When your Mother buys you a book with 248 pages solely dedicated to transforming “your home into a permanently tidy, clutter-free space,” and with the precursor, “You’re probably not going to like this Dear,” you know you’re in trouble. Last year and crucially, last year, my Mother gifted Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying” to me. And since last year, have I even picked it up? No way. For when my Mother, in an pre-meditated act of pseudo-kindness, bought me a Zen-shmen, Japanese sensation of a book, containing “simple and effective ways to banish clutter forever”, I had no choice but to interpret this as a tactless and underhand move, an insult plain and simple. Continue reading “The Magic of Space”
Roll on the Great British Bank Holiday. A delightful long weekend in which important, tired and hard-working people get to rest their weary heads, and less important but equally as tired and hard-working FTM’s get to, quite frankly, carry on regardless. A joyful time in which the Great British Public love to either a) inebriate themselves over three consecutive days, whilst manning a succession of dwindling tinfoil BBQs in the pissing rain, wearing T-shirt and shorts, b) spend quality time with husbands, wives, partners and children, engaging in cohesive and incredibly fun activities, such as Twister, Jenga and Junior Trivial Pursuit or c) a bit of both, more commonly known as boozed-up childcare in the rain. Whichever way you choose to spend your Bank Holiday though, one thing is for sure: The Great British Bank Holiday simply wouldn’t be the same without a Great British Queue.
Continue reading “The Great British Bank Holiday”
The GR has resurrected herself. Bang on cue. Just in time for Easter. It’s Day 1 of the “holidays” and her timing is impeccable once again. Her little-black-cloak has been dry-cleaned, in honour of the numerous jollifications planned and her scythe has been sharpened, ready to strike anyone or anything that, quite frankly, has the audacity to Gd’dam breathe. Approach at your own risk.
Continue reading “The Resurrection”
So here’s the thing. For the past year or so, I’ve been involved in an arrangement. A you-scratch-my-back-and-i’ll scratch-yours type of thing. In fact, I could easily go as far as to call it a relationship. A mutually beneficial, reciprocal kind of relationship, which saw its inception at the school gates. At first I was dubious, but after several rides, I was hooked. And so was She. Soon there was little alternative – we’d be lost without each other. Continue reading “Car Share”
It’s that time of year again. Another day to commemorate something or other incredibly meaningful. But this time it’s not International Day of Happiness (that was last week apparently), World Health Day (that’s next week, if you’re interested), or Global Wind Day (this one’s in June, if you celebrate making wind). No, today is all about Me. It’s Mothering Sunday, again. Gosh how quickly time flies. And this year is no different to the past 8 as Mum. Continue reading “Mothering Sunday: The T’s and C’s”
Have you gone a-mothering today? Chances are you haven’t. And never will. Unless of course, you are a Catholic or Protestant Christian, who has returned to the church in which you were baptised, for a commemorative Laetare Sunday service? Or perhaps you are a domestic servant who has been granted a whole day off to visit church with your mother and other family members? Now that’s more like it. Well, the domestic servant bit. Continue reading “Smothering Mumday”
I had procrastinated long enough. Summer, winter. Ready, not ready. It didn’t matter. There was never going to be a good time. Hickory dickory dock. The tick tock of the clock was beginning to rattle my cage. I had avoided the issue long enough. Now there were only 39 days until B day and the number 3 was on my mind. But what could be so fearsome as to warrant the complex web of excuses [forward-slash, “delay tactics”], that I’d spun myself? I’d been there and done it all before, so what was the big drama? Well, apparently everyone else around me had also been there and done it all before me. And as if that wasn’t enough, even my own social media sites were on board, prodding me with unnervingly omniscient pop-ups peddling subliminal messages, such as: “Start potty training for the most stubborn child in 3 days flat”.
There was nothing subliminal about that. Continue reading “Knicker-Bocker Glory”
It’s been a while. Have you missed me? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. For since we last met, I’ve become increasingly accustomed to using the F word. Whereas it’s not a word I would use frivolously, I’ve grown to feel rather comfortable with the way it just rolls of the tongue in an incredibly gratifying way. And loaded with an emotion and an enormous strength that no other word can afford, the F word knows how to satisfy me in a way that nothing else can. Not even you, who knows me so well. Or so you think.
For whilst you were gone, something happened to me. Something that took me fully by surprise. And despite only being teased by the transience of the moment, this particular moment was undeniably momentous. Not to mention memorable. So memorable in fact, that this singular moment can be pinpointed to a sleeping policeman on a bridge crossing over a motorway at ten-to-nine on a dreary morning in December. For it was whilst flying over this bump, amid the grinding groans of over-worked windscreen wipers, the monotonous moans of sluggish school-kids in the back and the distant drones of the tedious traffic crawling beneath me, that I discovered it. A fleeting feeling that catapulted me momentarily to a most coveted space somewhere beyond infinity, to the very top of the world. A soothing sensation that sent ripples of serene totality and blissful wholeness throughout my body. An epiphanic state of self-completion that incredibly I wasn’t aware I’d been lacking all these years. What became of me in that instant was an unforeseen but unequivocal sense of Fulfilment. The F word: fully-fledged, flawless and finger-lickin’ly good. Fulfilment: pure and simple, yet achieved almost by accident. What a coup! Continue reading “The F Word”
Last week the Mr and I celebrated having survived another year of marriage, quite remarkably, to each other. And what better way to mark yet another year of wonderful wedded bliss and matrimonial melodramas, than by having ourselves a very clean weekend away with one another. Plus two.
Happy anniversary Darling.
You see, my old fellow and I are not the most romantic duo you’ll ever meet. Romeo and Juliet we most certainly are not. Having booked this months in advance, as less of a pre-planned anniversary treat and more of a timely coincidence, the only thing on offer this weekend was an advance purchase rate and a couple of complimentary chocolate chip cookies. And with myself, the hormonal back-seat driver, and our very own double-trouble, squabbling, squawking, terrible twosome in tow, our celebratory cruise down the motorway was doomed from the outset. Continue reading “The Seven Year Itch”
Decision making is not one of my talents. Big ones, small ones – you name it, resolute decisions are just not my bag. And when it comes to having to actually make them, I can usually be found perched on the fence, dithering between the varying shades of green on either side. Decisive I am not. Continue reading “Trust me, I’m your Instinct”