I’d rather play Twister

All of us know at least one of those woman that can do everything. You know the ones. They always look immaculate, as do their children. Their homes are like show homes, the kind that, if you didn’t already know, would have you believe that there are no pets or children living there. They run successful businesses and the P.T.A. singlehandedly whilst also helping out at Scouts. Their gardens could be mistaken for an entry in the Hampton Court Flower Show with their perfectly manicured lawns and impressive bushy bush type things and they are always cheery, for good reason it would seem, I’d be cheery too.

I can barely dress myself.

No really, The Husband recently went clothes shopping for me and did a better job than I ever could.

My house and garden look as though I have two children and a dog. The piles of washing hint at someone missing the necessary skills needed to organize a piss up in a brewery let alone remember to attend a P.T.A. meeting. I cannot cook for toffee and my children tend to look as though nobody loves them. Someone does, I do, but rather than iron their uniforms last night we played Twister hence the creases. We had a right giggle though, the dog got involved, it was funny as a funny thing . . . . You probably had to be there.

I barely function because my head is full of nonsense and I’m ridiculously easily distracted. Oh look, a squirrel . . . . .

I am full of good intentions but forget what I’m doing and will often wander off to go half do something else. It’s the thought that counts apparently?

I decided to find out how, how are these women doing it? I conducted a small survey. (I asked a few folks, those I thought wouldn’t be offended)

Well, it turns out that some have cleaners and/or gardeners and some are just fucking good at juggling everything and are nailing this parent/C.E.O./chef/gardener shizzle.

My favourite response though was from my mum. When I asked my mum how these women manage to do it all and keep smiling, she told me this little story.

My Grandma and Granddad were in the R.A.F. and back then R.A.F. homes were furnished with R.A.F. furniture. Now, one day, a friend of my Grandma popped in for a cup of tea, as you do, and was telling her all about her morning. The lady in question had been giving her house the once over, a more constructive morning you could not have wished for, she’d even cleaned the feet of her R.A.F. issue dresser. Later my Grandma told my mum of this encounter.

“I didn’t even know they had feet” she said.

So, there you have it, it’s hereditary, it turns out that I come from a long line of women with better things to do. Anyhoo, who wants a posh house and a fancy garden? Well, me but I’d rather play Twister.

I told The Husband to fuck off and I liked it.

According to my Dr I am nearing “that age”

I was on the contraceptive pill but it made me grumpy so I wanted to stop taking it, Dr just happened to mention that it may not be the pill causing my grumpiness. How lucky was he that I didn’t have the time to kill him there and then?

You see, I am peri-menopausal. I didn’t know you could be peri-menopausal. I asked my mum. I don’t know why I asked her as this is the woman that once told me there was no such thing as ovulation in her day so, as expected, she’d never been peri anything.

I think peri is the bit before full on crazy, the bit where things hurt a little but not too much, the bit where you forget some stuff but remember your kids names and where you hid the chocolate. This is the before bit.

Now, aside from the weirdness, there is a surprising and most welcome symptom of the peri-menopause.

I say stuff, stuff I wouldn’t usually say.

I’m one of those people that keep mum, I can’t see the point in causing a row over the little things but then the little things mount up until I want someone dead, right now! But, I have noticed recently that I can’t keep my mouth shut.

For example, one evening The Husband left rice in the sink and once upon a time I would have plotted his demise in my head, I would have cleared it up whilst hating him quietly, to  myself. Not now. Now I say “Is that rice staying there?” and in minutes the rice is gone, as if by magic.

Another evening The Husband made fun of my new job, I work two/three days a month and he boobed by chuckling at my meagre wages. Now, for the record, he’s not bothered about my wages nor is he concerned about whether I work or not, so long as I’m cheery he’s cheery. This was just a “little banter in the kitchen” but it got me all cross, probably because I’m heading into Crazyville but still, I was niggled.

Now, there was a time where I would have thought about this and thought about this until I came to the conclusion that what he meant was that I didn’t work enough and then I would have been pissed about all the stuff I do daily that I don’t get paid for and even more pissed at how he clearly doesn’t appreciate this, blah blah blah. All of this would have been bollocks but still, I would have been cross, silently cross but no more, H.M.S. Politeness has long since sailed.

“Oh fuck off!” said I.

Oh my, it was amazing, it felt amazing. I was done. No need for humpiness, no planning how to poison him or wondering whether I would know which was the brake cable, I didn’t get niggled. I still liked him. I’d said my bit and that was that. It was a tiny miracle.

All I’ve got to do now is pray that The Husband never becomes peri-menopausal. Both of us saying what we really think when we really think it? Wouldn’t that be fun?




I’d never cut it as a serial killer.

It came out of nowhere, there was nothing I could do. I stopped the car.

“Shit! I’ve just hit a squirrel”

“Oh well, just drive away” said The Eldest.

“I can’t just drive away for goodness sake”

I turned the car around. There was already a lady standing over the lifeless corpse with a car mat in hand poised to pick it up.

“I hope it’s dead” she said “they can be nasty little buggers”

It was dead. The nice lady parked it by a tree and gave me a hug.

“These things happen” she squeezed and disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared.

I get back into the car where The Eldest simply cannot believe what has just happened.

“Why are you so upset?”

“It was alive and now it is dead because of me”

“You eat cow though don’t ya?”

Fucking smart arse.

Anyhoo, fast forward to a note in The Youngest’s school diary the following week.

Sorry to hear of your accident this morning, I hope you are ok.

Signed by teacher.

I wrote back that I hadn’t had an accident that morning but I thanked her for her concern.

Oh, your daughter said you had run over a squirrel and that Mrs Whites had given you a hug.

Turns out my mystery squirrel mover and hug giver was a dinner lady at The Youngest’s school. Small world huh?

Tonight, three weeks on from the murder, myself and The Youngest are driving home from the supermarket. The Youngest leans over and whispers in my ear.

“Mum, you killed a squirrel”

I’ll be honest, it was more than a little creepy.

“Did you run over a squirrel in the car then get a hug from a dinner lady?” asked The Husband.

He thought The Youngest was telling fibs, it sounded made up the way she told it so he thought he’d check.

“Yes, for the love of biscuits YES! I KILLED A SQUIRREL! Have you got a problem with that? You eat cow don’t ya?”



Just In Case

“I wish I could go by my own” said The Youngest indignantly.

Now, I’m not used to this malarkey as The Eldest has anxieties on top of his anxieties, it is most unlikely that he will walk himself to or from school any time soon. He wants to, he wants to walk home alone, with some money to go to the shop and buy chocolate, but says he’s not ready yet. I offered him a friend to walk with but still he said no. This is fine by me, it will come. Inside him is the heart of a warrior, I know this because he fights every day, he fights to overcome his many fears and he succeeds most days.

As for her. Inside her is the heart of an adventurer, the heart of a fearless adventurer, a blooming great fearless sodding adventurer. One which doesn’t appear to want to give me any time to adjust either. Talk about from one extreme to another, jeez. Anyhoo, this is how it went down.

“I wish I could go by my own”

We were four streets away from her school, she is five.

“Mummy will get into trouble with the police if I let you walk to school by your own”

“No you won’t!”

“Yes I will. Ask teacher if you can walk to school on your own”


We walk for a bit in complete silence.

“Pretend you don’t know me then!”

So I pretend not to know her whilst struggling to keep a straight face. We get to school. The Youngest stops me outside the gates.

“Leave me here”

“No. I cannot leave you outside the gates, I have to come in”

I’m allowed in to the playground, just. Off she goes leaving a broken heart in her wake. It was horrible watching that tiny person just go, she didn’t look back, she is an arse, an evil, brave, confident, marvellous little arse.

I write a note to the school explaining my situation secretly hoping I will be told that this is just not on, that a five year old should be escorted to the door, that I’m a terrible mother and so on. Alas this was not to be. They think it’s great that she wants to be independent, so long as I lurk until she’s inside the building they are happy for the arse to take herself into school. Oh bugger!

So, most mornings I pretend not to know her. Occasionally I am allowed to speak to her as if I were a stranger making polite conversation with another stranger.

“Morning” I say cheerfully.

“Morning, what’s your name?” she will ask.

I will make someone up, someone exotic, and we will chat our merry way to school. Sometimes she will allow me to walk her to her classroom but I let her decided which days those are. I’m just the person who walks ten steps behind her ready to catch her if she falls and I’m happy to be that person for as long as she allows.

Of course, once she thinks she’s no need of me, I shall hide behind trees and bushes, head to toe in camouflage combat gear, ever ready, just in case.


The Wall

Any of you been to Woburn Safari Park? Well I have, loads. We lived there as kids and when The Eldest arrived we purchased the year passes and we lived there again. Sadly, when The Youngest arrived, although we did buy year passes, we couldn’t go as much, school runs interfere with everything, having to be back by three sucks big hairy balls. We no longer buy year passes.

However, I’ve wandered from my point.

When we were wee my Dad told us that the wall around the safari park is brick, of course, but every now and then, to aid movement due to weather, a pillar is made of metal. Yes, you read correctly, the wall is made of metal. Mind. Blown!

We never tested his theory because we were wee and that is a busy road, my Dad didn’t want us to die. The (at this time, soon to be) Husband wasn’t so fussy as to whether I died or not.

We’d driven by at some point and I had told him the story of the metal wall.

“Oh” said The Soon To Be Husband in an uninterested kind of way.

Fast forward to another day, a day where I was terribly upset about things not relating to this tale. We were heading somewhere, no idea now where, and I was crying, lots. After a while I realised we were slowing down. We’d stopped in the middle of nowhere. I looked at The Soon To Be Husband.

“There you go” he said and nodded towards the wall.


I was a grown up by now so could be trusted by busy roads.

There’s metal in that there wall I tell thee.

I was beside myself excited. Not only did I discover that the wall was metal in places I also realised that The Soon To Be Husband had been listening after all and had remembered and had known that what I needed at that moment, as we passed the wall that day, was to touch that wall.

That day is the reason The Soon To Be Husband is now The Husband.


I miss Rocky already.

The Youngest is desperate for a pet, first choice a zebra but anything will do, dog, cat, hamster or a budgie, she’d love a budgie. The Eldest, who hates anything that poos, suddenly decided he wants a dog. Not something we thought we’d ever hear him say but there you are, we never thought he’d eat a potato but he now does, people can change.

We plagued The Husband for months then, when he said yes, rapidly changed our minds. After some persuasion we were back on board with the whole dog thing. The Husband cannot for the life of him work out how he ended up talking us into it but he did. Off to Wood Green we went.

We’d already picked our dog, Charlie, but fell in love with Molly and Rocky while we were there. The four of us couldn’t agree though. I wanted Rocky, he was huge and white and scruffy and I loved him on sight. The Husband wanted Charlie a Beagle who, quite rightly, had concluded in an instant that he was far too good for the likes of us. The children wanted Molly because she was small and blooming gorgeous. 

All three were taken.

We went to the park for a bit to give our broken hearts a few moments to heal. After a quick spin on the roundabout all was well in our world.

On the way home we were talking about Molly.

“I wanted Molly” whined The Eldest.

“Me too” I whined in return.

“Was it a cat or a dog?” asked The Youngest.

? . . . . . .

“A dog” said I thinking that it could be an easy mistake to make as she was cat sized.

“Oh, I don’t want a dog” 

Right. Ok then.


I couldn’t play My Little Pony any longer. The Husband didn’t want to pretend to be a brother, again. The Eldest, who is a brother, was holed up in his room with the curtains shut and his ear phones on being as dull as it is possible for a human being to be.

We needed to get The Youngest out of the house. We needed to release her into the wild. We went to Wrest Park. There’s lots of space to run at Wrest Park, plenty of slopes to roll down and lots of other children for her to ask their names.

It was lovely.

We forgot to take snacks so spent £16.40 on some biscuits, two bottles of water and two teas. The Youngest pinched her leg climbing onto the toilet then, between sobs, refused to go for a wee. The Eldest rolled down a slope then moaned about the grass in his pants for EVER. Then there was the row, the row about how to spell tree.

This is what happened when we told The Youngest that tree doesn’t begin with ch.


She came back. Eventually.

I loved it, there was a brass band and ice creams. We’re going back next week, with snacks and a dictionary.