfed, farmed bodies.'' Righto. So only birds have wings, but you can also lay an egg if you are a crocodile or a turtle. Right got it. ''Or a fish.'' Oh for god's sake.
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