Tomorrow We’re Off To The Seaside

What can I say? A trip to the seaside looks so much better in my head than in reality. The funny thing is though, on the way there The Husband and I were discussing the pros and cons of taking our children abroad. Yeah, that’s never happening. We couldn’t manage two hours in Hunstanton.

I’d packed a picnic, I was excited, I love the seaside. The children wanted to stay in the holiday cottage because they are boring beyond belief. We didn’t care and took them out anyway. That was a bit of a boo boo.

It was freezing. When we left the weather was glorious, we were dressed for glorious. We pushed on. What I mean when I say this is we sat in the car and ate our picnic while counting how many layers passers by were wearing.

“I want ice cream. Can I have ice cream please?” said the hardiest of us.

Well why not? That’s what folk do at the seaside. I decided that if ice cream was the game then inside was the aim. We found a cafe.

Half way through my cappuccino and my single scoop of New York cheesecake ice cream . . . .

“I need a poo”

Now then, I’ve heard that many children will poo on a public toilet. I’ve never seen it, thankfully, but I have it on good authority that it has been done. That’s not the case here.

“My tummy hurts” she said clutching at her middle.

Clearly this was happening, they’re was no delaying it.

“Oooh” she’s doubled up at this point.

We break into a trot.

“Mum, can you spell poo? P and an oooo”

It never ceases to amaze what a good education can achieve, she looked so pleased with herself. I was pleased for her. Anyhoo, onwards and upwards.

We’d been at the seaside almost a full hour, not bad, not bad at all, that’ll do. We go back to our holiday cottage.

Our host is in her garden.

“Hello there, have you had a good day?”

I pondered on a polite answer. I wracked my weary brain for something, anything, positive to say about our trip out but I had nothing. I plumped for the truth.

“No. No, not really”

There, I said it, it was out there. I felt better for it. I then inhaled a whole packet of Jaffa Cakes. All was well in the world.

Tomorrow we’re off to the seaside.


My Hour Is Up

I was moaning. I do so enjoy a good moan. On this particular occasion I was going on and on and on about how bloody boring housework is, how it’s never bloody ending and, worse still, how the only person to ever see the bloody house in all it’s clean and bloody tidy glory is me.

And on I went.

I muttered on about all the stuff I could be doing but don’t get time to do, the reading, the writing, the making stuff, the walking, the gardening and the catching up on stuff. I whined on about how I thought I’d have nothing to do now both children are at school but I don’t get the time to have nothing to do and, oh, how I long to have nothing to do.

And on I went.

I then pondered, out loud, on how I can have six hours a day to myself but not have any time to myself. How can that be? It isn’t possible to be doing all bloody day but not get anything done. What the hell am I doing for six hours if I’m not reading, writing, walking or gardening? I can’t be doing housework for six hours, can I?

And on I went.

The Husband was looking at me but was he listening? He’s become rather good at the looking as though he is listening. His face registered that I had stopped going on.

“Look” he said.

I waited for his words of wisdom.

“Just don’t do the boring stuff, I’ll do it”

Tempting but no. The boring stuff is my job. The Husband works damn hard so that I can stay at home with the kids, this is where I want to be right now. Whilst they are wee and still need me around I want to be exactly that, around. Not a round, although I’m that too.

“Right then” he said.

Again I waited for his wiseness.

“Do everything for an hour”

Sorry, what now?

“Your time management sucks”

A bit harsh.

“Drop the kids off then do housework for an hour, if something doesn’t get done it will wait. Then write for an hour. Then hit the garden for an hour or stroll for an hour or watch catch up tele for an hour. But everything for an hour. That way you get to do a little of everything every day”

It works. It only bloody works. I hate him for that.

Oh, my hour is up, bye.

Saving The Interesting Bits

I’m new to this blogging malarkey so I signed up for a little assistance. My first challenge is to write about who I am and why I want to do this. So here goes.

I am Tina and I am bored. Only when the kids are at school and The Husband is at work. Bored of boring jobs, of washing, cleaning and tidying. Bored of not reading, writing and walking. There’s so little time for the fun stuff because of all the un-fun getting in the way. There’s also very little time for getting a job when you need to fit it around young children and school and not wanting to get a job yet because you want to be available at all times just in case of something, something happening that you might be needed for like, oooh, illness. Oh dear. Someone needs a life or, at the very least, a hobby.

This brings me nicely on to why I’m doing this.

Because I was told to. This was set up by a friend, one of many that said this would be a good idea, one of a few that really meant it. I decided they might be right.

My plan is to write down all the nonsense my children may, or may not, want to know about as they get older and to write it down before I forget it. This gives me roughly a week, two at best, to jot down anything I think they might find interesting or funny. A sort of diary of stuff and nonsense.

A year ago I met a lovely lady who writes biographies, she told me to write. I explained that I have diaries, lots of diaries, that my children could peruse once they’ve spent their inheritance.

“They won’t read them, you need to take out the interesting bits”

So, here I am saving the interesting bits.

His Eye Fell Off

It was Friday the 13th and all was well.

“Do you know how much the earth weighs?”

He did tell me but I can’t remember now, it was a lot. This got us to pondering on whether or not the person doing the weighing had added on the weights of all the buildings. Then this got us to realising that the world can never weigh any more than it already does as everything, absolutely everything, is made from the earth. Wow. We’re talking cars, televisions, trampolines, stuffed toys (more on him later), radiators, paint, bricks, even the globe I’m now looking at, oh the irony. This blew our tiny minds.

On this bombshell I dropped them at school and headed over to Read With Me in The Youngest’s class. First she read her book to me, Sid’s Nits, most informative, then off she went to change it for something from the box of books clearly designed for children that can read. I then Read To Her. Not the point but lovely non the less.

Then off to Toys R Us birthday present shopping. Here I was screwed by a bear. He was in a box marked £29.99. He was not. He was £59.99. Lies I tell thee. He’s a big bugger so I shouldn’t have been surprised, I just wish he’d have said. Because of his devious nature we have named him Wanker.

When I was little, luckily long before my memory kicked in, I owned a bear whom I would hump. Once in the isle on a bus, my mum was horrified. I wasn’t fussy though, it didn’t have to be in public, anywhere would do. Rather unsurprisingly one of his eyes fell off.

Anyhoo. I said to my mum that perhaps this massive con artist of a bear could be a humping partner.

“You could borrow him when she’s at school”

“I didn’t mean for me mum!”


On to picking the kids up from school. The Youngest had been given a certificate for Great Batman Writing. I’m yet to find out if she was writing about Batman or as Batman, not that it matters, proud doesn’t even come close. The Eldest gave his day a score of -7. This is the worst score to date and must have been bad to deserve such a harsh review. Oh, they’d made him run in P.E. well that explains it.

Then off to Nanny’s. They stay for tea on a Friday but I stayed for a cuppa and to watch Money For Nothing.

“Got to be honest I’ve got a bit of a crush on Becks, she makes me want to become . .”

“Yeah” answered my mum with a knowing nod.

“A blacksmith mum!”

Double jeeez.

I go home to enjoy the few hours of peace with The Husband. The phone rings, it’s The Youngest, she’s crying.

“I fell and hurt my knee mum”

I don’t know why she was so upset as this is a daily occurrence for my little stunt princess, she has no fear and even less finesse. Anyhoo, she wanted to come home. On walking in the door she spotted her scooter and was off, fully recovered as if by magic.

“My knees are better, the knee fairy needn’t come when I’m sleeping now” scoot scoot.

We went to bed. I love her bed and will be most put out if she swaps me for Wanker. I do hope I can stop calling him that once she receives him for her birthday. Awkwaaaard. Soon after I’m woken by The Eldest home from his travels.

“I don’t like going to bed if you haven’t said goodnight to me, I don’t know why”

Half asleep but fully pissed orf I suggest he sleeps on his sister’s floor. He did. Three of us in one room. We could downsize and spend the difference on sweets.

Tis now Saturday morning. The Eldest is chuffed to bits that he slept on a floor.

“I did it” he said in a rather too excited tone more suited to the solving of world hunger.

As for The Youngest, she’s just shuffled downstairs in her school uniform, complete with white socks pulled up as far as they could ever possibly go, and handed me her shoes. As I’m popping them on I ask her where she’s going.

“Nanny’s” she says nonchalantly.

We go to Nanny’s because I’m weak and because I’m weak.

“Red One. Over And Out”

Somewhere deep down I know it’s wrong but I can’t help myself. I place the blame wholly on The Youngest. It were she who brought them to my attention, it were she who made me watch over and over and over and over and over until I was hooked.

I’m late to the party though. Nothing new there, I’ve not seen Game of Thrones. Always the last on the train. Better late than never though huh? Perhaps not this time.

“Hello, my name is Tina and I’m a One Direction fan”

It all started when The Youngest discovered James Cordon’s carpool karaoke. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve watched the One Direction one, it’s somewhere between three and a million. We’ve seen it enough for James to now be affectionately known as “the fat one from One Direction” she’ll be devastated when she learns the truth. Then, after carpool karaoke, came the music videos, hours of the blooming things. Thanks YouTube. I now understand how it’s possible to brainwash folk. The worst of it is that The Youngest is long over it. I’m not.

My favourite is Drag Me Down but the video really annoys me. Those jammy little buggers get to fiddle with Nasa’s magic because what? They can sing a bit. I can’t decide if I want to give one of them a squeeze or whether I just want to be one of them? Any one, I’m not fussy. I’d love to sit in a rocket.

Sadly I can’t be in One Direction, I’m a 45 yr old woman for starters but, more importantly, they’ve gone their separate ways. Split up now that I have a wee girl to use as my reason for going.

“Me, a fan? Hell no, I’m just here for the kid, she loves Harry”

Who doesn’t love Harry? No? Just me? Hmm, that’s odd. Moving on.

If I were to have my time over I would do my utmost to be in One Direction but only after I’d finished my stint with the Red Arrows.



I’ve Not Left The Husband Yet.

I met The Husband on the 29th July 2000, on the 29th June the following year we moved in to our first house together. A mere 11 months later we were mortgaged up to the hilt. I think the mortgage advisers face said it all when I was filling in all the necessary forms and she asked when my partners birthday was. I had to call him, he hadn’t had a birthday while I was with him. I was fairly sure he had birthdays I’d just never witnessed one is all.

To this day I’ve no idea why we work, we’ve very little in common other than the fact that I think he’s fabulous and so does he. We don’t have the same taste in anything, music, hobbies, décor, films, he doesn’t even like salmon for goodness sake, what’s that about? Apparently it’s too fishy? Yet we work. We work really rather well.

I like him because he’s one of a select few, other than family, that I’ve felt ok around. From the get go I could be me and knew he wouldn’t mind the me in me shining through. That’s not to say I’ve never embarrassed him, there was that time I held our neighbours mail to ransom.

I was their postie and while they were away I kept their mail at the post office so the house wouldn’t look like a burglars paradise. On their return I fashioned a ransom note.

If you want to see your mail you must meet me on the corner with biscuits.

They came with biscuits. The Husband was mortified.

I’d always felt I lacked something depending on the company I kept. That I wasn’t cool enough, clever enough or pretty enough. Nobody has ever suggested I was anything less than marvellous this feeling was all me, lack of confidence or something, low self esteem maybe? Who knows? Perhaps I just wasn’t cool, clever or pretty enough. But then I met The Husband and knew immediately that he was fine with my being a thick ugly nerd. I jest. I just knew he liked me, he thought/thinks I’m blooming great and he’s right, I so am, he’s lucky to have found me. I do not jest.

We lived in our first wee house for a couple of years, it was a lovely house but so so tiny. We started to look at others. One day we were viewing an empty abode, the agent had given us the keys and we went for a snoot. I wandered around feeling more and more as though I would pass out.

“What’s up?” he asked “Don’t you like it?”

I explained how serious I felt this step was. It was to be our second house. Our SECOND HOUSE. This shizzle was getting serious.

I can still see him sat on the stairs of the empty house that we didn’t buy.

“It’s just a house, you can still leave me whenever you like”

Phew! Panic over.

We’re now on our third house. We’ve been married for almost 11 years. We’ve two rather perfectly odd children and I’m as happy as a happy thing in Happyville. Can’t speak for The Husband, I’ve not asked him. It’s not that I’m not interested, I don’t need to ask because it’s glaringly obvious, he can’t hide it.

The Husband thinks I’m great.



Why Did The Lion Get Lost?

Because jungle is massive.

The old ‘uns are the best don’t you think?

I thought I’d pop on some music to do the housework to. This is where YouTube comes in. How did we survive without YouTube? If your kid asks about the solar system, YouTube. If you want music, YouTube. If you need to watch a cat play piano, YouTube. If you want to show your kids the Two Ronnies four candles sketch, you guessed it, YouTube.

Today I plumped for some old skool drum and base, as you do. So there I am, jumping, waving my hands in the air because I just don’t care knowing that deep down inside I truly am the one and only dominator when

“Ouch, what the . . . . . ?”

I’d found a shopkins with my foot. Oh yeah, I remember, I’m a 45 year old mother of two. Dagnabbit.