Bon Voyage Mum & Dad

My Mum & Dad aged 76 & 77 respectively, live 200 miles from me in a beautiful seaside town on the south coast.

With everything that's happened in my household over the last two years, I have only managed to see them twice a year and I miss them so very much. We speak on the phone every week of course, but it's not the same. I purposefully don't tell them about all the traumas at home because a) it would stress them out and b) they couldn't do anything about it anyway. They are far better off left happy in the assumed knowledge that everything in my life is hunkydory.

Yesterday, they took off on the good ship Oriana for a cruise around the Mediterranean, visiting Barcleona, Cannes, Rome, Naples, Messina, La Goulette & Malaga amongst other places. Mum telephoned me when they had embarked and reached their cabin. She sounded tired but happy. We have agreed that I will not telephone the ship because it's a £3.00 a minute charge, but that she will be in touch. They have mobile phones but only switch them on when they're expecing a call! (I think that's an age thing). I wished them a happy time, put down the phone and inexplicably cried. I suddenly felt so isolated and alone. It's funny, how quite unexpectedly, you become worried about your parents, when they of course, will always say that it's their job to be worried about you. Perhaps it was knowing that they are out of touch for two weeks (although I probably could track them down if I really needed to).

I joked with her...

"Are you wearing all your jewellery or have you hidden some back at home?",

She laughed "Well, I'm wearing what I always wear and yes, there's other stuff hidden, you know where".

I said "Ok, I just wanted to be sure, because if that ship goes down, I don't do deep sea diving!"

She hooted "Well really!!"

"It's my hair and makeup and the contact lens thing" "I can't have water on my face". I said.

She tittered "Wait unitl I tell your Father!"

That reminded me of days gone by - she would utter that phrase when I had done something really naughty, like smack my brother or answer her back. How I wish I could have those days again. Someone to look after me, no worries and a comfortable cosy home.

Behind the jokes there is a serious note. I know they're getting older and I don't want to lose them. I need my Mum and Dad but I'm acutely aware that time is running out. Perhaps's it's my age and my sudden awareness of my own mortality, the worry I have for my children, my own tiredness.

I've visited the Oriana website. The ship has a webcam - it doesn't show much, but I could arrange with them to stand on the deck and wave at it at a particular time and day, so that I could wave back. Even better, I've taken a virtual tour of the ship and have even seen inside their cabin! What a hoot! Just wait until she phones. I will tease her that I've seen her at the dressing table, cup of tea by her side, heated rolllers in her hair, slippers by the bed - I can even describe the colour of the carpet and bedding. She won't believe it either, but it gives me some comfort. Technology is a wonderful thing.

There is no escape!!

Top Marks and Sparks for Nigella!

Last night, I made Toad in the Hole. I used the finest plumpest Lincolnshire sausages and sizzled them in a little garlic oil from the sunsoaked vineyards of Tuscany with the sweetest most succuent onions delicately chopped to perfection, infused with gloops of runny golden honey and a splash of midnight dark soy sauce. When they were gently tanned I immersed them in my creamy batter and baked them in a comfortingly hot oven. The batter rose elegantly to mountainous proportions and I served it with perfectly formed baby roast potates, hand picked petit pois and sweet velvety onion gravy. This is not just food, this is my food.

Of course, I did all this after a soothing fragrant bath, dressed in a black silk nightgown, hair and makeup perfect, sipping a glass of Pinot Grigio and served it to a suitably impressed and grateful husband and perfect children who were full of praise. My house was pristine and the kitchen decorated with copious amounts of fairy lights. Even the dog thanked me.

Ok, ok, ok. I know you don't believe me.

In reality I bought ordinary pork sausages and Aunt Bessies Yorkshire puds. The roast potatoes were ready made and the petit pois were frozen. As for the gravy, thank you, Bisto. My house looked as if we had been burgled and husband and children were glued to the television throughout. A mirror cracked when I checked my hair and make-up, I didn't have time to change from my funerial office attire and my feet hurt. The dog looked miserable.

All credit to Nigella. I can't imagine how she does it. Maybe it's something to do with the fabulously rich husband, intellectually superior children and an army of domestic assistants.

I will continue to dream. Everything comes to those who wait, so they say.

Stop the World - I want to get orf!!

The bathroom situation at home has gone from bad to worse (see Teaching Granny to suck eggs). Last weekend, I decided that I should have done what I said I would do and demand that daughter of darkness move the twins into her brother's room, so that he could use the telephone line installed in their ex-bedroom for his internet access. She doesn't sleep in that room because the twins might wake her. The twins would then have an altogether bigger room in which I could install the playpen (currently in the living room) and it would be an ideal "nursery". I would move a t.v. in there and buy a digi-box so they could have their pick of the channels She could have exclusive use of the family bathroom. NO, NIET, NON, NR,HER, NAO!!! Was the answer, leaving aside the expletives. Because the twins room had the benefit of the en-suite, (her en-suite, you understand), she would not give it up. Thus ensued an argument of apoplectic proportions.

I think maybe I'm beginning to develop Tourette's (please don't be offended anyone who suffers or knows someone who suffers, this is not meant to be a derogatory comment). My screaming was interspersed with "I don't F***ing believe this!" "Two f***ing years ago, five of us were sharing one f***ing bathroom, now we're arguing over three f***ing bathrooms!!!"" "You have moved into this house with the twins and you and your mess has f***ing invaded every f***ing rooom, you haven't even picked up the f***ing wet nappies from their f***ing bath last night!!! You spend all day watching Jeremy f***ing Kyle, This f***ing Morning and f***cking Friends instead of putting some f***ing washing on, tidying your f*** tip of a room which still has a f***ing yohurt pot, spoon and f*** dirty used facewipes sitting on the f***ing cabinet from three f***ing weeks ago!!!" Etc, etc, etc. You get my drift.

She yelled back of course. Lots of screaming, crying, effing and blinding, coupled with threats to move out, I always get that when we fall out. Well she can move out. I will be heartbroken of course, I have become very close to the twins and I feel so privileged to have been able to see them grow over the last twelve months, but she simply doesn't appreciate the help, the house, the physical, emotional and financial support she's had. Maybe it will do her good to stand on her own two feet. Trouble is, she's reliant upon finding a Council property or Housing Assocation property where the landlord will accept a DSS tenant. It could be months, if not years. So I will continue to bottle up my anger and suppress my comments under my breath at the risk of upsetting Princess Daughter - until the next time I explode.

The result of all this was that I couldn't take the shouting and screaming, I was beoming more beetroot red by the minute and was terrified of bursting into spontaneous combustion. So I took her brother to Birmingham where we indulged ourselves over a long lunch at Cafe Rouge and watched the world go by. Wonderful, but he still hasn't got a room with internet access and it looks as if I will have to pay to send him "wireless" - whatever that means.

I bought him some Jeans and her a fluffy dressing gown with a "Grumpy but Gorgeous" logo on the back. You see, now I'm feeling sorry for her, because she cried,and because she's a single mother aged 19 of twins aged nearly two and she doesn't have a boyfriend and she doesn't have much money and she hardly goes out and she feels isolated and her friends are all working and nightclubbing.

I still have a sense of humour - just.

Monday Blues

I work for a firm of solicitors as a Conveyaning Fee Earner. This means that I buy and sell residential property for clients and that the fees I generate for the firm are target driven with a (theoretical) bonus paid to me if I exceed the target. The said bonus scheme is extraordinarily complex and probably unachievable in any event particularly in today's market. The bonus, if achieved is then paid over 5 months, thereby dissipating it's effect.

The residential property market has been hit by the introduction of the poorly thought out and expensive Hips, together with successive interest rate rises. Peculiarly, every month the Senior Partner will call me and ask me why my costs are down and why do I think I'm not opening so many new files? Perhaps he doesn't read the newspapers or watch t.v. - I'll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. I give him the same stock answer each time. Add into this equation the fact that he took on another solicitor with two support staff in June of this year, thereby almost doubling the office overheads - I'm not counting on any bonus this year.

Everyone knows that buying and selling property is one of the most stressul things one can do. Imagine being the person at the end of the phone trying to explain the complexities of the conveyancing process, when all the client is interested in is a moving date. There must be a better way.

By 10a.m. today, one of my more difficult clients had reduced me to tears. This is not a normal reaction for me, but it's Monday and I'm pissed off and unmotivated.

Maybe I'll apply for a job at the supermarket.

Food of Love

I called in at my local supermarket on the way home last night. It shall remain nameless as a) it irritates me beyond belief and b) I can't afford an expensive law suit. The first irritant is having to find a pound coin to release a trolley from it's chains. If I don't have a pound coin, I'm forced to go to the cigarette counter or "customer services" (allegedly), and give them the change in exchange for the pound coin. Of course, they're busy with other customers and I'm forced to queue before I've even given them the privilege of shopping in their store. When this procedure was first introduced, I had a rant at the then Manager. He tried to tell me it was the law that the trolleys were chained up. Bollocks. I work in the law & I know it isn't. The second irritant is the lack of cashiers available at just after 5pm (or anytime for that matter). Without exception, every time I enter that store, I hear the tanoi announcement "could all available cashiers....." "could all multi-skilled staff....". Surely they know when the store is likely to be busy ie; when people have just left work and are shopping for their dinner? The third irritant is empty shelves. What more can I say? I could go on, but I know I'm beginning to sound like a Grumpy Old Woman.

Anyway, I digress, I trailed around the store and picked up what I needed before finding a relatively quiet conveyer belt. I surveyed the food belonging to the chap in front of me. A microwaveable burger and three bottles of cider (he must be single), no, then a bag of salad, some prawns and some smoked salmon. Aha! He's having a prawn and salmon salad because he's trying to be healthy, then half way around the store, he's decided it won't fill him up and bought the burger for later. Wrong again, I spy a bottle of Rose wine. Sussed it. The burger and cider is for him, the prawns, salad and wine for his girlfriend - this man knows how to show a girl a good time!

One small point of note. I had resorted to elastic bands around the hold-ups and spent the whole episode terrified that one of them would snap and have me suppressing a scream whilst the said hold-up unceremoniously slid down to my ankle.

Later, and having cooked dinner, K decided to take S for a driving lesson, H was out and the twins were in bed. Yippee! Time on my own. I turned off the T.V, dimmed the lights, poured a large G & T and put Ella Fitzgerald on the CD player. I spent a wonderful hour singing away " Every time we say goodbye, I die a little, every time we say goodbye, I wonder why, a little...." it's one of my favourites. But the lyrics to one particular song really get me going. There's a Take That song called "I'd wait for life" I won't repeat the full lyrics here, for fear of that lawsuit:

"If you ever turn away,

If you ever change your mind,

If the road ahead, becomes too hard to climb,

If there's something in your heart that tells you to stop,

Oh to hold you close tonight,

I'd wait for life

I don't know where you are

or how you may be

But I know, I love you still"

Those words have particular significance to me.

There was another man in my life until two years ago. We had been friends for four years and eventually became lovers. There's a lot more to tell, but not now. Let's just say I will be eternally grateful and eternally sad.

Hup! Two, Three, Four

Why don't hold-ups, hold up? The nylon sort of course, I'm not into wearing them on my head and robbing banks. I have lost count of the number of times I have worn them for just two days only to find that by mid-morning, I have this slipping, sliding feeling half way down one or both legs. I have been known to keep them up with an elastic band, but it's not long before I lose all sensation in the said leg(s) and start to worry that my leg(s) will fall off. Today was one of those days.

I have set myself a target. Lose two stone by Christmas, that is, in just 12 weeks. I figure if I can lose 2-3lbs a week, it's achievable. So, I have a new regime: Cornflakes & toast for breakfast, apple mid-morning, cornflakes for lunch, banana mid-afternoon, normal dinner and the daily recommended amount of alchohol (my measures). You see, I simply cannot give up that evening drink, it helps me unwind and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc is a pre-requisite when organising up to four different meals for four awkward people.

The other part of my new regime is to build in a 30 minute brisk walk at lunchtime. So I bring to work some comfy shoes and a pair of trousers that normally wouldn't see the light of day. Trouble is, I would prefer to remain as anonymous as possible when doing this walking stuff, but I work in a busy urban area, with shops, cars and people in abundance. I left the office at 1.05pm today and hit the road with a heart-pumpingly brisk walk, staring at the pavement in an effort to avoid everyone in sight. Then it struck me, here I am wishing I were invisible and there are these two huge bouncing boobs doing everything they can to attract attention, lolloping away in different directions and sparring me for a black eye. I really must invest in a sports bra.

Halfway around, a "ring and ride" bus trundled past me. I considered flagging it down for a moment, but only for a moment, knowing how I would later beat myself up for failing, yet again.

I walked for 40 minutes in a rather random circuit, not knowing where I was heading. As a result I walked down the same residential road twice. The first time, I had noticed various people, the man painting his window ledge, the roofing contractors standing over a vat of melting tar, the builder sitting in his van with his doorstep sandwich and flask of steaming tea. A matter of only 10 minutes later, I was heading back to the office down the same residential road - I crossed over to add some variety. The man painting his window ledge turned and spotted me for the second time. Maybe he thought he was going mad, or maybe he thought he was experiencing Groundhog Day, or maybe he thought, silly cow. This is going to be a hard one to keep up, as the actress said to the bishop.

Teaching Granny to Suck eggs

Is it me? Jamie Oliver's school dinners haven't gone down so well. Quelle surprise! At the risk of sounding like an old fart, when I grew up, we had school dinners or went hungry. We weren't an overweight generation of kids and we enjoyed plenty of excercise and fresh air in and out of school. Why do the powers that be (and I'm not siding with any particular political party) insist on nannying us to the point when we all just lose interest and do our own thing anyway? It's not rocket science. If you force certain foods on kids, they will just go and eat what they want when they can, thereby creating bad eating habits by missing meals and filling up on crap on their way home. Successive governments have meddled with the school curriculum in an effort to falsely increase exam results and in doing so, they have deprived a generation of children of the right to run around the playground, enjoy sports and keep well. If the government wants a generation of academic overweight unmotivated people, that's what they'll get.

I've stepped down from my soap box now.

Today did not get off to a great start. We have three showers in our house. Two double showers (one in each en-suite) and one single shower in the main family bathroom. 15 year old H (hormones) refuses to use the shower in the family bathroom (because his 16 year old brother B uses it once a week), he can't use the double bathroom in the other en-suite because the twins are in the bedroom and anyway that's his sister's bathroom (God help us - I never had a bathroom to myself in my life!). Anyway, the long and the short of this is that he has to use our en-suite. We have to be out by 8.15 latest to get him to school. So, I wake up at 7.00 and immediately dive (not literally) into the shower. I'm out by 7.15 by which time his father (K) has gone downstairs for his ritual coffee and fag. So I drip into H and tell him the shower is free now, but if he doesn't hurry up, his father will be back upstairs and using it. I get a muffled grunt from under the duvet. I trail back into my bedroom, sigh and start my hair and makeup. Time passes, and I'm constantly watching the clock on gmtv. 7.45., 7.50 and guess what? K is on his way back up stairs for his shower. Great. I go into H and remind him we have to be out by 8.15. Get this. I then get a text message from H bemoaning the fact that he can't have the shower. At the risk of pointing out the obvious, I ignore him. K doesn't vacate the shower until 8.05 and H takes over. I am sitting downstairs with my kellogs and toast, clock watching again.
At 8.25 I run upstairs and ask H if he's ready. "Nearly" is the response - he's gelling his hair. We finally leave at 8.30 and I have to drive 5 miles in the wrong direction to get him to school because he's missed the school bus. I drop him off at school at which point I get an unexpected kiss on the cheek whilst he raids my purse - he needs breakfast and lunch you see. It's 8.44. I drive back on the dual carriageway and hey ho, the traffic grinds to a halt in front of me. At 9.05 I telephone the office to warn them I'm going to be late. I then sat there for over an hour. Nasty accident, air ambulance and all that. Car had an argument with a tree by the looks of it. I drive past and hope that the driver and any passengers will be ok. Finally arrive at the office at 10.25. It's now two hours since I left home. The journey should normally take 25 minutes.

I'm meeting a girlfriend for a quick drink at 5.00pm. Not sure I want to go home.

Days of Wine

This is my first blog and I confess I really don't know what I'm doing here. I have read that those who blog are the self-obsessed, with little else to do with their time except look for admiration and silent applause from others. I do not consider myself self-obsessed, merely unhappy in lots of ways and seeking an outlet for my many frustrations. That said, I have read and enjoyed many blogs, usually when I should be working - but hey, it helps pass the tedious business of work.

It has often been said of me, that I should write a book - I don't think I will ever find the time to do that and I'm not sure it would be any good - probably give every publisher in the land a good laugh if nothing else.

Some background. I am a forty something mother of three, a girl, S aged 19 and two boys B & H aged 16 and 15 respectively. B has Downs Syndrome and (after a long fight) is in a residential special needs school from Monday to Friday, comes home weekends. To achieve this I have had to engage (very expensive) solicitors and it's not over yet. B will be leaving school at 19 and heaven knows what happens then. He has the mental capacity of a 5 year old and will never lead an indpendent life (sorry if this sounds negative, but facts are facts). The Local Authority (LA) have consistently refused to accept that he has any needs at weekends (despite accepting that he has severe learning difficulties and needs a many in the week), hence he comes home on a Friday evening and goes back to school on a Monday morning. He doesn't want to come home on a Friday evening and often refuses to get in the taxi. He spends all weekend asking when he can go back to school. If it wasn't so sad, it would be funny. The conversation goes like this:

B:- " Mom - when it Monay?

Me: "Today is Saturday, tomorrow, is Sunday, then it's Monday"

B: " Monay, I go school"

Me: " Yes B" on Monday you go back to school"

B: " Mom - when it Monay?"

Me: "Ok two big sleeps, then back to school"

B: "Ok

B: " Mom, when it Monay?"

Spoken like Matt Lucas from "Little Britain" and that's just me!!

B cannot pronounce "B's"., "D's" and "S's"

The LA have provided "Direct payments" for me to buy in care for him on weekends and holidays - fine - except that I can't find a care agency with the necessary care package available to assist.

S lives with me, she has twin boys J & J aged 21 months who also live with me. She got herself into a disastrous relationship with the twins' father, which lasted just under two years. She and the twins have been with me for a year now and it's damned hard work (is it ok to swear on here??) I try not to swear, but sometimes, it's unavoidable. Anway, S terrifies me. She is a younger, stroppier and louder version of me and I don't like what I see. True, she has a lot to deal with, but then, so do I. Guess that's maturity for you - but I don't feel like being very mature. The twins are delightful, if loud. They are systematically ruining my new house - new just two years ago when I thought all the children thing was over and done with. No more stairgates, no more crayons, no more food on the floor, no more cupboard locks. How wrong can one woman be?

H is my middle child, now 15 and almost a man. His hormones are spitting at me daily. Sometimes, all I do is remind him of the time for school - you would think I'd surgically removed his mobile phone, sold his x box (what does the X stand for?) and posted pictures of him naked on the internet (mental note: learn how to do that). He's not a happy bunny these days, except when I'm spending money on him. He broke his leg on 1 June this year - fell out of a tree (don't ask). Plaster now off, but regular visits to hospital not over yet.

You must be wondering if there's husband in this life. Well there is, in title only. He's uninterested and unspportive, unless it's got anything to do with his work or golf. Oh yes, he suffers from selective hearing too (how do men do that?).

I don't know why or how I'm still here.

It's not all bad, there's always a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the 'fridge!