My beloved eldest child is 23 today. From 12:41 p.m., Wednesday 18th April 1990, Tory Boy was my ylem. The moment I saw him, I loved.
I might even have cried a little (probably thinking about the pregnancy fat I was never going to shake off).
‘Bonding’ had come into fashion when I was carrying TB; I asked my gynea if I would be able to hold the baby as soon as it was born. He told me that bonding takes a life time, not a moment. He was right.
What he failed to mention, however, is that as soon as you’ve bonded, you have to start preparing yourself to let go of them. Tory Boy works; he has a lovely girlfriend; he lives away from home; he calls and visits (occasionally; usually when he needs something); he sends me poems that make me laugh and weep. I did my job. His father helped, when I let him.
But how I miss those moments, early in the morning, when it was just him and me. When I would soothe and feed him and he would fall asleep in my arms.
Our bonding began on the Saturday after he was born, when the Hub was given permission not to visit until the evening (after the match). I fed Tory Boy; he fell asleep; and I simply could not bear to let go of him. I sat in a chair with my beautiful baby in my arms and we stayed there for many hours. My demanding body, which needs a toilet break every hour and a food break every half hour, knew not to mess with me that day.
I looked at my baby and I loved him; and that has never changed.
I know I’m nine days late saying this, but I had a lovely Mother’s Day last week. In fact, I was in a state of being highly pleased, or oblectation, the whole weekend, from the Friday night of Spud’s performance to the Tuesday after, when I visited another blogger (tomorrow’s post).
English: A packet of Black Jacks. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Sunday started with church, followed by my writing group at the art gallery. Later, a walk with the dogs and Hub, a call from my first-born and the Dancing On Ice final was topped only by Spud making Chinese for dinner, under his father’s supervision. It could have been toast and cereal for all I cared – all that mattered was no cooking for me!
Spud gave me Maltesers, Black Jacks, Fruit Salads and Parma Violets. If you think about it, it’s a weird way of spending Mother’s Day – pretending to be a kid with your favourite sweets. Ah well, my kids are used to weird.
Ultra Violet (Photo credit: tim ellis)
Tory Boy wrote a poem; he then recited it, set to one of my favourite pieces of music.
Sweets and poems – my children know me well.
Before I let you read the poem, I have to say in my defence that, while I adore it, I feel there’s a little of the pleonastic about it. I’m not sure you need to know all this stuff about me: I’d like to keep my Excels At Being A Mother laurels just a little while longer.
Apologies for the layout, sweetie – WordPress doesn’t like your formatting.
A Mother’s Love, by Tory Boy
From my very first of check ups
Where the nurses went ballistic,
To the custard in a bottle
Now my teeth are a statistic
Then came the first of prunes
Where my bottom poo’d a’plenty
To falling out the pram
Luck-i-ly the road was empty
Wear a helmet with my scooter?
Whatever were you thinking?
A skateboard helmet for my bike?
I can feel my brain is shrinking
You walked me to my high-school
When all the other kids could see.
Then we went to war and
you said ‘If they fire please call me’
However did I make it?
I don’t think I will ever know
But if there’s one thing that I’m sure of
Its that my love for mum has grown
As she keeps on trying her best
To give my life the best of starts
Because my mummy loves me
And I love her, with all my heart.
I blub every time I read it. I blub even more when I listen to him reciting it. He has given me permission to share it so, if you’d like to listen in, go here. Then come back and tell me what you think.
We went on telly every morning for a week. People in the street recognised us. We had a huge cooked breakfast each day and VIP treatment at Madame Tussaud’s, the Planetarium, Planet Hollywood, the London Eye (bumped to the top of the long queue and given a semi-private capsule – just one other couple in it) and somewhere else which I can’t now remember.
We met famous British people and the World’s Smallest Dog (they bumped our green segment for that one). We met a man who did something interesting with Lego (so interesting, I can’t remember what it was) (they bumped our green segment again for that one).
The production staff were lovely. They told us that our boys were the best-behaved children they’d ever had on the show. Stuff was always coming in to the office, to be featured on TV. One morning, a member of the production team who I don’t think we had met, came up to us with two expensive remote-controlled cars and told me they were for the boys; she had received them and thought, ‘I know just who I want to give these to.’ Wasn’t that kind?
We had a fantastic week, though the Hub was looking rather lyard in hair and face by the time we were dropped at Euston Station. His M.E. wasn’t as bad then but it had been a hard five days for him and the kids were propping him up at that point. Our train was in and we were about to board when we were suddenly stopped by a station guard. She politely asked us to wait a moment, and then led us into First Class. Apparently, the train was standing room only and she turfed four people out of their seats and gave them to us.
Euston station, London, UK (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Nothing to do with The Big Breakfast – we were a family with two young children, looking exhausted (the boys and I) or about to collapse (Hub), and the four people were all young and travelling alone and only allowed those seats because there was no space in steerage. We still had the bulk of our cash wad but we discovered you don’t pay for snacks in First Class, even if you haven’t paid for a First Class seat.
All in all, a fabulous week.
Now, the teabags:
When Tory Boy was eleven, he didn’t like a strong cup of tea and he liked half milk-half water. I made two cups of tea from one tea bag, leaving the bag ready in another cup after making the first brew. Lots of people do it; there’s nothing peculiar about it – but for some reason, it was all the council, Bella, the Newspaper Which Must Not Be Named and The Big Breakfast could fixate on.
Tea Bag Firestarters (Photo credit: Earthworm)
I made two cups of tea from one tea bag and as a result there is a photograph floating around the ether of me hanging used tea bags on a washing line; and I and my family got to be in a magazine, a newspaper, a local council event and on telly for a week. We were given free gifts and food and money and treated like we were something special. We met kind people and nice people and friendly people and a couple of jerks (not discussed in these posts because if you can’t say anything nice about someone then don’t blog about them). We lived a charmed and somewhat pampered existence for a week and came out normal at the end of it.
Ain’t life weird?
*
I hope you’ve enjoyed my saga. It was supposed to be one post; two at the most. It stirred so many memories, however, it stretched to a week. With all the fun things that happened to us, it’s no wonder we felt kef on the train home, or in a state of drowsy contentment.
Fifteen minutes of fame; six days and more in the telling.
Big Breakfast (Photo credit: avlxyz)
I did say it was rather a long story but I didn’t know just how long until I started writing it. I would apologise but it has been fun to remember.
The story so far…
Short of money, I tell the council how I manage
I eat art exhibits
I get in the papers
I go to London and visit a TV studio for a week
Day One: early start; late breakfast
We were driven back to our hotel around eleven a.m. with a wad of cash and instructions to access the Tube that afternoon and present ourselves at the Planetarium, the adjacent Madame Tussaud’s, and then Planet Hollywood.
London Tube Map (Photo credit: DraXus)
Tory Boy, 11, took it upon himself to study the Tube map and had great fun the whole week, steering us in the right direction. He never got it wrong.
We presented ourselves at the Planetarium, as instructed, admitting that we were the Family of the Week from The Big Breakfast. We were immediately chided for not jumping to the head of the queue, given free passes, and allowed to wander where we would.
While we admired the planets and the waxworks, people gave us funny looks, as if they knew us. Eventually, one brave woman asked if we were from The Big Breakfast? She had watched us in her hotel room! We all had a giggle about her goggle. Hub and I knew she was a smart woman by the way she admired our ‘adorable boys’.
Feeling rather kef at the great day we were having, we ambled on over to Planet Hollywood, telling them we’d been sent by TBB. We were given a VIP table, told to order whatever we liked and as much of it as we wanted; and presented with gifts for the boys: Planet Hollywood caps and t-shirts and souvenirs. Some of the wad was meant to be used for food but they gave us our meal for free (we made sure to tip the waitress, however). We did spend a few quid on Tube fares and a photograph of TB and Spud with Pierce Brosnan as James Bond (wax).
Planet Hollywood (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Safe back at our hotel, we were all asleep by six o’clock.
And so the week went on – early starts, lots of laughter, the occasional slice of burnt toast, and fun fun fun!
Some of the celebrity guests (in no particular order; just as I remember them):
Chris Eubank British boxer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Boxer Chris Eubank: had a handshake that was surely compensating hard for that lisp, and signed photographs ready in his pocket for the boys when they asked.
Actor Scott Wright: played stripper Sam on Coronation Street. I watched it back then so I was really excited to meet him. He was so sweet – the Hub asked if I could have a picture taken with him when he had finished his breakfast but he jumped up there and then to oblige. A lovely man.
Presenter Mike McClean: working on TBB, mostly outside broadcasts. A funny man but I found him rude: the morning he came in to the studio, we were all sitting on a couch and he said Hello, how are you? to the Hub, Tory Boy and Spud, shaking hands with each in turn. He blanked me. Hard to believe he is a big Man City fan like the Hub, because City fans are pretty good-natured. We have to be, the way City throw chances away.
A researcher was sent off on a train one afternoon with a team shirt, instructed to find the then City manager, Kevin Keegan, and get him to sign it. Once the shirt came back signed, they ran a quiz between the Hub and MM to test their MCFC knowledge. The winner got the shirt; the loser had to be photographed wearing a United shirt. The Hub would never in his life wear a United shirt but he wanted that prize and they hadn’t said on what part of the body it had to be worn so we hatched a plan that if he lost – as if! – I would take a photograph of him sitting on the toilet with the shirt covering his, um, well you get the idea.
The Hub won the quiz, which included a karaoke version of Blue Moon, City’s anthem. MM flat refused to wear that shirt, on pain of losing his job. Once a City fan, always a City fan, even rude ones.
The Hub was also given three tickets for him and the boys to see City play at home to Crystal Palace (footy fans, that should date this week for you).
So Solid Crew: a garage band, whatever that is. They had some Top Ten hits. There were about twenty in the band but only three or four were on TBB. They had a reputation for being hard and edgy and they lived up to it on TBB. A member of their crew was imprisoned for murder a few years ago, if I remember correctly. They were not the sort of young people I want my boys to emulate. As they left the set, they smiled at our boys and ruffled their hair in a friendly way. Just the kind of young people I want my boys to emulate.
Any truly famous people were interviewed somewhere like the Ritz or the Clarendon, where TBB kept a replica of the famous bed. The bed at the house was filthy. I wouldn’t have let my dog sleep on it.
I’ll wrap up the story tomorrow, you’ll be relieved to hear.
*
Yesterday’s word was jejune:
adjective
1.
without interest or significance; dull; insipid.
2.
juvenile; immature; childish.
3.
lacking knowledge or experience; uninformed.
4.
deficient or lacking in nutritive value.
I like the last one; it rather describes this blog.
By the way, I spelled it jejeune yesterday and nobody mentioned it. That’s the advantage of using new words – no mes to nitpick.
Tory Boy is a menace to his little brother. You saw his birthday card yesterday:
But he loves Spud very much. He arranged his leave so that he would be here for his brother’s birthday. He bought him an expensive PS3 game. And he baked him a cake. He baked it from scratch and iced it to look like one of Spud’s favourite games:
I am a bad mother. I know this because my youngest son told me so. He told me while avoiding eye contact because he can’t bear to look at me at the moment.
My heinous crime? I didn’t write a birthday post for him.
Whoops.
*
Spud turned seventeen twelve days ago. He loved his Vivquilt (it went straight on the bed, as you can see). He liked his other presents (especially the money). He enjoyed his brother’s homemade birthday cake (coming in another post). He snaffled the bulk of the cakes he took into school to celebrate. He had a great day.
Great. That’s what I want for him.
Moving on…
Five days later:
Spud: Hey, Mum…where’s my birthday post?
Mum: I didn’t do one this year; you don’t read my blog any more.
Spud [indignant]: Yes I do!
Mum: No you don’t. Whenever I ask you, you say you haven’t read it.
Spud [patient]: I’ve told you – I read it in clumps. I expected a birthday post.
Mum: Sorry, sweetie.
Six days after that:
Spud [indignant]: Hey, Mum…where’s my birthday post?
Mum: I didn’t do one this year; you don’t read my blog any more.
Spud [irritated]: Yes I do!
Mum: No you don’t. Whenever I ask you, you say you haven’t read it.
Spud [impatient]: I’ve told you – I read it in clumps. I expected a birthday post.
Mum: Sorry, sweetie.
Spud: [hurt]: Call yourself a mother! I want a birthday post.
Mum [scrambling]: I’ve got one planned – the Weekly Photo Challenge is ‘Love’ and I’m going to feature the cake your brother made for you.
Spud [outraged]: That’s about Tory Boy! I want my own post!
Mum: But you never read my… [a scuffle breaks out]
Consider me chastened.
Happy Birthday, Spud. I may be a neglectful mother but I do love you.
My Mum stood up and said, ‘I don’t remember coughing.’ Then she realised her waters had broken.
[Insert several photographs of an old cottage suite with a damp patch]
*
Tell us about a guilty pleasure that you hate to love.
Where do I start? Not with anything I’ve already told to death:
Maltesers (make me fat)
Twilight (makes me stupid)
Tormenting WordPress prompters (makes them look fathead stupid and may get me kicked off WordPress one day)
I’ll tell you about my latest guilty pleasure, as of this morning:
The Hub bought me a laptop for Christmas. My back still aches from sitting at the computer way too long, though regular breaks help (thank you, readers, for the tips). The Hub nagged until I heard him and, as a result, I have spent this morning lying on the couch, under my Vivquilt and laptop, snug against the cold and resenting toilet breaks. I may never get up again. That being so, this couch may end up looking like my mother’s.
A writer once said, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” If this is true, which five people would you like to spend your time with?
Jesus (to be good, kind, tolerant and loving)
The Hub (to be confident and attractive)
Tory Boy (to be smart and funny)
Spud (to be smart and funny) (no favouritism from this mother)
The head of Mars Confectionery (to be Malteser available at all times)
*
What question do you hate to be asked? Why?
What exactly is in this dish I’m eating?
‘Don’t ask; don’t tell’ is my motto.
*
Describe your last attempt to learn something that did not come easily to you.
How to turn off my phone. It did not end well, for the phone or my finger. Spud showed me an acceptable compromise: how to put it on ‘Silent’. If only the Hub had such a button.
*
Explore the room you’re in as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Pretend you know nothing. What do you see? Who is the person who lives there?
I see a stain on the couch; it must be my mother’s house.
Another in my occasional series, The A to Z of The Laughing Housewife.
Orangensaft (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
O is for orange juice – I’ve been craving it lately. Not so nice for my bladder – drink too much orange juice and I’m like Julie Andrews in ‘The Sound of Music’: When the blog writes, when the pee stings…
The last time I drank this much orange juice was twenty-three years ago. I was pregnant with Tory Boy and I must have needed the Vitamin C. How embarrassing would that be for him, to have a sibling twenty-three years younger? It would almost be worth it, just to see his face.
I’m pretty certain I won’t have that pleasure but, if I start craving cheese and tomato on crackers (my other craving), Tory Boy will stop speaking to me.
No, I have to face it – I am a woman of a certain age; it’s probably my ‘ormones. This is where my Scouse accent comes in, if you were wondering. We Liverpudlians drop our aitches, extend words like ‘like’ to ‘lichhhh’ and talk about ‘me mum an’ me dad.’
Me Mum was my age now when she watched me get married. I thought she was old then; now, I’m not so sure. They say fifty is the new forty so if fifty is the new forty then forty is the new thirty and life begins at forty which must be thirty and at thirty I was raising babies. When does my life begin?
I didn’t mean for it to be, but this has turned out to be a complicated post. Skip to the end if you can’t face reading the whole thing, where I will leave a summary.
Peterborough This Week (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Tory Boy is home!
He was here for four days over Christmas – the first time in six years that he didn’t have to work on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, and he’s only 22. He had to go back to Peterborough to work double shifts over New Year, having swapped with colleagues of a similar age who like to party and who all live close enough to work to be able to go home for Christmas without missing a shift.
We did phone Tory Boy at midnight on New Year’s Eve but he was fast asleep, and had been since nine. Bless. They work them hard in TV but they are generous with their leave – TB and two other employees, who will all have been there only eight months at financial year’s end, were each given a full complement of leave instead of pro rata. All leave must be used up by year-end. Year-end is 31 March.
Tory Boy is home now for ten days - only four of which are actual leave. He works twelve-hour shifts in blocks of three and four days, so he booked four days off between two three-day blocks of not working. He often works overtime on his days off because what else is there to do in Peterborough?
French Fancies (Photo credit: lilivanili)
Spud’s seventeenth birthday is coming up next week. Tory Boy wanted to surprise him so he didn’t tell Spud he was coming home. Because he knew he’d be back soon, Tory Boy didn’t take some of his Christmas goodies back with him. I walked in on Spud polishing off the French Fancies from TB’s stocking. When I scolded him for stealing his brother’s treats, he argued that TB wouldn’t be home for months and they’d have gone stale and had to be thrown away, and there were starving children in Africa so he had to eat them; it was his moral obligation. I had to concede the point.
I’ll instruct Tory Boy to deduct the value of the French Fancies from Spud’s birthday present, though I doubt that he will: he already bought it in the Boxing Day sales because Spud looked at Tory Boy with his little-brother-adores-big-brother-and-won’t-you-please-buy-this-game-for-me-because-you-are-such-a-brilliant-big-brother? eyes. Spud scores again.
Tory Boy arrived home Monday and asked me to wake him by seven a.m. Tuesday. I woke him; he got up and then slept on the couch for five hours, cuddling the dog. He went to see a friend in the afternoon, came home around three, went straight to bed and slept right through last night. He didn’t hear us enter his room to check on him, or feel my frantic hands checking his temperature (high). We woke him to insist he take paracetamol but he went right back to sleep. He did get through two bottles of water and he’s been up to the loo, so I’m not panicking just yet (give it time).
Bless!
They work them hard in TV production and I think he’s just exhausted. It’s genetic: my younger brother and I have a similar habit of overdoing things and then taking to our beds to recover.
Thankfully, with the way his shifts work, Tory Boy gets most of February off. His girlfriend gets the benefit of that leave; he won’t have seen her since the beginning of January. I hope she doesn’t tire him out. Girlfriends don’t look after clingy mothers’ sons the way clingy mothers do.
Summary:
Beloved eldest son back in the bosom of his clingy mother
BESBITBOHCM works too hard
Beloved youngest son a do-gooding treat thief
BESBITBOHCM sick
Clingy Mother attacks offices of TV company with a big stick
I read an article where Barbara Walters asked Rachel Campos-Duffy, “Did you ever think, ‘I wish I had a career and I didn’t have six kids?’ “
My first reaction was, I bet she never asked a man that question.
But then I thought about how I would reply if she had asked me, so here’s our imaginary conversation:
*
BW: Tilly, did you ever think, ‘I wish I had a career and I didn’t have two kids’?
TB: No.
*
Isn’t it nice when you can look back on your life and know that you got something right?*
*You might want to ask my kids to corroborate that statement for you.
This was first posted two years ago. My feelings haven’t changed.
In another post of two years ago, I was feeling outraged:
In a list of best Christmas movies, The Muppet Christmas Carol came onlytwenty-third. Twenty-third!
I don’t know what muppet compiled the list, but Tory Boy, Spud and I are grievously insulted that the best version EVER of A Christmas Carol came so low on the list. The Hubrooge thought it came in too high, of course; but his opinion has never counted in our house and it’s not going to start now.
I say that Tory Boy and Spud were outraged, but I never actually told them; I was afraid of their wrath. The boys and I love The Muppet Christmas Carol and watching it is one of our family traditions in the run up to Christmas. Now Tory Boy has left home, Spud and I have to wait until he’s here: watching it together is set in stone.
We confine the Hub to his room while we singalong to One More Sleep ‘Til Christmas. The song about Scrooge is another favourite, though the Hub doesn’t get it. How can he not love a song that boasts the line ‘No cheeses for us meeces’?
English: Brass Band, 109th Poynton Show Music provided by Stockport Silver Band. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Christmas activities are keeping me busy.
The tree was up by December 1st – the first time in my life it has ever gone up so early. As a child, our tree would go up on Christmas Eve, though I’d managed to get it to a week before the big day by the time I was eighteen (I’m a persistent and successful nag). Dad and my Little Brother and I would put it up. Mum never helped. Too exhausted from all the shopping and cooking and wrapping and entertaining and working two jobs, I guess.
The Hub and I have always put the tree up on December 11th, exactly two weeks before. It’s enough, we feel. It gives us time to start speaking to each other after the enormous row over the correct positioning of tinsel (not up some people’s posteriors, as certain spouses insist). Because of his worsening M.E., the Hub’s help in the last few years has been nominal, an honorary directing role, in which the cast never listen (why change the habits of a lifetime?). The boys always helped me so I didn’t mind his slacking.
The past two years, it’s been just me. The boys are too grown up now. I think you can never be too grown up for Christmas, but I’m not a teenage boy/young working man so what do I know? However, they’re not too old when it comes to advent calendars and stockings on Christmas Eve. I emailed Tory Boy (22) to ask him if he was bothered about having an advent calendar. He replied:
Of course I’m bothered about an advent calendar! I will be expecting one each year until I have kids, when I shall be expecting one for each of us then.
My kid talking about having kids! I feel old. When my Mum was alive she would say the same thing when she bought the advent calendars for the boys and me.
As I am starting to feel my age and have to pace myself a little more, I took three days to put up the tree. It has individual branches so just erecting it takes a couple of hours. Lights and tinsel go on next; then the ornaments. It’s a massive job. In honour of the austerity measures I was quite restrained this year, and left off a lot of tinsel and ornaments. Not lights, of course: four sets, as usual.
Having the tree up so early led to an unexpected bonus: I have wrapped a lot of the presents already. No staying up past midnight on Christmas Eve for me this year!
I have started my round of Christmas events. Last week I learned to sign Away In A Manger and some other carols at a sing and sign event hosted at my church. On Sunday after church I went to my writing group’s Christmas meeting. We played fun and childish word games. Lots of laughter was heard. We had a bring & share lunch which reflected the tastes of each person: vegetable quiche, carrot sticks, grapes, cheese & crackers, and more. I took crisps, sweets and wine.
Last night I was at Write Out Loud. The theme was Christmas, so cue lots of Christmas poems. Two, at least.
Tonight I will be attending the Stockport Silver Band Christmas Concert at my church. It’s not Christmas without a brass band.
I plan to attend other events, and even host one of my own: a Christmas film night with some of my friends. I will provide wine, snacks and Love Actually, through which we will no doubt all talk. I must get around to inviting them before they get booked up.
Of course it is! Or was, on Sunday. As Patti commented, however, The birthday just keeps on going.
It started last week, but that’s a post for another day (tomorrow) (now I have to write it, as I’ve committed to it) (at least I know what I’ll be writing about tomorrow) (I don’t always) (do you?).
Actual celebrations started on Saturday afternoon, when Spud insisted we walk the dogs at a specific time, instead of dragging the start time out as long as possible, in the hope that it would rain and the dogs would refuse to put their pure bred little backsides out the front door.
I suspected nothing.
We always walk for a minimum of thirty minutes; Spud tries to pare it down to as little as possible. He dragged it out to forty-five minutes: I want to go on the swings/Let’s go the long way home for a change/I’m interested in what you’re saying.
I should have suspected something with that last one.
We arrived home. I could hear Hub talking. An unexpected guest? I walked into the living room – there was Tory Boy in all his curly-haired glory! I wasn’t expecting him for another week. If I ever doubted my love for my son (as you do) (you don’t?) (oh, it’s just me, then?), I could tell by the way I threw my arms around him until he turned blue and screamed like a Saturday night TV audience that I was glad to see him.
You can’t get a better present than that, though some of these came pretty close:
The Hunger Games DVD. I enjoyed it much more, second time around, because I’m over the horror of watching it the first time. The first time I watch a film version of a beloved book, I always hate it. Then I learn to love it, because I know what’s in, what’s out, what’s added to make it make sense. It’s a rough journey but I persevere.
The Hunger Games trilogy of books. I have them on my Kindle but I wanted hard copies (in paperback, so they are soft hard copies, not hardback hard copies) for when society breaks down. When that happens – it’s closer than you think; remember what they’re doing to our food – I won’t have any electricity to re-charge the Kindle and the Hub will insist on using the generator we must get around to buying, for lights and stuff; he’s not a reader, you see. So this gift was an absolute essential.
Toiletries. A fair bit of. Apparently, I smell.
Some fun stuff, the subject of tomorrow’s post.
A poetry book. Big and inclusive with pretty pictures. I love it.
A rap. That was from Spud. He wrote it the night before and performed it on Sunday morning while half asleep. I love it, particularly the part where his mother is not crap.
A housework-free day. The boys did everything, including cooking, dishes, and every cup of tea. Be sure I took advantage.
A promise. I’ll tell you more when the promiser makes good on the promise he made to the promisee (me).
A beautiful jumper that arrived yesterday. I like birthdays that go on all week. I got another card this morning.
Maltesers. Without which, what’s the point of birthdays?
Happy Birthday (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Thank you, everyone for your good wishes. I promise not to talk about my birthday again until next year. Apart from tomorrow, of course. And if I remember anything I might have forgotten to share today. To paraphrase Patti: the birthday that won’t go away.
This is an edited repost from 2010. It will be true in a week or two, so I feel no guilt at making you re-read what you can’t possibly remember, if you’ve been around this blog that long.
Today is a scary day: it is school uniform shopping day.
I loathe school uniform shopping day: schlepping around from store to store in pursuit of black and white clothes and a blazer with a bright yellow trim, arguing sotto voce with the Hub about nothing in particular, and certainly nothing school uniform-related. The only thing that makes the day even a little bearable is that we don’t have to pay for it: Spud receives a generous uniform allowance as part of his bursary so we get to spend spend spend and send send send the receipts to school to claim it back.
I don’t like shopping for it but I do like a school uniform; it’s a great leveller. No-one knows your circumstances (unless they see you arriving at school in your little Citroen from their Maseratis), and everyone looks smart. Also, if you are attacked by the students wearing them, it’s easier to identify the culprits if you know which school they are from.
You think I’m joking but I’m not: a girl from a local school hurled abuse at the Hub one day as he was waiting in the car for her to cross the road; he knew her uniform and was able to complain to the school; they tracked her down; she sent a letter of apology to him.
This is Tory Boy’s uniform during the last three years of high school.
It could have been worse; and was:
A year or so before TB attended high school, the pupils had been allowed to choose the uniform. Then someone had the good sense to sack the head, and the new head re-introduced blazers. Unfortunately, Tory Boy was already at college by then, where no uniform at all is required.
He compensated by becoming Student President and introducing…college hoodies.
I give up.
Think of me out there today, cast adrift on a sea of striped ties and black socks with only a grumpy Hub and a bored teenager for company. I could be doing something interesting, like cleaning.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
Today is National Poetry Day. I was going to bring you some fun and interesting facts about poetry, but you know what? There aren’t any. Not on the internet, anyway. Poetry is dull. By the way, remember to check out my poetry blog, I’m Not A Verse. * * * * * I did find […]
Viewfromtheside offered fascinating as the weekend theme. I thought you might like some fascinating facts. Can you guess which, if any, are true? You can’t fold paper more than seven times. You can, actually, if you are young and determined and rope in your family and a shopping mall. From Wikipedia: In January 2002, while a […]
With apologies to Paul, who might not find this blog to be quite what he was expecting. Take a look at this You Tube video. This – boy? young man? lad? What do I call him? He’s of a similar age to Tory Boy but obviously we are not on similar terms. I’ll call him ‘person’ […]
I have long been in search of the perfect handbag. It must be black; have a short and long handle, so that I can carry it down, under my arm, over my shoulder or over my chest; it must not be so big that I carry a load of junk around with me that I […]
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)