Bitchy Blogday!

Cor, blimey! This blog is now, officially, one year old.

And now for the boring, introspective, self-absorbed, wtf-does-she-think-she-is? bollocks.

I've never managed to keep a diary as long before so do forgive me if I'm a little bit proud of an achievement that I know is truly trivial when viewed on a national / global / universal scale.

In fact, to save you the effort of handing me my arse with a perspective tatooed on it, my pride soon bumps into into my ever-present self-flagellation and a not-so-little voice booms through a loudhailer 'yeah, but would you have kept it up if it hadn't been for a few people commenting and making you feel obligated to? Wouldya, bitch? Eh? EH?'

Today - in the midst of a space-craving, stress-releasing cleaning frenzy that involved my aiming damp bathtowels at the stairwell ceiling cobwebs I simply can't reach with a fully extended Henry and me on full 5'2" tiptoe at the top of the flight - I stronged up and told the voice to 'fuck the fuck off, fuckily - with extra fuck! 'So what that it took outside recognition for me to continue spilling me innings?' I snapped, 'I still fucking did it!' *

And y'know what? That I did, that I'll continue to do, and that I'm pretty damn bloody pleased about. Not only because I get my silly, daft ramblings heard by more than just my pet houseplant but, more importantly -

I get to meet some of the most loveliest, warm, real people I've ever known . (*insert warm fuzzies here*)

I get to help some of them. Throughout this year I've been asked about subjects as many and various as abuse survival, single parenting sons, blog templates, blow jobs, sports bras for the, er, more well-upholstered woman and eco-friendly disposal of dead vibrators. I always answered with the words I give to any worthy person then clung hard to the hope that my experiences would save someone else from making my mistakes even if, deep down, I hadn't really taken those words on board for myself.

I get to introduce a much loved and trusted real-life friend of mine to blogging and watch her positively blossom, firstly via the freedom of expression she's been denied so long and then beyond, through the open validation she deservedly earns for her emotional honesty.

I get to converse with people that, for whatever personal, social or geographical reasons, I'd never otherwise have struck up conversation with, whether in a pub, a workplace or a psychotherapists waiting room.

I get to see just how different things are and how much has happened and it makes me grateful for where I am right now and who I'm with.




*Ok, to be honest, there was a protracted debate with the voice after that about whether the motivation for action really mattered so long as the objective was achieved. The argument ended with the voice declaring 'Hitler probably said the same thing, bitch!', thus I won by virtue of Godwins Law. In your face, voice!

How d'ya like me now?

Busy, busy, busy. Mostly in a good way.

I reckon I'll have time to draw breath around tuesday or wednesday but in the meantime, this week is my one year blogday so I thought I'd celebrate by designing me a new template.

Whad'ya think?

Edit:

Grr. I've just noticed some things I'm very not happy with. Link colours, the lack of a post separator and suchlike. Feel free to throw constructive criticism at me while I'm still twiddling around with things.

PMS (Poxy Mental Synapses)

Ick. My mind is all over the place of late and this post will no doubt reflect the lack of a mental A-Z, let alone sat-nav in my psyche so be warned, dear reader, and take care lest this madness is contagious.

Babygirl is settled into BIG SCHOOL and loving it. Me? I'm still having problems, not least of which is trying to explain to her just why Babyboy doesn't even so much as acknowledge her presence in the cafe without using the terms aspergers or autistic spectrum as, apparently, they l a b e l and, as such, l i m i t him but, other than that, and to paraphrase a famous book, she's ok so I'm teaching myself to be.

That said, this week I'm not only my standard can't-get-my-words-out but also manic pre-menstrual, as well as trying to fight off the ever present dark cloud of depression that loiters with great big bastard menaces whenever life appears to be moving in a good direction. Hence my feeling that if my precious Babygirl throws just one more pre-teen female strop over the tiniest threat of ten minutes detention just because an exercise book isn't covered in sticky-back plastic without a single crease I may just have to ask Drs McCann to write one of their (allegedly) special prescriptions.

Did that sound harsh? Ah bollocks, why am I even asking - of course it did! In my defence, what pisses me off most about this is that it tells me she just doesn't know, on her most basic levels, that I will meet and beat anyone that dares make her feel so threatened over such trivial bollockness. Does that mean that she hasn't heard anything I've told her about my protecting her? It certainly feels like it to me and by jingo it stings my soul. More than iodine on a fresh wound or a paper cut dipped in lemon juice does it sting. All I ever wanted, needed, my children to know is that I absolutely will protect them from harm whilst simultaneously encouraging them to be the best they can be in the world, use sunscreen and not drop litter. Times like this make me feel all these years of putting the work in have been in vain.



ION - Bing and I remain quite sickeningly happy together. He's arranged his work to spend more time here (such are the benefits of contracting and remote working) which not only means I get to be in his arms and in awe of his fantastic intelligence more often but things like teacher training clashing with my needing to be at college simply aren't a problem.

We talk just as much as each other about anything and everything and, as fellow geminis, understand the weird, flitty way both our minds work. Oh, and when he's not here I get flowers (yes - again!)

I know it's a sad soppy cliche but it really does feel like we've found our other halves.

If Carlsberg made boyfriends...

They'd have a geeks techy brain wrapped in a rugby player's body.

They'd send fancy flowers from interflora and plain packages from lovehoney.

They'd separate your portion before adding chilli peppers to the dinner they cooked for everyone. And serve your sauce on the side if it's the least bit hot or spicy, just in case.

They'd defuse your tension over who paid for the ingredients at the checkout by loudly exclaiming 'ooh, it's our first argument!' then kissing you into silence.

They'd turn a stroll round the countryside into a 'joys of rugby' lesson for the kids and a 'conquer your fear of very large horses' episode for you.

They'd bring you a usb stick, ostensibly because buying two was an irresistible bargain but also because it's something handy that you'd not buy for yourself. And, prior to giving it to you, they'd pre-load it with all their fabulously NSFW writings.

They'd do measuring and carrying large bits of wood round DIY stores, waving away your foot-stomping protests of independence with 'honey, just because you can doesn't mean you have to do it yourself all the time'.

They'd organise things in their job to work from home then drive three hours so they can work from your home and be with you, even though it's a madhouse and not entirely conducive to concentration or conference calls.

They'd veto sex on sunday nights and drive to work at stupid am the next morning just so they can cuddle you to sleep, making absolutely clear to you that although it's very, very good, it's not all about the sex.

They'd read your blog and immediately say 'why didn't you tell me, ya daft mare!? You and the kids call me anything you're comfortable with. Babe, I've had a decade in the military, there's no name I ain't heard yet and nothing you can do, think or say that will shock me'

They'd be called Bing.

I'd be I am a lucky, lucky bitch.

(Tell me why) I don't like memes

< .protest >

I'm only doing this cos I like your spunk, BG! And just because I like to chuck wobblies and be different I'm adding two more P's - Past and Present. So there. Ooh, I'm tough!

< /.protest >

Passion -
Past - Non-existent
Present - Non-stop

Purpose -
Past - Emotional support of women and sexual gratification of men
Present - Emotional support of my children and soulful gratification of myself

Pursuit -
Past - Happiness of all others, hopefully leading to security of myself.
Present - Security of myself, definitely leading to happiness of myself and chosen others.

Position -
Past - Overly responsible victim, bottom of food chain
Present - Reasonably responsible survivor, top of my game

Pummelling -
Past - Mental, emotional, depressing and mind destroying
Present - Physical, sexual, uplifting and body owning

Progress -
Past - Externally and arbitrarily measured. Could do better (C minus)
Present - Internally and objectively measured. Working to best of ability (A minus)

Personality -
Past - Compliant, often apologetic
Present - Complaining, often apoplectic


I'm too old to play tag so if anyone wants to pick this up then feel free to do so and let me know. I won't point and laugh.

Much.

Do you hear what I hear?

08:45 BST, Tuesday 4th September, 2007.

Stop what you're doing and just listen...

Women all over the country will let out a deep, satisfied sigh then light a cigarette or click the kettle on. Local variations may include quiet tears or cries of 'oh, yes!'.




School is back in session.

Meltdown

If I'd been a friend of mine I'd have told me it's been coming for weeks. Babygirl going up to secondary school, kids being home for six weeks, my starting college again, meeting a lovely new bloke. All change!

All change causes tensions, all tensions must have an outlet. Be nice to yourself, I'd have counselled with care and wisdom. Take time to look after your soul, assert your needs and meet them before they assert themselves all over your arse, I'd have smiled.

But I'm not a friend of mine, I'm my own worst enemy, a nemesis rooted deep within myself that drowns out good mental health knowledge with a loudhailer that screams incessantly.

Of course you must do it all yourself, you know no-one else can be trusted for fucks sake. Just keep going, the kids will be grown up before you know it, what happens if your armour chinks eh? History repeats itself, that's what. Do you want to be like your own, weak mother? Don't you want your precious, exhausting, beautiful, challenging children to have at least one strong parent that keeps the world - the world you chose to bring them into by the way - in order? What about all those promises you made, years ago when it was just you and them in the dead of the night? Didn't you mean it when you told the babies they were how you'd always give everything you had to ensure they knew safety, security, love? Are you giving in? Giving up? You worthless, weak woman. Did you lie to your babies?

So I squash that I'm a person that needs her own space, time to herself and instead I spend the holidays constantly surrounded by people whose needs come before mine and I don't ask why their dad isn't having them any more than the usual few hours on a sunday. At least if they're with me I'm in control. Then I force myself to take my mother's phone call, drive them over to see her because they love her, miss her and jesus I've already removed their father from a huge part of their lives and I can't keep denying them family relationships just because I find it hard to maintain boundaries.

The very atmosphere of her house suffocates me, I have to leave quickly and remain strong in my refusal to let them stay longer than an afternoon. Broken record technique, breathe deep and slow, these are my limits. She's not having them and she's not tricking me back into her life with her offers of overnight breaks, does she think I'm fucking stupid? God but staying resolute in the face of her passive aggressive victimhood is so fucking exhausting and when the tiny little warning light of burnout flickers behind my eyes I put a black cloth over it by not going to the extra martial arts events that abound at this time of year and calling that resting. Which it is, outwardly and physically.

And I'm aware that I'm under stress so I'm taking my own advice and being nice to myself. I'm always treating myself in the small hours when everyone else is finally asleep - a large drink, a sweet biscuit, maybe a packet of crisps between cigarettes. Positively bloated with fucking niceness I am.

Brava, bitch. Drinking and smoking just like your father, eating yourself obese like your mother, fine job you're doing of being a better parent. All you need do now is introduce an abusive stepfather and you'll have the hat trick!

Ah, but the abusive stepfather is in prison. I beat him.

Really? Maybe you ought to ask the little girl in your heart if she agrees? Why, if that's the case and you've been so fucking victorious, she still has nightmares? Just why does he take over your sleep no matter how much you drink to try and blank out the surreal shit that your mind conjures up each night?

I've sorted it. She beats him in the dreams now. He throws her phone in the stagnant pond and slashes everyone at the party but she runs out of the gate and up the hill to get help and the ambulance comes and saves everyone then they help her clear up all the blood and stick her skin back together when they see she's been ripped open. None of it makes sense but she beats him!

So you think she's ok now, do you? Will she still be ok when you move on, start thinking about letting a man into your life, into your children's lives, into her life?

No man can tick all my boxes, it's in defence of her that I want too much.

But what if someone does come up to scratch? What if he has things in common with with her tormentor? Things that you can't blame him for and can't be changed, things like a name? And what if he comes along just as you're most exhausted and alone? Do you give up your principles and risk being your mother's daughter, putting your children second behind your own needs? What then? WHAT THEN?!

And now I know what happens then. Something snaps and there's a punching, kicking, throwing, incandescent rage filling up the whole world with it's flailing limbs and wild animal screams and it sounds very much like a confused, scared little girl. But it's coming from me.

First dates - a how NOT to guide

Given that Bing and I had clicked so well before meeting I had every intention of ignoring any of the standard male behaviour that would normally have me chewing my inner cheek, allowing him to be human - complete with the accompanying failings - and even upgrading my one strike and you're out rule to three - three! - strikes.

And you know what?

I'm damn lucky he isn't so fucked up and judgemental fussy because circumstances conspired to make me look like the queen of all dippy bints.

Friday daytime we're doing the usual text contact and I'm messaging like I'm all cool and nonchalant whilst in actual fact the kids are wrecking the house with a million mates as I'm locked in the bathroom trying to remember how long it's safe to keep Veet on for. As it turned out the timing wasn't a problem but my being distracted during application was. I now sport a bush more reminiscent of Hitler's moustache than landing strip. I can only thank the age fairy that Bing was in the Falklands and not WW2 - post traumatic pussy is not the look I was going for!

Later that night my cab was late arriving and, when it eventually turned up, the driver quoted a most ridiculous fare before driving round the general vicinity till I turned green then admitting he didn't know where the hotel was. He then pulled over and looked at his A-Z. Upsideshittingdown!

You know that awkward moment when you meet someone for the first time having only seen photos and talked online? That 'although we appear to have become intimate through the medium of instant message I'm fully aware that I'm really quite incredibly fussy so I'm trying not to be shallow as well but if you're ugly or sound like Ashley Peacock from Corrie I do believe I shall cry' moment? Well. One of the nice things about flinging oneself full pelt out of a car and into a mans arms from the sheer relief of not being car-sick is that it takes all those nerves clean away! The nicest thing though is that I instantly got to feel just how good this man is at catching short blondes on high strings and even higher heels then simply bear hugging them back to equilibrium. Who knew rugby had such delightful transferable skills?

On to the pub and the first two beers I choose are off. Eventually winning at 'guess which pump is pullable' we settle over our pints and I start to relax, slipping my sandals off as my eyes flow appreciatively over him, the pupils dilating so much I can feel them all the way out to the lashes fluttering ten to the dozen until my eyes are on stalks and my bare feet are thrown in the air and I'm babbling something incoherent that he manages to interpret as 'ohmyfuckinggodtheresamousewithlegsandtailandeverything!'

Gallantly hiding his be/amusement he stands guard against the marauding vermin (albeit singular) that I insist is hiding behind a pillar as I speedwalk to the ladies to calm myself with breathing exercises before we find somewhere to eat. Once there I opt for cutlery over chopsticks but still manage to spill most of my meal down my cleavage. I like to think my tits are pretty damn special without fried rice but nonetheless, my shaky hands forced me into a really bad recreation of a scene from 9 ½ Weeks. If it hadn't been for the drunk couple on the other table, her with her arm in a sling having broken it in four places (I swear they were all on him), I'd've been crowned Miss Completely Sans Class 2007 in association with Elizabeth Duke and Primark and paraded as entertainment all the way to Trisha's studio.

To finish the evening I blistered my fresh pedicure walking the whole bloody length of the high road to find a cab home. Karate hardened feet may not blister but they're simply not pretty so I'd cracked open the Champneys and gone for it, not realising I'd later be hiking through the town centre for half an hour.

Saturday morning I get a text and it didn't say he was halfway back up the M1 so he obviously doesn't scare easy, a good thing since he's coming over to my place to cook and talking the language of spices. Bugger. The nearest I get to cuisine is a jar of mixed herbs. I manage not to act like a lemon as we shop for things like, er, lemons, fresh coriander and saffron then he cooks a gorgeous dinner whilst engaging with the kids and clearing as he goes! I do love when the military save me the job of training a man and I pretty much have to sit on him to stop him washing up before we go to the pub.

The pub was busy and loud with a fairly good rock band playing. I'm looking the epitome of glamour with my Mary Jane Gekko's over blister plasters and Bing, ever thoughtful, stands me on a step so I can see the band and he can kiss me without damaging his neck. Kissing leads to us driving back to the hotel where, well, let's just say he proved he doesn't just write damn good erotica...

A blissful eternity later I collapse desperate for a breather and feel the smile slide off my face when I hear "Ah. Babe, I think it's that time...". Oh joy, Aunt Flow has shown up without notice again, only this time she's not just passing, the bitch has brought her budgie and she's stopping for the week. I lay cringing as he goes to the bathroom then I go to the bathroom and cringe a bit more as I can't work the shower. Hearing me swearing he comes in and smiles at my embarrassment and frustration before manhandling the shower to a temperature less than scalding then gently putting me in it and washing me with a tenderness I've never known. The world melted into nothing but his huge, gentle hands, warm soapy water and soft words calming me. I almost - just almost - cried.

The next day I managed to fuck up again by driving to the wrong pub for the sunday lunch I'd promised him he'd adore. We found another one but not before being accosted by someone dressed as a polar bear from a family friendly carvery. Because, you know, a grown-up couple out together must be simply gagging to eat in a place full of kids wailing in fear of the clumsy great furry thing that's meant to keep them amused.

And then he had to leave. And I really didn't like that bit. And neither did he. At all.

So he's coming back and that must mean he's incredibly brave being that I know he's not stupid cos I heard him discussing science things with No 1 Son and No 1 Son was actually impressed.

Losing my religion

"Stay in for a while this afternoon", he says.

That's strange, I think. The parcel we ordered isn't due for another couple of days.

That I wasn't expecting these made them even more lovely...


He assures me he does have faults but so far, he just keeps getting better. I do believe I'm in danger of losing my cynicism...

Candy floss

has replaced my brain. It must have happened overnight last thursday cos I was like a tit in a trance the whole weekend that Mr Wishlist was here and still can't get myself together enough to type it up properly.

In short, I was a pilchard.

He (Bing) was 23 out of 26 ABC points.

He's coming back to work on the other three...

As one door closes...

Having a sister who is a counsellor means I'm often nagged encouraged to gain closure over life situations in order to move on. Personally I think I'm good at closing doors, certainly if you ask my mother or ex-husband they'll tell you I actually slam them shut, fit extra locks then erect barricades. Decision made, door closed, discussion not permitted, that's me.

During a conversation last week a female acquaintance asked me why I was still single and before I could give a flippant answer a male mate jumped in with "Cos she won't let anyone look after her, that's why. Too independent for her own good!". I laughed it off by kicking him lightly in the head but it did make me think. Ok, I do good closing of doors but do I actually open any windows?

Joining dating sites is all well and good but my profiles are invariably based around 'wallflowers need not apply' type statements. Which, ok, is true, but not exactly inviting to anyone but the most arrogant, delusional or I'm mad, me! type of blokes, all guaranteed to send me running full tilt to delete any trace of myself from the site. A profile re-think was in order but before that I had to decide what I was willing to compromise on. A quick glance back at my ABC of MAN soon reminded me that there really wasn't anything.

I didn't pull 'Fussy Bitch' out of the air, you know. It's weird because I have such ridiculously low self-esteem you'd think I'd be grateful for any attention whatsoever but I seem to have gone to the other extreme where I actively discourage it by being so demanding of ridiculously high standards. Really, what was I expecting? A tall, handsome, ex-military, rugby playing type with a love of quoting lines from comedy films, a flair for IT and a degree in astro-bloody-physics? Who can write skilfully, banter with wit and speed, isn't married, cooks, loves music and understands that I'm a mother before all else? As if men even come in that flavour!

Wouldn't ya know, just as I accepted that I'd have to try to open a window to a lesser man and learn not to be resentful of his shortcomings, one exactly like my wish list sent me a message and we haven't stopped talking since.

Maybe sis is right, maybe you do have to open up and move on before life sends you the next chapter... just don't ever tell her I said that!

Botti up your face

Ever wanted to know what you'd look like as another race? Another gender? A Manga cartoon?

This is me, as painted by Botticelli. I always liked that fella...

Be warned though, it can be a quite emotional experience. I viewed myself masculinised and finally get what people mean when they say blimey you're yer father's daughter, you are! It's so nice to see for myself that I got more from him than an alcoholic gene and a strong independent streak.

Have a play with yourself!

Dreamweaving

I'm fiddling about with templates so just pretend you can't see this, ok? Especially if you're allergic... *cough*Cakey!*cough*


or this...
God, I'm just so artistic given the chance! Actually, it's more that my plan to create sparks between the sheets was banjaxed so I'm left creating style sheets with spark instead.

Double bluff

Spiralling conversation, wine soaked wanting writ large in small text. Rights, responsibilities, right, wrong, right, left, right, left, right... what's left?

Ultimatum, the only way to end the vicious circle. If only for temporary closure I share my plan, disclose time and place safe in the knowledge that harsh morning light will make your decision and it will be over, till next time. You know where I'll be if you want me.

Circumstances beyond my control, plan aborted, apologies sent to those involved, adaptations applied. And then...

'Where are you?'

'You came?'

'You didn't.'

'I didn't think...'

Spiralling, whirling thoughts finally forced to be still. A further ultimatum needed. I offer my whereabouts knowing that time is against your ability to accept.

'I'm on my way'


You came.

Oranges are not the only fruit

Neither are they the best. The best fruit is the tomato.

Let's go back to the security of basics. Tomato combined with egg is an experience so naturally right that it makes the world seem safer. The flavours of each are so enhanced by the other it's impossible to imagine any other pairing being as good.

And then you taste tomato with mature, crumbly cheddar cheese and realise that pure, natural love can indeed happen twice.

The discovery of tomato with olive oil and basil blows the mind entirely.



Tomatoes come in any size or shape you want.

Tiny little cherry ones that, especially straight off the vine, pop so satisfyingly between teeth, filling the mouth with taste and textures. Skin, flesh, juice, seed; so... intense, so much pleasure in such a tiny package.

Bog standard, taken for granted, salad toms. As seen on market stalls and margherita pizzas the world over. Successfully home grown only by those dedicated enough to constantly attend extreme feeding and watering needs. Round or plum, these stalwarts are ripe, ready, aching to be cut, chopped, pulped, diced or artistically carved into whatever you desire, restrained only by your prejudice or imagination.

Beefsteaks. Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. Huge and so very solid to the touch, they openly dare you to engage, make something of them. Bring it on, they say, but, before you do, be very aware that you'll need your sharpest knife, for nothing less will pierce my outer skin to reach the soft, juicy innard with the slightly acidic tang that you so crave. Do you have what it takes? Do you?

I feel like a tomato now...

Bouquets and brickbats

Finding out that Foucault and figures didn't fulfil me, I jacked in my psychology degree last year. Then came the court case and it was all I could do to keep my house in order, my children alive and my sanity intact. With that over and babygirl out of primary school I started to think about what to do with myself, more to the point, for myself.

The usual things sprang to mind; I could properly train in IT, get qualified and paid for all the things I currently do, self-taught and gratis for pc-phobic friends. Except my skill level appears to be bang in the middle of all available courses and I'd be either frustrated or overwhelmed. Go back to book-keeping? A trial balance is a trial balance even after all these years. Still soul numbingly dull too, I expect. I'd quite enjoyed being an area manager in distribution but when I remembered the amount of work there was to do at home as well as travelling and early starts I realised it wasn't exactly single parent friendly.

I thought back to when I left school. I wanted to train as a hairdresser. Work with people, be creative, see my own hands doing something that lifted someone else, that's what I wanted. As things turned out I was offered an accounts job via a teacher that bought into my intelligence rather than my personality and took it, needing the freedom from home that a wage packet represented.

Deciding to complete my youthful dream I looked into hairdressing courses and they seemed great except... well, to be honest, two teens and a tweenie of my own is quite enough for me and salon school is banged out with girls who have just left secondary. The thought of listening to teenage angst all day, let alone having to buy the drinks cos my college-mates were underage, was like dark roots to my baby-blonde fantasy.

Reading the local rag I came across an advert that made me do a little 'oh yes!' inside. Within two minutes I'd found the website and applied for an application form (damn red tape!). It arrived, having gone to the wrong house first, the morning of the college open evening so, looking as if I'd rushed straight from doing a million other things, I turned up. A long queue and a dozen or more forms later I talked to the tutor and fell even more in love with the whole idea.

She said 'you're going to be such fun to work with' (my heart smiles) then went on to tell me there was only three places left (heart sinks) oh, and a £200 registration fee payable on application (heart stops). She may as well have asked me for two million quid! I booked a formal interview anyway and rang sis to let her know I'd be needing a hair model after all and to arrange my shooting if I began to talk in txt spk about boybands and Hollyoaks.

'I'll give it to you', says sis.
'Oh, babe! Really? Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I'll pay you back as soon as...'
'I said give, you daft prat. After all you've done for me this is...'
'But, but, have you got it? I mean, what ab...'
'Angie! Just shut up for once and take it!'
'... *gulp*'

I went to the interview clutching a lovely reference from my sensei and a cheque from sis. Even as I aced the literacy and numeracy tests I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all for nothing and the places would be taken by people that had had instant access to a couple of ton at the time. Going through the detailed course content and last years portfolios with the tutor I almost asked her if I was wasting my time but didn't want to spoil the nice chat we were having. We got to the bit where she asks if I have any questions.

'Er, only one. Be honest, do I actually have any chance of getting a place or are they gone already? I really don't want to be waiting for a letter, I'd rather just hear it now and chalk this up as interview experience'

She laughed, 'Angela, I'd already decided last week you're definitely on the course. To be truthful, even if you'd not been able to spell your name I'd have sorted something out!'

My relief and joy decided to express itself in the form of saturday night tv shows. I told the tutor she reminded me of Simon Cowell then rang sis and blurted out,

'Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be... a trainee florist!'



On a not so happy note, it looks like every bugger in bloody Belgium is voting against me in the Big Blogger poll this week. I haven't even posted my latest task so it's not that that's upset someone!

Perhaps it was the sexual embarrasment I blogged last week. Yep, the ex involved has obviously recognised himself and taken his revenge. Oh well, I know no-one remembers the one that came fourth in anything but at least I got through to the final week.

*sob*

School's out

But not for summer, what with the constant teeming rain and grey, depressing skies. Ick.

Babygirl has attended her last junior disco, received her final report, collected autographs and messages from teachers, midday assistants, learning support staff, office ladies and cleaners. Basically, every adult that formed the team she's had around her for the past few years making her days of education safe and fun.

Later I will make my last visit to the school (albeit against her will - she wants to walk home with her peers for the last time) and hand over small gifts. Gifts that will be added to the huge pile of flowers and chocolates that every good teacher receives on the last day of the school year.
I wanted to give something that would truly say how appreciative I am of their part in my daughter's life but really, there's nothing. No bouquet, bottle of booze or box of bath bombs can express just how deeply grateful I am to them for helping me get her to this point.

She's 11 now. Bright, happy, confident, self-assured, likeable and friendly but no-one's doormat.

Most of all though, innocent and untouched.

I can breathe.

Pignorant selfarshe twunt - the update

Running round like a loony today, the usual monday stuff plus I had to get the car cleaned out for tomorrows funeral. I finally had five minutes stoppage time outside newphew's school and thought I'd best do something about this rage I felt towards A for not answering me. Here come the thumbs, here come the thumbs...

I take it you don't want to lend me your jacket then? There are only two bloody letters in the word no, I'm sure you could have found time to text that so I knew what I was doing, the service is tomorrow ffs!

Almost immediately I receive

I'll try and get it to you tonight ffs

I'm so tempted to reply that I didn't ask for a fucking delivery service but it's time to collect little legs. Saved by the bell.

He turned up to class this evening with a smile, a sarky comment and the jacket. He's trying to arrange things at work so he can be at the same cemetery and pay his respects but can't get time off to attend fully. Oh, and he had found out what company was dealing with the arrangements - who knew undertakers were so competitive?!

The jacket is, of course, four sizes too big but I don't suppose the family will notice anything other than their wishes being respected on such a horrible occasion.

Which is all I was interested in, despite him trying to turn it into a 'me having a tantrum cos I wasn't getting the answer I wanted' thing. Twunt.

Pignorant selfarshe twunt!

A has given in to the stress and packed up teaching/training. Ostensibly for a few months but I can't see him coming back knowing that even more people will have graded above him in the meantime. Bad news for his ego but good news for me cos my schedule is fixed again since I'm not covering his classes left, right and up my own arse.

I let him know that our colleague had died and we had a quick catch-up chat. At training I passed on both his message of condolence and his offer to arrange the funeral but the family had already made arrangements. It's been requested that fellow karate-ka attending do so in club jackets and form a guard of honour outside the church. I've always refused to buy a club jacket. They're expensive for what they are, they're not particularly flattering and, worse, they don't come in pink.

I then have a lightbulb moment and text A asking to borrow his, explaining why. He comes back with 'What are the details and who is doing it?'.

Slightly shocked, I answer with as much detail as I have, which doesn't include the funeral directors name, address and VAT number cos it's just not what you ask grieving relatives at this sort of time, is it?

I get nothing. I leave it a few days while I nip off having dates and celebrating the birthdays of a niece (food and fun) and my self defence club (fighting and fun) then text again tonight being a little more assertive, 'Hiya, can I borrow your jacket for the funeral or not? You never did answer...'

Nothing.

I can safely promise that if any of my lads turn out that self-centred and weak-minded as adults I will personally powerslap them into next year before ingesting copious amounts of arsenic to atone for bringing up such fucking shitty human beings.