Bouquets and brickbats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

*sob*

School's out

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

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

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

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

Most of all though, innocent and untouched.

I can breathe.

Pignorant selfarshe twunt - the update

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

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

Almost immediately I receive

I'll try and get it to you tonight ffs

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

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

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

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

Pignorant selfarshe twunt!

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

Snot Scots!

I don't get it!

What in the world is that about? Come on, I've seen things on cars that were far more offensive than nods to nasal nuggets.

Ok, yeah; they're mostly situated directly behind the steering wheel but sometimes, (like on the motorway millimetering towards Vi's and applying make-up whilst stuck behind a 4WD with dvd screens in the rear of the cream leather headrests and a huge pair of plastic bollocks dangling below the crassly personalised numberplate) on the vehicle itself.

*sigh*

When my jaw drops like this and the only available option is to blog about it I really notice that I'm single.

And if my wee scot is reading? I've blogged it out now, you missed your chance! xx

Why I don't work in a cafe anymore

That heap of mushroomy gunk is my very best attempt at treating myself to a nice omelette for lunch.

Nothing to see here

Not enough to say? Too much to say and not enough words?

I’ve not quite figured which of these situations is true but, either way, I apologise for the posting of total shite and then general nothingness of late.

I tell myself it would help if Virgin Media put out a bit of decent broadband but really I think it’s cos I bore myself when I don’t drink.

I’m still in Big Blogger, albeit by the skin of my teeth. Feel free to nip over and have a read while this place gathers dust.

What the dustmen saw

...was an earth-savingly small bag of refuse outside my house. This is highly unusual and would have surprised them, perhaps even more than the fact that I'd put it out last night and didn't come bounding up the road after them in my jammies.

What a difference a week sans children makes! The only things in the bag were four empty frozen veg packets, the remains of the salad draw and a couple of microwave chicken dinner things. Oh, and a rabbit that's all out of rampant.

I double bagged.

Hooray, Henry!

Cheers, sweetie. If it weren't for you I'd never have known just how addicted to blogging I was (well, not as a spurious percentage, anyway).

81%How Addicted to Blogging Are You?

Mingle² - Online Dating

Suitably ashamed at that result, I immediately logged onto freecycle and offered what I had in order to make amends of some sort.

So far, nobody wants my 'empty glass to wash up and return'.

Ungrateful bastards.

Nike knows

How much time do you spend procrastinating? Really? How much do you allow things to hold you back from truly doing and being who you want to be, right now? Past experiences, maybe. Fears of falling, of failure, of fucking up your future...

Answer honestly.

Unless you choose to comment, only you have to know your reply.

Me? Nowhere near the extent I used to. Having said that, today made me realise I still hold myself back at times, and with the flimsiest of excuses (I won't justify them as reasons, they're excuses, pure and simple).

A friend I knew through karate died last night. He was a proper, EastEnd 'big lad'; larger, louder, than life and a total bugger to spar against. He and I often giggled with his beautiful daughter as she learned to punch, kick and block. She's six, his son four, his wife already trying to recover from a series of setbacks, not least of which were six miscarriages in two years or so as they tried for a third child between them.


He was only 26.


Life. Just do it.


RIP Big Lad x

No time for losers, cos I am the champion.

Your Score: ENFP - The Champion

You scored 63% I to E, 42% N to S, 28% F to T, and 57% J to P!

Your type is known as the Champion type, which is part of the larger group called idealists. Nothing occurs that does not have some deep and ethical significance in your eyes. You see life as an exciting drama. You are very charismatic, yet tend to be too harsh on yourself for not being as genuine as you think you should be. 3% of the population shares your type.

As a romantic partner, you need to talk about what is going on in your life. You are a strong supporter for your partner's efforts to grow and change and be happy. You need to feel that same support from your partner. Expressive, optimistic, and curious, you are eager to enjoy new experiences with your partner, whom you wish to be your confidant and soul mate, as well as play mate. You are uncomfortable sharing negative emotion, though, and tend to withdraw from confrontation and process your feelings privately. You feel most loved when your partner appreciates your creativity, accepts your uniqueness, and sees you as the compassionate person you are. You need to hear your partner tell you how much you mean to them and would love if they did thoughtful spontaneous things to demonstrate it.

Your group summary: idealists (NF)

Your type summary: ENFP

Link: The LONG Scientific Personality Test written by unpretentious2 on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

That's one extremely long-winded way of saying what I already knew - I'm a fussy bitch!

Time for an Angieplan

I'm sitting here at twenty past late on a school night totally, completely and utterly alone. And, not only that...


Sorry, gimme a second, would ya?

...this is just the first of eight nights/seven days of it! Absolute Angieness. No sis on the phone for validation/marriage counselling, no ex-husband ringing or texting for spurious reasons and nobody to make me cringe when they call 'Muu-uum' as two, really whiny syllables. Just me, myself and I, unless I choose otherwise, for a whole fucking week! Oh yes, let joy be unconfined, let loose her stays and air them puppies!

Strangely enough (or not, if you've read anything about my weirdly dysfunctional family) this has come about due to my sister's ongoing bond with my ex-husband. Eight years post-divorce, he still manages to charm everyone but me into wondering how on earth I could be so fussy as to leave and devastate such a funny, warm, caring, loving man. I'm not about to justify myself here or anywhere else, I could and I did and that's all that matters. So there.

Anyway, brother-in-law loves surfing to the extent that he's done a week in the same place in Cornwall twice a year with his fire brigade mates for over a decade come strike, birthday or overdraft. When he and sis (the pisces water-baby that she is) got together he added a third week, this time as a fragmented, second family type group.

Her lads loved it, as did she. Over the years the group grew to include his parents, his sister (who lives next door to them) and her family until a conversation at christmas led to them inviting my ex to bring our children. There was a small amount of 'you two get on ok, why don't you come too, Ange?' until my look of doom was noticed and they hastily continued with plan A.

So I get to have a plan A too, an Angieplan.

1 - Tonight, a fresh bottle of brandy and the knowledge that I can sleep as deeply as I want and lie in tomorrow. Nice start. Blissful, in fact.

2 - Immaculate* my house knowing it will stay like it! Well, only until they come back with their washing and half a beach in their cases but still, it'll be lovely to return from training tonight and not feel like I've walked into a disaster area.


3 - Join my lovely mate Vi for the traditional village festival of 'ladies wot lunch'. This quaint, weekly custom involves the women of Blah gathering to line their stomachs with a little local food before proceeding to drink the pubs dry till they fall over. Never one to miss a chance to celebrate my femininity, I'll be getting up early enough to be there by midday.

4 - Involves me getting brave enough to venture into the loft even though it freaks me out and has a birds nest somewhere so I can put a load of gear on eBay and make some cash. This may or may not happen.

5 - Tidy the garden gym, reclaim my freeweights from under No 1 Son's bed and get back onto a proper exercise regime outside of karate. This weight gain is getting ridiculous, to the point I'm actually considering a visit to the GP for a thyroid function test. Or a stomach staple.

6 - Properly learn the two kata I need for black belt. I can muddle through them but that's not good enough for me and although the test is a way off yet I like to be prepared.

7 - Make an effort to talk to people who message me on my dating site before dismissing them because of spelling errors or facile opening lines. Even if they are mostly in their twenties.



* I know it's not a verb but I like saying it like that, so there.

Pimping my ass!

Big Blogger does ask some weird things of his blogmates but, me being me, I'll do anything to win this bloody thing! Yep, even pimping my ass...



I'm too skint for bribery so I'm going for humour and emotional manipulation...

If you really loved me you'd get over there and vote (er, for me!) then mail all your friends and tell them to do it too!

Unclenched

My jaw, that is.

The frustration so eloquently conveyed on my previous post was due to a combination of straws, most of which are far too tedious to blog in full but weighed the camel down anyway. In short then,

Temporary pink hair colour becomes permanent when it sweats/rubs off on a white gi top.

Biting your own tongue really, really hurts.

As does tripping head first up your own stairs. Sober.

Jobs that seem perfect when you apply will prove not to be when the full specs arrive revealing not only the true hours but also the small fact of a weeks training in deepest Cornwall.

The less money you have, the more letters from school you receive asking for 'voluntary contributions' to educate your children in new and inventive ways.

Schools don't like it when you take your children out for holidays during term time. Especially if that term time is the 'arts week' they want me to pay £45 for.

Bitten hard enough, a tongue can remain tho thwollen it can affect thpeech for a good three dayth or tho.

Sisters are lovely but listening to her latest crisis for the umpteenth year in a row gets very, very boring. Especially all through your birthday lunch 'treat'.

The thought of belated birthday drinks with the girls is hard to look forward to given that sister's MO when mixing angst with alcohol is to have an emotional meltdown while I organise glasses of water to be brought to the ladies and listen to the woe. Again.



Unclenching began friday lunchtime when, with my tongue finally back to normal size, I joined sis for a haircut and made very clear what I wanted for my head. And my hair. My favourite stylist worked scissory magic then later, sis controlled her alcohol intake so I didn't have to hold her new do back while she threw up.

The pub was banged out but good natured and giggly with a great band and the restaurant was busy and fun. I didn't even mind getting laughed at for ordering my fairy-gobbed combination of chicken korma and a kingfisher (jug of water on the side, please).

Nnnnng!

fuck
shit
cuntyarsedballs
withwankers
and
and
and
bollocksweat
on top!



Sorry if your rss got excited for nothing. Not my best post, I know.

I do feel slightly better having said it though.

Too good to be true?

Yes.

Despite my initial joyful thought, this has nothing to do with eating copious amounts of free chocolate.

Knickers. Back to looking for a proper job...

Awww, pussycat!

Not just because he came first...

...do I call him No 1 Son. Knowing how much I wanted this fantastic book, he ordered me a limited edition, signed and numbered, pre-release copy. Then refused to let me open it until my actual, after-release, birthday. Wherever did he learn to be so stubborn in the face of prolonged, pathetic pleadings?!

We've had a rocky time lately, he and I. GCSEs aren't easy (especially if you're bright and have more than most of your cohort) and neither are adolescent lads, (especially when their single mums are a bit flaky due to sending their grand... oh, you know it all by now).

So, when came home from work on Saturday carrying these, well.

I didn't think I'd ever stop hugging him.

Sadly, neither my flower arranging nor my photography can do them justice.







ps

It's tomorrow. Just, ya know, in case you were interested, like...

Much as I pride myself on my general knowledge

I guess my assumption that it was Ricky proves my Pub Quiz speciality is, in fact, popular culture.

Cancer, my arse!

A friend in need

I see a million thoughts run through his mind as he runs a hand through his hair. Such a cute habit. He's self conscious of it but I love it; intrinsically him, it's a totally natural gesture and shows off hair that only looks better for a little mussing up. Sensing my gaze he looks at me across the pillows and I ask, yet again, if he's ok. A smile, a kiss, a light squeeze from the hand resting on my inner thigh is answer enough but a verbal affirmation comes soon after.

Champagne finished we are drawn back to the pub, the cool shower before departure continues the skin tingling that began much earlier that evening, the spitting rain during the walk dampens my bedhead but it can't take the flush from my cheeks or the fullness from my lips. The brightened eyes and glowing skin of a satisfied woman, so often badly replicated with cosmetics, seem to have settled upon me tenfold and refuse to shift.

At the bar I catch appreciative smiles from men and want to answer the quizzical glances from carefully made-up beauties, tell them this isn't a look that can be bought, at least, not with cash. It's paid for through decades prior then gifted to you by a special friend just when you need it most.

We find a table, my special friend and I. Talk, touch hands, laugh, confirm each other, constantly reassuring and thanking, hash out the new rules of our relationship. The sexual tension between us finally released at just the right time, a time I most needed a friend to help me over the final hurdle of recent times, a time he most needed to be that friend.

What we were will never be again, what we will become is separate but together, supportive of each others paths mostly from a distance. Trusted confidantes swapping music and mental madnesses with no fear of our daily lives being affected by the truths in our heads.

A friend indeed.