David Ten-inch Tennant

Oh. My. God. (That's in the orgasmic sense, not the religious one)

Tonight, having physically fought and won the ntl zooter from No 1 Son, I watched The Friday Night Project as opposed to Celeb BB and simply must ask...

Is there a hetero woman alive that doesn't want this man in her bed?



I never watched Casanova (oh ok, I never watched any TV at all at the time unless forced to join the kids in a Simpsons fest in order to prove to my sis that we really did do stuff as a family unit and so didn't need counselling from one of her esteemed colleagues) so I was majorly dissappointed to hear that DT would be replacing the deliciously lickable Christopher Ecclestone as the Dr Who of the 21st century.

Until I saw him. The man is just completely bloody absolutely and utterly gorgeous! The fact that Billie Piper calls him David Ten-Inch is, obviously, a major bonus.

I already loved him defeating daleks and cybermen but, oh my laaawd! He's funny as fuck when playing himself with Alan Carr and that other bloke with long hair that had to assume sexual positions with a non co-operating George Galloway.

Note to George:

Bad enough that your political career was arsed before you licked pretend cream as a pretend cat from a real Rula Lenska's hands on live national telly. Assuming sexual positions with a hirsute bloke really is a step up, don't balk at it!

No 1 Son tells me that DT is gay. I refuse to look this up in case my fantasies die.

Heather in my hair, and other NYE stories

"Mum, why are you buying two bottles of brandy at the same time? There's only you drinking it!"

If babygirl had used a loudhailer she couldn't have gained the attention of more shoppers than she did with that question. Luckily, my cheeks went the same shade of red that my eyes already were so people soon looked away in abject fear and the moment passed. I gently explained that the good brandy was for indoors and the cheap stuff for the party cos I didn't really know anyone so didn't want to get steaming drunk, nor did I have the inclination to supply relative strangers with good hooch. "Ah, so that's why you're not wearing your corset then?!" She knows me so well...

The party was at babyboys' mates parents. They'd taken him on holiday this summer so I knew them a bit, but not socially and nowhere near enough to let my hair down properly (can't take the chance that any of their other guests are social workers!), so I planned to be on my best behaviour and wearing something that didn't look like it came from the i-love-my-boobs shop.

You know what they say about plans...

Upon arrival I was very politely relieved of my jacket and bag of booze then a famous persons name was sellotaped to my back where it immediately got stuck in my hair cos I'd left it down. Helen (mates mum) poured me a drink and apologised for it being strong before asking if I danced. I quickly glanced round the room taking in the group of teenagers at one end and a very straitlaced looking huddle of middle-agers at the other as I heard myself saying 'Oh yes! I love dancing!' then thinking 'Oh shit. I really must do something about my mouth being faster than my eyes'. I necked the drink, fearing I'd just signed up to do either some weird rap style thing with the kids or ballroom with the christmas-sweater wearing contingent. Or worse, both.

Two quick drinks later I'd figured out the woman stuck in my hair was Heather Mills-McCartney. Ok, I cheated slightly. Knowing that babyboy was giving more than the yes or no answers required by the rules I asked him if my person was funny. He replied "she is when she does this..." and aped a flamingo keeling over whilst singing Eleanor Rigby. That's my boy!

With Heather out of my hair I soon noticed that there were people smoking in the garden and rushed out to join them, only to find myself feeling like a very old pariah amongst a crowd of pretty young thing pariahs. Sod it, I might as well make conversation, thinks I as I light up. Ten minutes later we all go back inside to change the music and I find I've gained a posse of fans that can't stop embarrassing No 1 Son by telling him how great/fun/busty his mum is. God help me, I'm a MILF! From then on I'm positively plyed with drinks (note to pedants - I haven't mispelled plied - they really were coming 2 by 4!) and with the music becoming more to my taste I start the singalong dancing and grin like a loon when I see people from both groups joining in.

Details are slightly sketchy from then on but the bits I remember are...

A gorgeous 20 year old lad, warning off his gorgeous 19 year old step-brother who wanted to cut in dancing with me.

A neighbour in full African regalia, telling me as we danced that I had much to thank God for. Me trying my hardest to be polite toward his personal views for a full thirty seconds before losing it and spraying my drink everywhere giggling at him. Him saying 'Ok, ok! I get it!' and dirty dancing like a demon. I think he'd have preferred me praising his lord than him saving my soul. He got neither. I'm so going to hell.

Earnestly telling two 16 year olds over a shared ciggie that condoms *plus* the pill are their best friends cos, if the thought of being a single mum isn't enough to scare them, they should consider being a single mum with herpes. (FFS! I've never had a herpes scare in my life, where do I come up with this stuff?!)

Being left in charge of the remote to ring in the new year with Jools and pressing all the buttons to try and turn the volume up for the countdown. I changed channel by mistake and was rescued in the nick of time by aforementioned gorgeous 20 year old lad who demanded my first kiss of the year as payment and cuddled me like he'd never let go. What a sweetie!

Becoming vaguely aware that people had stopped kissing each other and were waiting to kiss me. Then becoming acutely aware that it had been fifteen minutes since my last wrigleys ice and there was simply no way to get to my handbag through the, er, queue. So drunk but so damn British!

Babygirl telling me she'd not only noticed but also politely answered all the HNY texts and calls I'd received on my mobile while I was, in her words, 'busy making people happy'

Being one of the last 'oldies' present other than those that lived in the house and suddenly querying how the girls were getting home safely.

Leaving my car where it was to totter home on aching high heels with a posse of teens and the gorgeous 20 year old shooting me love loaded looks out of No 1 Son's sightline.

Having an idea for a new tv show. I'm old enough to be your mother... get me out of here!

Getting to the end of my road and receiving utterly countless hugs, kisses and 'please come round soon!' implorations as well as having my arse squeezed by gorgeous 20 year old lad. That boy has all the makings of a fabulous lover for some lucky (young) girl!

Getting to my door with the key in my hand and babygirl belly-laughing on the way as my rendition of Abba's Happy New Year made lights come on in all the houses we passed.

My saying - oh ok; my loudly declaring - 'Darling, beautiful sprogchildren who are the light of my life... Poke the pig eating neighbours! Happy new year up yer smelly bum, neighbours! Sure, I get loudly drunk on occasion but at least I bag my bollocking refuse properly!'

The next day I slept in.

Helen came and got me to collect my car and I went out with that horrible 'oh god I bet she hates me and has all kinds of helpline numbers ready for me' feeling. Instead she hugged me warmly and said 'The calls I've had this morning! Ange, the consensus of opinion is that you should rent yourself out for parties. I'm only doing it next year if you promise to come!'

Yay me, a party animal MILF if ever there was one.

Wot I dun at crismas by me age 37

The silly title is inspired by the feeling I got whilst typing this up for the fourth time. I'm drowning in memories of returning to routine after a holiday to be greeted by a teacher that spent the whole time pissed as a rat and now prays fervently that the kids in their care will just, please, be a bit quiet for an hour if they're busy writing their own experiences while the alka-seltzer takes effect.


Dear Miss,

Christmas came and so did I, thanks to sending P the same text I sent a shedload of other people in order to pre-empt and ward off the 'Oh dear. Are you ok on your own you poor, single parent thing?' calls. Er, people? This is the eighth year I've done this!

P rang to thank me for the good wishes (he wasn't to know they were generic, bless him), I told him he was a drama queen drunk and should still come round later to help us eat the thirty tons of food I was preparing. Long story short; he did, the kids were fine (well, once the eating machine that is No 1 Son realised he wasn't about to lose any dinner, anyway) and we all had a lovely time stuffing our faces then cuddling up on the sofa whilst passively watching comedy on the beeb despite having the choice of a million and twelvety-five channels. Plentiful alcohol was consumed, children were eventually sent off to bed and we (that is, P and I) snogged and generally fooled around like semi-chaste-promised-to-jesus-american-teenagers on the sofa till about 2.30am when he walked home with a massive hard-on and I sat up reflecting on how nicely weird it felt to have had adult company for christmas.

He called me on Boxing Day but I was at my sister's place for the annual get ratted and gift-swap with her family (aka my adopted in-laws) festival so couldn't pop round like he wanted. Tough luck, baby. The rules are different this time, I did warn you! Having said that I was bloody frustrated by then so when he offered to cook me dinner after work the following day I said yes. The kids were with their dad so I had a lovely, quiet day to myself other than his texts then drove round to get fucked and fed, both rather well. Now that's what I call a christmas present!

The following day he's texting and calling again so I said he could come to me for dinner as I had no kids again till late that evening. After a fantastic session (in my bed this time, which was a bit weird - A was the last man that saw my duvet cover and that was way back in July!) he taught me to how make bubble 'n' squeak with left-over roasties and I taught him how to ask someone for dinner and get them to do most of the cooking. Bloody blissful!

Friday was the family get-together at my cousins house. This would be the first time I'd seen my aunt and uncle for, ooh, two years or so? This being my most beloved maternal uncle who has taken the disclosure extremely badly, blaming himself in a big way for introducing step-dad to my mother in the first place. It was a heavy prospect emotionally and I really wanted to let him know that I continue to hold him in my heart as the best man in the whole, wide world and assuage his misplaced guilt so I had no time to fit P in as I spent the day mentally preparing and the evening verbally repairing broken relationships.

We (me and the kids, that is) got home around midnight and, though I was happy at the outcome of the evening, I was totally exhausted mentally and desperately needed to touch base with someone strong while I fell into a bottle or two. I found myself not even thinking of texting or calling P but following my initial instinct to mail an online friend whose presence I'd missed due to being a tardy email bitch (yes, I do mean you, again! xox).

Saturday dawned and I was, once more, off-limits to P as it was No 1 Son's birthday and, although the kids asked not to spend the day with their dad again, he was joining us and my sister's lot for a celebration meal at the pub early that evening. This was also Hogfather day of course. You couldn't make this stuff up, I swear! I'm still wondering which of my very ordinary, mostly elderly, suburban neighbours had a medieval feast for christmas dinner; complete with pigs head centrepiece and jugs of foaming mead! Did they dress up, too? Were there car keys and fruit bowls involved? What the rubbery yellow hell else goes on behind these net curtains that I'm not privy to unless a semi-urban fox deposits the remains in my parking spot? More to the bloody point, why am I not invited to such wonderful debauchery?! I'd love an excuse to dress up as Nell Gwyn, showing off both my terrible knowledge of history and plenty of boobage at the same time. Bastards, the lot of 'em, they don't know what they're missing.

Anyway, I digress. P called on Saturday and mentioned that he was worried about his mum. She'd told him to expect a delivery at 10am for his birthday. The woman is 80-odd years old and more than a little doddery, therefore, when Interflora tell her 'sometime between 10 and 6' she hears only the 10 as truth, bless her little old lady heart. She also refuses to have a landline and only turns her mobile on when she's expecting a call (which I find hilarious - old ladies and mobile phones really tickle me) so the fact that he'd called twice and she'd not answered was worrying him, to the point that he was thinking of jumping a train to see her but would be back in time to join me for the NYE party I was attending the next day. To be honest I was so busy with building the required mental fortitude to subtly dispose of an unwanted pigs head then share a car as well as eat a meal with the ex-husband without fuelling his mad, scorpio I-just-know-she-still-loves-me! fantasies I was quite chuffed that P was otherwise engaged.

Nephew No 2 brought his girlfriend to the meal, No 1 Son brought [mate] who took umbridge at being (rather gently, by our standards) ribbed and swore at my brother-in-law, thus causing much embarrassed giggling between sis and I as BIL did his 'look here, laddie; I'm not only physically hyoooge but I fight furious fire for a flamin' living so have soooo much more testosterone than you' thing but hey, at least it took the edge off being in the same pub as my ex-husband.

Surrounded by people like this, is it any wonder I drink!?

Talking of drinking, I sent a really stupid drunken text apologising for the hurt I caused to my ex later that night. I must tell you about T but for now, you just need to know that we spent the most part of five years in a part-time, long-distance relationship and I finally finished it early November, 2005. He's a totally self-obsessed, up his own arse, middle-class drama queen and hates my very guts since I finished things between us but despite that I still credit him as the man that taught me to embrace and enjoy my sexuality for what it is despite it's screwed up beginnings. He didn't answer. I'm hoping it's because he's changed his number but part of me is seriously worried that it's because my communication has sent him shopping for razor blades. Eep! Oh well.

Gosh, that was a load of old rambling nonsense! New years eve was great but I'll let you rest your poor eyes for a while before posting that account!

Resolve

Obviously I have none, as evidenced by the man I'm currently using for sex. However, it is customary to make promises to yourself at this time of year, just so you can not live up to them and beat yourself about it in the cold, dark months to come.

Stuff that for a game of soldiers. I'm turning it on it's head and, instead of a list of resolutions, I'm placing this cosmic order.

I wish to be comfortably back in my size 12 jeans by the end of January.

I'd like a proper, grown up and honest relationship with a lovely man by the end of February.

I wish to quit smoking by the end of March.

I'd like a 1st kyu grading by mid November.


Now I'm off to get ready for a party at a mates house.

A very happy and healthy new year to you all

Angie
xxx

The Hogfather

I'm currently doing the Christmas/P update post (at least I was till I fell asleep on the keyboard and deleted the bloody thing - nnngg!) but, in the meantime, I simply must share this random madness with you.

It started so well...

No 1 Son's birthday and we all slept in cos we'd been out late doing an emotionally knackering (for me), post-disclosure family get-together over sausage rolls and cheesy balls (in cousins defence, there were young children in the house) the night before. Around 11am, Babygirl came to talk at me in bed as No 1 Son made the bathroom smell like a hair gel factory and mumbled his appreciation for the happy birthday banners blue-tacked all round the house and intentions to go round to [mates] for a few frames of snooker before bringing [mate] back to join us in going out for dinner. All is well, chez bitch.

Babygirl and I are giggling and planning a shopping trip, Babyboy is happily left in peace with the X-box controllers, No 1 Son completes his tarting-up and leaves the house. I receive his text within a minute of the front door closing.

There is a pigs head looking at our car

Between proud bursts of laughter at his surreal sense of humour, I reply

Ha ha. Real or plastic? xx

And get

Real. He's a cute little fella.

I think, hmmm. Maybe I should look out of the window. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't one of his 'let's share a mad joke that no-one but us will understand in a mother-son bonding type fashion' moments. I relinquish the duvet to Babygirl and look out of the window. To see...




as reported, looking at my car, directly outside my house!



What uspets me most about the whole incident is that the hogfathers head pic, taken on my moby by a grossed out but excited child, came out better that my wet t-shirt efforts with a Goodmans gadget!

A woman of my word

If nothing else, I deliver on my promises. Here, almost like a belated christmas gift, are the infamous wet t-shirt pics! (I apologise muchly for the lousy quality, I'd have been better off using my phone! Plus I was giggling a lot and a bit cold!) They're here for 24 hours only, get 'em while they're, er, cold!

Edit - too late!



Merry HNT, beloved readers! xx

Guess who's coming to dinner?

Mad week!

Tuesday - my last night of training and also a surprise grading so we had a really hard session as opposed to the nice easy evening I'd anticipated. A had told me he'd call in after dropping his kids off but didn't, no big shock there. I lost count of how many times I heard 'Ange! You'll be seeing A, won't ya? Send him my best/give him this card' and just smiled through exhausted, gritted teeth.

Wednesday - the final night for students so we instructors got together to do some mucking about and showing off as a treat. I gained a headache from laughing so hard at our violent version of the twelve days of christmas and a massively ugly bruise on my wrist from breaking tiles but it was worth it to see the faces of those that thought I was just a flighty, blonde girly girl with high kicks! Short and sweet I may be but I can indeed hit and break real things if and when the call comes and I enjoyed showing that part of me.

Thursday - the club christmas night out and this time I wasn't driving (not that I could have, I was wearing a corset and the bones were digging in something rotten!). We had a fabulous night with loads to drink, a lovely chinese meal, a few awards given out and absolute screams of laughter, they're a fantastic bunch of people.

Our designated driver missed my turnoff so, instead of being first home I was near to last. Just after 1am as we're dropping off and laughing my phone goes with a text and I squint to read 'Have a happy xmas darlin XXX', from P! From drunken conversations that night my karate mates knew all about him so I was getting input ranging from 'let's all go round and kick him' to 'answer, if nothing else he's worth another fuck'. I decided to go my usual route of sarcasm and asked if he'd been drinking and texted the wrong person. After a few back and forth texts I got home and he immediately called me. Being full of christmas spirits I didn't hold back on my opinions and he was very apologetic, saying how much he'd missed me and begging me to come and see him the next day. I said I was busy (which was true) but might be able to make some time on Saturday.

Friday - he texted again from his works do then called for another chat to check I was still coming round. I'd had a drink by then and, when I heard he had no plans for christmas day, invited him to mine.

Saturday - Busy! An emotionally intense catch-up meeting with sis to update me on her visit to our mother as well as christmas preparations that had to be done while the kids were with their dad but P was playing on my mind so I found the time to pop round.

I'd texted to say I was on my way and there was a cuppa waiting on the table when I got there. Not that it was good enough for this fussy bitch of course, due to said cuppa being made of regular tea with milk in rather than the green tea with lemon that I live on- Bing! One point down already. I sat on the sofa like a maiden aunt, none of my usual feet tucked underneath me stuff. My body language was positively screaming ice. cold. bitch. which, of course, made the mad cat come and sit on my lap. We chatted and caught up and yes, I melted a little, mentioning the timing of christmas dinner as I was leaving. He seemed surprised and said he hadn't brought it up in case I'd changed my mind. Nnngg! Why don't people understand that I don't say things unless I mean them, even if I'm in the depths of drink!? I'd still made no moves towards him but he kissed me goodbye as I got in the car and stood watching for ages as I tried to pull into the road.

Sunday - aka Christmas Eve. Bloody bonkers busy and I didn't hear from him all day, nor did I have time to even text hello amidst last-minute shopping for forgotten stuffing mix/replacement fairy light bulbs and attempts to calm children by delegating very boring household chores. I finally sat down with a brandy and blogs sometime after midnight when my phone buzzed with a message...

'I've decided to spend xmas day with [the cat], it was lovely to see you again, enjoy your day with the kids xxx'. Offs! I really can't be doing with this on/off crap so I text back 'Are you taking the piss? Do the world a favour and buy yourself some serious therapy for christmas, eh?'. Stockings stuffed and spleen vented I finally got to bed. Alone again, naturally.

Touched by la fille

Oops! I meant tagged. Sorry, my fantasy took over for a second there. LFM has tagged me to come up with ten things I love that start with the letter K.

1 - My kids. Considering I never actually wanted children and will never win any mother of the year competitions, I remain totally shocked at the strength of love I have for my babies. No job, man, race or tournament has ever brought me the challenge, sheer hard work, heartache, responsibility, joy, strength, pride or love that motherhood has. It's them that made me strong. Once I knew I'd kill and/or die for them, I realised I had to make myself strong enough to do so in case the need arose. In that way, I owe my life to them.

2 - Karate, of course! I'll try not to get all evangelical on your arses but really, everyone should do it! The feeling as you get better is such a buzz. Your kicks get higher and stronger, your punches and elbow strikes quicker and more instinctively aimed, your blocks more flowing and harder to penetrate. Performing kata is like mental masturbation and sparring is like sex with clothes on. What more do you need to know!? Go look up your best, local Sensei and tell 'em I sent you!

3 - Knickers. I went through a phase of not wearing any but the draw of a good pair of drawers proved too much. I love my lacy, sexy ones with matching bra, camisole or baby-doll top. I love my clingy boy-shorts that don't show under tight trousers. I love the flimsy thongs that are hardly there and so easily pulled to one side in steamy moments. I love the giggly thrill of an edible pair being bitten off me. I even love the lycra Bridget Jones specials types that I wear for training so I can kick all over the place without them losing their place. I admit it, I'm just a pantie ho.

4 - Kickin' tunes. A good night out with mates just isn't complete until the DJ plays something that makes you throw your drink down, end all conversation and lose yourself in music. The beat calls to you, compelling you on some deep, subconscious level to move your body to it's rhythm. There simply is no resisting; it's like hypnosis, only louder.

5 - Kinkiness. I'm sure none of you need an explanation for this one! A psychologist once explained to me that sex is the adult version of a childs play. I love to play, it's fun, it's bonding, it's silly when looked at in the cold light of day and it's incredibly sexy. Pass the feathers!

6 - Knowledge. My gemini personality thrives on communication and part of that is knowing a little about a lot. I love coming across something new and researching it, soaking up the key points and teaching myself to talk a good 'un! Unfortunately I'm much better at teaching myself stuff than being taught, hence my lack of formal qualifications.

7 - Killer heels. I'm a girly girl so of course I love all shoes in general but shoes, boots or sandals with 3-4" heels are the best thing ever for those of us that never grew over 5'2". I wear them to the supermarket to reach the back of the middle shelves, I wear them to the pub to be seen over the bar and get served when it's my round, I wear them to school meetings and get slightly less dwarfed by the 11 year olds, I wear them so that jeans designed for 'normal' height women don't drag on the floor and trip me up, I wear them in the bedroom and fantasise that, not only are my legs as bendy as a porn star's, they're just as long. Oh, and you know that thing that people tell you about heels being bad for your back? It's counteracted by them being damn good for your neck when you're kissing a tall bloke!

8 - Kissing. We grow up with kissing. As babies and toddlers we delight in the reaction we get when we learn to plant our wet babylips on a beloved adult's cheek and watch them melt (if only cos it means a happy adult equals our basic needs being met). As we get older it's more a case of 'give your (ancient, smells of piss not quite covered with lavender water) auntie a kiss goodbye' which is a hideous notion to us but still, it makes her happy which is always good for a quid or two as she puts her coat on. And on we grow. The adolescent years, completely drenched in snogging. Talking about it, thinking about it, angsting about it, whether or not we're doing it. Our twenties? For most people they're more about shagging than snogging so the blissful kisses get lost as we struggle to define ourselves as sexual beings. For those of us that married too young they were wasted years, more devoted to coping than kissing. Our thirties? Oh. My. God. Is there anything in this world more erotic than a deep, sensual, 30-something kiss? I don't think so. This really is something you enjoy as a teen but don't appreciate until later in life. I could kiss for hours, me - lovely stuff!

9 - kbs. And all the other acronyms to do with computers, which is a crafty way of saying I love computers. When I was a kid I saw a Tomorrows World type programme that showed a computer controlled house and I wanted one immediately. I still have to open and close my curtains manually but other than that I pretty much run my life from my pc. My extensive music collection is stored on it and hooked up to my amp, my diary pops up reminders to aid my terrible memory, I shop, bank and help with homework online. Not forgetting, of course, I meet new mates and men - kissable kilobytes!

10 - I'm struggling now. Hmm. Ok, K T Tunstall. I really like her stuff, I sing Universe and U to my kids. Anyone know when she's doing another album?

That got tough towards the end! I'm tagging anyone that needs twenty minutes to themselves over the holiday. Hide from the family and do this with a letter of your own choosing. Aren't I good to you?

Christmas kicks

Monday. I taught my last karate classes of the year tonight. As usual I took the opportunity to dress up and wore my santa dress with black, knee high boots. No, I didn't do any kicks. What I did do was inject some basic drills with a festive twist - instead of kiai's I had them shout various christmas words - then a break for the goodies they brought in, then some daft games, then a break for goodies, a few more games, another break for goodies. The under 12's class were the best at making christmas words sound scary. The middle, mixed-age class were the most competitive, four mums that train with their kids being absolutely determined to win the silly pairs race that I ran. The last class were the best at tiring me out, what with a few over-excited pre-teens forcing me to come down hard so the adults could have a good mix of training and giggles (between goodies, of course).

I hate being all disciplinarian (although I reckon I'd make a damn good dungeon mistress if the money was right and hell, the outfits are so much better) but I was tired and sugar-fucked from 3 hours of goodies by then. A had finally answered his phone on Saturday and said he'd actually be there so, having taught mine and his classes alone for the past fortnight, I was looking forward to playing second fiddle, being the straight (wo)man, taking a back seat and heckling from it. No such luck. He called me toward the end of my first session to say he was leaving work but had no kit with him, turned up in his business suit and proceeded to chat to some parents we're friends with rather than attempt to help me out, even after I got the students to kiai 'Scrooge!' directly at him. During a break I finally caught up with his hospital saga and really had to fight the urge to hold him, luckily my anger at being kept in the dark for so long bound my arms to my sides.

A anger aside, I came home with a pile of christmas presents (including one from a lady that hasn't trained with me for a while due to personal problems but made the effort to turn up and deliver a gift) and a distinctly warm glow. I look back on my two years of teaching and I see the difference I've made in people's lives. The women that turn up, shy and apologetic about their very existence being inconvenient. The children that are either sent by their parents cos they've been bullied, sent by their parents cos they need discipline or have seen a few martial arts movies and think they can learn to be de4d!y in one lesson. The men that think size is everything and martial arts will just add a string to their bow in the boozer. I looked at them all tonight and realised that every one of them has gained something from my teaching apart from how to kick, punch and block.

The men have gained a new way of relating to women as well as an appreciation for technique over brute strength. The women and children have gained confidence and self-esteem. Every single one of them is louder and prouder than they were, they walk higher and talk flyer. They have a belief in their own worth and are willing and able to defend that rather than lie down and accept whatever is dished out to them. All of them have made new friends and the bonds between them are strong and supportive, even when they're sparring each other and out to win.
I'm bloody proud of them. And a little bit proud of me.

Reading the cards

Helibags has suggested a wonderful idea. You know those cards you see in Clintons and the like that purport to really express your innermost feelings? Of course you do, they're in every aisle of every card shop you've ever raced in to buy a cardboard congrats on the way to a mates wedding. Crikey, you can't even go into the local corner shop to purchase an old Cholmondley-Warner type photo with an amusingly ironic caption without being faced with a rack of pastel cards covered in fancy print so I just know you know what I mean.

Anyway, heli of the fab wellies suggested we create a range of greeting cards to honestly reply to those 'heartfelt' ones. After a brainstorm, a period of blue-sky thinking and running with it outside the box I came up with the company title - FartSmelt - and this starter pack of HeartFelt cards and the FartSmelt replies...


HF - I need you in my life
FS - Ask yourself this. Just how sexy can emotional clingfilm ever be?

HF - Thank you for being my friend
FS - Fuck me or fuck off, would ya?

HF - You're the best granny ever
FS - Hey kid; I've willed my money to a cat's home and knitted you a doily, d'ya still love me?

HF - You're the best brother/sister in the world
FS - Yeah, yeah. Sorry I missed your kids birthday... it's just that I don't care enough to remember.

HF - These hard times will pass and make you stronger
FS - So you know I'm having it rough and send me a card with no cash in? Please know that when I get strong enough I'm going to slap you.

HF - I know our relationship is rocky right now, I'm working through it
FS - Why not work through it somewhere else? Go back to the shop where you bought the card then just keep walking. It's best for both of us.

HF - You are very special and I think of you all the time
FS - You need a specialist and the injunction is in the post

HF - Hold on tight, there will be a rainbow after this storm
FS - Hold on, I thought I'd killed all you happy-clappy people? I'll personally thank you for this card by servicing your car brakes

Any more suggestions? You'll get credit in tiny writing when we go global.

Sling yer hook, Sting

I'm the tantric master now!

I found this through An Unreliable Witness

Your turn to have a go now...

It's draft-y in here

Babygirl came bounding up the stairs with the post, even more excited than usual cos one particular missive was quite obviously not a bill or junk. I shared her joy for a moment before taking a glance at the happy-making envelope and discovering just how hard it is to continue cleaning teeth that are gritted.

Even if I'd not recognised the all-in-capitals hand printing, I'd still have known instantly that it was from my mother. She and Sis are the only people in the world that still insist on addressing me as Mrs Marshall, 8 years post-divorce. Yes, I did keep my married moniker but mainly because there was more chance of my spontaneously growing a 10 inch cock than reverting back to the surname of the man that must have laughed himself stupid at being allowed to legally adopt the children he had abused.

As much as my surname may well have remained the same as my childrens my title for, ooh, nearly a fucking decade has been Ms. Em ess dot, Ms. It's not that difficult to spell and, unlike Miss, it doesn't give the mistaken impression of a never-married virgin so I think it's the perfect, most honest title for me. I've not been anybody's Mrs for the longest time and, far from feeling shame at having children under this condition; I'm actually proud of it, so there. My bank respects this, the DVLA respects this; even the monolith that is the inland revenue manage to get it right ffs! My mother, however, simply refuses to acknowledge it and continues to let me know in typical passive-aggressive fashion that she couldn't bear the postman looking down on me for having children but not being known as some man's wife. It's a good job Catholicism doesn't know what it missed by her being baptised C of E, the Pope himself would surely go to hell for losing such a martyr.

Anyway, it wasn't the christmas card that I first assumed; it was far worse than that. It was, in fact, one of those generic 'heartfelt feelings' cards that fill half the aisles in every town centre branch of Clintons hoping to catch the eye of those that can't take responsibility for their own words but have a fiver to spare in order to use someone elses. I'm gonna burn the damn thing so I'll reproduce it here before I do, just to give some perspective to this, my draft reply to her. The whole thing is verbatim; her words in italics, the card in bold.

Front cover: Forgive me...

Inside: PLEASE READ THE WORDS
AS THEY SPEAK FOR ME

Forgive me for my faults that seem
to follow my life.
Forgive me for my insecurities that
have caused you hurt and pain.
Forgive me for my dependence on you:
it can be hard to bear.
I love you, and I'm sorry
for any mistakes I have made.
But remember that my heart needs
your smiles and laughter.
My soul needs your friendship and love.
And I need you.

AND I MISS YOU
LOVE
MUM


I've spent a lot of time teaching myself to feel things in the moment rather than bottling them up till I hit the bottle and let them out but, alack and alas and all that, I've regressed and left it a fair few days to process this emotionally. On a practical level this is because I've been stupidly busy and quite simply had no time to indulge in feelings. This past week or so, as well as trying to be available to No 1 Son in case any 'post-blog-reading' issues arise, Babygirl has been doing choir appearances all over the show, christmas gifts have been sourced, three chests of drawers and a desk needed putting together to finish revamping the kids rooms, karate classes have been taught and students prepped for sunday's grading - oh, and A texted very late Weds to say he was in hospital so I wound up doing his class alone (I've sent a worried text asking after him every day since but had absolutely nothing back so my last message simply said that I'd bought him some grapes but let the kids have them due to a dearth of delivery information), Sis and I tried to get a quiet catch-up lunch and she got a call mid-starter from a mate informing us that step-dads court appearance had been reported in the [old area] local paper, complete with his name and a full list of the charges. Shit and fans come to mind now it's in the public domain. His fallout is his problem but I'm very aware that this development could well make life more icky for me, if only on Friends Reunited. I'm just hoping that anyone still in that part of town that remembers me remains too illiterate to read the paper or too dim to remember my old surname and put 2+2 together.

So the point of this post was to compose a draft reply to my mother. Something that gently spelled out that I don't hate her for what he did but I have issues with her actions, reactions and passive non-actions. A nicely couched way to tell her that I'm not quite ready to resume contact in the way she wishes and I hope she understands this. I've been back to this post about fifteen times and still not found any words other than fuck the fuck off out of my fucking life and leave me and my kids the fuck alone.

So, not much progress there. And I can't find a card that says it for me. Ho hum.

The British Comedy Awards

sponsored by Highland Spring.

Mineral water.

Well, at least someone's having a laugh...

Because awards are insignificant, but blogs are not

The Insignificant Awards is the world's most unheard of blog competition. It's a place for the undiscovered to be discovered.

As the annual weblog popularity competitions begin once more, we at The Insignificant Headquarters wish to praise, encourage and salute the unknown blogs that sit in the unrewarded wilderness. Those blogs that will never be voted for by the masses. Those bloggers who will never be nominated for anything (but should be).



I couldn't help but nominate myself for Andre & Co's silliness (they dangled a prize of biscuits ffs - it was almost like they knew I was the ultimate hob-nob ho!) Anyway, now I've done it I want to win it. It's the same with anything I enter under duress and/or drink. Pub quizzes, karaoke contests, wet t-shirt competitions, raffles; you name it and I've signed up delirious then sobered up quickly and desperately wanted to come first. Yeah, initially it's just a laugh but once I'm in I want to win, goddamit!

If you really loved me you'd click the link, add a comment and nominate me. If you don't nominate me you'll, er, make the baby Jesus cry (for atheist readers: if you don't nominate me your toenails and armpits will succumb to virilent fungal infection and fall off in the supermarket, leper styley. You'll never be able to shop there again. Do you really want to take that risk? Vote now to save your precious armpits!

You know it makes sense (even if I don't)

Since the son came out...

...we've had a chat.

I'll leave the blog where it is, I'm hoping he'll get one of his own actually. We talked a lot about the value of a private space to put thoughts and feelings into, especially for people like me and him that don't really talk to real life people in that way.

The chat went on to content, me explaining how I never wanted him to know I think his dad is a prat etc then suddenly cringing and saying 'oh my god, there was sex stuff in there!' He replied, 'yeah don't worry mum, I scrolled past fast as soon as I saw the title and anyway, we all do it. Look, I won't read it again, it's your personal space and I'm sorry if I've taken something away from that but be assured, now I know what it's about, I'll respect it and stay away. '

As is the norm with a busy home the minute you need privacy some bugger walks in and, this moment being no exception, No 2 Son and Babygirl decide now is the time to rip their thumbs from the x-box controllers and head for the fridge.

We now have to talk in riddles in order to finish the conversation. My opening line isn't all that cryptic, in hindsight.

'We all do it? All? You're including yourself in that group of participants?'

'Er, hello! *points to self* Good-looking lad, clever, funny - lots of captains want me batting on their cricket team'

'Bloody hell. I mean, don't get me wrong, of course I assumed a few captains would want you on the team but I guess I thought you were more interested in beating (mates) snooker break than playing, er, cricket. Hell, I pick you up from snooker all the time but never from cricket. Crikey, babe; you're talking contact sport here, please tell me you wear the right gear for it? No professional that, er, valued his long-term career would think about playing without the right protective wear, they wouldn't take the risk'

'Oh please stop worrying, I've scored a few fours so far but I know where to buy the safety helmet to hit a six'

'I can't help but worry! Babe, it only takes one, er, injury and that's it; your whole future career ruined by some little sunday league amateur and you paying for it for the rest of your natural rather than playing to your full potential'

'Mum...'

'I mean, obviously I knew you liked sport and did practice drills and stuff but training for it or watching and actually stepping up to the crease are very different, you know? If you go batting without padding up and some manky bowler hits you the wrong way you could land up having physio, or worse...'

'Mu-um...'

At this point No 2 Son and babygirl finish snacking and happily disappear back upstairs to the land of shared giggles and RSI of the thumbs, having picked up that there's an opportunity to be exploited while I'm too mentally busy to make them read a book instead.

He hugged me and said

'Can we finish this in english now? Mum, I love ya and thanks and all that but really, I'm not stupid. I can get my own condoms. Wanna cuppa?'



God, I feel old. I know the sun ages the ol' skin but I never really realised how much a son could age the whole thing till that conversation. Nor did I understand just how aged yet strangely immature I could feel in comparison to this teenager that I gave birth to and have brought up alone for the majority of his years. I love that lad so much it stings, even if he does think my writing is too wordy!

A

He’s not the best lover I’ve had, not by a *ahem* cunt-ry mile. He regularly says and does things that are so stereotypically male that I find myself wanting to strap him down and forcibly inject him with estrogens so he stops being so fucking stupid. He has two main modes of behaviour towards me, either complete ignorance of my existence or blatant attention seeking. He plays his ipod through his car speakers at a ridiculously loud volume to make sure I know what tune he’s listening to in the hope that I’ll comment on it. He moved all the goalposts of our relationship without consulting me and appears to want me to hang around regardless. He constantly sings the first few lines of ‘just the way you are’ whenever we’re within two feet of each other. He always, always waits till he has my eye-contact to change from work suit to karate-gi and then, after class, from gi top to t-shirt. He’s materialistic and obsessed with money. He’s the eldest child but totally spoiled by his mother and has no empathy with how it feels to be responsible for younger siblings. He snogged my married mate at a works do a few years before I even met him so was quite obviously looking for a way out a long time before I came along and gave him the confidence to actually do something about moving his life on. He makes comments in front of our classes that perpetuate the common assumption that we’re a couple then privately expresses to me his ‘worries’ that certain female students have a crush on him. He ignores the phone if I call or text about our classes then immediately rings back citing some stupid reason for not picking up/replying at the time. He makes every effort to keep the conversation going way past my original query and on to those moments of awkward silence when it's obvious that one party doesn't want to end the interaction but can't find a valid reason to prolong it. He makes it clear by his expression that he hates my not confiding in him about what I have going on in my life and doesn't even attempt to hide his displeasure when I resolutely give him the same public image that I give everyone else. He picks up my mobile, ostensibly to bluetooth something over but really to flick through the menus taking note of my often changed wallpaper, phone book/designated ringtones and the names in my text inbox, always remarking on the fact that my male contacts outnumber the females by the power of ten.

He makes no fucking sense to me whatsoever.

I've never been the clingy type, not physically and certainly not emotionally. I'm not proud of it but in all honesty, and relative anonymity, I'm the coldest bitch you could never wish to meet. Once something is over for me it's dead and gone, that's it. End of, move on, oh well, c'est la fucking vie, live and learn and all that. Any and all previous feelings are simply filed away and forgotten whether you were a husband, lover, mate or parent. I just don't do baggage anymore. The only thing I ever carry is the memory of what made me switch off, the mental hand luggage that ensures I don't ever make the same mistake twice.

If we were to get together properly I'd hate him within weeks, I just know it. He'd fail all my tests, fall headlong from the pedestal he set himself upon in his attempt to be what I openly state that I want and need and I'd quickly resent him for not being enough to meet my fussy bitch standards.

So why the rubbery yellow fuck I continue to melt inside whenever I look at him, I don't know. Why I still dream of his beautiful arms around me, I'm at a loss to explain. Why, even in the very midst of my annoyance, I find myself worrying about him and missing his children confuses me no end. Why I still count him amongst my extremely small circle of real friends, I simply can't tell you. Why I feel guilty when I move on to other lovers, other relationships completely escapes me.

I make no fucking sense to myself whatsoever.

The things kids say

This evening, 5pm

Me, driving - I need to have a serious chat with you later on, babe. Nothing you've done so don't worry but will you be free of homework/mates phoning/watching the history channel when I finish training?

No 1 Son - No problem, is it about the thing? Y'know, with Nan and all that?

Me - Yeah, I wanted to keep it from you cos it's not pleasant but you're not stupid so I think you deserve to know a bit of what's going on and why.

No 1 Son - I know.

Me - Yeah, it's not that I'm keeping you in the dark it's just that it's adult stuff and I want you to be a kid of your age and all that.

No 1 Son - No, mum. I know. All of it. I know that grandad abused you and Auntie when you were kids, I know about the five grand, I know about everything.

Me, barely controlling car - How the fuck do you know that? Who's been talking to you about my business behind my back?!

No 1 Son - No-one. I read your blog.


Shit. Shit. Shit. And this is on top of all the other crap I was meant to be clearing out!

Notification of downtime

I've started four entries about different things and can't finish any of them. I'm restless to the point that I can't even listen to a whole album (yep, it's that bad!) and I have fifty-twelve things buzzing round my head at any given time. The one thing I managed to start and complete today was a quick mail to an online friend. Nngg! I hate it, I desperately need to clear my head out. It's time for *insert drumroll here* an Angieplan.

I'm training tonight which will leave me bodily exhausted and therefore physically able to sit down for more than three minutes. The Angieplan is to use this time to watch Imagine with a brandy or two to loosen the knots in my thoughts then thcweam and thcweam and thcweam until I'm thick. Well, obviously I won't actually be screaming cos I'd wake the kids and I very rarely vomit - but I will be typing till my mind is all emptied out and my fingers are fatigued.

Just thought I'd warn you.

Hang the DJ

I just watched the Russell Brand show. Very funny Russell, shut your legs Courtney there's a bus reversing, hurry up with the music I've not heard this new song yet. Oh here it is, jolly goo... Oh. My. God.

I fancy Morrisey!

Where the hell did that come from?

Stolen from Staffordshire

This is pinched from Sleepless (a poor consolation for his being too far away for me to pinch his arse then kick it for being a cheeky bugger but...)

Only one word answers are allowed, here goes -

1. Yourself: Female
2. Your boyfriend/girlfriend (spouse): Non-existent
3. Your hair: Long
4. Your mother: Victim
5. Your father: Dead
6. Your favourite item: Corset
7. Your dream last night: Weird
8. Your favourite drink: Brandy
9. Your dream car: Topless
10. The room you are in: Lounge
11. Your ex: Who?
12. Your fear: Dentists
13. What you want to be in 10 years? Settled
14. Who you hung out with last night? Kids
15. What You're Not? Boring
16. Muffins: Mules
17. One of your wish list items: Sex
18. Time: Late
19. The last thing you did: Taught
20. What you are wearing: Little
21. Your favourite weather: Sunshine
22. Your favourite book: Mine
23. The last thing you ate: Pork
24. Your life: Busy
25. Your mood: Wired
26. Your best friend: Troubled
27. What are you thinking about right now? Life
28. Your car: Dirty
29. What are you doing at the moment? Blogging
30. Your summer: Hot
31. Your relationship status: Laughable
32. What is on your TV? Nothing
33. What is the weather like? Winter
34. When is the last time you laughed? Tonight

Just under two minutes, so there!


Excuse my grammar freak showing but that last question really should've been phrased as 'when was the last time you laughed?'. Mistakes like that make me do the 'hnnnggg!' noise (think of Marge Simpson growling when offended - yep, that's it!).