Tonight is twelfth night. On the wagon. He and me continue our journey upon this dry ole road, with some caution, a bit of trepidation, rather less difficulty than expected, and rather a lot of tea. We’ve switched to de-caf now. Less sleep interference.
The best: He-who-must-be-adored is no longer a snore bore. It must have been the booze wot done it all those years.
The worst: He has read my blog. Well, one post. And only after someone else mentioned it. I should not have been surprised at his reaction to his faults and foibles being published on T’net. But given his previous interest in my writing, I never thought he’d read it. From now on I may have to exercise more caution with my candour. I begin by not sharing the details of our last disagreement/shouting match. Anway the details are irrelevant. The facts remain: I am right. Always. Problems only arise because He thinks the same. And that is not right.
Tonight, I found the Teenager and the Boyfriend on T’net. ‘Makes a nice change from snogging’ I thought. Except… they were reading my blog. Or rather scan reading until they found some reference to themselves. They are, afterall, Teenagers, so we’ll make some allowance for the self-obsession. The upshot: they feel they have been unfairly portrayed. As serial snoggers. What can I say? This ain’t the BBC. There is no right of reply. But, out of the goodness of my heart, to make amends I will say when they are not snogging/watching movies in the dark, they like to play computer games, recently, there has been less ‘cupcaking’ (aka making out) and they have promised to get back on the homework track.
I have not promised, but may try, to look beyond my kitchen for blog fodder now.
Showing posts with label on the wagon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label on the wagon. Show all posts
Thursday 23 April 2009
Monday 13 April 2009
Is it just me?
There is nothing like a long weekend break spent within the bosom of your family to help you feel the love. Or to see the cracks. You know the ones that you knew were there all along. But you made a conscious effort to ignore. Over a long weekend, all together, you can ignore them no more. You see them, right before your eyes, getting bigger. And bigger. With every passing hour. Until they are so huge you fear total collapse. Or is that just me?
The holidays started well enough. He-who-must-be-adored returned to saving London for ridiculously long hours. I worked in the mornings and spent the afternoons touring the parks of North London with friends, furry and not so furry, alike. By mid-week I had to kick the teenagers out. I was sick of their vampire ways. Call me old fashioned, but when the sun is out so too should they be. I know they’d rather be sitting in the dark. Snogging. But enough is enough. Or rather I’d had enough. Maybe it was jealously rather than old fashion-ness. Agin I wonder is it just me?
Over the past seven days I managed good serious marching on five. I also stayed on the wagon for five days. That’s become a whole lot easier recently but more of that later. The major personal achievement of the week, for it is Easter after all, was, no weight lost, but none gained either. I see it as the start of my reverse back to the shape I was before finding freedom from fags. The past two days I’ve marched more than usual. But this time it’s the mental health benefits that I’m really after. And I know that’s just me.
So, to Good Friday. The signs were there and I missed them: not one, but two Jesus’ on a cross were spotted in the High Street. It looked, at one point, as if their paths might cross. Who’d have thought, in this day and age, that religious parades were all the rage? Or so like buses? It also transpires that one of those dragging a cross was, in fact, female. Glad to live in such a modern borough. Tallmumchum didn’t share my enthusiasm for the beauty of modern equality and bemoaned the traffic chaos caused by two large wooden crosses, plus entourage, of whatever gender or persuasion. Despite He-who-must-be-adored’s fondness for playing the martyr we didn’t have anyone on a cross in the garden this weekend. That is not to say it hasn't crossed my mind.
We celebrated the fact that He was home and all sporting events were cancelled for Easter, by having a bit of a doo. So very pleased to see the Geeky girl and my fave niece from the sticks joining us, and some friends, for a bite to eat and a few drinks. I think a good time was had by most. Pity then that at the end of the night one appeared to have enjoyed it all a bit more than everyone else. So the small matter of a late night dog walk, and a trip, into the gutter, a scrape with a wing-mirror and being escorted into bed by your long-suffering wife (who's the martyr now?) sister, middle-lid, teenager and boyfriend, should be quickly glossed over. Yet, I somehow think the effects will be long-lasting: I’ve now seen He-who-must-be-adored going to bed sober for two nights in a row. That’s double the number of nights in a row I’ve seen him going to bed sober since we first got hitched - 18 years ago. Tonight we are well into the evening and still the kettle boils and not a bottle-opener in sight.
Time will tell whether this really is the start of the pledge, or just a little ride on the wagon. Either way it's rather refreshing to have a different view.
The holidays started well enough. He-who-must-be-adored returned to saving London for ridiculously long hours. I worked in the mornings and spent the afternoons touring the parks of North London with friends, furry and not so furry, alike. By mid-week I had to kick the teenagers out. I was sick of their vampire ways. Call me old fashioned, but when the sun is out so too should they be. I know they’d rather be sitting in the dark. Snogging. But enough is enough. Or rather I’d had enough. Maybe it was jealously rather than old fashion-ness. Agin I wonder is it just me?
Over the past seven days I managed good serious marching on five. I also stayed on the wagon for five days. That’s become a whole lot easier recently but more of that later. The major personal achievement of the week, for it is Easter after all, was, no weight lost, but none gained either. I see it as the start of my reverse back to the shape I was before finding freedom from fags. The past two days I’ve marched more than usual. But this time it’s the mental health benefits that I’m really after. And I know that’s just me.
So, to Good Friday. The signs were there and I missed them: not one, but two Jesus’ on a cross were spotted in the High Street. It looked, at one point, as if their paths might cross. Who’d have thought, in this day and age, that religious parades were all the rage? Or so like buses? It also transpires that one of those dragging a cross was, in fact, female. Glad to live in such a modern borough. Tallmumchum didn’t share my enthusiasm for the beauty of modern equality and bemoaned the traffic chaos caused by two large wooden crosses, plus entourage, of whatever gender or persuasion. Despite He-who-must-be-adored’s fondness for playing the martyr we didn’t have anyone on a cross in the garden this weekend. That is not to say it hasn't crossed my mind.
We celebrated the fact that He was home and all sporting events were cancelled for Easter, by having a bit of a doo. So very pleased to see the Geeky girl and my fave niece from the sticks joining us, and some friends, for a bite to eat and a few drinks. I think a good time was had by most. Pity then that at the end of the night one appeared to have enjoyed it all a bit more than everyone else. So the small matter of a late night dog walk, and a trip, into the gutter, a scrape with a wing-mirror and being escorted into bed by your long-suffering wife (who's the martyr now?) sister, middle-lid, teenager and boyfriend, should be quickly glossed over. Yet, I somehow think the effects will be long-lasting: I’ve now seen He-who-must-be-adored going to bed sober for two nights in a row. That’s double the number of nights in a row I’ve seen him going to bed sober since we first got hitched - 18 years ago. Tonight we are well into the evening and still the kettle boils and not a bottle-opener in sight.
Time will tell whether this really is the start of the pledge, or just a little ride on the wagon. Either way it's rather refreshing to have a different view.
Tuesday 7 April 2009
I want to ride my bicycle
Am pleased to say He-who-must-be-adored finally returned to London. Two days later than scheduled. And a day after the outlaws came to stay. He came bearing gifts in time for lunch with us, and the lovely outlaws. It was a proper Sunday affair, and as is the nature of that beast (lamb in actual fact) far, far, far too much was consumed. This was a bad thang, given my Monday morning appointment with the Nurse.
An annual telling off/check up isn’t a great way to start the week. I had to fast for 12 hours for a blood test. Given my alcohol consumption over the previous fortnight am uncertain that 12 hours would have made much difference. In the waiting room, starving and dry mouthed, I think of my favourite food and drink. I fail to get past the perfect ness of my missed morning cuppa. I salivate when finally called into Nursey as she sips a fragrant coffee. Right under my nose. To add further insult she weighs me. Then measures my ‘girth’ (has there ever been a more unfabulous word, or a more insulting measurement?) The good news: my blood pressure is perfect. Then Nursey gets her little chart out and gives me the bad and the bleeding obvious: I am heavier than I should be. As I say, not the best start to any week.
As my brother says: you can lose the weight, you can’t grow a new lung. I am pleased when Nursey tells me I only have to lose 10lbs. I have actually gained 22 since finding freedom from fags. But 10 feels so much more manageable.
Without wanting to sound like a stuck record I am therefore, this week, back on the wagon. And marching. Here, there and everybleedingwhere. The dog is shagged out and the little-un is saddle sore from her bike: she pedals as I follow. Depending on how far into the journey we are, I run, march, walk, or crawl behind.
Gorgeous Boy’s friend, Frodo, was here today. I paid the Teenager to babysit the boys whilst I worked. But apparently, the boys amused themselves. Thankfully, BestMumChum had the little-un. The Teenager and The Boyfriend watched movies. In the dark. Words were exchanged over some competitive pancake making. And pancakes gone bad. Some more words have been exchanged. This will not happen again. Mmmm. That’s me not holding my breath.
Tonight, instead of driving Frodo home, I let him ride my bike up the hill while I run/march/walk/crawl behind. It felt a lot easier freewheeling downhill afterwards. With hindsight though, I should have checked the tyres for air before setting out.
The news this week tells me what I’ve always known: sisters are doing it for themselves. Apparently sisters spread happiness where brothers breed distress. I have three times as many brothers as sisters and double daughters to my one son. And so very very happy to have my Supersis.
An annual telling off/check up isn’t a great way to start the week. I had to fast for 12 hours for a blood test. Given my alcohol consumption over the previous fortnight am uncertain that 12 hours would have made much difference. In the waiting room, starving and dry mouthed, I think of my favourite food and drink. I fail to get past the perfect ness of my missed morning cuppa. I salivate when finally called into Nursey as she sips a fragrant coffee. Right under my nose. To add further insult she weighs me. Then measures my ‘girth’ (has there ever been a more unfabulous word, or a more insulting measurement?) The good news: my blood pressure is perfect. Then Nursey gets her little chart out and gives me the bad and the bleeding obvious: I am heavier than I should be. As I say, not the best start to any week.
As my brother says: you can lose the weight, you can’t grow a new lung. I am pleased when Nursey tells me I only have to lose 10lbs. I have actually gained 22 since finding freedom from fags. But 10 feels so much more manageable.
Without wanting to sound like a stuck record I am therefore, this week, back on the wagon. And marching. Here, there and everybleedingwhere. The dog is shagged out and the little-un is saddle sore from her bike: she pedals as I follow. Depending on how far into the journey we are, I run, march, walk, or crawl behind.
Gorgeous Boy’s friend, Frodo, was here today. I paid the Teenager to babysit the boys whilst I worked. But apparently, the boys amused themselves. Thankfully, BestMumChum had the little-un. The Teenager and The Boyfriend watched movies. In the dark. Words were exchanged over some competitive pancake making. And pancakes gone bad. Some more words have been exchanged. This will not happen again. Mmmm. That’s me not holding my breath.
Tonight, instead of driving Frodo home, I let him ride my bike up the hill while I run/march/walk/crawl behind. It felt a lot easier freewheeling downhill afterwards. With hindsight though, I should have checked the tyres for air before setting out.
The news this week tells me what I’ve always known: sisters are doing it for themselves. Apparently sisters spread happiness where brothers breed distress. I have three times as many brothers as sisters and double daughters to my one son. And so very very happy to have my Supersis.
Wednesday 11 March 2009
First Night
The first night was the worst. Without the sedative effects of alcohol, He-who-must-be-adored had trouble sleeping. What with the creaking floorboards, the neighbours, the dog’s noisy dreaming and the little-un climbing aboard. He escaped to her bed. She’s refusing to accept the difference between a reading light and a night light. Consequently in her bed He feels like He’s slumbering under a search light.
So, on the shopping list is yet another night light. And a new bathroom door. Actually it’s an old door. That matches the bedroom door. Therein lies the problem - a failure to match anything up to our old stuff syndrome. Without a door I hear the boiler kick in just before 5am. Just after that I hear He-who-must-be-adored getting ready. I am drifting back off when the Teenager thunders in for her shower. By 6.30 I give up the ghost and rise to take my lack of sleep out on lunchboxes and laundry.
Unsurprisingly there is a weariness about the Weekday Wagon Day 2. Yet at 200 calories a glass and our fear of angry liver syndrome we are determined to keep going. He-who-must-be-adored is home in time for tea. Hurrah. But not necessarily in the best of moods. He’s in busy mode. Again. And wants to know, unreasonably in my opnion, why there was a vase-sized Vat on my side of the bed. Err…because we are on the wagon with the exception of night caps!
I persuade him to take the dog out. I cook, although I am not eating. I am having supper with my girly-fab-mob. I should have plated a small portion for myself. Instead I hover and hoover straight from the hob. The left-overs enjoy a similar fate. Don’t you just hate waste? On the road to my dinner date I plan to stick to water. I am defeated by the open bottle of fizzy already on the table. As a driver I have only one and a half small glasses. And a good night out was had by all in less than two hours. Upon my return home all was quiet with everyone abed. I pour my nightcap. A first for me: the same bottle of fizzy in the fridge since Sunday. It tastes foul. But I take it upstairs anyway. I check on the little-un. She is sound asleep. Arms above her head she sleeps in the surrender position with the reading light trained directly on her face. I point the lamp to the floor and hit the sack.
Everyone stays in their beds ‘til this morning. He-who-must-be-adored says He feels worse than He’s felt in years. Mmm my plan is working.
So, on the shopping list is yet another night light. And a new bathroom door. Actually it’s an old door. That matches the bedroom door. Therein lies the problem - a failure to match anything up to our old stuff syndrome. Without a door I hear the boiler kick in just before 5am. Just after that I hear He-who-must-be-adored getting ready. I am drifting back off when the Teenager thunders in for her shower. By 6.30 I give up the ghost and rise to take my lack of sleep out on lunchboxes and laundry.
Unsurprisingly there is a weariness about the Weekday Wagon Day 2. Yet at 200 calories a glass and our fear of angry liver syndrome we are determined to keep going. He-who-must-be-adored is home in time for tea. Hurrah. But not necessarily in the best of moods. He’s in busy mode. Again. And wants to know, unreasonably in my opnion, why there was a vase-sized Vat on my side of the bed. Err…because we are on the wagon with the exception of night caps!
I persuade him to take the dog out. I cook, although I am not eating. I am having supper with my girly-fab-mob. I should have plated a small portion for myself. Instead I hover and hoover straight from the hob. The left-overs enjoy a similar fate. Don’t you just hate waste? On the road to my dinner date I plan to stick to water. I am defeated by the open bottle of fizzy already on the table. As a driver I have only one and a half small glasses. And a good night out was had by all in less than two hours. Upon my return home all was quiet with everyone abed. I pour my nightcap. A first for me: the same bottle of fizzy in the fridge since Sunday. It tastes foul. But I take it upstairs anyway. I check on the little-un. She is sound asleep. Arms above her head she sleeps in the surrender position with the reading light trained directly on her face. I point the lamp to the floor and hit the sack.
Everyone stays in their beds ‘til this morning. He-who-must-be-adored says He feels worse than He’s felt in years. Mmm my plan is working.
Friday 20 February 2009
Wash out
After that nasty little bug I slept for a mammoth 13 hours last night. That’s two nights on the wagon. Do I qualify for a badge yet? Shan’t drink tonight as the Teenager is in her mate’s shed. Again. We might install a shed in our garden, with pool table and ipod speaker, so we don’t have to stay sober and, more of a challenge, awake, to collect her. But don’t suppose she’d let any of her friends round here. We only breathe and we manage to be soooo embarrassing.
Yesterday was a wipe out. My two achievements for the day were a shower and changing the bedding. In truth didn’t really achieve the second. Grappling with the clean king size duvet cover, I was close to tears over not having the necessary six arms when He-who-must-be-adored returned from the rugby run and lent a hand, or two. In fact yesterday he was an all round star (if you can have such a thing), apart from the laundry lesson. They say the lesson shall be repeated until the lesson is learnt. Our first decade together I wore only black because I learnt anything else wasn’t safe. Our second decade I took charge. I have told him. Repeatedly. I shout ‘walk away from the washing’. Still He sees laundry He stuffs it in the machine.
Asked recently what my family think of being blogged about in less than perfect terms I replied nothing. Because they don’t read it. They may look like my fans on Facebook. But only because I stood over them as they logged in and showed them how easy it is to be my fan. They hear enough of my whingeing without having to read all about it as well. The little-un does show an interest but she can’t read small type yet.
My forensic friend called - the stinking thieving bastard that burgled her has been caught, and remanded. Three times I’ve been victim to stinking thieving burglaring bastards and never have they left more than a smudge. She has one burglary and good bloody DNA is left inside her house and the stinking thieving burglaring bastard is caught in less than a month. Pleased as I am for her, it hardly seems fair. Still that’s one less stinking thieving burglaring bastard on the streets of London. Thanks to our last stinking thieving burglaring bastard I now have a complicated alarm system and spend the spare moments of my life walking or cleaning up after that bloody dog.
Mmm a touch of the post-bug grumps me thinks?
Yesterday was a wipe out. My two achievements for the day were a shower and changing the bedding. In truth didn’t really achieve the second. Grappling with the clean king size duvet cover, I was close to tears over not having the necessary six arms when He-who-must-be-adored returned from the rugby run and lent a hand, or two. In fact yesterday he was an all round star (if you can have such a thing), apart from the laundry lesson. They say the lesson shall be repeated until the lesson is learnt. Our first decade together I wore only black because I learnt anything else wasn’t safe. Our second decade I took charge. I have told him. Repeatedly. I shout ‘walk away from the washing’. Still He sees laundry He stuffs it in the machine.
Asked recently what my family think of being blogged about in less than perfect terms I replied nothing. Because they don’t read it. They may look like my fans on Facebook. But only because I stood over them as they logged in and showed them how easy it is to be my fan. They hear enough of my whingeing without having to read all about it as well. The little-un does show an interest but she can’t read small type yet.
My forensic friend called - the stinking thieving bastard that burgled her has been caught, and remanded. Three times I’ve been victim to stinking thieving burglaring bastards and never have they left more than a smudge. She has one burglary and good bloody DNA is left inside her house and the stinking thieving burglaring bastard is caught in less than a month. Pleased as I am for her, it hardly seems fair. Still that’s one less stinking thieving burglaring bastard on the streets of London. Thanks to our last stinking thieving burglaring bastard I now have a complicated alarm system and spend the spare moments of my life walking or cleaning up after that bloody dog.
Mmm a touch of the post-bug grumps me thinks?
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