Sex objects

You may not know this but a lot of non-living objects are actually either male or female. S'troo I tell ya! Some examples...



FREEZER BAGS: They are male, because they hold everything in, but you can see right through them.

PHOTOCOPIERS: These are female, because once turned off, it takes a while to warm them up again.

They are an effective reproductive device if the right buttons are pushed, but can also wreak havoc if you push the wrong buttons.

TYRES: Tyres are male, because they go bald easily and are often over inflated.

HOT AIR BALLOONS: Also a male object, because to get them to go anywhere, you have to light a fire under their arse.

SPONGES: These are female, because they are soft, squeezable and retain water.

WEB PAGES: Female, because they're constantly being looked at and frequently getting hit on.

TRAINS: Definitely male, because they always use the same old lines for picking up people.

EGG TIMERS: Egg timers are female because, over time, all the weight shifts to the bottom.

HAMMERS: Male, because in the last 5000 years, they've hardly changed at all, and are occasionally handy to have around.

THE REMOTE CONTROL: Female. Ha! You probably thought it would be male, but consider this: It easily gives a man pleasure, he'd be lost without it, and while he doesn't always know which buttons to push, he just keeps trying.

Dippy day

Kids back to school, mobile on silent, landline unplugged.

Computer, paper, pencils, garden chair, sunshine, music.

Nothing to do and a good few hours to do it in.

Ber-liss.

Inner child is scribbling silly pictures for Big Blogger, inner adult is having a day off of life. Training tonight but they're all celebrating tourny wins so I'll get away with being daft.

Ber-lissful, I tell ya.

The sparra has landed

Wayhey! I got picked out of the mighty sombrero of Timbo to get into Big Blogger 2007 and have, finally, completed the first task and posted my entrance.

It's grand, my entrance. And there's trifle and what may or not be cherries and some funny people and some clever people. And me. Get over and have a look!

The (Long) Last Post

The future may, possibly, prove me a liar in my choice of title but right now it feels like this is the last post I ever want to make about this whole childhood abuse thing. I want to finish it, underline it, start on a new page with the date at the top written in freshly sharpened pencil. Proper sharpened, you know, with a stanley knife rather than a little plastic thingy?

This past nine months has seen me defined as a victim within a system and I'm really fucking bored with it so once this ramble is out of my system that's it; I'm reborn, kicking, screaming, unashamedly covered in blood and mucus rather than gurgling and smelling of Johnsons but it's a new start, all the same. Poke your original sin two foot six up your arse cos I never really believed that catholic bollocks anyway.

Wednesday night I got very drunk. Watching the nutters that win [sic] a place on Big Brother will do that to a body. Watching them after a day that included collecting two each of my precious children and nephews from my mother and being drawn in for coffee cos, of course, they're not quite ready yet and anyway, my ex sister-in-law is there with her other chav child that I've never felt the inclination to see despite my mothers insistence that she's just like babygirl at that age but ex sis-in-law would love to see me again and tell me how great my kids are while she jingles her 99 carat Elizabeth Duke on her tattoos, talks about the earthquake and shows off her new football top... well, who could blame me for turning to alcohol after that, I ask you?

My mother put cow juice in my coffee. I don't rememember exactly how many years it's been since I took my coffee white but I do know it's been A FUCKING LOT OF THEM. I managed not to scream that she was a selfish cunt who knowingly sacrificed her female children for her own security, instead calmly relaying the information I had about court times for the following day so she could let bruv know, for practical purposes.

That wasn't even the end of it. After dropping my nephews home, having deep and meaningful 'day before sentencing' conversations with sis and beefy BIL and learning that policewoman was off sick so couldn't attend (but would we call her at home and let her know the outcome please?), I had to go buy a kettle cos my lovely glass designerish effort had died on me the night before and drinking green tea made from a saucepan of water poured through a funnel just wasn't doing it for me.

If I give you nothing else of import, ever, let me give you this. Regular descaling, just say no.

I'm now the proud owner of a Tesco Value kettle that does what it says on the box for a fiver. Ok, maybe proud is stronging it slightly. I mean, obviously I know that there is blood on my hands for buying something that was probably made by someone that lost yet another finger in the dark, damp factory after a 30 hour shift that they earned 20p for. Out, damn spot!

Thursday morning, J day, finally dawns. Copious amounts of green tea from my new kettle rehydrate me slightly. I can't eat though. Ex husband arrives to collect babyboy and babygirl. He's in a different car and seems to want me to be impressed. I surf my wave of incredulity to go outside but all I can offer his expectant look is a rendition of 'Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz'. He didn't take that very well but he did take the kids so I took the chance to have a shower in peace.

As I dressed I thought that I may not want to wear today's outfit again so I chose a skirt that I hate anyway and a cheap enough to be disposable top. I'd already had a conversation with law-trained Peachypants about what to wear; my confusion stemming from not wanting to look too 'together' and thus non-affected in front of the all powerful judge but also needing to feel comfortable and confident enough to get through the day. Clothes may well not maketh the woman but they sure do allude to the mood.

I nipped to town to get my boots re-heeled and talk to a nice old tradesman that knows only what I present at that moment (and buy more cigarettes while he works). (But not from the co-op cos due to total fucking incompetence they've lost / can't be arsed to look in the stock room for my lovely pink umbrella that I left there last week so they'll never see another penny of mine. Hah! Feeeeeel my £4.43 wrath, eco-friendly, idiot employing asshats!)

Blimey, shit and shopping. Welcome to my life! Donations gratefully accepted.

I digress. Beefy BIL collects me, conversation is stilted until we reach the court and he drives two miles past it looking to park. Luckily, cousin calls to tell of spare spaces within the court grounds so my new heels are saved from a route march. We enter the cafe, sorry, 'public restaurant' to meet Uncle, Auntie and Cousin and immediately hear how Uncle has just come face to face with step-dad whilst purchasing hot beverages. So much for the 'he'll be downstairs in the cells, you can walk around sans worry' stuff that we'd heard from cousins policeman boyfriend. Shit, shit, shit!

Have you ever been to a wedding? Woken with that sense of utter urgency, rushed round like mad getting ready only to arrive, giddily breathless, at a trying too hard to be architecturally worthy municipal building then have to hang around for ages while you sweat all down your finery?

The case was due to be heard at 2pm (having been pushed back from 12.15 already). We know that step-dad had been brought by his boss so Bruv, looking every inch the accused, casually wanders round to find him having also worked for him in the past. On his return we learn that step-dad's brief is caught up in a rape case and, unless that judge releases him for half an hour at 2pm, we'll have to hang around till they can fit us in at four.

I catch myself considering a Daily Mail subscription. Had Bruv not gleaned this information we'd never have known what was happening. One of the many gut-stabbing ironies of this past near year has been that step-dad receives information far faster than we do what with his having consistent, paid for representation and us having the CPS machine working for us.

Two more hours to wait. Two hours of Klix coffee and hard seats and people watching. Juries coming and going, defendants coming and not always going. I counted the charms on the girlfriends bracelets, went on to play spot the prison tattoo, watched people watching me and studiously avoided making eye contact with my mother who stood, red faced and teary eyed the whole time.

We were finally called at 4.10 and the bewigged person talking to Her Honour on our behalf began by asking for time to acquaint himself with certain particulars, i.e. the whole case. After bickering about whether she could hear another case while he caught up it was decided that he could speed read the documents and wing it.

Winging it consisted of reading previously highlighted sections of our statements aloud, summarising our lives according to someone else's values including, of course, the most disgusting details. Details I'd only ever disclosed to my nice policelady and was now hearing in deep barristertone along with eight family members, the accused and the assorted randoms in the public gallery. Sweet. Sis and I grip hands harder to try and stop the shaking, try and stay grounded, block out the craning necks, the nudges and the 'it must be them, poor cows' whispers. He completes his reading aloud exercise by respectfully reminding Her Honour that this was a case where she may make a compensation order alongside any other sentence she feels appropriate and sits down to fiddle with his laptop.

His barrister then did much the opposite of ours. Instead of reading out bits of his statement he turned it around completely. Very slowly, very deliberately, he painted a well researched picture of a man full of remorse who had apportioned absolutely no blame to 'the girls', lived a law-abiding, productive life for years before and after this terrible, dark time 28-30 years ago, adored his wife and family and had lost them just as he should be thinking of retirement and spending more time with them.

This was not the sick, manipulative man known to me or sis, not the arrogant man in his statement who insisted that we initiated these things, not the man who consulted with his solicitor then replied 'no comment' when asked about other children, no; a totally different man. An elderly gentleman who had lived with the Sword of Damocles over his head for many years and had already punished himself far more than the law could for his one and only aberration. A man who the public had no need of protection from, who had rehabilitated himself and could therefore, surely, serve his punishment by way of a community service order and save the public purse the huge cost associated with imprisonment? A man made ill by the protracted proceedings of this case which caused him to have a 1.5 hour journey to work each morning and evening since he had been forced to live with his sister. The sister who had sent in a letter praising his character.

I wonder what he told his sister for her to do that? Certainly it was obvious by the shocked, pale face of his boss that the facts just spelled out were not what he'd been told when he agreed to be designated driver and character witness in person. We listened to him torn between revulsion and loyalty, trying to make sense whilst answering questions of job security (he couldn't say for sure, the other blokes on the firm had reservations and he's only a small business...) and reconciling the man he thought he'd known for forty years with the crimes he'd admitted to.

And then it was over, she was asking him to stand up. A passing mention of the position of trust that he abused 'along with those two young girls' and a sentence of three years, reduced to two and a half to reflect how long the proceedings had taken and that nothing had been reported twenty years ago. No compensation award as he would be of reduced means and 'money won't make those girls feel any better'. No, but it sure would have made my bank manager smile. There was another delay as they looked up how long he'd have to be on the sex offenders register for (life, for a sentence of 30 months or more) and then he was gone, Her Honour asked that someone let him know he'll only actually serve half that time and called for the next case.

I walked outside, needing air and space and wanting to be away from the crowd of family that had stopped in the corridor for post occasion cliches. Auntie joins me, I ask if sis is ok, she says yes and hugs me (I learn later that cousin expressly warned her not to cry on me). I finish a cigarette and wonder what's keeping them all inside, the histrionic faint perhaps? Weeping, wailing, renting of garments?

His boss exits, Auntie isn't about to let him go without explaining himself and he expresses his shock, how much he feels for the girls etc. I thought I was invisible until he said directly to me 'it's your poor mother you have to look out for now, this should have been sorted out twenty years ago'.

Shaking my head at yet another one falling for her victim act I looked him in the eye and said 'my mother should have sorted this out twenty years ago, it wasn't our place, it was hers'. He put his hands up and said 'ah, I don't know anything about that' as he backed away. My point exactly, idiot.

Then they're all out and asking how I feel and why am I smoking? Before I can speak my mother answers 'she's celebrating' and I make a deal with God that I'll be good forever if he could just, please strike her dumb. We make our way to the car park, I'm hungry, thirsty and emotionally numb. I want to get in the car so I can text the people that I know have been thinking about me today, let them know that I'm ok and what the outcome was, I want to go home and hold my children but my mother is dragging things out, unwilling to let everyone go their separate ways. In the end she realises I'm really not going to go to her so walks over and awkwardly hugs me, muttering 'stay strong, stay strong'.

I walked to the car saying 'yep, cos some cunt has to don't they?'

The guest list

Sis and I decided a while back that she and I would attend court alone. Gain closure the same way we've been through the last thirty years, alone but standing together.

That changed to having her husband come along, to drive and do practical things if we came over all emotional or something. There's no precedent for these occasions so it made sense to plan for anything and he's a nice beefy fella to have around.

Mother doesn't drive, preferring to passive agressively rely on everyone else to ferry her around, what with her fear of public transport and people. Having confirmed that she wasn't going to fall for it, sis then calls my brother to arrange for him to. So now it's me, sis, her hubby, our mother, bruv and bruv's girlfriend (for practical reasons).

Next thing I hear is that Uncle, who introduced him to my mother in the first place and obviously feels completely shitty now he knows, wants to be there; needs closure to a forty year friendship that was built on a horrible lie. Understandable, I guess.
Course, wherever he goes, Auntie goes. That's just how some couples work. Auntie doesn't drive either so cousin is tagging along in case Uncle has a problem with driving home afterward.

What a fucking circus. Far away from the original plan of sis and I standing together to see him brought to justice then going to a quiet pub for a drink and a think. I see no dignity in turning up mob-handed like something out of a soap opera.

Still, I'll be there to make sure everyone feels understood and heard as usual. Though I swear if my mother has a histrionic fainting fit or one person shouts out 'rot in hell, nonce!' I shall start screaming and possibly never stop.

J minus 1

Confirmed.

12.15 tomorrow.

Lots of thoughts, no articulation. I may finish one of my many drafts later. Don't hold your breath though, I may well be too drunk. My heart is in my mouth and I know that brandy will wash it down.

EDIT:

Time has changed to 2pm.

What a peach

Despite the ZZ Top earworm her text gave me, I met up with Peach in the rooftop bar of a lovely club, an hour late and looking less than glam from the journey. Beer appeared before me like magic and the talking commenced. Talking which didn't stop all night and was lubricated by raspberry champagne shots, brandy alexanders, a glass of water (!) and two bottles of champagne.

We did think about food at one point but that got lost when Mr 'Do I look like ITV, dahling?!' and his hanger on gatecrashed our conversation and we pretended we were lesbians. Soon enough they were off with a 'toodles, darlings!', we moved over to the comfy sofas where we stayed and talked ourselves daft and then realised it was very much later than we realised, as it were.

Packing Peachy into a cab I got to the tube and found it closed (12.45 on a friday night in London and you can't get a tube? ffs!) so phoned ex hubby to pick me up and took the opportunity to talk about the kids on the way home.

I woke up with a smile on my face and no hangover, (sorry, babe!). It was a brilliant night, screaming laughter and deep, meaningful stuff blended into one, wonderfully long, meandering conversation. Sarah is really, really lovely and she talks as much as me!

Thanks darling, that was exactly what I needed after this crappy week xx

J minus 7

Judgement day. I should be in court now but it's been adjourned. Again.

Probably for probation reports. I've heard some of their findings already, namely that this man poses a danger to society. A view shared by the investigating officers. What more is there to report?

Nearly a year ago he admitted the 15 counts he was presented with and refused to comment when questioned about others.

Nearly two months ago he pleaded guilty in court.

Yet he's still walking the streets. Not even under bail conditions, these were lifted at the plea hearing. Free, then, to contact me, my sister, to live in his marital home with my mother if he wishes. I think the fear of violence keeps him away. I hope it continues to do so for another week.

My life is a Sun headline.

J minus 3

Monday my mind thanked me for taking the weekend off but prodded me every now and then to remind me of the recently enforced speed limit. I listened, drove myself carefully, ignored texts from the man I was meant to meet and eat on saturday, planned to teach things that would stretch the students rather than me, gently laughed at myself when my spoken words didn't come out right. It's a pms thing, my hormones go straight to my tongue.

I even asked for help. Yes, me! Ms Inde-fucking-pendent-to-the-death, voiced, out loud, that I wasn't able to juggle all the balls today. Better, I didn't automatically take the shitty end for someone else to do the fun part.

Better yet, when an aggrieved A asked afterward 'So what's given you the arse?', I didn't shrug it off but stated that I didn't have the pigging arse, I was stressed. Added that they were two very different states of mind even if I am a woman.

'Ok, what's stressing you so much?' he sighed. His hands didn't waver from holding the flame to my cigarette but I saw the air quotes anyway. Oh but how I want to kill his beautiful face when he does that.

I didn't, of course.

Instead I took a deep lungful of carcinogens before saying 'I have to go to court on thursday and it's... a bit, unpleasant'

'Shit. What for?' Inquisitive now, suddenly very aware that there are things I've kept from him. He thought he had me, thought he knew all about me. Silly, naive boy-man.

'To see my step-dad go to prison'

'Shit. What for?' (I should probably explain here that I didn't fall for him due to his extensive vocabulary)

He has divorce and contact issues ongoing as well as a driving offence, court is his second home. I see his mind jumping to the obvious (to him) conclusion that I'm being an over-reactive, histrionic adopted-step-daughter worried at losing her parental figure. Rolling my internal eyes I say,

'For fucking about with me and my little sister'

I hear it and feel it's a bit of a cop-out on my part but my mind prods me with that stick again, whispers in my ear that being brave enough to tell doesn't have to mean spelling it out for the hard of thinking.

My mind sounds just like my beautiful sister in full, professional, flight as it says that.

Enough progress for one day. I change the subject, ask after his issues, watch him dive gratefully, big head first into the pool of relief that is talking about himself while I nod and gesticulate as appropriate, smoking my cigarette.

Emotional exhaustion

Marathon mind, thinking, talking, feeling, feeding, all of friday. One door closes, two more open, both calling me through to clean the rooms behind them, sort through, throw out what's not wanted, open the envelopes I've avoided, negotiate paying the bills therein.

I wanted to clean the rooms in my real house, music up loud, mind on mute. Control my environment with steaming soapy water and a damp cloth, go on to the garden that's grown so much already.

Then, plans for the weekend, physical outings. Emotions not invited. Uncontrolled sex on saturday, controlled violence on sunday. Get my house in order, get out there, get busy. Business as usual, nothing to see here. Thursday? Cross that bridge when I come to it, far more important things to do before then.

Mind clears its throat. Quietly, passive aggressively sucks the manic energy from my body, pushes me to my chair, closes my eyes, slows my heartbeat. I'm not going to have a big breakdown, mind says, but I must insist that you stop bodybusying for a while and pay me some attention. I worked really hard yesterday containing everything, can't remember the last time I had a day off actually. I'd quite like for you to take some care, do something creative maybe, but do it quietly and don't worry that the place is a bit messy.

Do that for me, mind says, and I'll help you get through next week. I'll even allow you to do one physical thing each day until judgement day if it helps. But I won't be ignored anymore.

And I understand what it means.

Wordpress hates me

Any comment I make on wordpress blogs disappears recently.

I'm not happy about being here with the spam.

It smells. Nigerians keep trying to sell me viagra and pass on stock market tips with weird titles. Anglers keep trying to pinch bits off me to use as bait.

If you have a wordpress blog and you've not had any inanity from me of late, please rescue me. It's dark in here.

Ten queue mush lee.

Ooh, that's a big blogger you have there!

Timbo and Furtive have come over all Davina and Dermot, Big Blogger 2007 is going to be bigger and, er, bloggier than ever before!

Anyone that's been out for a quick sherbert with me will know I'm the shy and retiring type so I can't think what came over me when I nominated myself (oh, and promised to get drunk and jump in the pool topless on the first night). Anyway, get over there! I've made it easy, even if you're ratarsed! Boost my nominations then press Ctrl&D to keep up with the voting fun.

You know you want to. You also know I'll whinge summink alarming if you don't...

New musical obsession

James Hunter. I think I'm a little bit in love with this man. I found him quite by accident so we're obviously fated.

Perceptions of a peadophile

There are lots of people inside me with something to say right now.* My writers voice is fighting to be heard over the silent but insistent sobbing of my inner child and the roaring, righteous anger of my big sister/parental persona. I need to turn my mental madness into verbal vomit so you'll just have to pick the sweetcorn out on your own.

I think when I realised I had an audience I forgot that a bit, wrote for the reader rather than for me. Which, don't get me wrong, was good; I love writing for an audience, I like feedback saying I've made people laugh or remember or feel better or think or cringe. It just wasn't always what I needed and I realise now that I've gone onto my standard class clown, people-pleasing mode at the expense of expressing my dark side, a cost that my various inner people aren't willing to cough up at this moment in time. Tight bastards.

Anyway, you've been warned.

Impact statement signed, I read the statement that step-dad gave to the police. The first thing that struck me was how I heard it in my head. The policewoman's lines, transcribed verbatim from the tapes as per, very clearly processed in her voice with all her particular intonations, emphases and pauses. His words though, heard silently. No voice auto-attached itself to the words as they hit the back of my eyeballs, no accent, no timbre, not even a monotone. Just black type, white page, aural nothingness.

I feel this is more than reticence of the retina. Have the years of estrangement made me forget his voice? Maybe reading his version took me back to that place, those incidents. All carried out in oppressive, urgent, I'm not sure why I just know none of us must speak, suffocating, silence. Perhaps that's why my mind never shuts up now. Silence is icky even when peace is what I so desperately need.

The next hit, the justifications. I actually laughed out loud reading it. Apologised to policewoman for such an inappropriate reaction. It's a good job he pleaded guilty, a jury of normal people would have ripped him to shreds, it's classic paedophiliac thinking process. You see, my sis and I, at the ages of 4 and 6, well, we came on to him. Fucking pair of Lolita's we were!

The male, 'bad', copper asked him if he seriously believed that two children of that age really could, independently and separately, make overtly sexual advances to a man in his thirties, cos he didn't think so. The arrogance of 'I'm afraid it doesn't matter what you think' needed no voice to convey the venom he spat out with the words.

There are episodes he's mixed up, said it was sis when my recall tells me it was me and vice versa. I feel strangely offended that I meant that little to him. Feeling offended at that makes me want to vomit. I hate that it opposes his manipulative 'it was only because I loved you so much' bullshit, drip fed to me for years afterwards in order to ensure my silence, my toeing the family line, my non-rocking of boats. I hate that feeling either offended or manipulated are my only choices. Acknowledge, own, move on. Two down, one to go. Next.

People that meet me socially wouldn't guess it but I have an invisibility problem. I went for an appointment with my therapist once and stood in the waiting room for 35 minutes beyond my scheduled time because I'd not seen her emerge from the room to tell me her previous client had left. When she eventually found me she said she'd looked for me three times, knowing I was never late. I'd been standing right there, she simply hadn't seen me. I'm invisible, easy to overlook or ignore according to your needs. She took it to supervision then we explored it, decided this was obviously something I learned in order to avoid more abuse. Stimuli -> response. Box -> ticked. Therapist -> exonerated.

Bollocks.

Reading his perception now I see my invisibility was a condition I got from from birth and he confirmed by being so obviously 'in love' with sis that I was nothing more than similar neck down and malleable neck up. A second class gift, he didn't even have to work to make me serve in silence for I was born good. My mother tells proudly of the good baby I was - the subtext being how, amongst her life of violence and abuse, I was the one thing that didn't control her. Later in life, like, at four or five, I figured that out for myself. I innately knew not to do or say anything that would induce the tears or sighs of depression from my victimised mother. By the time she married him I was 6 years old and compliance personified.

Sis and I have always argued that the other had it worse. Till now I truly believed that she had it worse because, as the mother figure, I should have protected her. I read his words and yes, it's sick that he thought of her as some kind of ex-lover tormenting him with her 'new' man when she was 16 and again with the man she went on to marry. I laugh when I see his total recall of the the money he paid for her son to have some educational tests done privately.

He remembers a sum of £268 but the fact that it was seven year old me he abused during a particular incident isn't worth mentally tagging. What he did is recalled perfectly, who he did it to doesn't deserve memory space.

Ok, sis; you're right. I can finally see that what he did to me was worse. Worse because he used the overly compliant child that I was, not only for his own ends but as second best and made no secret of it. Worse because he used my previous emotional manipulations against me and that led to so many years of self loathing that there have been countless long nights in the last three decades that I wished he'd just killed me rather than leave me feeling like this for the rest of my life.



*I started this post on the 11th April, a whole month ago. I come back to look at the draft every few days, feeling full of bravery and good intentions but then balk, flit off somewhere more comfortable. Somewhere I can be funny or caustic or advisory, someone else's comment box, somewhere I could wear my mask in safety. My eternal thanks go to Peach for the post that forced my inertia to remove its clown make-up, get on its bike and try to complete this phase in my recovery. I owe you a pint, Peachypants.

Artful dodger

Babyboy is an aspie type, somewhere on the autism spectrum that my particular health authority refuse to quantify because it would cost money in the education sector. It's ok, middy; I'm not drunk enough to go all ranty and political tonight, this is just a scene setting paragraph to explain why this is so special to me.

Aspies/autistics don't deal with personal contact in the way most of us do so, when babyboy establishes a new routine that involves snuggling with me I take it as a major blessing. We used to sit and watch casualty on the sofa together but that's died out as he's got older. He'll be a teen in a few weeks, I'd resigned myself to losing that last physical link we had and researched other ways to keep close to him without freaking him out.

My inner child stamps her foot and screams at me that loving, non-sexualised physical contact was sorely missing for her and is absolutely neccessary for shedloads of reasons. I hug and kiss No 1 Son and babygirl every day to make inner child feel better but I sense that babyboy is not comfortable with it even though he needs it so I rein in the touchy-feely parent I've become and wait for him to come to me.

I came back from a - very rare - whole night away from my children and slipped back into normal, albeit hungover, mode. As dinner comes to an end I feel my hand being led to the sofa and sit where I'm directed as babyboy takes a place beside me. I tuck my legs under myself as is my wont, he settles into a place very close to me. I stroke his face the way I know he can cope with and, not that he'd admit it, enjoys. I feel something soft and stroky on my ankle and think "Yes!' This is progress, this is him trying to return physical contact to make someone else feel good. Finally, he's showing that he can empathise!"


Er, no. He was being artistic with a permanent marker. Comme ci.



It's still there right now. Slightly faded from exfoliator scrubbing and many applications of waterproof mascara remover but there, all the same.

Blah Blogblast

I'm so dehydrated that I haven't peed all day despite litres of water and green tea. I think my liver has fallen out. Random memories before I crash and get some much needed kip. Not in order.

Princess telling Vi when I pulled up in the car 'I thought the A Team had turned up!'

Kitchen sink confessions. Beer.

The Angie and Princess mutual appreciation society (don't forget to mail me about your mate)

Geminis are fabulous. All four of us.

Brandy and coke.

Me calling that poor bloke 'simple' all night.

And singing 'Daniel my brother, you are older than me' to another. At least three times.

The stripy jumper shop.

Large vodka's with red bull.

The woman in the loos throwing her arms about telling me and Princess that our conversation was sooo exciting.

Putting coke in the brandy bottle and drinking straight from that cos I couldn't be arsed looking for a glass.

Crip's intense eyes when I did his reading. And really wishing I wasn't so pissed so I could have done a better job for him.

Builders bum (Middy, you're naughty!)

Straddling Princess while I was talking at Joie.

Pineapple lumps - ewww!

Throwing a chair at a 'boy'. That one was early on!

Doing politics with Middy before realising that Vi wasn't coming back and the sun was up.

Texting fwengey then having no signal for ages.

Flowers in my cleavage, then hair. Then Princess's, then pretty much everyone's. Hair, I mean.

Comparing tattoos with, er, some bloke (I've forgotten his name again, Vi!)

Making simple give me 50p for the ciggie machine.

Princess getting a hairband given to her from behind the bar. By a bloke.

Singing. Ruby Ruby Ruby Ruby! Ride on time. And others. Loud and badly.

Leaving my boots in the bath.

Giggling at 6' Middy trying to climb into the top bunk.

Waking up with my lenses stuck to my eyes and still feeling very, very drunk.

Scaring a small boy then calling him the wrong name.

One drunk photo and two drunk videos helped me to recover some memories but I still have large chunks missing! Will try and post the vids tomorrow.

24 hours only... Too late!




Vi, Blah didn't dissappoint, baby!

Jober as a sudge

And that's all I have to say on the matter.

Oh, wait. You really are my beshtest friend.

Yeah, you.

Whatever your name is.



Shit, come to think of it, what's my name?

Gardening ghosts

Both gardens are a mess, untouched for nigh on two years; since Joseph, in fact. I've tried before. The flymo fell to bits when I tried to use it, the strimmer needed it's strim manually resetting every ten-twenty seconds. Really. I timed it to distract myself from wanting to cry.

I don't cry, I do. Tears are of no practical use so they can fuck right fucking off cos, me? I'm busy dealing with things, get outta my way.

Symmetrical pots and baskets of colour now frame the new front door, the borders weeded so the bluebells can thrive, babygirl's sunflower seedlings can grow and absolute order can be displayed to anyone that passes a glance on their way to somewhere more important.

Just don't look round the back. You really don't want to see what's hidden behind the locked gate. Sorry. I'm trying.

Round the back, amongst other things, the window fitters left the old glazing units blocking the path. I moved them to somewhere less troublesome. Still inconvenient but not so glaringly obvious. They were incredibly heavy, it took an age, I was aching and bruised but satisfied. I don't have to leave shit where other people dump it, I can shift it to where it doesn't bother me as much. I love my independent streak. It's what I do.

Such a strong need to be strong. Weakness is a luxury for people with no-one else to look after.

That was the start of six (as yet, this is far from over) days of hard labour, punctuated only by my need for green tea and my children's need for me. I figure why the mo won't fly, realise a new mower isn't much more than the cost of getting it fixed. No waiting time either and I really do need it right now, while the time is right, while I'm right. Purchase it and some new strim, I'll freecycle the old one, ease my landfill conscience if not my overdraft.

I fucking hate when I can define problems but not fix them. I spit my most evil, venomous bile at the false hope, kill it stone dead for it's nasty tormenting. It stops me wanting to cry at it. I don't want to rely on anyone else to fix my breakdowns. I can't trust 'other people' for fucks sake! They say things like '3 weeks wait' and 'sentencing adjourned' and 'minimum charge' and they don't even look at you properly while they say it. Cunts. They can all just piss the piss off, pissily. I'll RTFM and DIY, so pissing there.

Finally, strim. Mow. A high cut so as not to leave it weakened and overexposed.

My emotions want to rip everything out, violently, mercilessly. Instant gratification? Shit, yeah! Bring it on! My intelligence and knowledge restrain me yet again. Remind me that's not the way to long term, low maintenance growth, whisper to me of babies and bathwater. Pull me back into line, push me back onto my knees.

I get to the borders, crawl into the darkness to clear out the undergrowth. Rotting leaves, shells of (now homeless?) snails, weeds, dead wood, all kinds of ick painstakingly cut, pulled or dug out. Nettles that sting my arms and legs growing through brambles with thorns that make my hands bleed even with protective gloves on, the crap fights for its place, it won't come quietly into the rubbish bag.

I'm being so careful and going so slowly but it fucking hurts and stings at every turn and I've started so I can't just leave it. No going back, just an aching back and inching, no, millimetreing forward.

Dig out the dandelion roots from the grass, tidy the edges. Not that it makes the bare patch in the centre look any better, sitting there like a fucking great huge scar where the children's pool was left too long. I've still not decided whether to reseed it or just cover it up with something else. A trampoline, maybe? The kids would like that.

But you can only cover up for so long and even when you do the scar is still there, it's just hidden from those who don't know where to look. And you know how you secretly resent those blinkered, shallow people that can only see surfaces.

I find hidden treasure. The white climbing rose I planted has survived, beyond the love affair I was in at the time. I tie it back, train it up the fence it's now big enough to reach, wanting it to show it's true beauty. Get pricked by thorns again. I sigh, resigned, continue to do what's best for it despite the constant sharp pains and blood.

So beautiful yet so vicious, all I'm trying to do is give you boundaries that will help you grow. I shall call you by my sister's name.

There is honeysuckle everywhere, I gently untangle it from the dead stalks before banishing them, discover the ends are over the fence, in the neighbours garden.

Of course it's made its way out. Why would anything so pretty want to stay in this place of loveless neglect given a growing tip and a choice? The roots may be forced to stay but the head isn't.

That thought stays with me as I rein in the jasmine that waterfalls over the opposite fence and fix it back where I want it, where it can lift me with it's fragrance.

Looking round, exhausted, I note the last few things to be cleared out and allow myself to feel proud of the work I've done. Then wonder what the fuck to do with all this clear space now I've created it. So much work still to do.

I thought it would be over by now. Exorcism is a slow process. I appear to be getting there, I'm just not sure where 'there' is.

Sun says scribbler's scuppered!

Song of songs

One line from each of my overall top twenty et voila! A whole new song!

Well it's been more than a year
Turn a new page, tear the old one out
Life takes some fighting
That's just the fear

But that's not the only lie I told you
And it's too late to change
You've got a chance to put things right
I keep on pushing for some way through

Sometimes I wish, I could cry on demand
that I would be loved even when I numb myself
They tell me to fight it
Can't expect the world to be your Raggedy And-y

I've never wanted something rational
I don't want to be your idol
And every star above you
A fragment of the girl, soft and sentimental

And wondering what's meant to be
An older version of me
And though it seems absurd
All I wanted was some evidence
that you really like me


I did have each line link to it's song but lost it when I formatted the text to look uniform. Bollocks and buggeration.

My cockliments to the chef

What a dick

Dreams and dishcloths

I'm in a dentists waiting room, it's packed. He's running three hours late.

I go to the reception and ask to make an appointment for another, quieter day. Explain that there's standing room only in the ante room, three people on a sofa in the surgery and two going through the relaxation process before they join them there.

"No! He only agreed to see you at this time!"

I leave, ride my bike away from the Canning Town high street of my youth and into the pub. It's a birthday celebration, everyone is doing a turn on stage. I drink and watch songs, speeches, mimes, photo displays, dances made up by children. The birthday couple I'm sitting with tell me it's my turn but I don't know them so I go to the toilet to look for my bike. It's not there so I search the park that the pub is in. It's been stolen.

I go home to get another bike so I can go back to the dentist. The bikes are kept in the front room, a proper front room that should only be used for visitors so I tidy the chains and locks and bags full of puncture repair kits before cycling off to the receptionist that speaks like acid. I go via the shopping centre where I try without success to find something to spend a gift voucher on.

The reception is now in the park, near the pub that I don't want to return to because I don't know what to perform. It's dark, I get past the pub unnoticed, find my bike in the now circular room and sit on it waiting for the woman behind the counter to tell me the dentist will see me now, even though I'm not in pain anymore. She doesn't, she just glares at me.

Waking up from that dream I find myself in a shaky state. Gently I potter round the house doing mindless tasks until I catch myself fixating on why I bought pink designer dishcloths with pretty flowers on when essentially all they do is wipe up grease and dirt.

I think this is why I drink. My mind scares me when I'm sober.

The oldest child

I need a top to do garden work in, something that will allow me to catch the sun without the neighbours catching a flash. The one I choose is a canary islands souvenir, it suddenly hits me that I bought it on honeymoon. 17 years ago.

Tournament day. I don't compete, I cheerlead. Wildly, to make sure my students know how proud I am of them and my mates get the lift they need mid bout. One mate asked babygirl if I was this daft all the time and was graced with a sigh and rolling eyes. "She drives us all mad, we're more mature than her most of the time"

I go out for takeaway, notice a face I vaguely recognise. Chat and catch up, as you do. It's been 25 years since we saw each other.

I think my kids might be right. Maybe it is time I grew up.

Love calls you by your name

Sis tells me it's grass is greener syndrome. Tactfully, she reminds me that if you were here I'd not be doing karate. How I felt more suffocated than cared for. How I'd crave space after a week or so, just as you were settling in. How, far from my current fantasy of you helping me work through my thoughts and feelings, you would expect me to do so on your timetable. How I'd put my emotional shutters down and you'd keep me up all night trying to shout them back up. How you used the very intelligence and articulateness I fell in love with to keep me in my place.

Sure, those are some of the reasons I finished things after five years. That doesn't mean I don't wish things could have been different. You gave me so much, I was able to give you so much and we discovered so much together. I'll always love you for that, darling. And I really, really miss you.


I hope you find your manger, Joseph.

Sitting on my shoulders

Something interesting I found on Mike's site about how you see yourself and how others see you. I've done something similar with real life people when I studied psychology (I got bored with the stats work and threw it in in the second year. So much for my degree!) but I'm interested to see if there's any difference between my awareness of myself and my online personality.

Feel free to be anonymous, I'd much prefer honesty to names! There's one for nice traits and one for not so nice, all you have to do is go and click six words of each that you think apply to me. And then get your own, of course...

Angel words

Devil words

Procrastinating prat

I have lovely lessons planned for tonight's students.

I have discovered my new kitchen blind is too narrow so

I have tidied up all my tools and separated my nails and screws according to size.

I have the cleanest oven in the land.

I have the neatest pile of bath towels in any airing cupboard, ever.



I have still not completed my impact statement.

If you see me start to go through and attach labels to my posts, please find me and strap me to the keyboard till the fucking thing is finally done.

Making the grade

Today has been quite weird. I drove the kids to my mothers and saw her for the first time in months but I'll blog/process that another time, this is about recognition, celebration, feeling visible and valid and actually liking myself for a change.

Getting back and having the house to myself was blissful. It was, of course, a shitpit due to kids being on holidays but after a couple of loud, therapeutic hours with Rufus and Henry , both my abode and my mind were much clearer.

Sitting down with lunch I click lazily onto one of my favourite brainfood places and discover that Lyle has nominated me for POTW. As a regular reader I know the high standard of nominations so I'm immensely flattered that someone thought a post of mine good enough to include in the longlist. Thank you again, Lyle. For a lurker you ain't half had an affect!


Off to karate with a smile on my face, collecting my friend on the way. I really like her but I'm jealous of her skill in kumite and finding certain things so easy so, when she raves about certain moves of mine that I do as a matter of course my grin gets that bit bigger. I realise that my mindset needs changing, I am improving and I need to acknowledge it.

Get to the dojo, flirt through warm up, sigh when Sensei announces a stamina session. Pace breathing, keep going, be faster than that up his own arse bloke, breathe, spar, kata, spar, kata, legs screaming, feel no pain, think helium, spar Sensei, try not to die, push through, dig deep, I hit him!, cop a few, I kicked him!, keep breathing, don't vomit, kata, spar, kata, spar, is it over yet?, it's only meant to be 1.5 hours, breathe, dig, deep, don't, die, done. It's done. Line up to bow out and hear some names called to accept their grades, clap, whoop pitifully at one I'm closer to, hear my name. My name. MY NAME!

2nd kyu. One more grading then it's black belt.

That was a good day.

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My bum hurts

An hour and a half of cycling will do that to you, assuming you're not used to sitting on a razor blade. And don't believe all that crap those gel saddle cover selling people tell you cos they don't work either.

Still, babygirl and I had fun and there's something very liberating about cycling, even if I do feel like a bloody great blimp and have to be taught cyclecraft by my daughter. She found it incredible that the bike I was on was the first one I'd ever owned in my life and I loved that she did cos that means she thinks it's normal for all kids to have a bike of their own. It fucking is! I just never had normal, or a bike, so I love the times when she makes those incredulous faces cos it means I've done good atsomefuckingthing as a mum. My own mind may be fubar'd but my kids? They're fit to live life fantastically and therefore easily pay for my choice of care home.

We also had a major giggle at the top of the hill where we stopped for a water break. A group of teens were messing about near the stream/river thingy at the bottom (I'm not good at knowing what these things are but it's wet and runs in a wavy line through the country park, ok?), you know pushing each other in and filming it for youtube, that sort of thing.

The group of teens that joined us at the hilltop were picking out the ones they knew at the bottom and, me being me, I joined in the conversation and made jokes about washing wet, smelly clothes - just prior to one of the lads deciding that if he was going in he'd at least save his mum a mucky job and strip off.

Completely. Stark, bollock, naked.

Which, obviously, meant that his mates picked up his discarded clothes and ran off with them.

I'm pleased to report that this lad had no self-confidence issues whatsoever judging by his waving at his audience at the top of the hill before running, Benny Hill style, after the lads that had his boxers then doing star jumps and hip thrusts when he realised he wasn't going to retrieve them.

I only stopped laughing when a real grown up ascended the hill from the other side and gave us all a sideways glance and a tut. The very second he'd passed us I collapsed into giggles again, babygirl voiced her shame of me to the group of giggling teens and the naked lad recovered his socks so it was all over.

It was fun while it lasted but blimey, my bum don't half hurt now!



I've had a major Alanis day today, ripping all her cd's to the hdd and replaying them as mp3's and suchlike. That was the last of the cd's to add to the downloaded stuff - so why do I still not feel like I have the right music to fit my mood? 15 fucking gigs of music and nothing touches me?

That's just wrong.

And now, the end is near...

and I don't know where to start.

I'm trying to do an impact statement. No, that's not it. I'm trying to get together a mere list of notes to take to the appointment to do the victim impact statement.

An appointment which will also involve me hearing of episodes of abuse that I had forgotten, tucked away in the dark recesses of my mind, locked in a sturdy old box with phone directories and bricks and anvils stacked on top so they can't fall out unexpectedly. Denied, avoided, dismissed. Much like myself, really.

Until now. Because these are episodes, incidents, occurrences that he remembers, that he told of during his questioning and that form part of his statement. Not my statement, because I buried them somewhere inaccessible and couldn't find them to tell when, 30 years later, I eventually got brave enough to tell anything.

Because of the guilty plea I don't have to hear them, but I'm choosing to anyway. This may sound weird, sick even, but those moments, well they're mine and I lived them and deserve to remember them. I've lost so many years to blackout and I want my years back.

I figure there must have been good times in there somewhere so maybe if I get the bad memories acknowledged, let them out of the box, I may find some good ones that got shoved in with them by accident. Or is that my inner silver lining girl talking? Could be. God, that bitch never shuts up, she's always there with the 'at least' this and 'lesson learned' that.

Fuck off, Pollyanna; just, please. Fuck. A. Long. Way. Off.

I have a list to make.

I don't know where to start.

Alanis does Fergie's humps

And it's absolutely hysterical... regarde vous!

You couldn't make it up

My mother, in her standard victim-y fashion, has been using my brother as a go between to take items belonging to step-dad and hand them over in various lay-bys. The most recent meeting they had was a few days before last tuesdays plea and directions hearing. Brother isn't a big talker anyway and finds these occassions particularly awkward, but found himself more lost for words than ever when stepdad said

"If the case gets thrown out due to a technicality, do you think your mother would let me move back in? I mean, nothing would have been proven, right?"

What a tit

I'm a music girly but last night, for some completely unknown reason, I had the telly on in the background. BBC3 were showing a prog called 'My big breasts and me' and I, being all modern and techy and suchlike, nipped off to the website to get some info as soon as I heard something that caught my interest.

The site tells me it's a "Documentary following three women who are naturally well endowed and exploring how they feel about having big breasts"

And that "Jodie is terrified of having breast reduction surgery but with her breasts causing her chronic back pain she knows it may be her only option. Vicky hopes that alternative therapies and an exercise regime will downsize her chest, and Maddie, a fashion student, struggles to be taken seriously in a world where she feels only women with small boobs can look attractive"

The bit that originally got my interest was Vicky being measured at the gym. Vicky is a promoter of gay nights in Brighton and, in photo shoots, chooses to let the fellas glam up and takes the part of Ugly Betty for herself. The man in charge of the tape at the gym looked like these were the first real set of funbags he'd ever had to deal with, on or off duty. Prior to the exercise program her bust was 39.25 inches at the fullest point.

Mine's 45.

Stop fucking whinging, faghag!

Fwengebola - obvious when you know it!

The man with the name that made me slap my own head has tagged me with this completely merkin meme. So blame him...

A - Available or Single? Single, not always available.
B - Best Friends? No, loads of mates though.
C - Cake or Pie? Cake. Naughty but nice!
D - Drink of Choice? Brandy, diet coke, no ice.
E - Essential Item? My pc.
F - Favourite Colour? Pink.
G - Gummi Bears or Worms? Both gross.
H - Hometown? London.
I - Indulgence? Chocolate.
K - Kids and Names? Three, one of each. They all have names.
L - Life is incomplete without? Death. It rounds things out.
M - Marriage Date? Inconsequential. The divorce finalised on Valentines day though.
N - Number of Siblings? 2 full, 2 half, one adopted.
O - Oranges or Apples? Broccoli.
P - Phobias/Fears? Crawly things (men included)
Q - Favourite Quote? I ask for so little, just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.
R - Reasons to smile? Dirty jokes.
S - Season? Summer.
T - Tag 3 People? No.
U - Unknown Fact About Me? I detest badly written questions.
V - Vegetable You Hate? Beetroot.
W - Worst Habit? Comfort eating.
X - X-rays You've Had? None.
Y - Your Favourite Foods? Chocolate.
Z - Zodiac? Gemini.

Cheers for that, fuckface.

Guilty!

Step dad has pleaded/pled (I can't think of the right word and right now I don't give a rubbery yellow fuck!) guilty! I don't have to go to a full trial in the summer! One of the charges has been negotiated down a step in exchange for him pleading guilty to everything but basically he's admitted about 15 charges!

About last night...

Ok, so everyone is gorgeous and lovely and all that so take that as read. I know what you really want is the juicy bits, the gossip, the debauchery. Which I'd tell you in minute detail, if I could remember any.

The snippets I do recall are...

Before leaving the house - Me, midnight, my kids.

No 1 Son confirming that he really does come out with some cracking lines by saying (about his not supporting West Ham despite being born on the manor) "If you're born in a bin you don't eat garbage all your life, you get out"

In the pub - Me, Midnight, Lady, Innocent, Vi, Goro and Homme

Everyone going crazy when I got a call and gave directions over the phone to where we were. No-one realised it was my nephew on the line and not Fwengey till I told them after. They visibly deflated.

Me not realising the topic of David Cameron had come to an end during a round of Kings and, when everyone looked at me for my go, shouting 'lying bastards!' instead of taking a card like I was meant to.

Me grabbing hold of middy under the table to alert him to a thumb round. Him kicking the hell out of my leg to return the favour!

Untold amounts of hugging, kissing and flirting. We're an extremely touchy feely crowd. Goro is completely eatable even if she does think that 24 is a multiple of 7 (and have the ability to convince everyone but me that it is, too!)

Yeehaa, turn around, shaking that ass, blowing kisses, swearing allegiance, little green men, 'your finger didn't get wet!', strange looks from other punters, pointing (always with the pointing!), me getting the blame for being the last out of the bar, wanting to rub the bar guys head but not.

In the club - me, goro, vi and middy

Goro grabbing a handbag thinking it was Vi's. We then noticed Vi's was on her shoulder and had to sneak it back quick!

Us girls doing that silly scream thing that drunk girls do when I saw that fwengey had texted.

Me trying to get some ciggies from the machine in the very dark corner, only to find later that I'd pressed the button for menthols. (Worry not, I've discovered I can be just a social (read: pissed) smoker, woohoo!)

Me and Vi going to the loo, me coming out and finding her gone, only to be found wandering drunkenly, ten minutes later by middy.

Plenty flirting, singing and dancing, Vi with her hand on the ceiling a lot of the time. Goro and I not really getting why, Middy getting a lot of 'Man, you're with three women? That's just greedy!' type looks.

After the club

Deciding that Vi was in no condition to travel alone and bringing her back with me and Middy after seeing Goro into a cab.

Driving a hard bargain with the cab driver, stating (ok, slurring) that I'd ring my ex husband and check the price if I thought he was fleecing us and telling him he was lucky to have such a long job. Singing snow patrol in the cab, loudly. Adding insult to injury by arguing that he definitely had to turn right and don't tell me it's illegal, I lived round here and knew what I was doing. I was wrong, we had to turn round.

Getting back to mine to find No 1 Son still up. Middy pouring drinks as Vi hugged No 1 Son hello and I sorted out playing a track that seemed really very important at the time.

Having the absolute best drunken conversation which veered from being screamingly funny to incredibly intense with me doing my wise old woman of perception and intuition thing (I still say I'm right too so piss off, middy!)

Running out of booze and realising it was around 5.30am.

All going to bed. Together.

Bloody brilliant night which I had to sleep off till about 3pm today. Can't wait to do it all again!

Sssshhh!

I'm feeling extremely delicate.

Back later. Just wanted to say I'm alive. (Vi wasn't wearing a belt, that helped)

Everybody squirts, sometimes

This week, and I'm only telling you cos I know you care, I've been mostly busy doing feck all.

I've been driving round the place like a maniac dropping people off and picking people up and still haven't put the much needed water and oil into my car, although I did put air in the tyres and diesel in the tank so it really ought to be grateful. And stop encouraging birds to shit on it. You'd think three layers of muck and bird shit would be enough for any car but no, mine wants more, the tart.

I'm not getting a great amount of time alone so I'm having a bit of a manic. Can't see this abating anytime soon cos tonight is my nephews 18th birthday party, tomorrow morning is a karate seminar (hangover dependent), tomorrow afternoon is a meal out for babygirl's birthday then tomorrow evening is the blogblast. All these things will be fun but I'm very aware that I'll be in public persona for all events and it's bloody tiring sometimes. Especially when I'm this fucking fat!

Still, Sunday afternoon will be just me. And the 2 litres of water. And the painkillers. Cold as ice cream but still as sweet, that'll be me. Ding dang doo.




The title came from my silly head as I was chopping salad for lunch and a tomato spat juice all up my white tiles which made me think initially of the money shot and then start singing sad songs replacing the word hurt/s with squirt/s which made them much less sad.

Blah-dy hell!

Just had word from Vi to say she's spilt wine on her laptop and, understandably, it's not best pleased!

So if she doesn't manage to blog from the library don't panic, she's fine. It's the laptop that's pissed...

Bloody hell

Mary Whitehouse may be long gone but there's always someone getting their knickers in a twist...

Don't get me wrong, there are some things I don't want to see plastered all over adverts but this really does seem ridiculously over the top.

Whinging poms, indeed.

ps. I am a dippy bint

Saturday morning, babygirl and I are chatting as I tidy up and she totters after me wearing my shoes

Mum, did your feet hurt yesterday?

Yes, babe. Good job I didn't go dancing in them, eh?

Was it really bad at the front?

Yes, I think it was worst there. Honey, take them off if they're painful, you'll do yourself a damage.

I think they'd be better without this in...

*holds up piece of cardboard retrieved from toe of right shoe with look of resignation at daft mother she's landed with*

Tickling my feet

So, after all the whining and bouncing of plans me and my fabby pink shoes finally got onto a train and made the date/meeting thingy on Friday. Which was lovely. Yay. Nice bottle of wine, some gentle flirting, all very civilised apart from my getting slightly squiffy due to not eating anything.

He's sweet and interesting and nice looking and, as I discovered when we popped into his apartment to sort out some work stuff, absolutely fucking loaded. Like, millionaire minted.

And there's me, all bargain shoes and designer copy handbag. Eep. Something tells me this isn't going to be a long term thing.


But all is good cos we have nice chemistry and I've agreed to do some work for him and it's always good to have a boss that fancies you when it comes to bonus time.

Discovering I was, literally, up the road from where Miss Tickle was I stuck up two mental fingers and walked to the pub. This was very good for my psyche but not for my feet cos those shoes were meant for mens shoulders not mean streets.

Being too late for the first performance gave me a chance to sit on another lovely sofa and drink the pain away. Which I did till I heard lots of applause (the audience obviously liked my word) and found myself surrounded by the arms and smiles of lovely tickleness. I should hate her cos she's so young and gorgeous but you just can't cos she's so joyful and lovely and sweet you could eat her all up.

By the power of blog she knew who I was and we had a lovely chat before she tickled off and did important directorial things. The second play was great and I forgot that my feet hurt while I gazed at the rather handsome in a surfer dude way blonde actor. And then remembered they were killing me the instant I walked outside afterward so I flagged a cab down.

Cabbie laughs when I moan about my aching feet and mentions the impracticality of the shoes then tries to get me to use the cab all the way home stating a fare of £75. I'm stunned and say 'do I look like I have £75 to spend on a cab?!', his reply was 'Come on, how much were them daft shoes? And that bag must have cost twice that'

Maybe it's a better copy than I thought...

Bum, bum

...and ten bums in a row.

Mice, men, meh. Babygirl has tonsilitis but I've called in the backup, i.e. her father, to take over nursing. She's chuffed to little mint balls cos she'll be spoilt rotten and I'm chuffed to little bint balls cos I get to my date/meeting thingy, albeit later than planned.

Dunno about seeing the plays either now. Ex hubby sucked his teeth and gave one of those 'you don't wanna be walking round there on yer own, love' looks when I mentioned where it was. Part of me doesn't actually feel like seeing it on my own but the rebel in me wants to go just to stick two fingers up to the ex and his acting like an overprotective father. Nnnggg. It's south of the river not south of fucking Gaza!

On the other hand he is correct in that I'll probably get lost and if I don't have people there that I know to call and direct me to the pub I'm more than likely to spend hours wandering away and getting nowhere rather than pondering a play and getting sloshed.

Again I say, bum.

Whine and cheese

Why is it when I plan to go out something always happens to make things difficult? Nngggg!

I thought it was all too convenient when a sort of date/sort of work meeting turned out to be not too far from the play I wanted to see in the evening. I thought it was too good to be true when the meeting was arranged for the very same day.

Today, instead of finalising my outfit and painting my nails in a well planned timetable of getting ready, I'm nursing a sick babygirl who may or may not be better tomorrow.


Bum.

Bum.

And ten bums in a row.


(But thank you to a certain blogger for the silly giggles that brightened the day)

For lover, read mother

May I have my inch back please? It's right there, see? At the beginning of that mile...



I am a cold, heartless, evil bitch. I've learned to love it.

Court out

*insert your own big long run-on swearword here cos I really can't be arsed*

Once again the case went to court for a plea and directions hearing. Once again the lawyers fudged paperwork and got a two week adjournment so I still don't know if I have to testify or not later this year.

When they (you know, them what say all the sayings!) say the 'long arm of the law' in future I'm going to hear the 'long, drawn out, stupid fucking non lawyer-proof process of the law'

Only 4 inches but I'm in love!

Sometimes 4 inches is enough. Any more than that and calf muscles can shorten which is no good for me and karate. Aren't they beautiful?



I don't want to take them off! Luckily they even go with my pj bottoms.

From vaginas to visions

This is my Visual DNA, as seen on a blog I have since forgotten the name of because I've been random surfing for an hour or so. Oops. Thanks to whoever I nicked it from anyway, good blog-karma points to you.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Go on, go do your own and see how interesting you are, you know you want to!

Conversational cunts

I can't write reviews so I'll just say this; if you have a vagina or even if you don't have one but like to play with them, go and see this! Absolutely brilliant acting by three fabulous women really brought the funny, poignant, heartbreaking truth of the words to life. The women (and the handful of men) in the audience cried so many tears of laughter and rage and empathy and more laughter I thought the flood featured in one performance might be recreated right there.

Sitting next to my sister sharing knowing smiles and loudly shouting 'Cunt!' in order to reclaim the word seemed massively appropriate and very emotional what with the court case and everything. Sitting on my right was a lady in her eighties, separated from her group of friends due to booking issues but connected to a stranger by my quick, impetuous squeeze of her hand and our shared, sad smiles as we listened to the story of one of her peers.

I came away feeling angry at the fact that gender is still used as a weapon in war, sad that it is illegal to sell vibrators in some US states (where you can openly buy guns, of course), uplifted by the wonderful way women have of becoming sisters, given the right environment, and humbled by the women who went before me and struggled through shitty, hard lives without so much as an orgasm. Oh, and wanting a Bob of my very own!

See it. You'll love it.




In other news, Harley is fabulous in bed but an old-fashioned bastard of a man. After the 80 year old lady I mentioned patted my hand back and said "you enjoy, love!" I decided that as long as my eyes were open so could my legs be. Because it's 2007 and I can.

See my big red one

The book was made on time (with 45 mins to spare, actually!). I didn't make the selection but buy it anyway cos that alone must mean it's really quite very funny.

Much funnier than this daft picture of me.



Happy red nose day, everyone!

Invisible

It's not the safe option anymore

I'm not hiding now so

don't act like I am

don't brush past my thoughts

don't forget my feelings

don't talk over me

don't make me have to scream for basic attention

or remove myself

so you feel my absence

rather than not feel my presence

hear me when I speak in normal tones

see me when I wear normal colours

how can I ever show the depth

my tones and colours can be

if you never acknowledge

the normality?



It's not the safe option anymore

I'm not hiding now so

stop

fucking

ignoring

me

Ah, that's better.

Real mums piss themselves laughing

And sneezing. And coughing. And running. And all the exercises in the world are useless if the sneeze or cough hits you before your clench reaction kicks in. Ladies, you simply have to keep practicing these things (try this to make it less of a chore!). It needs to become a reflex.

Which is not all bad what with the clench being so good for your sex life, especially when you're too knackered for a full on session with the man who actually caused your pelvic floor to need a damp-proof membrane. If you can clench it hard and rhythmically enough you need not move your arse at all to bring him off, roll him off then get some sleep before the baby takes his place pawing at your boobs.

If you never quite got into the 'riding the elevator' at traffic lights habit then fear not. There are now an array of female incontinence aids that you can just pop in with your weekly groceries without embarrassment. Seriously, this is the one that Tena call 'discreet'...


So discreet that no-one in the supermarket will ever notice that you need a whole extra trolley for a weeks supply!

With thanks to Emma, my mucky minded martini loving mummy mate for the tag (bitch!)

I'm tagging OG, Vi, and LiR (I know I'm meant to tag five but I can't think of any other mums on my blogroll!) Basically you write a blog post on a deep dark truth about mums. Start with Real Moms [insert the deep dark truth here] and add a picture.

IdonotobsessIdonotobsessIdonotobsess!

This morning I downloaded ten remixes of The Killers Read My Mind and I'm currently playing them all, on repeat.

Poke her face

It's grading day so there are lots of nerves for me to soothe. Not just my students but A's too, being I took his latest class. I'm going through some last minute talks when I notice Julie out of the corner of my eye. This will be the first time I've seen her since, you know, and I find myself talking really fast to the very students I'm trying to calm as she gets closer to where we are.

"Hi guys, you're looking good! Angela, Sensei would like your help with the admin desk. I'll walk over with you"

"Oh right. Ok you lot, you know I've put my faith in you so dig deep, show what you can do and if you feel like falling over let me know quick so I can kick your arse!"

Pep talk over, I leave my students with a smile on their faces and fix my own expression to 'polite interest' as I hear Julie say,

"You'll never guess what Pete told me last night! There was me thinking I'd knock his socks off with my threesome fantasy and he's only bloody topped me! Been there for real - with four of 'em!"

I'm actually a little bit ashamed at just how convincingly I stopped in my tracks and stared at her with my mouth open.

I really need to learn how to play poker.


ps

All my students graded. And all of A's students that I made sure to support as soon as I was off of admin duties.

I have fabulous students.

Think you're funny, do ya?

Be funny for a good cause then. Mike at Troubled Diva is co-ordinating a collaboration of bloggers and it's all fer charidee, mate!

Have a look, buy the book!

Two couples and a camera...

"Hi, is that Angela?"

"Yep, who's calling?"

"It's Paul, Julie R gave me your number. I've got a bit of a computer problem and need it sorting quick cos I can't get to my work stuff, to use her words she said you were shit hot at this crap! *laughs*"

"Well then, hello. Can you specify your problem to me? Has it been nicked? Cos, you know, that's a computer problem but not one I can do anything about"

"Yeah, she said you was a funny cow an' all. Basically it takes forever to turn on, some things won't work at all and the ones that do are slow. A bit like Julie! Ha ha!"

"Hmm. Can't think why she never told me that you were funny... Look, gimme your address and I can give you a couple of hours later today"



Julie is mad sweet on this bloke. Julie is a mad sweet girl all round, actually. Julie deserves to be happy, she's done her share of shit. I love Julie. Oh, and...

I FOUND PICTURES OF HER BOYFRIEND INVOLVED IN A FOURSOME ON HIS HARD DRIVE AND I DON'T KNOW WHETHER SHE KNOWS OR NOT!

Don't get me wrong, she's neither virgin nor nun herself but the thing is I don't know whether he's told her about his prior shenanigans so that she can make sure to protect herself in whichever way she feels necessary (there's not a condom to be seen in the pictures I found) or whether she'd truly thank me for telling her the reality of where he's been (and obviously enjoyed!).

For a start it's not the stuff of carefully lit and edited porn, it's real and involves non-surgically enhanced people over the age of 35. Part of me wants to tell her this so she stops worrying that she's not sexy/slim/young enough for him (nice as he may be, he's no Adonis!) and another part wants to hide my brain in a cupboard and never again have to think of him as a sexual being.

The other thing is, I honestly don't go looking for this stuff when I sort out peoples computers but how the fuck do I make that sound like the truth to Julie now? I know full well she has some juicy pics on her hdd but didn't begin to think of searching for them when I dealt with her infestations of virii and spyware. How the fuck can I expect her to believe that I respected her privacy when I've come across these not very well hidden, numerically named files?

Ok, it's become clear to me as I type: I simply can't tell her. Not ever. Not if I want to retain her friendship, which I do.

Surely, getting pissed and dancing in the street singing a very old song word for word but out of tune can never be the same once you've seen your mate's boyfriend with a raging hard on? Even if that hard on is obscured by some random female's arse cheeks or a middle aged husband and wife tongue duo (she had more tattoos than he did which I found, er, interesting...)

No news is...

A pile of steaming shit, as it happens.

Thanks for all your thoughts and good wishes, it really does warm my cockles.

Non case specific advice from a policeman friend of mine says that he'll plead not guilty simply to buy time but I still don't know the result of the court appearance for certain and these tenterhooks are making my feet bleed.

The good news is not once have I felt like having a cigarette.

I'll update properly later, with luck. I did do some comments over the last couple of days but that's all my goldfish sttention span could manage.

But thanks again, you're all so lovely.

*group snog*

Hear me moan, baby

What a bloody week, between babyboy being off school for two days and having the windows and doors replaced, I don't feel like I've had a second to myself. I don't do well when I'm denied personal space so I've had a few manic, hand-flappy episodes. The kids find these laughable, as do I when it dawns on me that I'm talking nineteen to the dozen about something that really isn't as important as my extremely urgent and excited tone would imply.

It's not just that I've not had 'alone time', I know I won't calm down properly till I hear on tuesday whether we have to testify at a crown court trial or not. It doesn't help that I wanted to get to the gym every day this week to work my nervous energy off but have been surrounded by people asking stuff of me all day every day instead. Oh, then I looked up the website today to check class times and one that I was interested in is run by a guy with the same name as step-dad ffs. Coincidence is a cunt.

Not getting to the gym doesn't help with my crappy body image since quitting smoking/gaining weight again either. I've been a total yo-yo for the last five months now and it's killing me being back in size 16 jeans. Nnnggggg! I'd deliberately not eaten a load of crap since quitting but still gained loads (I know it's a metabolism drop thing - it still equals a bigger arse!) so this week I've eaten anything around, anytime I fancied. Cos that's such a sensible thing for me to do when my mood is so up and down, mess around with my blood sugar too. Go, me! I remain the thickest intelligent person I know. Not to mention the most stubborn. I spent two days and nights metaphorically giving Harley the finger and not texting him cos he'd not texted me one morning, he spent 48 hours thinking I was no longer interested. Doh.

Still, the sun is shining, babyboy is back at school, my window boys are finishing off today and Harley and I are communicating again. I will actually get an hour or two to myself before I have to run around doing lots of pick up/drop off things later on today - huzzah! Ooh, the excitement of choosing whether to wash up or tidy the garden might just blow my fragile little mind!