Tickling my feet

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Bum, bum

...and ten bums in a row.

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

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

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

Again I say, bum.

Whine and cheese

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

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

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


Bum.

Bum.

And ten bums in a row.


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

For lover, read mother

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



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

Court out

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

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

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

Only 4 inches but I'm in love!

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



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

From vaginas to visions

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

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

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

Conversational cunts

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

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

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

See it. You'll love it.




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

See my big red one

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

Much funnier than this daft picture of me.



Happy red nose day, everyone!

Invisible

It's not the safe option anymore

I'm not hiding now so

don't act like I am

don't brush past my thoughts

don't forget my feelings

don't talk over me

don't make me have to scream for basic attention

or remove myself

so you feel my absence

rather than not feel my presence

hear me when I speak in normal tones

see me when I wear normal colours

how can I ever show the depth

my tones and colours can be

if you never acknowledge

the normality?



It's not the safe option anymore

I'm not hiding now so

stop

fucking

ignoring

me

Ah, that's better.

Real mums piss themselves laughing

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

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

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


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

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

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

IdonotobsessIdonotobsessIdonotobsess!

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

Poke her face

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really need to learn how to play poker.


ps

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

I have fabulous students.

Think you're funny, do ya?

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

Have a look, buy the book!

Two couples and a camera...

"Hi, is that Angela?"

"Yep, who's calling?"

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No news is...

A pile of steaming shit, as it happens.

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

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

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

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

But thanks again, you're all so lovely.

*group snog*

Hear me moan, baby

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

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

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

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

Domestic Goddess

My new windows look so nice I decided I couldn't possibly put my voiles back up without ironing them.

I've just ironed net fucking curtains. I am my mother.

Shoot. Me. Now.

Rat pack, Robbie, ranting and Riding Harleys...

Well, wasn't that a busy Saturday. I didn't even watch Casualty! (To put that into context, Casualty is the one time a week I get to sit on the sofa snuggling with Babyboy. He has a touch of autism/aspergers (I can't say for sure cos my local health bods refuse to officially diagnose this stuff being that it costs the education bods more money in school assistance and all the local authority bods are in bed together blah bastards blah) so Casualty is the one time he will actually enjoy me touching/cuddling him, albeit conditional upon my tracing my fingers along his arm or face or wherever he currently chooses to be reminded of the way I used to put him to sleep as a baby. Plus, we compete to diagnose the diseases people are admitted with and I always win and then we laugh and say 'I should be a bloody doctor, me'.

Anyway, daytime was spent with two gorgeous young men in my bedroom. Of course, once they'd replaced the window in there they moved on to the other rooms upstairs but damn, it was good while it lasted! T and A (bwahaha! I just realised T and A are their actual initials, I'm so going to rib them about that!) are lovely, mid-twenties guys who work for my landlord and I know them from having my kitchen refitted so it was good to have them back doing my new windows. If I went for younger guys I'd flirt like mad but as it is we just have a giggle together playing 'name that tune' and the nicest hugs as they come and go. Babygirl was put in charge of making tea for the workers as I ran in and out of the house doing errands and stuff between oohing and ahhing at the new windows and praising the skills involved in fitting them. Harley had called a few times too, he was working and calling between jobs then texting from the pub when he'd finished to tell me how gutted he was that I was busy that evening.

Earlier in the week when he was texting and calling all the time, Harley had mentioned that his laptop was falling over a lot and I'd said I could fix that easy cos that's the sort of thing I do for my mates. Somehow, I wound up saying that I'd pick it up after I'd been out with sis for her birthday celebration so I could sort it out on Sunday while he was driving halfway up the country to see his daughter and have it dealt with by the time he got back. We exchanged a few texts, mostly him lamenting that I couldn't join him in the pub during the early evening or before I left for my night out and left it that I'd call him if I got lost.

Went off to the school thing and got moderately pissed off once more at sis telling me the event started much earlier than it actually did so that I didn't turn up late. Now, I freely admit that I was guilty of being late for a while but actually, her sis-in-laws are the ones most likely to keep everyone waiting nowadays and have been for at least three fucking years but no-one treats them like unreliable imbeciles and lies to them about starting times, do they? It really fucking winds me up, even more so on the evenings when I'm the cunt doing the driving cos I have the seven seater or I'm too broke to piss it up. Nnnggg! Fuckshitbollockywankers!

Anyway, guy on stage does a reasonable show with an hour of singlalongaratpack numbers then a change of clothes while the PTA bod drew the raffle so he could come out singing Robbie Williams sings and pretend the pissed up mums were lusting after him rather than his carefully aped moves and outfit. It was a bring your own drinks and nibbles type night so there were a lot of 'Oh look, I've had two plastic wine glasses of fizz and I'm sooooo drunk!' Essex mums about to fuel his fantasies.

That done, I leave to collect Harley's laptop. I even manage not to get lost on the way and only have to call him when I'm in his road but can't find his door. I'm not as dim as that made me sound, his door is on the side of his house! We laugh cos he can see me but I can't see him then he tells me he's feeling nervous now so may not be brave enough to answer the door. I remind him we've been talking all week and I'm here to collect a sick laptop with no intention of jumping him and we're still giggling as he opens the door and I put my phone in my bag. I have my boots on but he's still head and shoulders above me so I stand on the first step and we kiss hello.

He points out some things he'd told me about during the week then goes to get some drinks as I assess what crap he has on his hdd and start running some anti-lurgy stuff. He sits next to me, we're bantering and I playfully tell him off for the problems I'm already finding so he kisses me to shut me up, his massive hands start wandering and... well, I still have the bruises, let's put it that way. God, I love the experience that older men have! And he was a talker too, a lovely mix of filth and compliments at just the right moments. Pretty damn perfect for me.

I didn't take the laptop home, he said he wanted me to keep making home visits and string it out as long as possible. Thinking about it now he'd have to be a bit dim to let a strange woman go off with a £1500 piece of kit considering he doesn't even know for sure where I live!

Contact has been decidedly less frequent since he texted me on Sunday evening, not sure if that's cos I told him Monday and Tuesday are my manic teaching/training days or he's done that aquarian thing of just not talking anymore. I'm not chasing him, either way. At the moment I know he's finding his laptop worse cos one of the progs I put on keeps giving him pop up warnings that he doesn't understand so I guess if he wants me to complete sorting it I'll hear from him, other than that it was certainly an experience!

100

I can't get my head together enough to do a song (or should that be I can't let it go enough, being sober!) so have a pic of my tattoo instead. I don't post many pictures so it's a bit different.

A (currently unknown) prize to whoever can correctly guess where on my body it is located...



Terms and conditions apply. Calls may be monitored for security and training purposes. Your home may be at risk if you hit it with a bulldozer.

Nuts

A turned up early to help me and bought me a box of mixed nuts on Monday which was unusually thoughtful of him (even though I suspect they were left over from christmas). REturning the favour I stayed and taught the late class with him and had a good laugh. At one point somone said nuts and we both launched into singing 'oh hazlenuts, ooh! Cadburys take 'em and they cover them in chocolate!' from the very old advert. It's weird spending time with him and that kind of chemistry still being there even though we both know things wouldn't work between us. If he was gay it would make perfect sense, we're the Will and Grace of martial arts.

Tuesday I finally had some time to myself as the last of the kids schools re-opened. I really do love my kids but 12 days of having them around me all the time was not helping my mental state. Training on tues evening was knackering in a whole new way. I can breathe easier which is great for stamina but means extra work for the muscles as I'm going for longer. The extra weight is really playing havoc with my balance and stuff too which completely dischuffs me. Not to mention the brain fuzz which makes me forget patterns in kata or, worse, the most basic move - getting out of the bloody way when a fist comes towards your face! Very ouchy moment.

Got home to find a dating site message from a bloke I'd chatted to by mail but put off cos I was backing off of dating and he was going away for a while anyway. He was just back from Canada and wanted to see if I was still available, we got chatting and before I knew it it was 4am and we were still laughing (on the phone by now). He's very different from my usual type - works with his hands, stands 6'4" and looks like he rides a Harley (which he does, I can't wait to have a go on the back of that!) but I've never been one to say never. One thing I find strange is that he's another aquarian! A is aquarian, as is P and so was J (five year part time, long distance man) I'm a magnet for water carrying blokes.

Weds was quite good even though I felt dead from lack of sleep cos I didn't have the black eye I was expecting and my upgraded mobile phone turned up (that's going straight away - I need the cash!) Harley texted me early to say hi* and let me know he'd got up late and carried on texting and calling all day till I had to admit that I'd double booked myself for Saturday night so couldn't do our date. Told you I was being ditzy lately. It's wait and see at the moment whether we meet up on Friday or Sunday, he's not stopped texting/calling me in the meantime and we're getting on great so let's just hope it works as well in meatspace.

Amongst all this I've been teaching myself html and I'm looking to learn css once I'm more confident. Thanks for the metaphorical arse kick, lc; you were absolutely right and it's not as difficult as my mental block had me believing all those years! I've not learnt anything proper since I chucked my psychology course in last year and I'd forgotten how buzzy I get when I have new information to play with.

Next post is the 100th, watch this space for something totally, er, unspectacular.


* As lovely as it is to be thought of, why do they do that? I don't open my eyes of a morning and immediately think Oooh I know, I'll text someone! I think Give. Me. Coffee! Having said that I don't wake up with a hard on so maybe I've just answered my own question...)

Turn of the century

Mostly live but not from Norwich. Oops, wrong century reference.

Anyway. My 100th post is very close and I am bored feel I should do something other than blather. What d'ya want then? A recipe? A song?

Suggest away, commenters and lurkers alike (aka validate me you bastards I'm having a wobbly!) cos I can only have ideas by the half of late.

Ten queue mush lee.

Time marches

Well, sometimes it does anyway. Sometimes it races, usually when an appointment is fast approaching and the traffic jam just isn't moving. On occasion it pootles along at just the right pace. Each minute lasting a perfect sixty seconds, sixty of those making up the comfortable passing of an hour, weeks being a good 7 days worth of time.

And then there are the times that it drags. No, not drags, creeps. Creeps, wheezing with the effort of moving at all, hauling it's bloated arse slower than a geriatric snail with a mogadon habit and stopping every now and then to flip you the finger.

Last July we had our first contact with the police. In a fortnights time we find out whether we have to testify at a full trial or not.

These are going to be 14 very non-marching days till that day in March.

Remind meme

To explain this

I was hungry when I found you
but I'm alright now.

Doin' the big 'uns

One of the side effects of having a shorter than usual attention span is that I lost my ability to read the blogs of people that have a lot to say. Anything more than short, pithy entries that don't ask too much of my left brainicle just haven't had a look in but I've made myself catch up on some today and I'm a happier bitch for doing so. Today I did some thinking as well as some feeling.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the real challenge: I'm off to catch up on joie's life.

I may be some time...

Curiouser and curiouser

What a strange place I'm in, said Angie.

I went to Sainsburys, they're having a bloody raid! Lots of orange-clad minions running out of the store as I toddle in and a really annoying alarm going off, er, alarmingly. In the midst of all those people careering the other way I suddenly felt very, very short. Still, cadburys was on special offer so I didn't just scratch and sniff, I purchased (along with a bag of salad. Well, I felt bad after making such a stupid face at it).

And then, as I sit with eight squares of chocolate and a coffee, mentally preparing to read a whole blog post in one go without getting distracted, what happens?

A white horse goes past my car (er, the car that's parked outside my window). Without a rider. And it takes ages of me staring with my gob open for the carriage type thing that was attached to it to make an appearance so for thirty very long seconds I really did think I'd lost it and gone totally and utterly not right in the nut.

No fag, all hag.

Apparently I've been smober (what kind of shitty made-up word is that!?) for
One month, 4 hours, 35 minutes and 44 seconds

With
935 cigarettes not smoked, saving £193.23

Oh, and
Life saved: 3 days, 5 hours, 55 minutes

Go me, yeah? Er, no. Right now I would kill for a fag.

Eh? Who would I kill?

Oh. Not thought about that bit.

Anyway, fuck off. What I mean is I feel a bit strongly which is quite absolutely silly cos it's been fairly okay, for the month up to now, as cravings go. (Don't talk to me about the weight gain though, I've eaten so much green veg and salad it's a wonder I'm not shitting rabbit pellets but have I lost weight? Have I arseholes, I've gained so much I now have my own postcode.)

My various, previously patch assisted quits gave me much more day-to-day trouble than this one has and never felt as permanent (which they weren't, obviously and hence, piss off, etc.) I remember without the least fondness the hours upon hours I spent crying out from some deep, dark place of angst and longing; reaching out with desperate fingers that were just short of the length needed to scratch the itch I felt in the depths of my very soul. Even the phrase 'scratch the itch' doesn't quite express the pain; this really was athletes foot of the psyche. Something like 'mercilessly rip the scab away, exposing the layers under the dermis and setting the blood flowing freely' might come close, I guess. Babies crawling across ceilings would have been a welcome respite from the mad, freaky dreams I had so even sleep didn't help when it came.

This has been nothing like that, on the whole. I am now that fabled person you hear of that smoked thirty a day for 24 years then just woke up one day and never smoked again. I'm an urban legend come to fat, whingey life, I tell you.

Oh for fucks fucking sake. I have some music I really like and felt like playing at the moment, sent to me by ML who can only communicate, musically, in iPod language. I'm obviously the last person in the world that speaks mpfucking3 and I can't find the thingy to convert it. That's the other thing, I've gone all ditzy and brainless since I quit. Or that may be cos the kids have been off school for a week. Or both. Either way I can't focus on a task to completion, repeat myself a lot, can't write a shopping list let alone fiction or a blog, forget things even more than usual and repeat... yeah ok, shit joke and I won't go there.

Ick. Right, time for an Angieplan.

1 - Get dressed (Noooooooo! It's sunday!)
2 - Stop moaning and get dressed.
3 - Find some cash, remember how to drive.
4 - Stop in salad section of Sainsburys to blow loud raspberries and stick fingers up at anything green.
5 - Go to chocolate aisle. Inhale.
6 - Return home. Blow nose on size 12 jeans.
7 - Make gym plan for next week when kids are back at school.

Lambent, if you say 'have a fag' I'll hunt you down and fuck you to death. Oh, and I've lost the url of that Mr P bloke, mail me it please you sexy beast? Mwah. Good lad, you know I love you really.

Real romance

...is reading the words 'you sort the dates out and I'll finance it' and knowing they are as true at that moment as they have been every other time you've read them over the past eight years.

Knowing that when this person says 'I'd fuck you no matter what, we're more than just that', he absolutely means it and, as a bonus, is so sexily confident in his knowledge that you feel the same way.

Knowing that it takes something special to still feel this way eight years and various lovers (each) after the one and only night you ever spent together. A night that involved an inflatable rucksack, a couple of rushed drinks, a four poster bed and a McDonalds milkshake.

Now that's romantic.

I have the dates. This time I won't just think about it, I'll book the flight.

Valentines hard

I loved you so hard.

Yes I still have all the lilac cards but please don't think it's because I can't bring myself to throw them away. It's practical. I've not changed the colour scheme in the bedroom so they still blend as well you knew they would each time you bought one, wrote a line or a word in, posted them halfway down the country. I only keep them until I find something else that will fill the gap, meet my aesthetic standards. You may have been right, it may be that it's all about my standards. Just, may. I haven't stopped fighting yet. I'm not fucking dead yet. Not outside.

I did love you but it was so hard.

And you've done it again. You're nowhere near but I'm only nerves and emotions and words tripping over one another to be expressed, no, exorcised and my mind is screaming, screaming to be heard but my voice is that of a smothered little girl and my fingers can hardly find the letters I need on the keyboard but it's important they do because I know you'll read even if you never actually hear the desperate typing.

I wanted so hard to love you.

Opposites attract. (Poles apart)
Age doesn't matter. (A man that 13yrs my senior shouldn't drain me like another young child)
Deeply sensitive. (A weak dropout that has financially enabling parents to angst over)
The best lover I ever had. (When did it become all about your acceptance/rejection/extreme submissive tendencies?)
You are a beautifully diverse woman. (Hang on while I name which of your multiple bonkers personalities I'm dealing with right now)
I love watching your intelligence at work. (Scoring as highly as that you're too good to study, jack it in)
Dump your whole family, you only need me. (We have to show willing with my lot, they send large cheques)
Leonard Cohen. (Elizabethan Lute playing girlie?!)

I think I'm done, I think I've exorcised all the words now. Not that you'll read them cos this is somewhere you don't know, my place, not mail or text to your places but that's okay, this was about me, not you. You'll laugh at that, feel hard done by. Not to worry. For all the clever words you hurt me with, for all the people I love and you used to get to me at various 5am's, for all the long, tormenting nights, this is my answer.

I'd rather be a) utterly, desolately lonely, than b) be with you.

But I'd really like a c) choice.

If today is your birthday...

You're one of two rather delicious blokes I know of...


The energies on the day of your birth will lift you high and give you a strong desire for material acquisition. There is certain success for you particularly if you conduct yourself with integrity and high ethical standards. Though there may be some disappointments and setbacks try to take the advice of people more experienced, older members of your society and family as usually the advice they have to offer you can be taken and used to your advantage.

The number 13 has always been considered a mysterious number, a number of upheaval and transformation and it is said that if you can understand the vibration you are given great power and dominion over other people.

Seeing as one of the blokes I mentioned is tied up somewhere fighting demons, I must mean you, Midnight Meandering! Happy birthday, babe!

Snot fucking fair - the sequel

If I ever had the inclination to do a Victor Meldrew impression, now would be the best time for it because I don't believe this, I'm ill again!

Nnnggg! I never usually get ill once, let alone twice! I've not long got shot of the last cold and I'm laid low by another one already! Aarrgghh! I hate being ill, it's just too fucking weak and I simply don't do weak, ever!! Sorry, I'll try and leave off the exclamation marks now but I really am quite very fucking damn well pissed off about this!!! (oops)

This particular episode of germ invasion appears to be confined to my upper respiratory tract so ok, maybe it isn't quite as bad as the chest infection but I still can't breathe through my nose and my brain is completely dead. (Insert major apologies *here* to all those that I've mailed, texted or im'd in error over the last 24 hours or so. I know you are legion and I'm really very sorry for listening to my blonde, snotty brain so please, stop. Fucking. Laughing. Now.)

Forget the skinny, happy women you see riding motorbikes in the nrt ads, since I packed up smoking I've just got fat and sick. Twice! Not to mention that getting laid is something that only happened when I was a heavy smoker but weighed lighter. Draw your own conclusions, beloved reader...

4 calls and an eavesdropper

It's not that I'm loud, it's just sometimes you can't help overhearing things. I was mid call when I joined the queue, as if hearing one side of a conversation isn't confusing enough the poor woman in front of me only heard the last knockings of that...

"No, you'll be fine as long as you really get the blood pumping and stretch the thighs and hips out first"

"Seriously babe, even I was nervous my first time. You'll feel great once you're into it, I promise.
You're plenty good enough, just let your personality out and no-one can fail to love you!"

"You won't! I tell you what; if things go badly then call me and I'll talk you through. It's more likely that you'll ring me after and tell me what fun you all had though. Ok now? Good - go get 'em! Bye, darlin' "


No sooner have I snapped the phone closed, it's ringing again. Our House by Madness tells me it's someone calling from home and I answer with

"Mummy has run off with the milkman. This is a recording"

'You never believe me! Try re-booting the box'

'Sweetheart, think about it. Why would Tony Blair block your MSN?'

"Tell him I said he's a poopoohead. I'll be home soon, stick the kettle on, eh? Love ya"


Two more people get served and the queue moves up as this plays to warn me that the ex husband wants to talk to me. My eyes roll but this one is short and sweet.

"Hi"

"Duke of Edinburgh"

"Sunday. As usual. Bye"


Two more people then it's my turn. I put the phone back in my bag and fiddle about retrieving the stuff I need when it starts singing at me again. A song that makes me smile even before I pick up this time

"Hello, you!"

"Mmm. Missing you but fine, you know me. Anyway sod all that, how's Hong Kong?"

"Er, yeah. I got confused looking at the time differences, I did email though"

"How much?! Who spends that much on champagne for Gods sake?! *laughing* Oh hell, it wasn't one of those bars that make you buy bottles -" (I was cut off fairly quickly by protestations of innocence at that point before continuing at my end)

"Well I have no sympathy but bloody well done for getting to work after all that. Chicago won't be as, er, social, will it? How long are you back for in between?"

"Damn, is that all? Never mind, we'll sort something out"

"Sainsburys. Yeah I know, it's just too glamorous being me! Bye, darling - thinking of you too"

The woman in front of me was called to a counter at last. She'd done well at being subtle up to that point but couldn't resist turning to get a proper look at me as she was served. When I thought about it afterI reckon I'd want to know who the hell talked such randomness in the Post Office at 4 in the afternoon too.

Mystical fuck

Yesterday I bought a fuck from a most lovely lady.

It was only a quid.

I appear to be too dim to put the picture in my sidebar and make that link to her so I shall do it here. Go spend a quid and buy her wares, she's utterly faberlicious.

Antiflora

Seems to me that more people are looking forward to Pancake day than St Valentines this month and this made me think... crikey, don't I know a lot of greedy old loners?!

Sad mates aside, it planted the seed of a business opportuity in my head, one to run alongside Fartsmelt Cards and further build my evil empire, muhaha etc.

It would be called Antiflora and the main business would consist of beautifully wrapped bunches of Japanese Knotweed and stinging nettles, prettily boxed helium balloons that, when released, burst and throw itching powder everywhere (because I'm having trouble sourcing balloons that can hold drawing pins and survive during transit) and fabulously packaged chocolates made entirely from laxative and sprinkled with crack for that 'more-ish' touch.

However, the most exciting aspect is looking for a delivery company for my extra special idea of T-hugs. These would look similar to the cute little teddies and rabbits you see but, rather than having words like 'hug' on their tummies, they'd be personally delivered with a smack in the gob and a card saying you'd been sent a T-hug on account of being a total fucktard!

This time next year I'll be a millionaire!


Anyone that would like to prove my personal cynicism wrong with gifts of flowers, chocolates or alcohol need only email for my address, obviously.

Lazy bitch

C&P from a mail I just sent

Just a quickie cos I'm exhausted tonight and plan to get to bed before
midnight. And I have nothing exciting to say, also :-) Roof man came
to fix my roof (from last weeks gales) just as I was about to get into
the shower, teaching tonight was tiring but fun, my tits ache like
hell cos I've not been taking my vitamins properly this month and I'm
having a haircut tomorrow but not sure what so I may well have a
drastic, spur of the moment change of image.

*deleted personal bit at the end*

I hope to resume normal service shortly.

Karma killer

You've been naughty. Very, very naughty.

I believe in karma insomuch as I try to 'do unto others as I would be done by' whilst not believing the source of that particular quote. I'm a basically nice person that doesn't do organised religion, I guess. I do have a sense of universal justice though, a deep seated feeling that everything balances out in the end; that things are, ultimately, fair. At least I do until I'm faced with scenarios such as this...

Innocent child born nearly three months prematurely and suffering traumatic physical effects including hip dislocation, brain bleeding and fitting which the med staff can't rule out being a life long condition. Parents, having 9 previous children between them and already estranged, unable to accept the responsibility and abandon said child in hospital at 6 weeks old, weighing 2lbs. Child farmed out to foster parents who then adopt her but find it hard to handle her learning disabilities/mental health issues as she grows into a young woman whose biological father insists on making himself and her, by now, 11 various flavours of sibling known to her.

Young woman becomes pregnant and has termination. Goes on to become pregnant again and has son who is then removed from her due to her inability to care for him. Goes on to marry and has a daughter who she's allowed to keep with extensive help from husband/in-laws. Husband leaves but returns for access to daughter and sex with young woman. Young woman becomes pregnant again. At 27 weeks, young woman is told her baby has died inside her and she'll have to go through labour and delivery. Appointment is made as soon as hospital can arrange it. The same day as her first sons birthday.

Some things just don't make sense.

ML, I owe you one

Two weeks,

424 cigarettes not smoked,

saving £87.60.

but eating way too many carbs.

424 thank you muchlies, my darling. If I've got the time difference right you ought to be reading this after dinner with the ex-pats so, bwahaha! Rather you than me! xx

Random thought...

...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.

Rash behaviour

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!

Say what?

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"

Cold Turkey

...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.

Snot fair!

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!

My aphrodisiac is 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)

Brown stuff and air circulatory machines

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.

I need more men!

Well, Staffy does, anyway. He's organising a bloggers night on the tiles and so far the poor man will be all alone amongst a bunch of women!

C'mon boys, stand up and be counted. Us blogladies don't bite, you know. (Well, not unless you ask really nicely...)

Details are here

Mr Motivator

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...)

Distractions

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!

Cock a doodle don't

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.

The ex files

Behold, the men that made me the fussy bitch I am today!














Not really, I'm just more about pictures than words today.

Right, you orrible lot

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.)

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!