Yesterday we were supposed to go to London. We were to hop on the train at the station at the bottom of the village and once we’d arrived at Paddington station we would walk to Regent’s Park to meet Willy Wonka for lunch. But we’ve all got rotten colds so we decided against it. Instead, …
Today I went in my parents’ loft for Phase 1 of operation ‘Grow up and shove your own s*it in your own loft’.
In addition to seeking out a box of my university books, I was also hoping to discover some other treasures. Perhaps that lovely compendium of games I could pass onto my younglings, vintage fairy tale books, some dusty vinyl record sleeves we could laugh at in front of a roaring open fire (if we had one)?
What did I come down with?
Caroline was an absolute tonic who reminded me of a female Keith Chegwin. The smiley bits, not the revealing-his-bollocks-on-TV bits. She physically looked like the love-child of two of my best friends, so when she sidled up to me and asked to swap numbers, I was hopeful that I would no longer have to sit at red plastic tables and feed my child uncooked jacket potato and hard grated cheese in order to be social.
Where does BUB.1 get his accent from? “I’ll shyyyyyyyooow you” he says as he runs to show me his favourite car in a magazine. Meanwhile BUB.2 demands some “mulk”. Mulk? Then you hear it, the sound of your own voice. And your children’s voices are suddenly transformed from the warblings of angels to the cringe-inducing sound of your own terrible, awful, pathetic voice on a tape recorder. BUB.2 has now started to screech Willy Wonka’s name repeatedly, like an old fishwife. The sound of my own voice rings in my ears.
With BUB.1 sitting on a potty and BUB.2 propped up against wall next to him red-faced and spluttering, I found myself wearing a Halloween skeleton mask and a Comic Relief red nose as I leaned head first into the washing machine only to pull out amongst the clothes Willy Wonka’s reading glasses that had been through a 40 degree spin. They were a bit steamed up, but on removal of the skeleton mask I couldn’t see any further damage. A good moment. A highlight.
What do Shreddies, boisterous dogs, hoodies, cheese, urine, removalists and oregano have in common? They all conspired to ruin my day.
Anyone who describes their blog as “A place to procrastinate when you should be folding washing,” is alright by me. Especially when they nominate me for an award. The lovely Laptop on the Ironing Board (formerly and cutely known as James James Morrison Morrison) nominated me for a Beautiful Blogger award. Isn’t that a pip?! …
An ex-colleague and treasured old friend remarked today how wistful she was for the old days of PR Christmas parties. I too have been missing the dizzy glare of ultra violet lights in fabulous venues, the endless round of mini canapes and the champagne burps at work the next day.
“Loneliness is not a broken heart. It’s a penguin in a tutu.” I don’t know why Shane Finn was in prison, but it doesn’t matter does it? I just loved what he wrote.
You know that moment when the world shifts on its axis and you realise that something is not what you thought. And you wonder: what else have I missed?