Thursday 30 January 2014

And in other news...

... there were unconfirmed reports today of sightings of the Bottom of the Laundry Basket at Potski Mansions, a mere 11 days after the family's return from holiday.

Potty Mummy (46), a work-at-home mother of two, was unavailable for comment due to what is believed to be a severe case of exhaustion having reached the top (or bottom) of Laundry Mountain, although her neighbours stated that at approximately 11.00 this morning they had heard the popping of champagne corks and witnessed a blizzard of chocolate bar wrappers being thrown like ticker-tape from the upstairs windows.

Reliable sources, however, discounted the claims as premature, commenting that the Bottom of the Laundry Basket, like Shangri-La,  the Yeti, and the Loch Ness Monster is in fact a figment of somebody's over-active imagination, and that a nice sit-down with a cup of tea and a dark chocolate digestive should quickly restore a sense of reality and proportion to the residents of the property.

Indeed, following the return from school of the children known affectionately as Boys #1 and #2, along with their assorted paraphanalia of dirty socks, ripped jumpers, sports kits, and muddy trousers, the earlier claims have been withdrawn.

Potty Mummy remains unavailable for interview.

Tuesday 28 January 2014

A long distance broadcast from Footballer's Knees...

... who you may remember as my sis, and who is much much funnier than I am.  Nowadays she no longer blogs but posts on fb under a different name, and is as entertaining as ever.

Here's one of her recent posts, to which I can only add 'what she said...'.  (And 'why can't I write like this?')

A few things we are not warned about on reaching our forties:

You get angry in a queue just because someone near you has an annoying voice. And the inflection they use at the end of a sentence makes you want to commit murder?

Fat just rushes to join your stomach and triple boobage. You can put on half a stone over Christmas just through eating a few After Eights and a couple of peanuts, despite going to the gym for FIVE days in a row.

Tepe brushes - the instrument of the devil and the invention of a Swedish masochist. It's like a crime scene in your mouth when you've finished.

And speaking of teeth - you need to allow an extra 20 minutes each night for cleaning. By the time we've reached mid forties, we've invested more in our teeth than in our kitchen so need to spend extra time fiddling with brushes, retainers and various solutions whilst staring soullessly into the bathroom mirror and wondering how life got to be this way.

You shout at news reports that quote Tweeted reactions from 'celebs' to validate the stories and add extra interest. Who cares that Harry from One Direction is very sorry to hear about the death of Nelson Mandela? Who cares?

You get angry just because someone is wearing annoying hipster spectacles.

You start to 'invest' more in lottery tickets in a desperate bid to end the relentlessness of a job you certainly didn't discuss as a possibility with your useless Careers Advisor thirty years ago.

You realise that there is no such thing as a cheap holiday now because you refuse to book anywhere less than 4 star and won't use an airline that doesn't reserve seats. Or share a pool - the last holiday with a shared pool resulted in you getting up at 6 every morning to reserve the sun beds so that you could be a far away as possible from that annoying family from Birmingham who turned the whole area into a Grazia, OK and inflatable crocodile strewn family compound and who discussed Fifty Shades in excruciating detail whilst applying Factor 2 Carrot Oil to their husbands' hairy backs.

You look around at your peers and wonder why they can still drink a bottle of wine/wear cheap onesies without embarrassment/go out for 2 nights in a row/enjoy going out for two nights in a row whilst you struggle to stay up past 10.30 at night and won't step foot in Primark.

And then you realise that you need to get a grip, lighten up and embrace the choices and opportunities that life offers you before you turn into a sad old lady who shouts at strangers in the street. Although you will never, ever wear a onesie.

Monday 27 January 2014

It's been a while...

... so I figure the best way to get my blogging thang on again is to simply jump back into it.

You know that expression 'the best laid plans...' (of mice and men etc etc)?  Here, your honour, is a case in point.

It's Monday today.  I thought we were fairly well-prepared for it.  The Boys were rested after a relatively relaxed weekend, I had chivvied them out of bed in enough time (although, really, is there ever enough time on a Monday morning?) to walk to school instead of making a last minute dash in the car, and everyone had on the right gear for the -12degC outside.

What?  -12degC?  Minus 12degC is for sissies.  It's only when it hits -18degC that it starts to feel properly cold.

We were about to leave the house.  Boy #2 had forgotten to pack his lunch box.  He packed his lunch box.  Boy #1 hadn't put on his sweater under his coat (don't get me started - the boy is a regular walking immersion heater, anything warmer than -18degC seems not bother him).  He put on his sweater.  Boy #1 hadn't packed his ski socks for skating.  He ran upstairs to fetch and pack his ski socks.  Boy #1 left his gloves upstairs.  He went back to fetch his gloves.

We were still on time to walk to school.

We reached the end of the drive; I glanced at Boy #2 - no rucksack.  We walked back to the house to fetch his rucksack.  Boy #2 put on his rucksack.

We were still on time.

We walked to school - still on time.

We got to school.  I glanced at Boy #2's rucksack, which suddenly appeared suspiciously light.  Did he have his indoor shoes with him?  No, Mum - but I'm sure they're in my locker.

They were not in his locker.

That would be because they were sitting on the floor by the back door, at home.

And since the children are not allowed to wear their outdoor shoes indoors at school (or, indeed, anywhere inside during the snowy messy Russian winter), guess who had to then walk home again to fetch said shoes?

As I said - the best-laid plans...

Thursday 16 January 2014