Nobody here but us chickens....

Having too much...

I have too much. Too much stuff. Too much of everything and I just can’t keep up. I could of course give it all away but let’s be realistic here that is very unlikely to happen because a) my husband would have a fit, b) my kids would have a fit, and c) not all of it is my stuff in the first place - it is theirs.

Problem is I am the one who has to sort all the stuff out whether it be mine or theirs. I have to find homes for it all then I have to ensure it is kept clean and mended; I have to put it away and not lose it. If it does get lost I have to know exactly where I put it even though I may not actually be the one who put it anywhere. Case in point: the backdoor key which was “lost” for two days. It turned up in my husband’s pocket but not before I was blamed and told that I am just too disorganised and am forever putting stuff back in the wrong place.

It’s not as if anything has a right place anyway…

I will hold my hand up and admit that I am not a naturally tidy person. But I don’t think it should be my sole responsibility to know where everything is and be able to keep it that way. The rest of the household should bear some responsibility.

My husband nods emphatically in agreement but I know that in the middle of my rant to him his nods are merely placatory because he actually wants to go and have his morning constitutional in the smallest room with only the newspaper for company.

I get a lot of nods.

But in the end they leave it to me and I feel like I am drowning.

I frequently burst into tears – when they are not here – sobbing that I cannot cope but somehow I do. Maybe it is the fantasies I have that get me through. The ones I have of burning the whole damn lot. Seeing my home go up in smoke and do you know what I smile at the thought. I imagine the relief I will feel when there is nothing to find, nothing to lose. Starting over and boy how it would be different…but in reality if it did happen I bet within a few months I would be right back where I started with far too much!

Tiddled again…

I am not I hasten to say a soak. Getting pissed is not a past time. It is merely something that happens now and again.

And after careful scientific process over the last three months I can now categorically announce that it takes 2 and a half glasses to get me to the tipping point.

One and a half glasses and I merely happy and in control but one more and I am not safe to drive.

Three glasses and Darling however much I seem to be suggesting  that Nirvana is here and waiting for you, I hate to say it but I am too far gone to take part let alone remember in the morning.

I swear when I was younger I was  not nearly so weak but numerous pregnancies, two boys and a few years past my fortieth and well let’s just say I am beginning to know my limits especially as a new term dawns and I have to get up to do the school run.

I still love the old vino and I am particularly fond of anything with a bit of a fizz however these days I have to pace myself and take care.

Long gone are the days when Whisky Macs were my staple diet interspersed with Marlborough Lights and Pot Noodles.

Nowadays it is a healthy diet that must suffice no fags, little whisky and certainly no pot noodles!

Prime Suspect…..

The Wickedest Whippet: The Prime Suspect?

Now there’s something really weird going on here everything I own that is garishly pink is going missing, seriously missing. First it was my Noble & Black perfectly pink address book, the one that costs a fortune! Then today it was my purse….my prime suspect: THE DOG.

Not just any dog, not my gorgeous Tattie, my beautiful Gemma, my clever Tigger but her. Sassy, the EBJ. The wickedest whippet.

She just looks guilty. All of the time!

Problem is though why would a dog want a pink purse?

There is no evidence to link her with the crime, if indeed it is a crime. There are no tell-tale signs of chewed up bits of pink leather littering the lawn. There is nothing. So perhaps I am being a tad unfair.

The purse has vanished.

And that is the problem.

I had it this morning at 9am when I opened it to get £40 before I went running. I also took my Visa card with me in case I needed more cash on my way home from the lakes where I run.

And that’s the last I have seen of it.

Bog Boy says it was on the kitchen table at about 9.30am. But by the time I got home at 11am it was no longer there.

First I thought he boys had hidden it or played with it.

“No Mummy.”

Then I thought I must have put it somewhere else. Dear Charlie, me and Marion, the cleaner, hunted high and low for nearly two hours. Every drawer, cupboard, bin, under the chairs, outside, in the dog baskets...

Nada

Nothing

Gone.

I reluctantly cancelled my credit cards and fearing the worst called the local police.

For, as Sherlock Holmes so memorably said: “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

The truth is someone must have walked into my home, into my kitchen and taken my purse, for that is the only thing that makes any sense at all.

I still want to hold the dog up as the prime suspect for I don’t like the idea of some nefarious person sauntering about my kitchen when my boys were playing in the next room, Marion was upstairs cleaning and Tattoo (me man what does) and J were in the garden too far away to do anything at all if said person had been up to anything other than an opportunist thievery.

It makes me feel quite sick.

Recipe for the not so perfect Bank Holiday...

First take your bank holiday and get it wet.
Soak for at least four hours first thing in the morning
Then check your e-mails
Note that you have a pinged back e-mail and realise your editor has not got your latest missive which included deadline material for first thing Tuesday morning
Press resend
Note that there is no longer an attachment to e-mail
Aim to sort problem out by going to send box
Realise you have been rather too computer houseproud and have deleted send box on Friday
Seek attachment from elsewhere
Find unknown glitch which won't allow you to access attachments
Check glitch to see if you can copy and paste
Find you have unknown error and cannot access word dox
Realise only way to meet editorial deadline is to re-write whole article from scratch
Curse
Loudly
Explain to hubby problem
Curse hubby
Loudly
Hole yourself up in office as sun comes out

Start rewrite
Try to prevent yourself looking out of window while hubby and kids have GREAT time
Look at White Company Catalogue for inspiration despite fact it has nothing whatsoever to do with article
Curse
Loudly
In knowledge that without meeting deadline won't be able to afford anything in White Company Catalogue..EVER!
Break for lunch
Mutter under breath when boys all jump up and down about how GREAT a time they are having with Daddy
Return to hole
Work furiously while wearing blinkers
Get lost on Internet and land up looking at auction websites by mistake
Force yourself to concentrate
Finally finish article
Press send
And realise it is dark outside and the whole day has flown by...
Curse
Loudly
Have large glass of wine....

The Wickedest Whippet has a problem…

The Wickedest Whippet: soulful or just plain guilty?

The Wickedest Whippet (aka EBJ – evil black job – aka Sassy) has a problem. Or let’s say I have a problem with the wickedest whippet.

She’s decided to hole herself up in Bog Boy’s room behind a chair on top of a whole load of dirty washing and she’s not coming out.

Every time I try to force her to get out she looks balefully at me then digs her feet in and won’t budge.

My boys call me cruel for dragging her by her collar so that I can get her outside to go to the loo. I have said that as soon as she uses the loo in the bathroom she can stay inside for as long as she likes. The boys look at me blankly. “You just wait until you tread on the proverbial as you get up in the morning,” I snarl as explanation.

The dog sighs and while I am busy haranguing the boys about why dogs do not use toilets (a word I hate) she trots back to her hidey hole and buries herself more deeply under some smelly socks.

I have got her downstairs but she’s a wily creature and as soon as she gets an opening she shoots back upstairs again. I warn the boys NOT to leave doors open and for a while there is progress. I manage to clear away the clothes and get them to the washing machine and I rescue a variety of goodies ranging from a couple of my shoes, a teddy bear, a biro and a pair of my husband’s running shorts. There is also a quantity of ripped up newspaper or at least what I think is newspaper, it could be an Economist…

However, she’s there again now. Someone left the window in the downstairs loo open and she’s leapt through it and ensconced herself yet again. I can see I am going to have to get professional help. I do believe she’s in the grip of a phantom pregnancy as it is the only thing that makes sense.

I have just been to see her again and she does look ever so pathetic.

Oh maybe not just heard thunderous roars from downstairs I think the whippet has just eaten all the newly made bread painstakingly made by husband. So maybe she was just looking guilty….she really is the wickedest whippet!

Just how feral are you?

Seriously.

Are you feral or are you domesticated?

My Mum says I am feral.

Not sure how to take that. Should I be proud or ashamed? I fear I am rather pleased about it. Being domesticated seems so well middle class, middle aged and well middling. But perhaps that’s the child in me speaking not the grown up.

Being domesticated is being organised, sorted, in control, chic, elegant, sophisticated…

All things I am not. Perhaps my mother is right; I am feral.

Feral: wild.

Is there anything wrong in being wild?

Not if being wild is being free.

But free of thought when you are a parent is a different thing altogether.

It is just not compatible.

Maybe there is a reason why we say: Young free and single

For being a parent means in many respects you are not free, certainly not free of responsibility.

However, after eight years of being a parent, it is therefore rather worrying my mother still describes me as: ‘essentially feral’…

So what is it that makes her think I am still feral…

Errrmmm…

• Allowing the dogs in the bed?
• Leaving my clothes lying about?
• Only clearing up when guests come round?
• Tidying up by using the out of sight out of mind method i.e. putting everything hastily in drawers and cupboards and forgetting them?
• Being dusty round the edges?
• Failing to have cut flowers in my house?
• Sort of not being quite in control and flying by the seat of my pants….
• Not quite getting the all singing all dancing need to have everything  just so.

I can;t get the ‘just so’ bit; I never could. Everthing happens to me and I just wing it. I always have done in work, in love in life. People think because of my depression that I am a half empty kinda girl but actually I am a lucky sod. Things just turn out right and I have no idea how. Somewhere along the line things work out and usually for the better….eventually.

If I interefere things go wrong.

Maybe that’s why I am considered feral there seems to be no input from me in my life…it just happens!