Sloth week

I am looking at a beautiful horizon.  One that involves not having to work for a whole week.  It's half term and like it or not, no school = no work.  Marvellous ennit?  I've been looking forward to spending a week with The Lish, just me and the bum bum doing fun mummy and daughter things.  And of course I will also fit in some slattern time.

I hardly see my little one during the week and don't get me wrong, I really don't beat myself up about it - I've tried the stay at home gig and it bored me into a wooden Kimono - I cannot lie - I am a much better mum, in work.  But now and again, a little one-on-one time is warranted.

I put a lot of thought into what we will do this week.  I'm pumped!  And then the holiday actually started. Cocking hell if I'm not already so irritated by it all I could put The Lish in a kennel and head back to the orifice.  And it's only day 1.  I am a terrible person.  Yes, I am and God will punish me.  Any day now The Lish will come home with a boyfriend who looks like something out of Shameless and then I'll be sorry. 

Before you jump to any conclusions here, I do DO stuff with the child.  This morning I spent a whole hour and a half cutting paper dolls out with her.  I then took her for a bit of fresh air and let her take her bike out in full knowledge that within minutes I'd be the one dragging the pigging thing around.  It's not like a normal bike where you can hang all your shit off.   It's just small enough yet somehow heavy enough to give you a slip disc AND a hernia.

Tomorrow, weather permitting I will go to the local farmer's market to look at food I would never buy on principal (local produce should not be more expensive than supermarket food that is flown in from Costa Rica) and run The Lish like a dog in the local park and pray that the sight of swings doesn't make me want to gouge out my eyes with my own thumbs. 

So far I have planned a day at a jungle jim, a day at a city farm, the Miro exhibition (it's basically drawings that look like a child did them - what could go wrong?), the dinosaur exhibit at the Natural History (ok, I will probably only go and look at the naked bodies in the Human Biology area - it's tradition), and I'm not going to lie - a lot of shopping for make-up, perfume and shoes.  I'm also thinking I may, just may go to Bournemouth.  My experience of hotel breaks where it's just me and The Lish though have always ended with me gorging on macadamia nuts and little bottles of spirits while staring blankly at the TV until 3am.

So maybe best I rethink that last item - after all if I want a long day full of restrictions and compromise - I've got work and this week is meant to be about playtime and freedom where anything can happen.  Wish me luck.

An even keel

So another hum drum week rolls by and to be honest it's the best way to live when you think about it - as I have done, given, well....that it's a hum drum freaking week and what the heck else is there to do but think.  And I've come to this conclusion - hum drum is good.  It means no dramas, no mishaps, no disasters.  I think it's probably ok even to talk about the flat. You know - THE flat.  The one we've been looking for since last summer so as to become fully fledged Londoners again and stop the hungry little chatter of house rental money blades that shred your hard earned dosh with nothing but NOTHING to show for it - aside from NOTHING. Yes siree - so far, so good.  Flat in already desirable (none of this up and coming cock and bull) area. Check.  Offer for well under the asking price accepted. Check.  Mortgage applications.  God knows how, but - Check.  Evaluation. Check and dog's bollocks of a good lawyer on the case with the rest. Checkety Check.  We do need a few things still to go our way but all that going well - looks like we'll be moving into a delightful place in ooh a couple of months or so.  So Hum Drum - long may you continue.

On a much less hum drum note - I did attend the wedding of one of my oldest friends - with whom I've also had one of the longest running rifts.  Still, as her sister pointed out, it's only real friends with real affection that have rifts the size of the San Andreas fault line. So I was very happy to be at the wedding but will admit the pang, the surge of regret that I was but a mere guest and not a part of the wedding party.  A few years ago that would have been unthinkable.  Ah how the mighty have fallen. Still, thankful for small mercies because it really was the stupidest of things that caused this at one time seemingly irreparable rip, so I may have fallen but I've also travelled.  This is good and this here is better:

Chairman of the bored

Having a blah week.  Are you?  Is this like Manic Monday or Black Friday?  Maybe this week has a name too, something like Stalk Old Boyfriends On The Internet You're So Bored Thursday. Bored RIGID.  I don't know whether I just need it to be the weekend or whether it's time to organise a trip or something.  Actually a festival would be ideal.  I'd love to go back to Bonnaroo in Nashville.  It was pretty special and the pulled pork they serve down that way is unforgettable - momma is used to some heat!  Aside from not being able to understand a fucking word they speak down there, it's perfect.  In fact come to think of it,  it's the  not being able to understand a thing that makes it so perfect.  I mean, if I don't know what you're saying, I'm unlikely to give a shit.

Ignorance may not be a defence in the eyes of the law but it sure as hell is bliss and besides the law is an ass. And since I find the most annoying thing about trips are all the other people, being unable to engage is a bonus. 

So let's reassess - I'm bored and hostile. Not the best time then to attend a children's school play say or a wedding. 

You call that a shepherd!  Your angel sucks!  Can you imagine?  I'm imagining going to a childrens' nativity play - I know it's May, work with me. 

Well at least tomorrow is Friday.  In itself a beautiful thing.  Talking of weddings, I do have a delicious wedding to go to on Sunday.  I've bought a dress (found a corker of a dress at a charity shop - you know me) that is just fabulous, if a little revealing.  I've had to buy dress tape - you know to stick the material to my skin.  It's very slinky and tantalisingly silky. Let's hope the tape works because if the dress slips off my shoulders as I reach over for a top up of fizz, it will be more than the champagne corks that will be popping.

Right I'm off to boil some bunnies.

The power of prayer

Sensitive sort that I am, I have been thinking a lot about the little girl Madeleine McCann who went missing in Portugal in 2007 and not just because her parents have recently stepped up the campaign for her search with the launch of a book (which I intend to buy); To tell you the truth I have never really forgotten their plight since it was made public 4 years ago. FOUR years.

I admit that my sensitisation to the issue comes from the fact that as a parent of a young girl, the thought of losing my little girl is physically more than I can bear to imagine.  That it happens more often than you think chills me to the bone but also fills me with enormous compassion for people like the McCanns.

Now, I know this is going to sound a little kookie, but being a little bit obsessed with all things spiritual, I often ask the 'guides' to send me a sign that this girl is still alive.  The other day, I believe I got such a sign in the form or not one, but two white feathers.  I took great comfort in that and just as quickly fell into a state of confusion over whether the guides had left this message or Madeleine herself - see I may be an afficionado of the 'science' but I have a long way to go before I can claim any powers.  More's the pity.

Anyway I decided to offer up a little prayer on my way home from work yesterday, as you do but I wanted to make it 'official' so to speak not that praying in one's own front room with a nice stick of incense and a candle or two isn't official - I decided to quickly pop into the local church St. Saviours - appropriate don't you think?

Except that it was in full methodist swing for the night (it's usually Church of England - guess times is hard) and full of Somalians singing and clapping and dancing; I have to say it looked wonderful but surely I didn't belong?  But it was too late, I'd been spotted and pulled into a pew where I remained for the whole seven minute long song.  This is long when you didn't mean to be there at all.  Anyway, with nothing to lose, I started to clap and shuffle with the best of them.

At the end of the song I thanked everyone but explained I had to get home to my daughter and that I'd really only come in to light a candle and pray for Madeleine.  It was obvious they had no idea who I meant but the priesty bloke at the front yelled (he has a microphone - it shook the putty out of the stained glass windows) 'we will pray for you lady!'

And I believe they did - at the top of their lungs.

I offer these prayers to the universe that it may provide a solution and bring comfort to Madeleine and her family. 

Please do the same.  And thanks.

Moving on up

It's going to be one of those mega updates again.  See, life happens when you're not paying attention. Since I last dribbled on about diamond earrings and hen-nights a few things have happened.  For one, we've had an offer accepted on a flat. That is all I will say on the matter at this point because I am so supremely paranoid that something will go wrong, I am going to have to leave it at that.  Except to say it's a corker of a place in West Hamstead and really oh, I've said too much already.  That's all for now.  I will post ad naseum updates galore on the ins and outs of the legal process, the chin dragging bore of the packing, the anticipated peel-off-my-own-skin hell of the move and all the wonderful idiosyncrasies of banks, lawyers and estate agents in between but for now, let's say:  What a freaking result for the home team! 

Meanwhile back at the ranch, we've had another kind of move - a desk move this time and one that I managed to side step completely by being away for it on that delicious Yoga retreat in The Canary Islands.  While I was saluting the sun and locking bandhas, some poor sod was given the hapless task of packing my desk up which has a unique organic filing system not even the most severe compulsive obsessive could cope with. 

Another result I think you'll find.  I could get used to avoiding all manner of responsibility.  I could be onto something.

Exclusive exclusion

From maturity to immaturity in 60 seconds...maybe 43 is still too soon for me to aim for full blown maturity.  How do I know this?  Well, now you see, I thought I was pretty sorted in that department what with life, motherhood and marriage having kicked my arse into shape (no oxymoron intended) - but no, it turns out I still like to throw my toys out of the pram.

I blame social media. 

See I was on Facebook today and saw that a life long friend, whose relationship with me was ruined by a pair of diamond earrings and a lorry load of immaturity a few years ago is now getting married in May.   Actually I knew about this and I was genuinely happy for the girl.  She's been through quite a lot of shit in her time and I'm not just talking about the type of inconvenience and upset caused by losing a deposit on a holiday, I talking about the kind of pooh that lands you in therapy.  Yet she has always had an amazing outllook on life and only slightly self medicates on the rare occasions her seemingly perpetual supply of optimism fails.  I had a lot of time for the girl - still do.  Trouble is she doesn't have that much time for me anymore.  Long sorry story that frankly I've done everything to try to put behind me.

Over time however I chipped away at the crust of antagonism between us until I reached the softer layer of forgiveness - it has taken 5 years and it's been worth every chisel at the rock.  Finally I was able to meet with her recently where she showed me her engagement ring and it felt almost like a Hollywood version of old times to the point where she invited me to the aforementioned wedding.  Well, I was honoured.  I cried I was that honoured and for a moment I felt what Tim Robbin's character in the Shawshank Redemption must have felt when after 15 years he finally chips through the last of the cement that separated him from release.  My efforts had finally paid off and even though it felt odd to be invited in a way that was very obviously filled with caveats, it was something after years of nothing.  And if felt good.  It also felt just and I realised how hard this must have been for her to do.

So joy and gratitude were the specials on the menu that night .  Even talk of her bridesmaids had little effect on me other than more delicious happiness for the girl.  A few years ago it would have been inconceivable for me not to be part of her wedding party but today - I am lucky to be in the crowd and I'm happy for that huge concession.

Or am I?  Looking at her Facebook status update, as you do, I realised she'd had her hen party two nights ago.  Picture after picture of raucous fun to which I was most certainly not invited flickered on the screen. Click after click after bloody exclusive click .  Hell, an invite to the wedding was but a thought and a dream until last week.  So why am I feeling so deceived? So disappointed?  So down? I wasn't for a moment expecting an invite to it...was I?  I guess part of me was. 

It's clear then that I have a lot more scooping of earth with a tiny worn down spoon before I poke through the end of that long dark tunnel; before I break through the last layer of fuck up; before the tiny speck of redemption is revealed and I guess that's just my cross to bear.

I made my bed, I pissed in it and now I must lie in it.

The answer to the meaning of life is....

The Silverback and The Lish have been back for a week now after spending two in The Tundra visiting The Silverback's familia. Now don't get me wrong, I missed them of course and I was a little bit riddled with guilt over taking off on this yoga week but the biggest surprise was how quickly I began settling into that carefree (and selfish...or is it?) pattern of the single person lifestyle. Meals for one to suit whatever craving you have (had a plate of olives on my first night alone, standing up in the kitchen); washing up for one; TV exclusivity and the ability to do what I want when I want. I think it's important for any parent or carer to take that one week to themselves every now and again. And it's also nice to miss people you know you'll see again.


With the return of the family comes an end to all the above and that's how I ended up watching one of those BBC Four culture documentaries, this time on Elton John. Personally I would have happily watched Jerseyshore, my new guilty pleasure but The Silverback insisted; it's not that he is a big Elton John fan - in fact outside of the tune Tiny Dancer, which he and probably most people under the age of 40 know from the film 'Almost Famous' - I doubt he would be able to hum you one bar of any other Elton John song.  Still, he would rather watch a show about Elton's rise to stardom than watch 2 seconds of Jerseyshore.  And so I must compromise because after all when golf or snooker gets too much to bear, I make him watch shows about cookery and house refurbishments.

Anyhoo, the point that I am meandering towards is that Elton talked about how he feels he only really matured when he reached the age of 43.  Had I been watching this 10 years ago, I would have thought the man was obviously the worst kind of spoiled,  instead I found myself relating in a big way.  Having only just found a mental space that I feel comfortable with at the age of 39, Elton's own experience completely resonated.  In fact if I carry on like this, I too could be on the path to maturity by the time I'm 43.  And it only took 43 years.

Funny where you find answers to 'the meaning of life'.  So the answer in fact isn't 42 (for Hitchhiker fans) it's actually 43.  Who'da thunk it?