Tag Archives: Humour

I Cried Yesterday

19 Mar

Click on the photos to enlarge them

Actually, I cried the day before yesterday but I wrote this post yesterday so the title was correct for yesterday’s yesterday but not for today.  Anyway, me crying at all except at the end of Love Actually is such a rare event, I felt I had to blog about it.

As you must know, because I’ve bored you to death about it for months now, Spud is playing Judas in his school production of Godspell.  The first night is tomorrow tonight.  I can’t get the songs out of my head and as I was preparing his sandwiches for tonight’s tea between tweaking-rehearsal and performance, I sang Beautiful City to myself.  I suspected I might be allowing it to take over my life when I came to the line, We can build a city of man and sang, We can build a city of ham…

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Yesterday (‘s yesterday) was the dress rehearsal.  The Hub is an excellent photographer and took some great pics of the last three school productions Spud starred in (no bias here, honest).  He gave them to Spud’s drama teacher and she loved them and asked if he would go along to yesterday’s yesterday’s dress rehearsal to take photos of this production.

The Hub has M.E. so of course he needed his loving and supportive wife along to hold the spare camera batteries.  The fact that I got a sneak preview of the show was purely coincidental.

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We had front row seats and we needed them, because my heart swelled with so much pride it took up all of the space between the audience and the stage.

I know he’s my son and I’m biased and all that rubbish, but Spud was fantastic.  He began as a happy, hopeful man and changed over two hours to anger and betrayal via confusion and doubt.  

He sang, with music and without.

He cried in Jesus’ arms the moment before he left to betray him.  He sobbed on the floor after the crucifixion.  

He was totally believable.

IMG_5205smallTeachers made a point of coming up to tell me how good he was and how he should pursue acting as a career.  But better than that, the director told me that, for all of his talent, he is a lovely, lovely boy and she hopes her own son will grow up to be just like him.

Can you blame me for blubbing?

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Googling Myself

12 Mar

It’s not that I’m vain, or anything, but I do occasionally Google my name (okay, I am vain; but can you blame me with this hair?).  At least I don’t check to see if I’ve got a Wikipedia page – no, really, I don’t, honest…

I have to Goggle myself when I’m submitting poems, because so many editors exclude poems already published online, even if it was on my now defunct poetry blogs which can no longer be accessed.

I Gaggled four poems and my name this morning and I was disappointed to find one of them in the 2010 comments section of a poetry blog, which means I can’t use it.  

The Haggle brought up a pleasant surprise, however – which isn’t always a given when you Giggle yourself; all I’m going to say is tea bags/washing line/shame…. Fortunately, I’m such a prolific blogger that the embarrassing photo is hidden way down in my Boggle listing.  

I discovered that a poem published by English Pen last year in their Dictionary of Made-Up Words was featured on their website earlier this year, as part of an ongoing promotion of the book.  I didn’t know it was there.  I’m chuffed!

Even better – it was retweeted!  It’s nice to be twit.

You may say it was coincidence, but I think it’s strange that I didn’t come across this poem until I had my hair cut.  I’m like an anti-Samson: all of my power was consumed by my long hair; now it’s short, I’m discovering my work in the ether and being invited to take part in poetry events which may or may not come off so I can’t say anything at the moment…except that the invites were issued after the haircut…

So, do you Wriggle yourself?  Or are you afraid to discover dirty little secrets of yours hiding out there in the ether?  Are there photos of you drunk at a party? Taking an illicit beach day from work?  Wearing flares?

I’ll find out, you know, when I Ogle you.

Never Forget The Prompts

6 Mar

Have you ever eavesdropped on a conversation you weren’t supposed to? Tell us about a time when it was impossible not to overhear a conversation between people who didn’t know you were there. What was the conversation about? How did it make you feel?

It wasn’t eavesdropping so much as my first ten minutes in a new job in Johannesburg.  A secretary walked into the office in great distress, crying her eyes out and complaining that ‘he threw my elephant ears off the balcony!’

Hillbrow flats are small and their balconies are tiny and I wasn’t interested in the argument – instead, I was consumed with a desire to know  what exactly were elephant ears?  If they were ornamental elephant ears, how huge were they?  Did he have to use a tool to tip them over or was he so adrenalin/drink/rage fuelled that it was like a mother lifting a car from her child’s pinned-down body?

Or were they genuine elephant ears?  If they were, they’d still be pretty big but surely they’d have shrivelled to mankiness; and where would you buy something like that anyway?  You could buy legal ivory because elephants weren’t protected in South Africa in the Eighties but I never heard of anyone buying wrinkly skin flaps before.

I felt quite sorry for her distress and empathised with her experience of that terrible creature known as ‘man’, but I was cripplingly shy in those days, kept my head down and never stuck my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.  I went all day without knowing what the argument was about but, finally, at 16:29, one minute before leaving, I had to ask: what on earth are elephant ears?

She laughed and replied, ‘A plant.’

How mundane.  Eavesdropping: it’s really not worth the ear-burning it causes.

*

Tell us about a situation where you’d hoped against all hope, where the odds were completely stacked against you, yet you triumphed. Be sure to describe your situation in full detail. Tell us all about your triumph in all its glory.

I really hoped those ears were real.

That was back in the days when I wasn’t animal-mad; or unselfish (no kids yet).

I triumphed because I plucked up the courage – in the face of twenty-four years of terror at the thought of asking questions of a complete stranger, especially about her personal life – to satisfy my curiosity.

*

A song comes on the radio and instantly, you’re transported to a different time and place. Which song(s) bring back memories for you and why? Be sure to mention the song, and describe the memory it evokes.

Nellie the Elephant…some of you may have heard of it.  I’m transported to church at half-past seven in the evening and the recollection that I forgot to tell you that I’d had a spicy dinner that day and had to clench my butt cheeks the whole time I was on my knees practising CPR, in case the evidence seeped out.

Don’t mock: I could save your life one day.

*

You’re 12 years old. It’s your birthday. Write for ten minutes on that memory.

I can’t remember it.  I’m not an elephant.

*

What giant step did you take where you hoped your leg wouldn’t break? Was it worth it, were you successful in walking on the moon, or did your leg break?

You never take giant steps when you have a wind problem like mine.

*

When was the last time you were embarrassed? How do you react to embarrassment? 

Did you not read my last answer?  How easily embarrassed do you think I am?

Okay, you’re right: I am very easily embarrassed in real life; blogging is fairly anonymous so it removes my inhibitions.  If I were to break wind in your physical presence, I think I’d be embarrassed beyond measure.  We both would.

*

Publish a post in the style of a favorite author/blogger or photographer.

A nonsense poem for you, written in five minutes, as an homage to Ogden Nash, Roger McGough and the city of Chicago.

In Praise of Gas 

There’s an art to the fart, I’m sure
(just follow a wild beast’s spoor).
But if a pump makes you jump
stay away from the elephant’s trump.

He who has gas laughs last (and usually alone).
He capers at vapours and gels with smells;
but he secretly prays there’s no belligerence
caused by his intense flatulence –

he feels embarrassment
but masks it with merriment
and expensive,
frequently sprayed scent.

Apologies to my audience:
I feel I ought to rescind my words about wind –
I suspect I am less sinned against,
than I have sinned.

More On Doors

5 Mar

I remember another time a doorway exchange caused some confusion.

We were living in South Africa and we had a dog who had given birth to five puppies but who had no interest in caring for them.  She escaped at every opportunity and the Hub was at his wits’ end (admittedly, he didn’t have far to go), trying to persuade her to feed her pups.  

One warm Saturday morning (so, any Saturday morning; this was South Africa), Scamp sneaked out again and the Hub, watering the garden, spotted her doing her snake impression across the kitchen threshold.

We had new neighbours.  Their first impression of the kind of people we are – misogynistic husband; downtrodden wife – came when next door’s wife heard my husband scream, ‘Get in the house and look after your babies, you stupid b****.’

Guests

3 Mar

I thought Toby was scratching at my door at his usual five a.m. the other night. He never wants to go out; he wants to remind me that his breakfast is due in two hours and forty-five minutes.  I am never allowed to forget it: he will growl at me several or fourteen times between then and quarter-to-eight.

It wasn’t Toby; it was Spud, trying to slip a note under my door; and it wasn’t five; it was sometime after one.  He came in, as I was now awake, for spare bedding.  He said ‘Excuse me’ but I was half asleep and didn’t register until he knocked me over, having expected me to move.

The note was to explain, in case I woke up in the night and wandered around in confusion, that two of his friends had phoned at one a.m. to beg a bed.  They had been to a party which Spud had decided not to attend because of travel difficulties (three buses there; three buses back) and, because they live several towns over, had nowhere to sleep once they were kicked out.

We are not the sort of people to see teenagers on the streets, so of course the Hub had said ‘yes’.  Besides, they are both in Godspell, with Sam playing Jesus.   We want it to be a success and a destitute lead is not in the remit.

Spud was given his instructions by the Hub and, when the boys arrived some time after two, Spud opened the door and declared: ‘Sorry.  There’s no room at the inn.’

We might be kind but we will have fun at your expense.

A Treat For Doctor Who Fans

28 Feb

It’s about four years late but I’ve only just seen it.

Enjoy!

My Left Arm: The Story Of Crusty Scabs

27 Feb

You may recall I took a flying visit to the pavement some weeks ago.  My left arm bore the brunt of the impact but it’s on the mend.  The scabs have almost gone and would have been gone long ago if I’d stopped leaning on the Hub’s face with my elbow.

Although it still hurts to stretch too high or too quickly – – – sorry, short break for hysterical laughter while I corpse at the thought of me exercising  – – – it is fully functioning.  That’s why I thought I’d be okay to give blood from it on Monday [the Hub interjected with something about getting blood from a stone-hearted...butenoughfromthegallery].

I don’t have a favourite arm (does anyone?).  I have great veins, according to many nurses, and they can siphon it from either side, so I didn’t think twice when I sat in a left-handed chair (this post is beginning to seem weird even to me); and maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference but my left arm was not happy with the way the Blood New Donation Executive – BloNDE for short though, in actual fact, she was a BruNeETTE: Brutal New Executive Trying To Extract.

I’m not sure she was new, if I’m honest, but it’s the only explanation I can think of for the way in which she hacked at my left arm with the needle, came back several times to wiggle it about, and smiled nicely at me in the most terrifying way.

The blood eventually seeped out, reluctant though it was.  I don’t understand it because I’ve donated blood at least nineteen times and never had a problem. This time, the area around my elbow was tight and ached and my left hand went extremely cold.  I was told to report it if it still hurt after my orange juice and Club biscuit (two Club biscuits…I was feeling quite sorry for myself) which it was, so I did.

Boy, was I sorry.  Yes, I was.  They sent me to the nurse.  It was like being back at school, except I didn’t come away with a cloth brick and two safety pins at the end of it.

Forty minutes to go through my story, check for bruising, explain possible forthcoming symptoms, explain what to do in the case of possible forthcoming symptoms, explain what is on the other leaflet instead of the bruising leaflet which was all she had to hand but most of the possible forthcoming symptoms were the same on the one leaflet as the other and the advice anyway was to immediately phone this number and ask for advice about those possible forthcoming symptoms if I showed any of those possible forthcoming symptoms.

I didn’t have any forthcoming symptoms and I told the nurse as much when she phoned next day to check on me.  They really want you to go back and give more blood, you know.  Something about ‘saving lives’ and ‘helping research’. I’m not sure what exactly; I couldn’t hear her over the lump on my left arm.

The lump had almost disappeared by Wednesday evening and the ache had long gone, so I didn’t consider missing last night’s First Aid class.  My church applied for funding to provide this sort of education to the community and I thought it would be useful to attend, especially as it was free (I may be a Christian but I’m not made of money): if I ever deck a ReDHEAD (Really Doesn’t Have to Ever Ask DoesthiswhoppinggreatneedlethatI’mstabbingyouwithhurt?), it would be good to be able to revive her again.

The trainer was very funny and had us all singing Nellie the Elephant: half of the chorus sung twice amounts to thirty chest compressions.  First Aid has changed a lot since I took a course twenty-five years ago.  No more three breaths good/five compressions better; now it’s all assume-if-it’s-a-stranger-they-have-Hepatitis-and-don’t-give-mouth-to-mouth-unless-he’s-particularly-good-looking (though I might just have added that list bit to my notes without hearing it from the instructor first).

CPR was harder to do than I expected, especially the breathing; but I aced Burns – no butter!  No bandages!  No hot water! (how my mother once treated my sunburn).  Dealing with choking was easy enough to do on small dummies; however, I was the class dummy when it came to adults – bottom of a class of seventeen people.

The trainer put on a harness thing which had a large pad to protect her back when we whacked her – five times, having first bent her over our arms – and a simulated choking throat on her front (sponge in a bottle).  The idea was to stand behind her, make a fist and thrust up around the area of the diaphragm, five times; then go back to five whacks and so on.  Some people managed to expel the sponge fairly quickly, especially the men, who were stronger; but plenty of the women did it too.

I had a little trouble.  I have no strength at all and, although the spirit is willing, the flesh is as weak as one of my puns.  I grasped her from behind and looked for all the world like an enthusiastic Goldilocks desperately humping poor Papa Bear, and having as much success.

Jo is an excellent trainer and wanted to ensure that everyone went away knowing they could do this, so I kept at it until she’d have been long dead in real life – but I got that sucker out in the end!  Thank you, Jo.

Which brings me back to my left arm – nobody tells you that saving people’s lives is difficult.  Okay, perhaps they shouldn’t have to tell you that, it’s kind of obvious when you think about it, or doctors wouldn’t train for so many years so they could be sued for their BMWs;  but I hadn’t expected it to be so physical, and I could barely use my left arm last night.  Instead of using my left hand, I had to rest my right hand on my hypochondriacal damp brow.

I’m not sure I’ll bother using the skills I’ve learned (it’s not like I paid for them); it seems like so much hard work.  It might be okay for someone who I quite like, such as my children; but what if it’s an MP, or a telesales person, or the Hub? My arm really hurts as a result of all that being noble and brave guff.  I’d give my left arm for it not to be aching right now.

Talking Heads

24 Feb

Last Thursday, I gave another poetry reading at Walthew House in Stockport – my third.  They have asked me back for a fourth visit.   One chap (he’s a chap because he’s from the older generation; if he was my age, he’d be a man; Spud’s age, he’d be a lad.  Isn’t language funny?) told me that they had talked about me long after I left last time; then hastened to assure me he meant, ‘in a good way.’ Hmm.

It wasn’t me so much, but the poetry.  They are a wonderful, lively group called Talking Heads, and that’s what they do: talk.  A lot.  The poems I read caused much debate.  The group leader had asked for poems on the theme of ‘spring’ so I had prepared about forty poems (I was due to read for an hour), including some of my own.  The topics of mine varied from cleaning to seduction to dog poo, but all mentioned spring.

They enjoyed one poem so much – six lines on World War One military equipment – they asked for the name of the poet…which was me.  I was delighted to send two people home with copies of the poem – the first time that’s ever happened.

The chap who asked, Vincent, told us it reminded him of a poem he had written when his son was serving in Iraq during the Second Gulf War.  He wondered if he could read it to us, but the memory of his emotion at the time – the absolute fear from having a child in a war zone – choked him up so much, it was fifteen minutes before he composed himself enough to read it.  It was worth the wait: lovely; touching and heartfelt.

After some talk of Thomas Hardy (none of whose poems I had read, but that will show you the meandering nature of the discussions), Vincent mentioned that his son’s best friend had sent him a collection of Hardy’s poems, underlining The Darkling Thrush in the Contents as his favourite poem.  A couple of days after receiving the book Vincent, unable to stay in the house and listen to war news on the radio, had taken an evening walk and came across a lone thrush, singing a solo symphony in the evening air.  Vincent was entranced.

Returning home, there was a phone call around 11:30 that night.  Shaking, he answered.  It was his son: Dad, I’m home!  He didn’t have time to talk because there were several people he had to call with the news, but his Dad had been first on the list.

Next evening, Vincent took another walk and came across the same thrush, singing in celebration, it seemed.  Vincent said he yelled at it: You knew he was safe last night, didn’t you?  You could have told me!  Neither Vincent nor the thrush took any notice of the people staring at the barmy man yelling at a bird in the tree.

What a wonderful story, provoked by a poem.  And that’s why I love poetry.

Prompts About Prompts

19 Feb

Tell us about the time you threw down the gauntlet and drew the proverbial line in the sand by giving someone an ultimatum. If you’ve never handed out an ultimatum but secretly wanted to, describe the scene and what you would say to put an end (one way or another) to an untenable situation.

Really, WordPress!  Enough is enough!  Stop mixing your metaphors and going on for three pages to get to the point (that’s my job).  Give me better prompts or I stop blogging!

*

Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.

She was the sort of woman who never followed through on an ultimatum. Consequently, WordPress walked all over her.  However, she knew when her time was up, so she played The Last Post on her last post.  She might have been weak but she went out in style.

*

Describe the one decision in your life where you wish you could get a “do-over.” Tell us about the decision, and why you’d choose to take a different path this time around.

I don’t believe in regrets.  If we like who we are, we can’t regret how we got this way.

However, I am sorry I have a weakness for the WordPress Prompts.

Not.

*

If you were involved in a movie, would you rather be the director, the producer, or the lead performer? (Note: you can’t be the writer!).

None of the above.  I’d like to be the person just off set, with the script.  You know…the prompter.

*

We all know how to do something well — write a post that teaches readers how to do something you know and/or love to do.

  1. Sign up to The Daily Post.
  2. Check your email inbox each day.
  3. Start a new post.
  4. Choose a prompt from your Daily Post emails.
  5. Make fun of it.
  6. Thank your lucky stars that you have never been Freshly Pressed because flying under the radar means you can scoff at the prompts until the cows come home to mock your mixed metaphors.
  7. Bask in the adulation.

*

Look in the mirror. Does the person you see match the person you feel like on the inside?

No.  Without slicing myself from that funny little triangular bit at the base of the throat to the unmentionable in a family blog bit at the top of my legs, I can’t get my hands inside my body to rummage around feeling what I feel like.  I’d have to be a particularly skilled surgeon to do that.  And insane.

How much stock do you put in appearances?

A lot.  I have to wear a disguise because the WordPress Prompters have put out a hit on me.  Something about ‘norespectforourhardworkcomingupwithideas-
every
dayjustsoyoucanmakefunofus.’

*

Snippets

18 Feb

Looking for poetic inspiration, I’ve been trawling my old notebooks.  I found some fun stuff which I’d like to share; but don’t worry – there’s not a poem in sight.  Let me worry about that.

From 2008:

Alec the paperboy passed the house as I opened the door.  I waved to him.  

Spud, 12, to Alec: ‘I’m sorry about my Mum; she’s a weirdo.’

*

Some neologisms of mine (you may recognise a couple but I share them again in the hope of one day having an entry in the Oxford Dictionary):

  • Smail: newsy email.  Obsolete now I have a blog.
  • Techneptitude: technical ineptitude of the highest order (my special gift).  I got a published poem out of this one.
  • Suburbani: modern wage slaves.  Another poem, sadly unpublished, even though it has a pretty font.
  • Weepiknees: crying, with trembling legs.  I inadvertently predicted my Toby Tale with this one.

*

From The Sunday Telegraph supplement, Seven, 11/05/08:

Anxiety: fear in search of a cause.

*

A Re-run

I’m sure I’ve shared this before but I find it so amusing, I have to tell it again.

There was a South African politician called Ferdi Hartzenberg; and a South African newsreader who shall remain nameless.

Journalists had a nickname  for Mr H and this particular journalist once, live on television, accidentally used it: Herdi Farts ‘n’ Burps.

*

If you like your politicians mocked, head over to Edwina Currie Made Me Start This Blog, my newest blog.  You’ll find more from my old notebooks.

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Warning: This Blog Is About To Get All Soppy*

14 Feb

*Which is so out of character, I seriously considered starting yet another blog, for my weak days.

Today is St Valentine’s Day.  The Hub and I never celebrate it.  He’s thoughtful of and caring towards me.  He gives me love notes, flowers and little gifts all year round.   You’ve heard me boast about it.  He can also be a great big jerk sometimes, but that’s marriage for you.

The Hub doesn’t believe in St Valentine’s Day.  He thinks that people shouldn’t need a special day  to show their love; they should show it all the time.

That puts me in a bit of pickle: I’m not a romantic like the Hub and my way of showing my love is not spitting in his dinner when I’m mad at him.  He doesn’t think that’s particularly in my favour.

So, I did what I always do when I’m confronted with an emotional conundrum: I wrote a poem. Enjoy, and don’t think too badly of me.

*

What’s Love?

For Paul, the love of my life

 

What’s love?
It’s your hand holding the sick bowl, wiping my face.
It’s crying for someone who gave you a lifetime of grief;
because I loved her and you love me. It’s letting me hate you in
hormonal periods. It’s sitting, sweating in your undies
because I’m cold and won the fight over the central heating.
It’s playing taxi. It’s calming me on kitchen days. It’s buying
takeaways when the wallet can’t take it but soothing failed.
It’s tolerating my beliefs, so crazy to you. It’s your gift of two
beloved boys, knowing they displaced you, and not caring.
It’s golf balls at Christmas and Shakespeare at fifty.
It’s doing what I ask when you really don’t want to.
It’s putting me first.
It’s time, not money.
Sometimes, it’s money.
It’s the everyday ordinary and the occasionally sublime.
It’s blaming the world for my setbacks, when you know it’s
really me. It’s sending me to South Africa, France, Widnes.
It’s love notes in my laptop, my diary, the fridge.
It’s accepting my fat. It’s rejoicing when I’m slim.
It’s rocking a colicky baby all night then working all day.
It’s no sleep. It’s sore feet.
It’s working too hard, too long, too far away.
It’s coming home again. It’s trust. It’s not eating burgers
because there’s steak at home. It’s knowing what matters.
It’s hard times, unhappy times, tragic times.
It’s staying together.
It’s you and me, two kids and thirty years.
It’s you.
That’s love.

*

*

That’s got to pay off at least a year’s supply of hearts written on milk bottles, hasn’t it?

Cooking The Prompts

13 Feb

You’re at the beach, lounging on your towel, when a glistening object at the water’s edge catches your eye. It’s a bottle — and yes, it contains a message. What does it say?

Drink Me.  Oh, wait…you’re not Alice.  Damn rabbit!

*

Tell us about something you’ve tried to quit.

Blogging.

Did you go cold turkey, or for gradual change?

Cold turkey.  It was Christmas.

Did it stick?

What do you think?

What’s the one item in your kitchen you can’t possibly cook without? A spice, your grandma’s measuring cup, instant ramen — what’s your magic ingredient, and why?

The Hub.  If he’s not there, cheering me on and hugging me through my failures, I go to pieces.  I once incinerated a pack of chippolata sausages because he was in another country instead of my kitchen.  I have to burn food so I know when it’s cooked (I was one of the few people to take notice of all those safety adverts as a child).  I need the Hub there to tell me when ‘burnt to a cinder’ is too much.

What’s instant ramen?

*

You’ve been granted magical engineering skills, but you can only use them to build one gadget or machine. What do you build?

Star Trek TNG‘s food replicator.  

But then I wouldn’t need the Hub…what to do, what to do?

*

What’s the household task you most dislike doing? Why do you think that is — is it the task itself, or something more?

Previous answers refer.

*

Write a post that includes dialogue between two people — other than you. 

A True Story, almost

The Hub: Where’s your Mum?

Tory Boy: In bed.

The Hub: Where are the boiled eggs?

Tory Boy: On the ceiling.

The Hub: She cooked?

What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned from the person you’re the closest to?

To leave the cooking to him.

Actually, not any more; his M.E. means that he can’t cook these days.

So I guess the lesson is, marry someone rich enough to afford takeaways.

*

It’s January 26. Write a post in which the number 26 plays a role.

Hello?  I’d like to order a Number 26, two 14s and a 32, please.

*

Tell us about the nicest thing you’ve ever done.

Stopped cooking for my family.

*

If you could fast forward to a specific date in the future, when would it be?

The day the replicator is finally invented.

*

I Do Love You, Spud, Honest

11 Feb

Wednesday 15 January, 2014

Where’s my birthday post?

I’m not blogging at the moment!

You don’t love me.

Spud turned eighteen while I was on a break.  I didn’t write a happy birthday post – because I was on a break.  I did take him tea in an eighteenth birthday mug, buy him banners and balloons and not say a word about the girl in his bed on a school day; but, no, all he can see is no birthday post.

Apparently, I didn’t write him a birthday post last year when he turned seventeen.  I wrote one for his brother and his father, a hundred readers and even myself – but not one for him.  My argument, ‘But you don’t read my blog!’ didn’t cut it, because, apparently, he does.

I have been ordered to write a make-up post and not to make this make-up post all about his brother, which is what I appeared to have done in last year’s make-up post, saying how great his brother was and how he spoiled Spud on his birthday blah blah blah.

I’m a terrible mother.

But I can’t say that, because this post is all about Spud.

Spud was the biggest baby in the hospital, the week he was born – about ten pounds.  I have mentioned before that he looked like the V alien baby when he came out all blue and crinkly.  And absolutely gorgeous – which is how he’s stayed:

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Spud is now a man, and he has a learner’s driving licence to prove it.  He has done a lot of thinking this past year about what he wants to do with his life; but the decision was really made in the summer, the moment a sweaty Macbeth spat on him during the performance at the Globe: Spud wants to act.

This past year he has played Greek tragedy, Shakespeare and farce.  At the moment he’s rehearsing Judas in Godspell.  He doesn’t want to be rich and famous; he wants to work in theatre.  He is deadly serious: he wants to pretend to be other people for the rest of his life.  I couldn’t be prouder; or more scared.

Happy birthday, my darling boy.  Whatever you do in life, I know you’ll obsess about it until it’s right.

I love you.

Breaking My Own Rules

8 Feb

From clangnuts.blogspot.com

Remember how I was only going to blog three times a week?

So far, you’ve had posts on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Thursday and Friday – six out of eight days.

This is Seven of Nine*.

*If you’d like to read an amusing post about Seven of Nine**, go here (ignore the first bit about blogging).  If you get there and you don’t find it amusing, complain to the management.***

**Ding!Ding!Ding!Ding!Ding!  I just realised where the Beckhams found Harper’s silly second name – they are Star Trek fans!

It’s not sounding so silly now, is it?

***Management will not be available until Monday.  Maybe.

This seventh post comes to you courtesy of Edwina Currie, who riled me so much, I had to write about it.  My rant didn’t suit this blog’s theme of sharing the laughter, however, so I had to start a new blog.  Go and take a quick look, if you don’t mind.

It’s called Edwina Currie Made Me Start This Blog.

Miss Molly-Moo-Moo

7 Feb

You’ve heard a lot about Toby this week and almost nothing of Molly.  Molly worships the ground I walk on unless I’m not there; in which case she worships whoever is giving her the most attention.

She is the most loving dog but she doesn’t do dog behaviour: Walk?  No thanks; I might get wet/cold/hot/dirty.  Food? Is it gourmet/heated/yours?  Maybe, if you spend long enough coaxing me.  Coat?  Absolutely!  And t-shirt, jumper, blanket as well.  I’m freezing!  It is August, after all.

She hasn’t done anything interesting of late (she has to be prised from my side for that) so I thought I’d re-post A Day In The Life, to give you a flavour of her character:

  • Scratch at Mummy’s door but she can’t hear me over her avalanche impression.
  • Go potty.
  • Bark to wake Mummy.
  • Watch her stand in my poo and go potty.
  • Hide in the cushion like a cutie pie.
  • Cuddled for reassurance that Mummy loves me despite what she is sure is a mistake on my part.  Phew.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Demand breakfast.
  • Turn nose up at breakfast.
  • Let Mummy hand feed me my breakfast of expensive tinned dog meat.
  • Love Mummy.  Manage a sticky lick to her face.
  • Love Mummy.  Wonder why she’s looking a little nauseated.
  • Sleep behind Mummy while she’s at the computer.
  • Wake up, irritated by the noise Mummy makes when she falls off her little bit of the seat.
  • Love Mummy: if I’m going to be awake, I might as well enjoy it.
  • Watch Mummy trying to type one-handed while I sit on her lap for an extended belly rub.
  • Sleep.
  • Take the occasional sniff at Toby’s bottom, particularly when he wants a fuss from Mummy.

  • Drool as Mummy eats lunch.
  • Refuse to let her up until I get my share.
  • Sleep, exhausted from eating my protection money.
  • The dreaded walk…
  • Tolerate grooming; harness, putting on of; coat, putting on of; coat, taking off of; harness, taking off of; coat, putting on of; harness, putting on of.  I knew she had it the wrong way round but I didn’t tell her because it might start raining before she’s finished and then I have a legitimate excuse to refuse to leave house.
  • Open door.  See rain.  Refuse to leave house.
  • Tolerate harness, taking off of; coat, taking off of.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Ignore the weird kid who sleeps in the room next door to Mummy, when he comes downstairs, eats, grunts, and returns to his hole.
  • Drool as Mummy eats dinner.
  • Refuse to let her up until I get my share.
  • Demand dinner.
  • Turn nose up at dinner.
  • Let Mummy hand feed me my dinner of expensive soft pellets.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Cuddle Daddy while Mummy’s busy, keeping my eyes trained at all times on Mummy.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Stick to Mummy like poo to her toes as she prepares for bed; she’s going nowhere without me.
  • Wait patiently to be lifted on to the bed because I’m too feeble to jump up myself, unless she’s not there.
  • Have extended cuddle until Mummy’s arms ache, her tea goes cold and she knocks her Kindle onto the floor while trying to reach around me.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Disturbed by Mummy trying to get comfortable on her tenth of the bed.
  • Wait until she settles then sit on the most awkward part of her body (varies according to whether she’s lying on her front, back or side).
  • Sleep.
  • Disturbed by Daddy giving me a goodnight cuddle before he puts me out of the room so he can go to bed.
  • Give Daddy the evil eye for separating me from Mummy.
  • Wait for Daddy to fall asleep and try to sneak back in; jump easily onto the bed and wiggle my way between them, sleeping long-ways to get comfortable.
  • Daddy’s on to me: he shuts the door properly this time.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Can’t be separated from Mummy.
  • Scratch at Mummy’s door but she can’t hear me over her avalanche impression.
  • Go potty.
Quickly in September

Her Bad Hare Days

benzeknees

A frustrated writer, who is her own worst enemy

Edwina Currie Made Me Start This Blog

Don't get mad; get writing

this fragile tent

a blog about small beautiful things

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