London Calling

London must be in a sorry old state as He-who-must-be-adored has been so busy saving London He’s hardly been home this week. He treats this place like a bleeding hotel. Now I know the keeping of scores is not the mark of maturity. But, dammit. I am what I am and I want it known. For the record. That’s the second week in a row I’ve done the bin thang. This is not the deal I thought we had.

Moving swiftly on: surprisingly, Postie managed to deliver the secondary school letter in time for afternoon pick-up. Unsurprisingly, given the sibling policy, Gorgeous Boy will be joining the Teenager at her school next September. Sadly, but again unsurprisingly, there are a lot of disappointed Year 6 parents. The majority got a local school. Just not one in their top five. Fortunately, by a freak of fate, the Teenager’s school wasn’t all that when she started. So she got a place easily. Since then, driven by a new Head, its star has been on the rise. Would like to think it’s because of my Teenager. Ha! I know we was just lucky: this year almost 1400 kids applied for 240 places. Is this not a bit of a crazy situation?

Unfortunately, Postie didn’t do as well with the book club: my book was a tad too big for the letter-box. Usually he sticks it in the recycling bin. This time he re-routed it to the depot. The not-so-local depot. The not-so-local depot that is only open for a few odd hours. The very same few odd hours that the parking restrictions outside apply. The very same not-so-local depot that will refuse to give me the parcel addressed to my husband (he opened the Amazon account) as all my ID is in my maiden name. Just because I couldn’t be arsed to write a few dull letters when we first got married (alongwith a deep desire not to have the same name as my mother-in-law). So me and He have different surnames. He also hasn’t confirmed on the social networking site that He is married to me. I wonder is He trying to tell me somefing?

Yet, this week I have started to use my married name. But only on social networking sites. I lay the blame with my fave eldest neice. The one that still has the same name as me, because the lovely boyfriend still hasn’t made an honest woman of her. Even though they have two dustbin lids! Anyways I find I am questioned about thangs. Thangs I have no recollection of saying or doing or posting on social networking sites. Thangs my eldest unmarried fave niece with the same name as me (you know who you are) has posted online. I have moments of worry: was I so high on bubbly that I didn’t know I was bored – there was me thinking I’d had a good time. What the hell would I want with a waxing client? Why was I cross border living? My hair is already short. Isn’t it? Despite what it says I said: I feel quite well. The whole thang has been a bit too vivid an early insight into living with Alzheimer’s. And way way way before my time. So the married name it is. Oddly, given that my dustbin lids have both our surnames, the Teenager likes to be known by her father’s and Gorgeous Boy by mine. The little-un is too young to make choices.

My least favourite aspect of Gorgeous Boy starting his online life is his critique of my gastric attempts. Master chef has a lot to answer for. I really don’t appreciate my chicken risotto being rechristened ‘Risotto Horrible’ online. For all to see. Will carefully plan my revenge.

Aha! His World Book Day costume. So far we have hat, and cardboard clock and poor attempts at shoe-cover-type-thangs which in all probability will be destroyed by the time we walk the half mile to school. So of a more pressing nature is the unfortunate fact that there have been no (none whatsoever) developments on the Tin-Man costume front since Monday evening. I should spend tomorrow in a tin-man sewing and/or spraying frenzy. What will be sewed or sprayed? I am not yet certain. But Gorgeous Boy is expecting a costume to materialise by Friday morning. At breakfast tomorrow I shall point out that if he continues his public and negative critique of my cooking, I just might, very publicly, let him whistle for it.

My reality will be the day spent rumaging in make and do mode. Hmm so pleased about the penguin.

We are family

Without wanting to give too much away about the exiting nature of the private conversations I have with Supersis, it so happens that on occasion we will ask each other what each is preparing for dinner. Although blood relations we appear to come from different schools of cooking – she being the queen of the stab stab zing, me preferring to use the cooking space as an escape from the rest of my household and its chores. Yet, despite these differences, more often than I like it happens that we buy the same thing. So yesterday, upon her suggestion, we joined forces with our respective lamb joints, purchased separately and independently, yet roasted and consumed together. So, my family decamps to hers. Her vegetables are pre-prepared. Mine require endless standing at the sink. She does household chores and I cook.

Whilst I was carving (hacking more like) she tells me she has a bone to pick with me: she’s read my blog. As I was up to my elbows in grease I couldn’t run and hide so I racked my brains trying to remember what I’d written that could have offended. I’ve only been back at this for less than a week and already I’m having my bones picked!

I hereby apologise to Supersis for giving the wrong impression and I want the whole world to know. Yes she does live with a lot of animals. But not one single one of them is hers. Especially not the psycho cat. They have all come into her life via the whims of others: her husband, her daughter, her mother-in-law, her brothers, or brother-in-laws. Or they are foundlings and she has become known as an animal type what with being married to one and mother to another animal fanatic. Yet, she cares for the animals, she feeds them, helps train them, cleans up after them, she even breaks the ice on the pond for them (in the morning, before breakfast, as if there isn’t enough to be done, after the cat has poo’d in the sink and the dog pukes up a delightful raw eggs and dog food combo). She wants it to known that yes she does all this. And she more importantly wants it to be known that no animal belongs to her. And, more sadly: no animal is loved by her.

Whilst she ranted on I thought ‘every cloud’. So rather than certain people think I am a stealer of animals I want it to be known that I am the one and only one that bucks the trend in Supersis’s life. I am the first person to take an animal away from Supersis.

For this, I believe, I should be thanked.