Parties and Payback

We had a great night out for Rob’s birthday and the food, thankfully, was wonderful – a juicy steak, pepper sauce and all the trimmings, and without a hair, rat or a shard of glass in sight.

I wrote about Rob many times on my previous blogs so a few of you know that he’s the joker in the pack and always up for a prank. It’s always nice when the shoe’s on the other foot though and Rhonda took the opportunity to arrange for a helium balloon with ‘50’ emblazoned across it to be tied to the back of his chair. (Bless him, he’s only 43.) She then gave him his presents – a packet of jelly, a pound of sausages and two wind-up racing grannies – complete with walking frames. She’d also bought him a birthday cake which looked remarkably like Dougal from The Magic Roundabout, complete with smarties. So we ended the meal with a very bad rendition of Happy Birthday as Rob blew out his candles.

After a few more drinks we found ourselves in the alcohol aisle at Tesco, looking for a bottle of champagne to finish off the night. It was late and reasonably quiet in there, but as our turn came at the checkout there were a couple of people behind us. Just as we were about to get served, Rhonda looked at me in a really strange way. She had her mouth open with this ‘rabbit caught in headlights’ expression on her face. I couldn’t for the life of me work out what was wrong…that was until at the top of her voice she screeched “OH MY GOD. Look at your EYEBROWS!” With that she suddenly took off, leaving me there with the checkout girl and several other people staring at me. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to suddenly turn up a notch. All the while I was thinking “what the fuck’s wrong with them?” and heads were turning – people’s eyes following her up and down the aisles, curious as to what she was going to come back with. When she eventually got back to the checkout it was with a pair of tweezers which she slammed on the conveyor belt and then announced to the world “She looks like the bloody Yeti!”

Yeah, meet my friend Rhonda. Never a dull moment!

A couple of weeks ago there was a front page story in our local paper. A woman who was having a quiet night out with friends in a city centre pub was apparently “shocked and saddened” at the sudden appearance of a kissogram girl who had been booked to perform for a groom out on his stag night. In fact the woman was so offended by the sight of this semi-clad kissogram girl that she contacted the local council and lodged a complaint.

We have a ‘points of view’ page in our local paper (and also on their website) and that particular story received about sixty comments from members of the public who were outraged at this woman’s complaint. My letter, which I wrote on the website, was pulled from there and published in the paper. It was quite a long one (you can read it here) which I ended with a bit of a joke. I told the readers that last year whilst having a quiet intimate meal with my husband, a quad of Morris Dancers appeared and began gyrating around the table next to me. I explained that I was obviously “horrified” by their hankie-waving antics, but that I just closed my eyes, let them get on with it and the council were none the wiser.



Rhonda, unbeknown to me, read my letter and decided to complain about it. She wrote into the paper claiming to be deeply offended by what I’d said – and in full support of Morris Dancing and the fact it is part of our English Heritage. They actually published it! (Here.)

Rhonda Newell – I know you are reading this and war is ON!

(If anybody would like to see some deeply disturbing photographs of Rhonda, just let me know. I have files and folders and hard drives cram packed with the most embarrassing images you could possibly think of! Top of the list is Rhonda, who after consuming several glasses of wine proceeded to……

Ahh….could I really be so mean?

This is your Morris Dancer hating Yeti friend (who right now has a permanent bemused look because one eyebrow is now bigger than the other) signing off and wishing you all a very happy Thursday!

Food for Thought

It seems that as the years roll by, I’m hearing more and more horrifying stories about people who have had bad restaurant and take-away experiences, and to be honest it’s making me more apprehensive about eating out. I could reel off ten, maybe twenty tales right now – and that’s just experiences my own family have had.

My mum found something hard and crunchy in her Chicken Chow Mein take-away a few years ago which looked remarkably like a jaw bone. It was – and it belonged to a rat. A few years later in a restaurant, she cut her mouth on a shard of glass which was in her fish pie. I’ve dug out bits of plastic and hard, unidentifiable lumps of stuff from microwave food, I’ve found hairs in the middle of my pies and have often wondered what the Indian guys are doing when they’re having a laugh and a joke in their kitchen. We’ve all seen the sketches on the telly where the chefs – slightly annoyed by the English lager loutish banter – have dropped their trousers, reached inside their boxers and have put godknowswhat into someone’s curry. Only the other day, the environmental health were called into a McDonalds drive through because a staff member was seen chasing a rat out of the door with a broom. And Rob, tucking into some spicy beef from the local Chinese last week, found himself chomping on one of those big staples you find in cardboard boxes.

Looking for a chocolate cake recipe today, I came across an article (it’s here if you want the full story) which made my stomach turn. Two shop owners were charged £1,500 for selling a chocolate cake which had been sprinkled with human faeces. No shit! (Sorry ‘bout that!) I’d rather have had the shard of glass and dealt with the stitches, I think.

No, I don't think, I know!

It’s Rob’s birthday tomorrow -

Happy Birthday Rob! xxx

- and the two of us along with our friends Rhonda and Nathan are going out for a meal.

Yeah. I’m really looking forward to it.

It’s often said that ‘you get what you pay for’ but surely, no matter what the price, we should be able to buy food in the knowledge that it is what it says it is, it has no hidden extras and it hasn’t seen the floor.

Have you ever had any bad experiences? Do tell!

What is Love?

I’ve been thinking about that question from yesterday: “How do you know when it’s love?” (Which I then translated to: What is love?)

Yesterday I went to my friend Rhonda’s house, to take some pictures of her and her family which they wanted for part of a present for Rhonda's sister-in-law's birthday.

I have to say that when I arrived the LOVE thang was bursting at the seams, and I realised - taking the pictures - that there are many different kinds of love.

Family Love

Mother and Daughter Love

Father and Son Love


Husband and Wife Love

Friend Love


Sister- in- Law Love

(Two packs of icing, a few glasses of wine and several swear words later....)

Content with my photos and certain I knew a little more about what LOVE actually is, I went to sleep (with Rhonda's feet up my nose which is definitely NOT love.) When I woke up in the early hours of this morning and ventured into their garden for a breath of fresh air (ok a fag), I really didn't think I'd be witnessing any other forms of love. Surely this house had enough of it already? And that's when I came across this:

SLUG LOVE

Ewwww!

Of course, I had to do some research when I got home, and this is what I discovered:

Although slugs are hermaphroditic (each animal equipped with both male and female reproductive organs) they mate with themselves only if no other slugs are around.

(Does that sound familiar? Hehehe!)

Given a choice, they seek partners with whom to trade genetic material, a move that, by favoring the passage of chromosomes from both parents to the offspring, nurtures a healthier pool of slug genes.

Makes sense...

The actual exchange of sperm is preceeded by an elaborate courtship ritual, which supposedly reduces the chance of two individuals of separate species mating and giving rise to hybrids.

Hmmm. Ok.

During courtship, two slugs will circle each other ... with both partners engaged in ritualized bouts of lunging, nipping, and sideswiping with their tails. The two slugs may also display their disproportionately large sex organs. The great grey garden slug's penis is nearly half its total body length.

WTF? (Can you see that white stuff in the picture? That there is slug cock!)

As courtship progresses, a slug pair intertwines ... stimulating each other for several more hours.

Lucky b*****ds

Their genital areas swell (niiiiice) as the pair move even closer together. Penetration takes place, then each slug alternately releases and receives sperm.

Now, THAT is LOVE!

Now the slugs must disengage -- a challenge for two animals so amply endowed and thoroughly covered in sticky mucus. After long bouts of writhing and pulling, the pair may resort to ... apophallation. (Huh?) Translated, this means that one slug gnaws off the penis of the other.

UUUGH! Now I never loved someone THAT much.

Is there an advantage to such odd behavior?

Yes, aparently.

The apophallated (the one without a dick) slug cannot regrow his penis and is now obligated to be a female and forced to offer eggs.

So there ends a little biology lesson, brought to you by Miss Understood.

As for love - I'm none the wiser!

Have a nice day!

Meme

I haven't done a meme for ages, but I saw this one in someone's archives (dating back to 2005) and I thought I'd give it a go.

Name someone with the same birthday as you.
Oh God, do I really have to? Ok…ok…John Major. (You know, that strange, bespectacled, political man.) Can you believe that?

Where was your first kiss?
Laying in the bath, 1978 ish, where I proceeded to get extremely amorous with my left forearm.

Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else's property?
I’ve never seriously wanted to vandalise someone’s property, but I have kicked a few walls (and ruined my shoes). And once, a very VERY long time ago (pre motherhood) I put my fist through a window in rage. It was my property though, so that doesn’t really count.

Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex?
Yes. A few guys have had a slap (BUT THEY DESERVED IT.) I’ve only ever thrown one punch in my entire life – I’m not proud of it. I was 17 and out of sheer frustration at my boyfriend falling asleep in front of a gas fire – drunk – and setting himself alight, I hit out. I made his nose bleed and it really shocked me.

Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people?
I sang in various choirs at school and have embarrassed myself at the occasional karaoke, but that’s about as brave as I get.

What's the first thing you notice about the preferred sex?
His face, his eyes, his smile, his body, his voice, his clothes, his hands, his ass, his aura. All at once.

What is your biggest mistake?
Not prosecuting the guy I was in a violent relationship with. Actually, I think it's staying with him for long enough to actually reach that point where I should have. It was three years too long.

Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose?
Yes. It was a Sunday night and I really wanted the day off school the following day, because I knew my friend had the day off to babysit her brother. I rubbed a toothbrush over my forehead for about 10 minutes until it started bleeding, made a really stupid stomping/falling/out of control noise on the stairs, and lay in a heap at the bottom till my Mum appeared. The next day I feigned a headache, and got the day off. Sorry Mum!

Say something totally random about yourself.
I hate celery. (Did you know that you burn more calories eating and digesting celery than there are in the celery itself?)

Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?
My ex mother in law said I looked like Gina from Corrie, back in the 90’s. (I wish!) And a few people said I looked like the twins from Neighbours (in the 90’s, too). I couldn’t see it myself!

Do you still watch kiddy movies or tv shows?
No, I OD'd on them when Dan was little. The mere sound of the Thomas the Tank music sends me over the edge. (I do watch the family Christmas movies, though.)

Did you have braces?
No.

Are you comfortable with your height?
It depends how small the space is I’m standing in, but yes, usually. I’m about 5’ 4”. It’s good enough for me!

What is the most romantic thing someone of the opposite sex has done for you?
I was having a really bad day and a friend arrived on my doorstep bearing all the things he knew would make me feel a bit better – bubble bath, candles, chocolates and wine, a good book, a cd and a hug. It was a lovely gesture, and for no other reason than I was feeling down. That was really nice.

When do you know it's love?
I am completely unable to answer this question. I’ll come back to it.

Do you speak any other languages?
No. I can write a little bit in French and Spanish but orally I’m not too good. (Shut up Gareth.)

Have you ever been to a tanning salon?
Yes. I used to work in a health club and we had free tanning (back in the days when we didn’t really know the risks). Damn, I looked good!

What magazines do you read?
The free ones which come with the Sunday papers. I used to buy Cosmo a few years ago, but resented paying for three quarters of a magazine filled with nothing but ads. I tend to do most of my reading online these days.

Have you ever ridden in a limo?
No. I think the beauty of a Limo can only really be experienced from the outside – when you see it cruise past and it stops you in your tracks for a moment. Sitting inside one (and I have sat in a stationary one) you may as well be sitting in your own front room – but with a view of the town. I’ve seen the town enough times to last me a lifetime!

Has anyone you were really close to passed away?
Yes, quite a few people.

Do you watch MTV?
Very rarely. I tend to flick through music channels and stop if there’s a good song playing. I guess MTV don’t play my kinda songs.

What's something that really annoys you?
Just one thing?
People who will say anything – however hurtful –just to win an argument.

What's something you really like?
Laughing till my ribs hurt.

Can you dance?
Yes. At least I think I can. I used to be able to, but to be honest it’s been such a long time since I had a boogie, I’m not sure my feet would know what to do. Party anyone?

What's the latest you have ever stayed up?
I stayed up for 48 hours once. Again, a long time ago…and when life was one big party.

Have you ever been rushed by an ambulance into the emergency room?
Only once. See about 18 questions above.

So….When do you know it's love?
Bugger, this one again.
I think I’ll have to do a blog entry on it. One day.

R.I.P. Wellard.

I blame myself, really. If I was the kind of person who kept her finger on the pulse, her head in the paper and her eyes on the breaking news on her google homepage, then I could have spared myself the pain.

There I was on Friday evening, sprawled on the sofa without a care in the world and quite happily half watching Eastenders, when it became apparent that the programme were about to do one of their big ‘boom boom boom’ moments.

Wellard the dog who has been on the series for 14 years was about to be put to sleep.

I lay there as East 17’s ‘Stay Another day’ started playing in the background, and I watched through tears as the vet injected his ikkle paw and Wellard closed his eyes for the very last time, his head in Bianca’s lap. By the time the credits were rolling I was a total wreck. I couldn’t see a damn thing and I had so much snot up my nose I thought I was going to choke.

If that wasn’t bad enough, what happened next was terrible! The BBC announcer came on and said “Ahh, bless. Well coming up next is…….”

WHAT?

AHH BLESS? Is that IT?

You can’t just announce the next programme, you stupid woman! What about the line where you say “If you have been affected by anything in this programme, you can call the ‘I’ve had my doggy put to sleep’ helpline on 0800 blah–di- blah .” Where was it, eh? Where’s your compassion?

Some poor little lady living all alone – with no friends in the world other than her lifelong companion of the 4 legged variety who just so happened to have popped his doggy clogs – would have been absolutely distraught. Shame on you, BBC.

If you can bear it, here it is. (And the person who made the video was obviously so alarmed at the"Ahh Bless" comment that they cut it out.)

*Sniffle*

Edit: Heartbreaking as it was, it was written just a little tongue in cheek!

And the Winner Is...

Rob called me a few minutes ago to tell me he had won an iPod Shuffle. He was sitting in his taxi, bored out of his brains, when a competition was announced on the local radio. It was a simple ‘Guess the Place’ question which he knew the answer to, so he sent them a text. Result? He won…and goes through to a draw on Friday to win an iPhone, too. Not too shabby, eh?

Actually a while ago, he won the opportunity to play ‘Grab a Grand’ in our city centre (where he managed to grab about three hundred quid in a wind- blasted phone box and was also given some free flight vouchers), and some time after that he won a slap up meal with two of our local radio Breakfast Show DJs (God…what a night that was).

I rarely enter competitions – probably because when I do, I never win.

Actually, that’s a lie. I have won a few things. In forty years on this fucked up lovely planet, I have won:

Sexiest Bum (in a Health Club, 1986).
Prize: A free drink.

A Diana Ross look-a-like competition (in a nightclub, 1988).
Prize: Free admittance the following week. (Honestly, it wasn’t worth the humiliation. Thinking about it, nor was the Sexiest Bum. (Which I didn't enter by choice, by the way!))

A Pool Competition (Butlins, 1996).
Prize: A free week at Butlins at the end of season to compete in the final. (I didn’t go.)

A silly ‘send us your name on a postcard’ competition (local paper, 1997).
Prize: A Viper Yo-Yo (for my son who was desperate for one, bless him. Damn good he was, too!)

Best Animal made out of a Balloon competition (an Ibiza stage, 2000).
Prize: A bottle of (very cheap) Champers. And believe me, it looked nothing like a bloody animal.

Fun & Games Night (our local transport Club, 2006).
Prize: numerous bottles of crap wine - for cheating at just about everything.

And umm…that’s about it, I think.

OOOH! I won the fifth prize writer’s award in Blogworld (2007) in a little competition hosted by The Moon Topples.
Prize: A blog badge.

So, if you add up the value of all those nifty little prizes, I think it comes to the grand sum of about £30.00. Bearing in mind that my friend Rhonda won the Runaway Bride competition last year and bagged a two week all inclusive holiday and wedding in Turks and Caicos, it kind of puts me to shame.

So go on, make me snarl with envy. Have you ever won anything?

The Search Continues

Cover your ears, I’m about to have a rant.

The thing is…the two words Sales and Assistant, put together in the same sentence on a job centre website, kind of imply that the company are perhaps looking for a person who maybe will be helping to sell something. It conjures up images of working in a shop, perhaps behind a counter…with a till…and with money changing hands. Now tell me…am I right? Or am I right?

Why then, did my job involve:

• Unpicking hems from sweaty trousers
• Re-sewing hems of said trousers
• Steam cleaning jackets and trousers
  
• Washing shirts – and then having to IRON said shirts (and I’m not talking one or two, I’m talking one or two hundred)
• Packing up and unpacking clothes for the dry-cleaners
• Crawling on my hands and knees and picking cotton threads, chewing gum, dead leaves etc off the floor because the vacuum cleaner was broken (and lets face it, if it wasn’t broken, I’d have been doing the god-damned vacuuming anyway)
• And so on and so on.
  

Don’t get me wrong…there was an element of sales. In my first week I served ONE customer. Actually, I’ll rephrase that; I ATTEMPTED to serve one customer. But with no till training, and because every one had buggered off and left me, all I succeeded in doing was making the till beep. For a very, very long time. With a bunch of irate people staring at me like I was on day release from somewhere only the thick people live.

Thank God my lunch break was approaching, because quite frankly, I needed to cool off.

Ummm…hellooooo? It’s time for my lunch break…is anyone going to cover for me? I don’t think I’m allowed to close a High Street store for an hour at lunch time, am I?

Think. Think. What shall I do?

That’s it! I’ll just work through my lunch break and NOT GET PAID FOR IT! Actually, that is SUCH a good idea, I think I’ll do it EVERY SINGLE DAY!

I was given no written job description and no contract. All I had was a verbal agreement with the boss who QUITE FRANKLY, at 65 years of age, should have been at home knitting, or sorting out her toenail fungus. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ageist or anything (and nor do I have an aversion to toenail fungus...as long as you don't pick at it and leave it on the shop floor) but if a bride orders a wedding dress 12 months before it is needed and then arrives, as planned, a week before the wedding for her fitting, and the dress isn’t there because the boss FORGOT to order it, then I think it’s about time she called it a day. Especially as there is a 3 month waiting time for new dress orders.

“Elaine, could you possibly tell the bride that we have a problem with her dress?”

“Ummm…NO.”

Would you be surprised if I told you I quit?

As from now I am officially unemployed, unenthusiastic and unavailable for any company who don’t know their ass from their elbow or the difference between sales staff and skivvy.

Harumph.

Tim

I can’t quite believe a whole year has passed since we said our final farewell to Tim Davies, our friend, who died at just 45 after a long battle with cancer.

I remember those last few days he spent on this earth so vividly, and I know it will continue to be one of the most incredibly moving experiences I have had, or am ever likely to have.

Tim chose to die at home surrounded by his family and friends, and the house was an open house - day and night - leading up to, during, and after his death. Friendships were made during that time which will be life-long. Memories were made which will never be forgotten. Of course it was a time of sadness, but it was also a time of peace and serenity; a time to reflect, a time to laugh, and a time to cry happy tears as well as sad.

I’ve thought about Tim a lot in this past year. We all have. Sometimes it’s hard to believe he has actually gone because the essence of Tim surrounds us constantly. After all, how can someone with such a huge personality just disappear…just like that? Where would all that energy go? I now know that it actually goes nowhere. It lingers; brushes against us, touches our lives when we least expect it to, whispers in our ears the words he would have used had he still been here.

I expected thoughts of Tim to lessen over time, but he’s as real to me now as he ever was. I can still see his face and hear his laughter; I can picture him shaking his head – his mop of dishevelled hair falling over his eyes – at the recent goings on down here. I’m sure he’d have something to say about it all; he always was such a great talker!

And believe me, there have been a lot of ‘goings on'.

I’ve spent my day trying to write what should have been the next paragraph, but I’ve deleted it so many times now, it’s ridiculous. I’ve been staring at this page and trying to work out what it is I want to say and how I should say it. Or if I should even say it at all.

Eight hours on, I think I’m going to leave it where it is. Today is about Tim, and not me. It’s about remembering a fantastic guy who had so much more to give to the world; a guy who I hope is smiling right now at the shenanigans of the 'crazy people'.

Tim Davies.

Who will never, ever be forgotten.

And who (we discovered last night) had secret tunes on his mp3 player we’d have tortured him for, given half the chance.

To a great guy.

Our friend.

Rob’s best friend.

We love you and we miss you.

And you will never, ever be forgotten. X

Tim chose this song for his funeral. It played, beginning to end, as his body entered the chapel. We sat there for a very long time...

...and we thought…and we thought… and we thought…

Putting Off and Puddles

I have this canister of clear gel which, once a day, I have to rub into my upper arms or inner thighs. It dispenses a measured dose of oestrogen, the exact amount my body supposedly needs to prevent all sorts of things happening – osteoporosis, hair loss, flushes, night sweats, loss of libido, dementia, what was I saying?

I haven’t used it in over a fortnight. It’s crazy. Even now I’m sitting here writing this and thinking “I must put some gel on today.” Only last night I was wide awake at two in the morning, tossing and turning in bed, feeling like someone had lit a barbecue in my chest cavity and subsequently swamped me in water. “Tomorrow,” I thought as I lay there, sprawled like a starfish on damp sheets. “I’ll start the routine again tomorrow.”

Am I the only one who does this? Not necessarily with oestrogen gel, of course, but with other things? I really must clean the house. Or take that pill. Or give up smoking. Drinking. Eating. Swearing. Buy some fresh veg and get at least one of five portions. Make that call. Get an early night. Paint the bedroom. Sort out the garage. Give up coffee. Write something. Stop flirting with that guy on myspace who's young enough to be my son.

Yeah, yeah. I’ll do it tomorrow.

Why do we (I) put things off all the time? I mean, how hard is it, really, to stick to a plan and follow a routine which is going to be beneficial for me? Why don’t I just rub the god-damned stuff on and be done with it?

I tell myself all sorts of things. That there are side effects and that it’s baaaad stuff. That a couple of days/weeks without it won’t hurt. That if I do put it on, it'll make me normal and boring, instead of scatty and weird, and I won't do crazy stuff and say crazy things any more, and be all refreshingly individual. And that really it's such a chore – shower, wash hands, put on hair products, wash hands, put on face products, wash hands, rub in gel, wash hands, and then walk around naked for half and hour and don’t sit on anything or touch anything or anyone until that half hour has passed. You want a hug? Tough shit; the stuff ain’t dry yet.

Fuck it. I’ll do it tomorrow.

I have to rub it in till I’m 51, apparently. Eleven more years. That’s when (on average) natural loss of oestrogen occurs in women. Until then, I ‘m a synthetic woman, reliant on a bottle of gloop to con the world and my body into believing I’m normal.

Last night it started raining; drizzle at first which within minutes was lashing down from the sky like a waterfall. I was standing in the doorway, barefoot and in my jammies, watching it splashing and settling on the patio. And for some reason I had this sudden urge to get out there and feel it.

So I did.

It was cool rain, on a warm night. I stood there looking up at the sky; the raindrops splattering on my face like…like…like rain does when it splatters on your face. My jammies were sticking to me; the rain adhering my skin to the “Grumpy but Gorgeous” words on my ass. My toes played in the puddles, my eyelashes blinked back tears and Rob looked at me with a smile on his face.

“Me and Dan played in the rain, once,” I told him.

“I know,” he said, watching me.

He knows everything, Rob does.

After about five minutes I turned around to come indoors, but I was dripping. So I took my jammies off on the patio. It was daylight and I was in full view of the neighbourhood.

“Laine!” he said, laughing.

After giving them all a bird's eye view of my ass, I tossed the wet jammies in the washing machine and dashed through the house – wet, naked and wobbly. Half way up the stairs, Rob said: “You’re amazing, you know? And your body…it’s beautiful.”

I looked down at my self - at all my wobbly bits, the weight gain since the hysterectomy, the skin which will never be as taut as it once was. I think I may have blushed before I headed on up the stairs to dry off. But I was left with this feeling that things will never be the same as they once were. A child playing in the rain is a beautiful sight, a menopausal woman standing in it in her nightclothes is a bit worrying.

Back in the bedroom I looked at my oestrogen gel.

“Tomorrow,” I thought. “Definitely tomorrow.”

Dan and Tallis

I’m sitting here listening to the tick of the clock and the whir of the washing machine.

Normally, round about this time, there would be music coming from upstairs – generally bands I hadn’t heard of. If I liked a song I’d sometimes ask Dan who the band was and click straight onto Limewire to track them down. The only time he didn’t play his music was when he played guitar. I’d hear the Marshall kick into action and Dan would undoubtedly turn the volume to 11, at least. For the next hour or so I’d listen as he strummed and plucked and bent the strings; my heart full of wonder and pride. He played Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd) - one of my all time favourites - many times, at my request, so beautifully. It made me cry more than once.

God, I miss it.

I miss him.

As mothers, we spend our lives preparing our children for the day they leave home; investing hours, months and years into their development. I used to envisage the day he would stand on the doorstep – all packed up and ready for his journey into this big, wide world – his wings twitching, ready to fly. I imagined that I’d pack him up with food; that we’d already have been shopping together to get him the essentials for his new place and that I’d give him this huge speech with tears in my eyes as he was walking down the steps with a big smile on his face, so excited to be starting out on his own. The fact that it didn’t happen like that is killing me.

I don’t know how many of the emotions I am feeling right now are normal for any mother who waves goodbye to their child, and how many are due to the fact he didn’t leave by choice. I feel so awful about it all.

For the past week or so I’ve wanted to call him, text him, see him and check on him every single day. Is that normal? Or purely because of my guilt? Whether it’s normal or not, the guilt is still there, twisting in my stomach. I feel as if I’ve just gone and dumped him someplace, and I’m finding it really hard to handle. I just want him to come home.

It’s not just Dan I’m missing, either. I really miss Tallis.

Having grown up with just a brother, and having only a son, I never really got to do the girlie stuff with anyone, and Tallis entered my life like a breath of fresh air. She actually deserves an entire post of her own because I’d love to share with you the essence of her, if I could somehow get it into words. From the way she twists her lips when she’s thoughtful or sad or angry or confused, to the way she waves her hands and arms around and flaps around like a little bird when she’s happy. Then there’s her little pouty face and a squeak when she doesn’t want to talk, or the animated Tallis – the one I would love to make into a cartoon – when she’s so excited and she jumps up and down and talks reallyreallyfast. I miss all of that. I miss waking up and not knowing what colour her hair will be, or whether it will be long or short, straight or curly. I miss her in the mornings when she’s sleepy and confused. I miss her at night when her eyes are as big and beautiful as the most big and beautiful eyes you have ever seen.

One day I heard the most angelic voice upstairs. It was Tallis, singing a song which I instantly fell in love with. I’ve asked her many times to play and sing it for me - at parties we’ve had or on quiet, family nights. She’s such a shy girl sometimes and can take some convincing, but once she starts she makes my heart skip a beat. I miss hearing her gorgeous voice, and that song, which stops me in my tracks.

Sitting here today with just the tick of the clock and the whir of the washing machine, I needed to hear some songs; to feel close to them.

The first – for Dan– is Comfortably Numb. It will forever be 'our' song.
The second – for Tallis – is the song she used to sing. Hallelujah. There were many versions to pick from, but it’s an absolutely breathtaking rendition from K. D. Lang.

Dan and Tallis – I miss you so much and I love you. x

Sewing and Spiders

I pulled on a pair of jeans yesterday and a spider the size of a saucer fell out of the trouser leg. I kid you not…it was massive. Being an arachnophobic, it was not a very good way to start my day. The mere thought of it trying to make a home inside my clothes resulted in a very out of control woman who four hours later still felt like it was crawling up her thigh. Anyway, I managed to trap it with the lid of my anti wrinkle cream, slid the last page of a really crap book underneath it, and tossed it out of the window.

Back downstairs when I’d just finished hyperventilating there was an almighty bang and the sound of shattering glass. It turned out that the bathroom lightbulb – fitment included – had spontaneously combusted. WTF? And because it’s common knowledge that things always come in threes, I spent the rest of the day waiting for something else to happen. Which it didn’t. Thank God.

My first two days at work went ok. I learned a few things I wasn’t previously aware of such as: the bottom button of a waistcoat should never be fastened; I should never - under any circumstances - attempt to measure a gentleman’s inside leg (damn shame, that…), a bride can be a complete bitch when her wedding is 24 hours away (the bride’s mother even more so) and I’m entitled to 30% discount (which may come in handy later in the month as we’ve been invited to The Policeman’s Ball). It was also sprung on me that I’ll have to get to grips with a sewing machine as all trousers come unhemmed and have to be sewn for each individual. Crikey. What do they think I am? A woman or something? The last time I used a sewing machine was in 1977 when I made a little yellow apron at school, and was subsequently made to sit on the headmistresses table at lunchtime for an entire week for buggering it up. (Actually, I think they were punishing me for getting in a strop and stamping it into the classroom floor; and not because I had more chance of growing a third leg than becoming a seamstress.)

Well, Rob has a bacon butty on the go and I’m off for a shower before I head into work. Have a happy Monday!