Monday, 25 June 2012

Money matters

Mr Jamie appears to have suddenly learnt the value of money. (Which is more than his mother's ever done.) This was brought to my attention last Friday, whilst I was gathering together items for sale on Ebay.

"Mummy, what are you doing?"

"Finding things to sell."


"So I can get some more money."

"Why do you need money?"

"So I can buy things. Food. Clothes. That sort of thing."


He disappeared for a bit, and returned shortly clutching a watch and a plastic toy goat.

"Mummy, I am going to sell these things. I don't really need them any more, and then I can have some money."

You've got to admire his entrepreneurial spirit. I did in the end however manage to convince him that there wasn't a particular desire for plastic goats, and that he could share the proceeds from the bits I was selling.

And all went quiet. Until Sunday. We were in church. (Scene of all my best blog material.) Mr Jamie was sitting on the floor, looking through the contents of my handbag. (He's a braver man than most.) Suddenly - in the middle of prayers (when else) - he let out a shout of delight.

"Oh MUMMY! Look what I've found in your bag. Lots of bits of money. I'll put them in your wallet, and then we can afford to buy food and clothes again, and we won't be poor any more. Isn't that BRILLIANT!"

I fear he may have got slightly the wrong end of the stick ...

Oh, and on a totally unrelated note, we had this interchange in the car on the way home from nursery the other night:

"Jamie, what's the name of your new teacher?"

"Mummy, can you just think inside your head please."

"But I don't know the answer! How can I think about it if I don't know the answer?"

"Can you just think please. Just do it Mummy. Inside your head."

School can't start soon enough ...

Friday, 15 June 2012


So, I'll start this post with the immortal sentence: 'Today I took Mr Jamie and Beth to the garage with me to have some new tyres fitted on my car.' And you KNOW what's coming next ...
The first thing I should say is that my garage are brilliant. Possibly the most brilliant garage in the history of cars breaking down. Independently run, extremely reasonable, and full of kind and knowledgeable mechanics who are genuinely nice to people who answer the question "When did you last check your oil" with the answer "When my car last didn't start". Anyone who's locally based, if you're not already getting serviced (fnar fnar) at Lillywhites in Emsworth ... well, you'd have missed this morning's drama for a start.

It was honestly not my plan to spend my one day 'not working' with Mr Jamie and Beth in tow to a place full of expensive cars and dangerous machinery. (I know, I know. What could possibly go wrong ...) Unfortunately I'd arrived back home from a trip to Aylesbury on Wednesday to discover a large and angry looking nail stuck in the bottom of my rear right tyre. The garage had swapped my spare over for me, but couldn't get any replacement tyres in until today. And thus it was ...

It started innocuously enough. There were at least 15.7 seconds when both children were bemused enough by being in a strange small space smelling of petrol (that's the waiting room, as opposed to the boot) that they sat quietly and still. And then the games began.

"Mummy, what's that?" (An old petrol pump.)

"Why is it broken?" (Because it's old.)

"Where are the broken bits?" (Who the fuck cares?)

"Did it melt?" (WHAT?)

"What will we do when the cows run out of milk?" (Again, WHAT?)

"Can we throw these stones?" (No.)

"Can we throw these little stones?" (No.)

"Can we throw these little stones gently?" (NO.)

Distraction techniques were attempted. We went and stroked the lovely old dog the size of me lying in the office next door. We went and were suitably awed by the incredible 'Old Yeller' (apparently it is very famous ... no, means nothing to me either) racing car they had in for repair. Beth was sent into paroxyms of delight by the friendly mechanic who spent a good ten minutes playing 'Peepo' through the letterbox with her. And then I noticed Mr Jamie's pockets ...

"Jamie, what's that in your pocket?"


"Show me."

"It's nothing."


He stuck his hand into his left pocket.

"See, nothing."

"The OTHER pocket."

Out came six tampons (Compact, in case that makes it better ... or more fucked up ... I am beyond knowing). He stuck them up his jumper and looked guilty.

"Why have you got those?"

"Because they are LOVELY Mummy. I love your Lovely Things."

"Put them in my bag. Now." He did. "Now go and be normal." He didn't.

A few minutes passed and I took the brief opportunity created by both children being momentarily distracted to check my work emails. The mechanic dealing with my car came back into the office.

"All done ... do you want to come and settle up?"

"Brilliant, thank you so much." As I went to stand up Beth rushed over to him, fist clenched.

"Der. Der. DER." ('Der' is Beth's equivalent of 'there', as opposed to her implying his less than average intelligence.) She had brought him a present.

"Oh, thank you. What's that you've got there?"

"DER." She stretched out her hand, and presented to him ...

A TAMPON. And oh no, not JUST a tampon. A tampon which she had carefully taken out of its wrapper, and out of its plastic container. A tampon, which to all intents and purposes, could only give the impression of having been USED. A USED TAMPON NOW RESTING IN THE PALM OF MY LOCAL GARAGE'S MECHANIC.

I. Died.

And then did a lunge forwards worthy of some sort of Olympic recognition.


Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Friday, 8 June 2012

Football crazy

I'm aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!

(Only just mind. Have just returned from a blood donation session, accessorising a Mr Jamie high on sugar fumes. No amount of gin is going to be sufficient to get me over that one.)

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Well, I'm not really. I am currently well deserving of the award of World's Most Sporadic Blogger (actually, no, that very clearly belongs to some of the blogs of my friends and acquaintances in the blogroll over there ---> - c'mon, people!), but that's because I'm just far too busy having fabulously exciting times to even contemplate sitting down and putting fingers to keyboard.*

*This may be a lie.

Inevitably all kinds of crazy shit been happening. This is my life, after all. However none of that really matters right now, because forefront in my mind is the fact that in a mere 55 minutes the first game of the European Championships is about to kick off. As a result of this I shall be spending the next three weeks mostly jumping up and down on the sofa, shouting at the TV, and preventing myself from mainlining gin in order to quell my fearful (and oh so depressingly accurate) anticipation of England's crapness.

Non-football-fans (who are you, and why are you reading this blog? I'm joking. Don't go. Please ...), you may wish to avoid the place until the end of the month. Although I'll try and chuck in the odd Mr Jamie/Beth related anecdote to keep you even vaguely entertained. Beth is ALL about the front bottoms these days. (Yes yes, like mother, like ...) Barely a moment goes by when she hasn't ripped off her nappy and attempted to shove her hand up herself, all the while gurning terrifyingly. One hopes she's going to develop some finesse over the next few years, or her first sexual partner is going to be absolutely bloody petrified.

Love you all ... be good ... and COME ON YOU EN-GER-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!


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