...that hit me today (among other daft musings, obviously. I just felt this one merited outside input)
What's a womans equivalent of a cock-blocker?
Minge stinger?
Cunt stunter?
Fuck chucker?
Ladies, what do you call those people that keep you from shagging the bits off the current object of your lust? Guys, knowing your way with words I'm sure you can also contribute.
Day before Very Important Meeting:
Ensure all details have been emailed to the appropriate people.
Double check all travel arrangements.
Squeeze in a quick sunbed session in order not to look quite so deathly pale.
Spend enjoyable hour or so in bathroom with girly lotions and potions.
Retire to bed early(ish) instate of relaxed, refreshed anticipation.
Morning of Very Important Meeting:
Wake up early
Discover strange never-happened-before rash everywhere that de-fuzz cream has been.
Scream. Rant. Stamp feet.
Search for a fragrance that gives the right impression whilst covering smell of Efortyfuckingfive cream!
I could say...
Tender breast of chicken, pan fried in selected herbs and served with a zucchini and pomodorino salad.
Or I could say...
That chicken that I defrosted yesterday, chucked on the hob with the least manky courgette and the three cherry tomatoes that haven't copped a mould yet. Oh, and some of them mixed herbs in a jar that No 1 Son laughs at me for using.
It's all in the words, you see?
That was me making lunch from my almost empty fridge. I really must do some food shopping.
(It was actually quite nice)
I'm a little manic today.
Well, it's difficult to be a big manic when you're only 5'2"
...it's not just for Boxing Day.
Today has been day 4 of my not ingesting nicotine in any form for the first time in 24 years. 24 out of 37 years. The vast majority of my life, ffs! That's simply crazy numbers, don't even start to think how much cash I've set light to.
I've quit before for varying lengths of time but always used nicotine replacement therapy and/or cheated and gone back to where I was. This time I simply decided I wasn't going to smoke the one cigarette I had in the house and, four full days later, I still haven't. It's up in the cupboard, along with one of my lighters. I haven't had any of the mood swings, the emotional aching, the chocolate obsessions, the mad cravings, the constant thoughts or the sheer hard work that my previous quits have brought me; in my mind I simply don't smoke anymore. Apparently, after 72 hours, my body is now free of nicotine so all I have to do is not put any more in it and restart the cycle.
Given this result, I'm going to try a similar tactic with another situation I have. A situation that would be ok - extremely beneficial, in fact - in moderation but, much like an alcoholic can't just have one drink, moderation appears to be impossible in this case and complete abstinence the only way forward for all concerned. No answering of any texts, mails or calls. No meeting for chats or drinks or dinners. Complete and utter cessation of communication until such time as... well, I don't know when, actually. Maybe forever. I know I'll never be able to be a 'social smoker' so maybe I ought to face up to the fact that I can't be 'just good friends' in this case.
I have a stinking, rotten cold which has gone straight to my chest. Believe me, with a chest like this, infections are no laughing matter.
To keep you busy while I drown myself in warm fluids and eat little and often between pitiful sniffs, here's something I pinched from GSE.
Go stick your site in it and giggle. Now. Before I sneeze on you!
Oysters are a standard aphrodisiac, maybe that's why London Transport thought everyone would get turned on to the card they want us to use instead of cash. I reckon more people would use it if they made sure there were people at their stations to fucking sell the thing! Three stations I drove round yesterday, just to find a shop opposite the last one that explained I had to give a £3 deposit for my own pay-as-you-go card. Eh? I wasn't planning on giving it back and going through this rigmarole again next time I need to go to London and have posh drinks so effectively TfL have charged me for using a system that they want me to use and where payg actually means topping up in advance so they have my money much longer in exchange for paying a semi-reasonable fare instead of the disgustingly high cash price. PigFuckingBastards, they know I'm broke!
And, breathe...
Luckily, the evening turned out to be well worth the hassle of the oyster card. And of getting lost in Covent Garden and hearing 'you have dialled an incorrect number' when I first tried calling to say I was lost and please rescue me then hearing 'you are through to ML's voicemail' the second time, stamping my foot like a petulant child and twisting my ankle a bit on the cobbles. I finally saw someone with a day-glo vest on which was written 'Lost? Ask me for help!' so I did and he was perfectly lovely and gave me a map and explained twice, v e r y s l o w l y for the dippy blonde how to get where I wanted and I gave him a few quid cos he was homeless and this was how he made his money and I thought that was a fabulous idea cos I never get time to read the Big Issue when I buy it.
So I got to the place and walk past it twice to find the door, stand in the foyer trying to figure out where to go and my phone rings and I can hear ML's voice in stereo cos he's calling from the bottom of the staircase directly in front of me so his first impression of me is me being a lost bint. Nice one, Ange. And him looking that damn gorgeous in a suit, too. He found us a table and got us a glass of wine and I did polite chit chat while he did his nervous Hugh Grant thing (so cute!) till I said 'do you mind if I smoke? He replied 'not at all, actually, can I pinch one? I don't smoke anymore but...' and that was it, I was creasing with laughter cos all ex smokers do that and, ice firmly broken we proceeded to smoke like chimneys, drink four bottles of wine between us and not bother with dinner cos we were comfy talking and laughing where we were before having the nicest goodnight snog I've had in many a year, texting all the way home and missing my station and having to get a cab back home.
I woke up today with the biggest hangover of all time and the distinct feeling that a camel had shit in my mouth which has led to me spontaneously deciding to quit smoking, cold turkey, which is making me slightly manic and restless and prone to run-on sentences as you may have noticed.
ML, you are a great big lump of funny, clever gorgeousness and we must do it again (without the fags)
This afternoon I get a call that starts 'Hello Mrs Marshall, this is Mrs Blah from...' and immediately I launch into my guess which of three schools are phoning me game. I was wrong, it wasn't No 1 Son wanting to be brought home and nursed for his sore throat having soldiered through his exam by the power of paracetomol and strepsils, it was Babygirls teacher.
This confused me (not difficult, I know), Babygirl injures herself fairly regularly and I always get a call from the office lady, never the teacher herself. She's never naughty cos she loves school so wtf is going on? Teacher tells me that Babygirl is upset, she's found something very sensitive and didn't talk to me about it in case I got upset but talked to her friend about it, got overheard and is now sobbing cos the whole class know. I tell her I'm on my way and wonder what the hell is going on? Has she found the blog too? Part of me is livid, wondering if I have any fucking privacy at all and part is sick with worry cos I'd heard her crying in the background and she was obviously distressed. I don't know what went faster, my mind or my car.
I got her home and snuggled her up while she cried it all out. She hadn't found the blog, she'd found the newspaper clipping of step-fathers court appearance. I had to keep it to show my nice policelady (so she could kick someone's arse for not ticking a 'no newspaper reporting' box) but tucking it away in a 2004 diary obviously wasn't as foolproof as I thought it was because, apparently, it fell off the shelf as she was looking for a cd-rom. She'd read the name and was sure it was her grandad but she'd also read the rape charge and was understandably shocked and upset. She then told me that she'd showed Babyboy this morning to try and get confirmation that it was 'grandad' but he'd fobbed her off and that's why she talked to her friend and it all got out of hand.
I didn't think I could hate him more than I already did. I didn't think I had any more rage and hate in me. Not till I had to sit my 10 and 12 year old children down and talk to them about things that no kids of that age should have to think about did I discover that my capacity for hate is limitless and dangerous.
They went to bed tonight much more settled after our talk which, if nothing else (fucking hell, must I always find a silver bloody lining?!) allowed me to explain why I'm overprotective sometimes and why I argue with Babygirl about her clothing requests. And ended with them giggling when I said that if I so much as thought anyone was going to do anything similar to them I'd cut their bollocks off and make them eat them in meatball sauce.
There's always room for a little humour, little did they know that beneath the smile I was deadly fucking serious.
Boots say 'change one thing'
I say 'freshly shaved bollocks to that!'
This is a gift to single women everywhere (and single men, I couldn't possibly leave my Gay Best Friend or db out of the loop! Not that GBF is up-to-date on my life lately or even knows this is me cos the lovely great fairy (that runs the best abuse survivors website in the world) and his BF are giving me space to deal with the trials of the trial, bless their hearts)
*ahem* Anyway...
Do you need the ultimate, absolute, can't possibly fail way to stick to your diet and exercise plan this January? Of course you do, we all do! G'wan, g'wan, g'wan - stick your hand up there and be proud, we don't do shame on this blog!
Fret ye not dear, lucky people for, not only are you are not alone but, even better than that, I have the answer! The excesses of christmas will soon be banished (yes, even if your christmas celebratory intake of bloat-inducing carbohydrates and extra booze stretched from December 1st to 12th night like mine did!) and the jeans you were wearing last November will no longer mock you silently from the corner of the room cos they'll be too busy hugging your sexy ass!
This is the plan that works! Follow it correctly and you will see those 14-pounds-from-not-perfect-but-okay-about-myself magically drop from your tummy/hips/bingo wings and down the toilet. Girls, the bonus is that your boobs, if anything like mine, will stay the same! Mail me for my paypal addy if you feel the need to thank me (or comment, it's hardly a secret that I'm a word whore)
This, my single friends, is the only plan to follow. Believe me on this, Slimfast can kiss my rapidly shrinking arse.
1 - Start talking to a single of your preferred sex, preferably someone you already like as a person but, failing that? Any port is good enough in a storm. Chat by email only for best results. No live visuals are allowed under any circumstances. You may as well inhale Tate and Lyles. Smash up your webcam if needs be. You and your waistline are worth it.
2 - Wait till the general chat turns to sex (this really shouldn't take long unless you're hetero and have chosen to talk to someone gay or vice versa. If this is the case then return to step 1, quickly! Stop reading ffs, you're wasting precious time! Oh, and put that bloody pie down!)
3 - Realise that the only thing stopping you and your potential Best. Lover. Evah! making your joint fantasies real is your own shitty body image.
4 - Think of a not too distant but achievable date to have lost your preferred amount of weight.
5 - Arrange a date with email lover for that day and watch the pounds melt as you go crazy with anticipation (ably assisted by continued, regular non-live-visual contact).
See? Easy! Cock beats cake any day of the week! (In fact if you're really good you could reward yourself with some cake on his cock...)
I've just discovered that the sink in my 'still new enough to make me smile as I clean it' kitchen doesn't have an overflow outlet. I discovered this because I got distracted by the contents of my freezer after I'd taken out what I wanted and felt the need to have an impromptu tidy up since my hands were already cold from finding tonights dinner.
I'm easily distracted at the best of times, my mind is always going a million miles an hour and looking for new things to think about. Lately tho it's worse than ever and causing me to become so ditzy that, when babygirl mentioned that she was going to ask me to settle a discussion last night, No 1 Son said 'don't bother, Mum's mental'.
I spent yesterday typing up a mates coursework. He sat next to me verbalising pages and pages of case studies and theoretical essays, I ran my fingers over the keyboard imagining them running over a nice pair of thighs, typed 'clit' instead of 'client', paused to look at the first three letters of 'cumulative' and 'dichotomy' before tearing myself away from the k key and generally squirmed in my chair. A lot. And that was before receiving an extremely hot text which made me blush and mate smile knowingly before continuing to talk about shifting perceptions. Or shifting positions, as I initially typed it.
Even this, relatively short, post has taken me an age; being distracted by an email in the midst of it. I should mop up the kitchen really, seeing as I'm wet in all senses of the word. I did start to but got distracted.
It may be slightly inconvenient in a practical sense but by gods thong it's good!
Dinner tonight, the usual conversation; how was everyone's day, how rubbish my cooking is, that sort of thing.
Me - Right, the next one that ribs me gets the washing up
No 1 Son - Oh yeah, mum. Can I borrow your rubber gloves?
Me - Blimey, are you washing up?
No 1 Son - No, I need them for the head of my cock
Babyboy/Babygirl - Spray, giggle, splutter
Me - For WHAT?!
No 1 Son - You know! [fans fingers on top of head] Oh, and something a giant would wear too. I've got two parts in that play.
Behold, the men that made me the fussy bitch I am today!
Not really, I'm just more about pictures than words today.
NYE post is up but hiding behind David Ten-inch cos it took me so long to do (much like he would, gimme half a chance and a rohypnol supply)
Quick update cos no other bugger is blogging and I'm all out of interesting archives to read.
Can't remember if I told you P texted to say his mum was ill and he'd not be back till NYD at least? Whatever, I have now. I dropped a birthday card in his box (complete with suitably good wishes to his mother) so I could go to the party with a clear conscience about not texting back anything more than 'not to worry, hope you packed extra undies'.
Predicktably, (god, I'm so childish!) he's not been in touch since and I can't be arsed with trying to find out if his mother popped her aged clogs (thus gaining sympathy points as per FB's ABC) or if he's just gone off on a mental again. His conversation really isn't as good as his sexual technique or cooking and he did insist on bloody talking to me when we weren't shagging or eating or drunk. Which is great if you're funny or clever, or both. He's neither, really. I can't even use him for sex when he keeps disappearing. Honestly, the man is totally useless to me.
A had been on radio silence other than a generic reply to my generic christmas day text. The bastard! Generic texts are my thing! He did ask me on the 2nd when classes started again then called the next day because, shit-shock-horror, he needed me to cover his early class. I whinged and bitched about him only speaking to me when he wanted something which I don't class as good mate behaviour then agreed to do it. Stop shouting at me, joie! I know, I'm soft in the head. But I'm also going physically soft from minus exercising and plus stuffing my face for a fortnight so I needed the kick to get my fat arse moving again, see? I only did it cos the size 12 jeans are mocking me.
It did feel good to be teaching again, even tho I had to wear my 'fat' gi pants, and it felt even better that I stuck to my guns and came home without staying to help out with the late class. Extra assertiveness points for still leaving when the high grades turned up and asked what I'd be teaching them. Hah!
What else... no more pigs heads so we'll put that down to random bonkersness rather than a vendetta. Kids back at school and No 1 Son has a million exams between now and July so will have to fly to the south coast to join the ex-husband/my sis/her in-laws so he doesn't miss out on surfing (and I don't miss out on a few nights of no children in the house). I'm a bit nervous at trusting Ryanair with my firstborn but not nervous enough to drive 7 hours each way to get him there. Er, what else? Oh! I've been ill. Like, it's all I can do to lie on the sofa (with no music on!) and doze, ill. Like, man ill! Obviously, my having boobs meant I got over it as soon as the kids got home from school and needed someone to pick up the chinese for dinner. What a trooper I am.
Slight quandary ongoing - do I pay to rejoin a dating site that I complained viciously to and swore to bring down with the power of the internet (oh yeah, I never did do that did I?) just cos I've had a message from a nice, normal looking fella that put more than 'hi' in the title and seems lovely? I'm tempted to swallow my principles here, the only response I've had recently on the one I'm still a member of was from a slimy casino manager that I've dated once already! Add forgetful to his list of faults. Ick!
Anyway, answers in the comments (those of you not too busy having a life to blog for my amusement, that is.)
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.
"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.
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!
