The Laughing Housewife
That’s me. In my late forties at the moment (how did that happen?). Born in the capital of Ireland (Liverpool); grew up in Wallasey and Runcorn. Emigrated most reluctantly with my family to South Africa at age eighteen. I lived in South Africa for fourteen years and came back to the UK in 1996. I’ve got a degree in Literature from the Open University. I’m married to:
He’s from the capital of Crimeland (Wythenshawe, Manchester) but spent three years at my school in Runcorn, where we didn’t meet. He lived in South Africa for eight years; had three years back in the UK; and then went back to South Africa in 1981. We met in a car park in a tiny dorp in the middle of nowhere. Ain’t life strange?
We were engaged after three months and married three years later. It’s lasted twenty-six years so far but I figure, if the three motif recurs, one of us will be free in seven years’ time. Or even five, because we will have been together for a total of thirty-three years in 2016. You maths wizards out there might be scratching your pencils right now but factor in that we married in the middle of a year and that you really don’t need to care about this stuff, and just take my word for it.
We fight a lot. Squabble, really. All day long. Who said what to whom about when and why and where. Stupid stuff, but we are both easily irritated; and irritating. I hang onto him because he fixes the computer and even does it without moaning if it wasn’t me who broke it. He moans a lot. What I really love about him, though, is his ability to put down the toilet seat and replace the toilet roll. Things like that matter after twenty-nine years. He is forever leaving love notes for me and being romantic, but I try not to mind. I must have not minded it at least twice, because we have two children:
Born in Johannesburg, he is the first fruit of my loins and Conservative Prime Minister-in-Waiting. He is at Lancaster University, studying Politics & Philosophy. That’s kind of our fault: the Hub was telling him while he was still in my womb that he was going to university. The Hub and I are great believers in getting an education and thinking for yourself and all that junk.
Tory Boy spent his whole life listening to his parents argue about politics and issues of the day and who put the toilet roll tube in the wrong recycling box, so I suppose a career in politics was inevitable, given his megalomaniac tendencies: the first thing he’s going to do when he takes over the world is send all the teachers to Antarctica and put the toilet roll tube wherever he feels like. There should have been a swear word-well in that last sentence [put the toilet roll tube wherever he swear word-well feels like] but he’s scared of his father and respects his mother so there isn’t. He’s also a good big brother to:
Like Princess Diana, I, too, have an heir and spare. He was born in Alberton, South Africa and cost us a fortune because we didn’t have medical aid at that point and it wasn’t a natural birth. It would have been cheaper to adopt. Still, we decided to hang on to him. Well, he’s family. He worked out as a good deal in the end because he’s on a full bursary at an excellent grammar school here in Stockport, where we now reside.
Features a lot. As does the Viaduct, the railway station and the Stockport Express.
Toby & Molly
Our dogs and the cutest Yorkies on the planet. We have a fish tank and thirteen fish, four shrimp and two butterfly loaches. Until recently, we also had gerbils.
You will find that a lot of dead pet references tend to appear in this blog. Pay attention because I may set a test at any time. We have three cats and seven gerbils buried in our garden (my brother says we are on the RSPCA’s hit list). We loved them all, but the Hub is daftly ridiculous about animals.
There are only two that I mention with any frequency:
The Boy Nik
An ex-addict who isn’t really a boy but talks and acts like one, and who I first met when he knocked on my door just before one Christmas to ask me to phone the nearest prison so he could visit his mate; and who has never stopped knocking since, for a hammer, a bin bag, a spade…umm, I’ve just made a connection here. I’ll get back to you on this one.
Housewife whose husband works away and who spends all her time hammering nails into our shared wall. I think she’s building a secret extension in my lounge.
A Few Important Facts
Necessary for comprehension.
- Maltesers – probably the single-most important influence in my life. No Maltesers for Christmas sets the tone for the following excruciating (for my family) year.
- The Hub has severe CFS/ME and a host of other ailments which means he spends all his time in pain and a lot of time unable to do stuff; and by ‘stuff’ I mean if he takes a shower then that’s it for his day.
- As a result of his illness he hasn’t been able to work for many years. He became ill when I had a baby and six-year old on my hands. Before he learned to manage his CFS he would spend weeks in bed, unable to get up, so we ended up on benefits once our money ran out. It’s one of the reasons I got my degree, so I could go back to work once the boys were old enough. That plan didn’t work out so well because I graduated at the height of the recession. Timing is everything.
- Christmas and Maltesers must be done to excess; everything else is showing off.
- We live in a council house on a council estate. Expect a lot of posts about crime.
- Poetry – I write it. Deal with it. Or ignore it, if you like: this is the internet, after all; how would I know whether you read my poems or not?
- I’m not soppy. Mush embarrasses me. What can I say? I’m British. I’m so un-soppy that I even have a special category – ‘Feeling Sentimental’ (see right, under ‘Category Cloud’) – for days when the hormones take over and a nice thought bursts out.
- I make up words. I figure if Shakespeare could do it, so could I. Pity I don’t have my own theatre in which to try them out, but them’s the breaks.
- My motto: you can never have too many Maltesers (the roof of your mouth is raw from eating seven boxes on Christmas Day? Suck it up, you wimp!)
I’m a Christian – I know, incredible, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have believed it if I’d been reading me, either. I have a strong and enduring faith, but that’s not what this blog is about. This blog is about poking fun at life: if something funny happens in church, you’ll hear about it; but otherwise, no preaching. I only mention it in the interests of openness.
I don’t edit your comments except for blasphemy and swearing. I’m a great believer in free speech but this blog is an autocracy so I won’t have anything on it that makes me uncomfortable. But I do it quietly, so don’t be afraid that you’ll receive a sharply-worded email from me (unless you say something complimentary, which makes me come over all British and harumphy).
On the strong and enduring faith bit: the Hub reckons if it was that strong I wouldn’t have married what he calls an ‘agnostic’ and I call ‘a rabid atheist’. The Hub is really annoying sometimes. We have learned not to argue about religion (much), but everything else is on the table. Unless he feels like winding me up and we fall out over the monarchy (he’s against it) and I swear I really am killing or leaving him this time.
Happy reading! If you got this far, you’re mine for life!
If you leave a comment as a new visitor, I will definitely reply and return the visit. Once you become a regular, I may ignore you. Blame the other readers: they said it was okay for me not to comment, because I tend to be inane. Believe me, you’ll thank them.
I’ve copied this next bit from my now obsolete Welcome, Me page, written back when I didn’t know what a blog page was, on my first day of blogging, 30 June, 2009:
I’ve just had my teenage son sort me out with my own blog; now I have to hope
1. I can think of something interesting to write and
2. I can get some people to read it.
Mission Statement: to be amusing (mission: impossible)
Welcome, new reader; I hope you enjoy this as much as I expect to.
Now for the official bit: you can’t reproduce anything on this site without my permission; it all belongs to me…nnnhhhaahhhaaahhaaaaa! (Wicked laughter, not a raspberry).
The Laughing Housewife
Cook. Cleaner. Laundry
maid. Nanny. Nurse. Banker. Last
resort. Unpaid. Worse –
She laughs. Laughs. Laughs. All the way
to the funny farm.
Copyright Tilly Bud, 2009
Final Final Note:
If you still haven’t had enough, here’s an interview you can read on Brenda Youngerman’s blog, Fiction With A Purpose.