Monday, 30 November 2009
Jamie - continuing on his Gok Wan quest - has taken to watching me in the bath first thing, very, very closely. He stands right next to the bath, his head poking over the edge and stares suspiciously at my naked body. At this point in the day he'll usually still have his dummy in but behind it I can often hear a whispered diatribe of "naughty, silly, messy, Mum, yeeeurch". Goodness only knows what kind of crazy prejudices he's building up against the naked female body. (Or perhaps I should be more honest with myself: it's not any naked body, it's MY naked body.)
Getting out of the bath, I usually spend a good five minutes (whilst, if I'm lucky, falling back into a sleep-induced coma) rubbing in my moisturiser. I've run out of the nice expensive stuff and so, attempting to be financially sensible, have been using E45 cream out of a tube. Squeezing out a 50p size piece (look, all this wine turns your pores into an arid wasteland - while I might want home care, I don't want to be shipped off to an OAP home just yet) onto my hand, I used my fingertips to rub it liberally all over my face.
There should be a law, shouldn't there, against putting E45 and baby toothpaste into identical looking tubes? Alas, that's where the similarity ends, and rubbing toothpaste over your face quickly turns into a very sticky, painful (albeit minty-fresh) situation. As previously discovered in the 'bottom' incident (this is starting to sound like some kind of toothpaste vendetta), toothpaste attaches itself extremely well to skin, and does not take well to being washed off. Which is why, if you look closely at me today, you'll see a tideline of minty paste all around my hairline ...
Once we made it downstairs, the chaos continued, with me managing to topple head first into the dishwasher (this, admittedly, was masterminded by Mr Jamie, who had stood behind me and, at the opportune moment, leaned slightly too hard on my legs. "Silly Mum", as I fished myself out of the crockery), fall over my own bowl of porridge ("Oh Mum. Silly Mum.") and be startled into falling off the sofa after Mr Jamie crept up behind me, brandishing two of his 'Action Men', and then launched said men, fighting, at my head, yelling "Go 'way, go 'way!".
I've made the executive decision to wear flat shoes today.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
I woke up at 3am this morning to find a toothbrush tickling the bottom of my foot. Strange, uncomfortable and entertaining, all at the same time. I'm yet to find out the perpetrator of said toothbrush placement, however unless Neil's moved on to some really fucking freaky fetishes (hmm, nice alliteration) then I'm going to point the finger of blame firmly at Mr Jamie.
I've developed a pressing hatred for every play ever written. This is a result of me having spent my afternoon carrying large piles of Neil's plays up from the study into the loft. (Seriously, why did I have to marry a drama teacher? I'm sure maths teachers come with less baggage. I can't believe there can be that many maths textbooks in existence.) Looking back, I cannot recall the complex set of negotiations which led to me agreeing to take on this task which was clearly, CLEARLY Neil's responsibility, but I suspect wine was involved. This, my friends, is the real peril of drink.
And Jamie's got some work to do if he sees a future career as Gok Wan looming. When I finally woke up this morning it was to Jamie sitting on my stomach, pulling back the duvet and cross examing my nipples. "Onnnnne apple (his word for nipple, lord only knows what kind of hideous mixed messages led to that), twooooooo apple. Mum's apples. Silly apples. Silly, silly, naughty, silly. (At this point he hit me square in the 'apple' with his Tommee Tippee cup.) Silly Mum. Yeeeeugh." My body confidence is just about intact.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
1) Mr Jamie is well on the way to recovery. Demonstrated by his demands for "Cake Mum. No. That cake." as we walked past a cake and coffee shop. And his subsequent eating of a chocolate brownie the size of his head.
2) It is possible to go out intending to do Christmas shopping ... and actually do some. I am still slightly stunned by this.
3) It could be argued that spending over £100 on M&S canapes is a tad excessive. Particularly when you won't actually be eating at home at Christmas. Particularly when you realise it was 2 boxes for £5 ... thus making ... 40 boxes of canapes now residing in my freezer. Anyone hungry?
4) It is actually impossible for me to be in possession of a new vehicle for more than a week without crashing it. Location this time: Cascades car park, Portsmouth. Fortunately, there appears to be no damage to the car. At least, I assume there's not. Obviously I haven't actually looked ...
5) Despite Jamie's convictions otherwise, Jim the builder is not his father. I've told Jim to ignore the constant cries of "Dad, Dad!" the moment he sees Jim arrive.
6) Spending £360 on a piece of wall art still has the ability to make me very happy. (It is bloody incredible.)
7) The amount of ham M&S put into one of their ham and mustard mayonnaise sandwiches is precisely enough to fit perfectly into the empty space in the buckle of Jamie's seatbelt. As demonstrated by ... Jamie.
8) The sight of Mr Jamie, standing in an empty trolley, being pushed around B&Q shouting "Yaaaarrr, Men!" is enough to scare off most of the B&Q resident OAPs.
9) Starting the weekend with four hours of screaming is enough for airing cupboard entrapment to start to seem like a good idea. For either me or Mr Jamie; I'm not sure which. Shame we don't have an airing cupboard.
10) Not that anyone would do this, but were people to decide to attempt to have sex, whilst their 2 year old child was awake, the sight of said 2 year old child climbing on top of them and shouting "Giddy up, giddy up!" is enough to make all feelings of desire disintegrate in less than five seconds. Not that anyone would do this ...
Friday, 27 November 2009
(I've also just had a five minute debate with myself over whether it should be 'sleigh bells', or 'sleighbells'. Seriously, five minutes sat here staring at the screen in a moment of blind panic. Being shit hot at spelling and grammar carries more responsibility than you'd think.)
Getting to the point (at last, they cheer, at bloody last), the reason for mentioning sleigh bells is that it's NEARLY BLOODY CHRISTMAS!!! As in, we're three days away from the start of December, which everyone knows is when Christmas starts (yep, it's got an even bigger build up than Birthday Week - lucky old Jesus gets Birthday Month), and I genuinely want to vomit on my own knees with excitement and mass hysteria. (I know, so what else is new?)
To get me into the festive mood, today Mr Jamie and I are off Christmas shopping. Feel the fear, people of Portsmouth, as we run through the streets screaming with joy and career around shops whilst burning a hole in my credit card. And none of this should take away even slightly from the fact that I haven't got a bloody clue what I'm going out to buy. Christmas present recipients, be warned. You may well end up with 12 back copies of Heat and a hoover attachment. But if I wrap them in tinsel they are officially festive, and therefore entirely acceptable.
AND ... my lounge is nearly finished. A world without a bed full of food awaits (Mr Jamie + eating upstairs + lack of coordination = the contents of my food cupboard strewn across my sheets).
Finally, for anyone who was wondering, Mr Jamie is most definitely on the mend. Proven last night as I walked into the bathroom to see him sitting in the bath, back to me, head turned around and hand rubbing his buttocks as he proclaimed "Mine mine botty, mine mine botty" and grinned like a loon. Nutcase.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
It wasn't actually my car. More to the point, it wasn't even a Vauxhall Meriva. It didn't, in fact, bear any resemblance to my vehicle whatsoever, other than the fact it was black. Oh, and it was parked a full three rows of cars away from where my car was sat, smugly, probably having a little internal laugh to itself.
I walked away from that one very, very quickly.
Moral to this story: identifying cars by their colour is insufficiently specific to prevent you trying to get into the wrong one. (I never said it was going to be a concise moral.)
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
In other news - there isn't any. I discovered I can get my belt onto a smaller hole today without garrotting myself round the waist, which pleases me greatly. Probably bores you, but hell, you don't have to read this stuff. There is a book in my office entitled 'Choppers'. I snigger childishly every time I walk past it. And Mr Jamie has put a kibosh on any sex in my house, by hiding all the condoms. He knows where they are as well. When I ask him: "Jamie, where's Daddy's box?" (enough of the innuendo please - even I don't want his next word to be 'condom') he giggles and runs off yelling "No, Daddy, naughty. NAUGHTY." So I'm resigning myself to a life of celibacy - but with a thinner waist. It's not all bad, then.
Monday, 23 November 2009
But, on the plus side. Lovely Neil. Lovely Mr Jamie (please send him many get better vibes, if only so I can go back to work at some point this week). Lovely builders who are making my house look lovely (and not beating me with a stick for making out a cheque to someone who none of us have ever heard of. I'm not sure what happened to my brain.). Lovely Sprite Zero in its lovely blue bottles. Lovely skinny jeans which don't make me look moose like. Lovely warm bed in which I'm intending to spend my evening.
See. Not all bad.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Mr Jamie is poorly. He feels like a furnace and his biting has gone into overdrive. Consequently, I have had next to no sleep and have foot marks in my forehead. Kicking out violently appears to be another symptom ...
Plaster is about 80% dry. Hoorah. (It still smells though.)
All this crazy arsed weather has been like a red rag to the Velux. Not helped by the fact that Neil insists on unleashing it every night, and leaving it open. Last night's highlight was it spinning round and hitting me in the face as I attempted to shut it whilst standing in a small lake of rain. I'm going to write and request they come with a Health and Safety warning.
Further updates to follow if I think of anything else to say which can be condensed into small succinct paragraphs. It's unlikely.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
The most exciting thing about it, other than its shininess (which, let's face it, is unlikely to survive more than 24 hours), is its highness. Or, more to the point, the height of my seat from the road. (I have just realised that, quite clearly, in the previous sentence, I should have typed height rather than highness. But it's entertaining me so I'm keeping it in. Even grammar pedants have their off days.) As I drove down the motorway at a mere 84 mph (just to check it could go that fast, if I needed it to. You know.) I had to stop myself from putting on a large pair of Ray-Bans and growling "King of the Road! I'm King of the Road!" (Not entirely sure who I thought I might be channelling there. Possibly some kind of hybrid Elvis/Leonardo di Caprio. Perish the thought.) It does concern me that the power may go to my head: like I need another reason to be distracted from the other road users around me.
Mass excitement continues, in the form of The Fake Aunts (that's me and Alice, for those who don't read this blog thoroughly. If you don't know who Alice is - well, you need to make a bit more of an effort, frankly.), who, thanks to my Neil-sponsored desktop recording studio have now actually recorded a song. (I'm hoping at this point you have images of some multi-million recording studio, as opposed to us sitting hunched on the edge of an old sofa in the study drinking wine. Far be it for me to shatter your illusions.) What's more, it's a song Wot We Wrote (well, it'd have to be, in these litigious times ... sigh.). Should you find yourself with a few spare minutes, go and have a listen to it, and tell us what you think. Don't worry, you don't have to be kind. We can take it - after a couple of bottles of wine, we can take just about anything you might want to throw at us. (Though not literally. I am a rubbish catcher.) To make it nice and easy for you, here's our My Space link: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=507897834 (which handily links back to this blog, so you can find yourself caught in an endless hellish cycle of Kathrynness). Or, if you're on Facebook, join our group of 'fans'. (No idea how to link to this, you'll have to find it by yourself ... but then, seriously, how many Fake Aunts can there be on Facebook?)
And here endeth the self promotion. I had to give it a whirl though - after all, we are aiming for world domination ... in a very shiny high car.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Condoms, obviously. But you knew that already, right? Sigh. It's come to something when I don't find them funny any more ...
What else? House is still in uproar (beyond the usual Mr Jamie chaos), tumble dryer still ROCKS, and my IT incompetence has hit new heights: having spent the best part of 3 hours last night recording a song, only to end up with 2.23 minutes of SILENCE. Which I can't even claim is artistically original, what with that other dude coming up with his silent symphony. Damn him and his silent ways. Seriously ... how ... why ... I am inept.
New car arrives tomorrow. Anyone want to take bets on how long it'll be before I dent it? 30 minutes? Frankly, I think you're being extremely optimistic ...
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
What this means is, that, for the last 10 years (ie, since I left my childhood home with its devoted - and cleaning obsessed - mother, not to mention very large radiators), between the months of October and March I have been resigned to wearing slightly damp, slightly minging clothes. (See. Now you know what that horrible smell was all that time.) To be honest, I'd got used to leaving my clothes outside for a month in a vague effort to get at least some of the water to evaporate, before giving up and drying the visible parts with a hairdryer. When you live in England, don't have a tumble dryer and don't have central heating - well, you wear damp clothes.
But then came the FREE MONEY (alright, okay, so it might be more of a loan, complete with excessively high APR. In my head it is FREE. Don't shatter my dreams, dammit.), and with it I threw caution to the wind and purchased my very first tumble dryer. Which arrived in a large lorry ("Lorry, Mum, LORRY." - Mr Jamie) at my house last Friday.
WHY THE HELL HAVE I WAITED TEN SODDING YEARS FOR THIS?????
Oh my god. (Again.) THE single best thing I have bought (pink items, yaks and alcohol excluded), like, ever. Neil and I had a rock and roll weekend. We stayed in. We did 15 loads of washing. We placed each of them tenderly in the tumble dryer, waited 45 minutes, and then removed our DRY CLOTHES. We did a little dance. (This may have just been me.) Mr Jamie blew hot air into his face using the vent and fell into spasms of hilarity. (I must re-read those Health and Safety guidelines.) And we went to bed with every last item of clothing washed, cleaned, and DRY.
What? I don't do ironing. Never have, never will. And my life is that much brighter a place because of it.
La la la, lovely lovely tumble dryer. It has brought joy to my home ... and no doubt a 20% uplift on my electricity bills. But I now smell less, and that's got to be a good thing. Right?
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Now, come on. Already, doesn't that sound so much better than The Cabbage Soup Diet. I mean seriously. No one likes cabbage soup. And everyone likes ... ahhh. Okay. That's where the analogy falls down then. But still. It might have worked.
This is a somewhat belated post given that I long promised to bore/entertain you with tales of my exciting weight loss. (That's exciting if you're me. Probably nothing more than vaguely interesting for the rest of you.) As of today, I have lost a total of 18lb since August. Which, for me, is a remarkably sensible and steady weight loss, as opposed to crazy Kathryn must-eat-nothing-for-a-week-and-then-my-entire-body-weight-in-lard, which is the usual strategy.
I have decided to tell you how I did it. After all, people are always looking for new diets to try, and mine is far more random than most. Also, I figured by putting excess amounts of product placement in it then random PR types might read this and then send me FREE FOOD. (Although that would slightly defeat the point of the dieting.) What? I am nothing if not mercenary.
So. You will find below full details of The Kathryn Diet. To be followed ad infinitum, or at least until you get fed up. The premise of it is extremely simple. Find foods you like. Eat them. Don't eat foods you don't like. Oh, with the caveat that foods you like must be low fat and low calorie, and foods you don't like must be the lardy ones. See. Simple.
One bowl of Oats So Simple porridge, made with semi skimmed milk. Allow (or rather resign yourself to the fact it will happen anyway, and allowing it makes it much less messy) Mr Jamie to eat at least half. Follow with a glass of Waitrose Orange Juice to provide vital Vitamin C.
One packet of Uncle Ben's Express Microwave Rice. I told you a few months ago how much I love this stuff - not only is it cheap, easy to cook (2 minutes in the microwave. 2 MINUTES!) and comes in a variety of flavours, but it has also been a key factor in my weight loss. If you have OCD tendancies, remove one spoon of rice and throw it in the bin before eating. If not then you're fine to eat the whole packet. Follow it with a packet of Sainsbury's Ready to Eat Melon.
Now, up until now I think you'll agree that's probably been a pretty healthy diet. I could even go so far as to recommend it. However. I accept that by the time we hit the evening meal, this probably falls down somewhere in terms of nutritional value. Dinner is usually a packet of Nairns Cheese Oat Cakes (the mini ones, I'm not implying that I eat an entire tube of the things) with, depending on the night of the week, either a glass of Sprite Zero or, providing it's after Tuesday and therefore 'the weekend', a glass (ha ha ha ha ha) of Chardonnay - preferably Hardy's Crest. Sometimes I mix things up a bit and have a handful of Sainsbury's Bombay Mix (and it must be Sainsbury's, anything else is vile vile vile) or some Waitrose Smoked Salmon instead.
And before you panic, and think, my god, she must be the size of a stick (ah, if only ... sigh), there are at least two days a week when I fall off the wagon and go a bit mental with Waitrose Satay Chicken, Waitrose ready meals and Mars Planets. Which is probably why I've only lost 18lb, as opposed to the planned for 2.5 stone.
So there we go. My life secrets revealed, for you to use as you will. Although, seriously, I should probably point out at this point if you hadn't already worked it out that I doubt very much that this diet comes anywhere near being nutritionally approved. But it is full of My Favourite Things, and therefore very bloody easy to stick to.
Most boring blog post of all time? Quite possibly. Now where's my free food ...?!
Monday, 16 November 2009
In other news ... the builders start work today. I know that it's all a means to an end, and that it will be well worth it for the beautiful house I'm going to end up with ... but I'm finding it hard at the moment to get excited about Mr Jamie filling the bed with hot porridge ("Oh Mum. Mess.") at 7am due to our lack of lounge. (And what d'you mean I could have fed him in the kitchen? Well - duuurrrr - of COURSE I could have fed him in the kitchen. But that would have been logical. Something which I have not previously demonstrated a propensity for.) His latest word is "Mine". Used primarily when pointing to his porridge ("Mine porridge, Mum."), and also - what else - his willy ("Mine willy. No Mum. Mine").
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to collapse in a heap under my desk. A side effect of Mr Jamie waking up this morning at 4.20am - seriously, why, child, why? - and engaging Neil in intense conversation. "No Daddy. Mine duggy. Naughty. Naughty Daddy. NAUGHTY."
And people ask why I'm not considering having another child any time soon ...
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Saturday, 14 November 2009
J: (transfixed) Daddy willy.
N: Yes, Dad has a willy.
J: (bending double and looking up triumphantly) AYMIE willy!
N: Yes, that's Jamie's willy.
J: (looking over at me, sitting on the toilet seat) Mum willy?
N: No, Mum doesn't have a willy. That's because Mum's a girl, and only boys have willies.
J: Mum sad?
K: No, I'm fine about not having a willy.
J: Mum sad. Girl. Yeeeeuuuuuuggggh.
In other news ... the Velux is back on the rampage. I woke up about 2am to find Neil wrestling with it as it swung itself round while the forces of nature turned up in our bedroom. Eventually, by throwing his full body weight at it, he managed to lock it shut. Returning to bed, we lay there in silence only to hear a very persistent 'drip ... drip ... drip'.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. Thank the lord for laminate flooring.
Friday, 13 November 2009
I visited two dealers, both of whom managed to be remarkably unpatronising to me, although I'm sure the moment I left they were no doubt guffawing behind their plastic suits. "She's got breasts ... and she wants to buy a car? Give over." They also dealt well with the chaos which is Mr Jamie inside a car dealership. Two of his current obsessions: cars, and men. (I know.) And here we were, in a shop FULL of cars and men. "Car, Mum. Man, Mum. Car. Man. CAR! MAN!" And so on, ad infinitum.
At some point, I think I need to have the stranger danger chat to him. Preferably sooner rather than later. The excitement of the car/man combo I think got the better of him, and he ended our first visit by throwing himself into the arms of the (somewhat startled) dealer for a hug. Mind you, that was probably a better option than his ending to the second visit, which resulted in him hurling himself to the ground of the forecourt and screaming "Pen, Mum, pen" in a full blown, stiff bodied tantrum.
Wonder if that might be a tactic for negotiation?
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Mr Jamie climbing on your head at 5am is apparently not the world's greatest hangover cure.
Going to the toilet twelve times before said 10am meeting makes your colleagues look at you oddly.
Attempting to hold in vomit may distract you from the meeting agenda.
Pick & Mix, like Mr Jamie, is not a great hangover cure either. Disappointingly.
By 7pm the following evening, drinking a glass of wine remarkably seems like a sensible decision.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
1) I should provide clarification on yesterday's blog post. When I said 'blowing' through a tube, I didn't actually mean blowing as such. I meant playing it like a digeridoo. Think Rolf Harris and you're there.
2) Smug. Last night, Neil decided he was going to go up to bed when Mr Jamie was still awake. I told him not to. I reminded him of what happened last time we attempted to do such a thing. He ignored me. He told me Mr Jamie would lie down next to us and fall asleep in our arms. He went upstairs.
Three hours later, Mr Jamie finally fell asleep.
3) Tired. See above.
4) Traumatised. Due to a conversation this morning that, alas, for common sense reasons it would be remiss to replicate here on my blog. See me in person though and I will gladly unburden myself - albeit, you should be warned, you will then find yourself sharing in my trauma. Rest assured though, this - as with most of the rest of my life - is entertaining trauma, as opposed to traumatised trauma.
5) Exposed. I'm wearing an ill fitting bra. I'm also wearing a translucent top. I've just had a trip to the toilet and discovered that I've spent the management conference call with my nipple clearly visible through my top. Great joy.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
But last night was most excellent, on so many levels. Before I get onto that though, I should make mention to my BASTARD AGED BROKEN MONEY-GRABBING INCOMPETENT WRECK OF A VAUXHALL OMEGA. And breathe. My git of a car has now cost me over £1k this year ... that's purely looking at repairs. Then you add in the £1k of insurance per year. Plus tax, MOT, petrol ... It is time to get a new vehicle. (I'm quite up for a rickshaw, but Neil is reticent. His loss.) Sadly, not something as easy as it sounds, when you know shag all about cars and are prone to disaster. Any advice, warnings or suggestions on car buying (new or used, where from, how to finance, what vehicle, etc) would be very, very welcome in the comments section below. It needs to be cheap, reliable, large booted, low insurance group and economical. Beyond that, I couldn't care less what it looks like or how many alloys it has fitted on the bonnet. (See. I know nothing about cars.) So rise to the challenge, my blog readers: I need you!
Anyway. Back to the point. (Was there even one to start with?) Last night. Most excellent. Post car-rage, we got home, fed Jamie, took him upstairs for a bath. Crisis No. 1. Boiler had broken. Given Mr Jamie's current bath apathy, I decided it would be best not to compound the issue by plunging him into one filled with cold water. After several laps of running up and down the stairs (turns out having your boiler in the loft, and the thermostat on the ground floor, isn't terribly convenient) Neil used his Man Skills and mended it. By turning it off ... and turning it back on again. Seriously, how many electrical problems does that process solve? I reckon a fair few IT helpdesks could be out of a job if more of us cottoned onto it.
After an utterly pointless fifteen minutes spent wrestling a most unhappy Mr Jamie into the bath, out of the bath, and into his pyjamas (ever tried to get an angry cat into a pillow case? If so, then you will have an idea of what this procedure involved) I had some quality Davina time (although maaaaan, am feeling the burn today. I really should do that cool down.) while Neil ate various strange smelling substances in the kitchen.
And then - John and Yoko, eat your heart out - we wrote a song. (I fit the Yoko analogy so well, although I don't want Neil to start wearing stupid glasses. Nor, for that matter, do I want him to get shot.) Oh yes, creative genius at its finest. We weren't being filmed by the world's media, nor were we sitting semi-clothed in a bed (which, I admit, is unusual for us), but we did write a song, and I - even if no one else is - am quite impressed with it. Admittedly, it is about a couple splitting up. I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that ...
Post song writing, we went upstairs and attempted to set up my new recording studio. And failed, miserably. So, if you're expecting this blog post to end with a sample of the new song, you're going to be bitterly disappointed. Sorry, but that's how it is. And don't worry, we tried turning it off and back on again. Seems that's not a catch all solution, alas.
But all was not lost. Because, while waiting for the recording studio to do its thang (or not), we discovered the best game EVER. Get a long cardboard tube. Point it at the other person's genitals (which I would recommend are clothed, or else I think this becomes rather painful). Blow through the tube.
Bloody HILARIOUS. What? You think that's weird and freakish? Well try it, you cynics. I cannot remember laughing so much in a very long time. Though I would recommend you find someone to 'play' with who you know very well. I'm not sure how it would go down as a game at a work teambuilding session, for example.
And then we went to bed. A quite startlingly productive evening, which ended, brilliantly, with me uttering the line: "Blaaaaaaaaaaagggggh. My front bottom tastes MINGING."
I can't understand why the documentary crews haven't come calling yet ...
Monday, 9 November 2009
In short, I've displayed classic stalker behaviour. It can be only a matter of time before the restraining order is issued ...
In contrast, Mr Jamie and I have had something of a turbulent few days. He's obviously at that point in his life where he feels the need to assert his authority over absolutely everyone - particularly his mother. This has resulted in an excess of physical violence (and people look at you oddly when you claim your scratched up face and bruised cheek were caused by a toddler, not to mention the teeth marks on your nose), an attempt at a hunger strike (although it seems fruit, brussell sprouts and chocolate buttons all make it through the barricades) and last night's stand off in the bath.
Generally speaking, Mr Jamie is a pretty amenable type of guy. Hell, until 2 weeks ago, he hadn't even learnt the word 'no'. Alas, it has now entered his vocabulary, and with it his tolerance of songs for the shows and Des Lynam related hysteria has rapidly diminished. (Like father, like son ...)
And so we reached last night, where Grace and I took Jamie upstairs for his nightly bath. It didn't get off to the most auspicious of starts. "Are you going to take your clothes off Jamie?" "No." "Would you like to go in the bath Jamie?" "No." "Are you going to sit on your potty Jamie?" "No." At which point he pulled off his nappy and started leaping around the room, waggling his willy like some vaguely threatening nudist baby terrorist.
Eventually, using a 'sheep-herding' technique, Grace and I managed to capture him and put him into the now filled bath. (I feel the need to clarify this here, just in case you think I am some kind of evil parent who makes her naked child sit in cold empty baths.) He looked up at us glumly: he's not a bath fan at the best of times, and I think having a kibosh put on his naked willy dancing at the same time was a bit much to take. Anticipating a quick dip in and out I washed him down, brushed his teeth, and asked him if he wanted to get out.
Fair enough. I left him in the bath, where he hunched over miserably and looked up at us with big sad eyes. "Jamie, do you want to get out of the bath?" "No." "Do you want to stay in the bath?" "No." "Do you want to go and get your duggy?" "No." (No to a duggy - these were clearly desperate times.) "Do you want to go and see Daddy?" "No." "Do you want to go and watch Balamory?" "No."
The questioning continued in this vein. For a full fifteen minutes, Grace and I attempted to get him out of the bath that he was clearly intensely unhappy at being in. Attempts to lift him without his agreement resulted in him going entirely rigid and biting us on the hand.
Finally, Grace hit the jackpot. "Jamie, do you want to go to California?" His eyes went wide. He looked up at her. "YES." "Well, to do that, you have to get out of the bath." "No." Arse. With all the imagination of an 11 year old, she tried again. "And Jamie, if you get out of the bath, we can go to Bananaworld at Christmas?" "Yes, yes, yes." And with that he stood up, raised his arms, and was lifted out of the bath.
So, great news all round. Not only are his nightly baths now looking like taking a good half hour out of my day, I also have to facilitate a trip to California and come up with a convincing replica of 'Bananaworld' by Christmas. Oh, but you think it's okay, because he's forgotten all about it, after all, he's only 2?
First thing this morning. "Mum. Hiya. Nanaworld?"
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Anyway. We walked up to church, Mr Jamie showing his respect for the dead by donning his Bob the Builder hat. I noticed a number of passers by giving us a wide berth. As we walked he stomped his way through piles of wet leaves and muttered "Membance Unday, Membance Unday, Bob the Bob, fix it, yes can, Balla, Pencer, Membance Unday." Like I say, I feel the message of the day might have been lost on him somehow.
I'm not sure whether it's because we hadn't been for a couple of weeks, but as we arrived at church he became suddenly struck by the fact there were other people in there. "Mum! People! Church!" He then went immediately into international spy mode, laying himself flat on the floor to push his head under the pew and peer out at anyone who happened to walk past. One or two of them got a nasty surprise as Mr Jamie's hand suddenly shot out and grabbed them by the ankle.
Remembrance Sunday is clearly a very serious, landmark date in the calendar, and so please don't think that by writing any of this I'm being even slightly disrespectful. I did however find myself sniggering like a teenager on a couple of occasions during the service today, and had to hide my face in the back of Jamie's neck so as not to look entirely like I was setting a bad example. It didn't help when Jamie suddenly remembered about the 'peace' element of the service and started yelling "piss, piss" at everyone who walked past and lurched at them in an attempt to seize hold of their hands.
Respect aside though ... I'm really not sure about the thought process behind deciding to have The Last Post played on ... a recorder. I was torn between solemn thoughts for all those who have died for their country, and uncontrollable hysteria at the sight of an elderly lady piping out a slightly off key version of this classic composition on an instrument which looked as though it had been left behind after a primary school music lesson.
And then, just as I'd about got control of myself, and prized Mr Jamie's teeth off my face (why is it that Christianity seems to worst instill the biting urge in him?), I happened to notice the line in the order of service which goes:
"And then the Spirit came over them."
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Immature? Me? Absolutely. In fact, I'm still laughing about it now. Who says Christians don't know how to have a laugh?
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Last night (I dreamt), Alice was round at mine for a Fake Aunts rehearsal. For some reason Neil was present. Alice and Neil were sitting together on the brown sofa underneath the window. I decided I needed a wee (I love the fact that all my dreams appear to feature urination (is that even a word?)) and left the room. I took two steps up the stairs, then came back down and into the lounge in time to see Alice swing her leg over Neil and pronounce "Let's get closer, big boy". Which Neil did. I reacted in my usual, entirely rational manner, screamed, shouted, ranted, raved and threw myself onto the floor. I also threw Alice out of the house. Neil, unmoved, sat on the sofa and told him he was leaving me for Alice. I begged him not to. I told him he would never get to see Jamie again. I offered him sex, right there, every which way, no strings attached. He told me their love was too great, and he didn't care. He also informed me that, while Jamie and I could stay in the house, he was moving Alice in and they would be taking over the loft. Jamie and I would be 'allowed' to stay on the middle floor.
The next day, I asked Neil again to reconsider. He refused, and left the house. I also had to leave as, by unfortunate coincidence, Alice and myself were performing at the Bedhampton Arts Centre as a tribute to Fleetwood Mac. Also in the band were Nathan and Mark (who sat on a chair and played a drum). (And, for the record, I was totally Stevie Nicks.) The rehearsal proved somewhat problematic, due to Alice's proximity to me. I am however happy to be able to report that no clitorectomies - even dream ones - were performed. I made her sit at least a metre behind me at all times while I sang my heart out in the face of adversity.
After the rehearsal, I was allowed to leave while Alice and Lorraine rehearsed the duet of 'I Know Him So Well' that they were performing. (My voice had been deemed not strong enough by the organising committee to be allowed to sing in this one, so Lorraine took my place. Probably just as well, as I'm not sure quite how duetting with Neil's new love interest would have worked out at this point.) I found Neil, who was also in Bedhampton. I asked him if we could sit down and talk things through. He refused, as there was a special film on at the Bedhampton Cinema (for those of you of a non local persuasion, Bedhampton has no cinema) that he wanted to go and see. He left. I sobbed.
The following day, for some reason we all found ourselves at some stately home. Neil was sitting in the tea room there drinking lots of tea and eating many sandwiches. I went in to see him. I asked him again if we could talk. He told me no. He reiterated how much he loved Alice. He brought in Harry and Grace to avoid having to talk to me. I sobbed. I left. I ran out into the grounds of the stately home where there were a large number of fields and bushes, and also several herds of cows. Running, amok, like buffalo (or even yaks) towards me. I was desperate to get out of their way but to no avail. I fell to the ground as they hurtled towards me and trampled my broken body into the ground ...
Thankfully, at this point, I woke up. Sobbing hysterically. Dream from hell, dream from hell, DREAM FROM HELL. I'd actually woken up at several points during it, crying, had fallen back to sleep, and started dreaming the same dream again. Now why the hell does this not happen with the good dreams?
There are several morals to this story:
1) The future of of The Fake Aunts may be in jeopardy if Alice ever takes off with Neil.
2) Seems like my clitorectomy threat may be just that, given I failed miserably to carry it through.
3) Neil seems to come off pretty well in my dreams. Two women offering him sex, cups of tea, interesting films and sandwiches. He told me afterwards that he wished he'd dreamed it himself.
4) Alice, Mark, Nathan and myself should never, ever be tempted to form a Fleetwood Mac tribute band.
5) Note to self: do not go to bed immediately after drinking a bottle of wine, watching a Fleetwood Mac documentary and reading through a song Neil wrote about a couple splitting up ...
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Jaaaams dressed for ... fuck knows what. You've got to be truly great friends with someone to spend five minutes of your day taking photos of their groin.
This picture explains all the reasons why James and I are best friends. And why no one else can cope with spending too much time with us.
And yes. I was wearing them.
Major blog excitement coming for you later ... with PHOTOS. Oh yes.
No, not of my car catastrophe, you gits.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
However. You will have to wait for those. What with me having to go and spend the day sitting in a management meeting. I know: it's the rock and roll lifestyle that I lead. Besides, my mind is currently full of the events of the last half an hour ...
I dropped Mr Jamie at nursery; I dropped Jaaaams at the station. I drove to work. I arrived in the carpark in my usual haphazard fashion. I had my daily momentary panic about where the hell to park. (There are always plenty of spaces, however there are very few spaces which enable me to successfully manouvre my tank of a Vauxhall Omega into them without endangering myself, my colleagues, or other vehicles.) I decided on the space literally opposite the entrance to the car park, right next to the office building, which I could drive straight into. I drove straight into it. I failed to brake. I hit, with some force, the (large, and very visible) air conditioning unit attached to the side of the building. That's the side of the building on which my boss's office is situated. The car bounced back off said air conditioning unit. I attempted a nonchalent reverse and then reparked. I got out of the car. I checked the air conditioning unit for damage. I convinced myself there was none to be seen. (I made the executive decision not to check my car.) I walked into the office. I walked past my boss's office. He laughed. A lot. I went into my office and rocked backwards and forwards, groaning at my inability to possess any kind of spacial awareness whatsoever.
So that's my Wednesday morning so far. I'll be honest: I've had better ...