Monthly Archives: September 2014

Wot I Did On My Holidays…

holidays 2…or rather, wot I didn’t do.

Every summer, I scribble down a long list of all the mind-expanding cultural and educational activities I will partake in.

Amongst others, I will endeavour to:

  • sign up for a three-day pottery course, throwing (literally) eclectic pots and wonky vases
  • pack a posh picnic, cunningly cultivated from the best of Lidl, and recline elegantly on the grass in the park, listening to live music
  • leave my hair unwashed for a week and watch the sunrise at Stonehenge on the longest day of the year
  • endure watch lots of subtitled films at the local arts cinema and be able to take part in the pretentious lively discussion afterwards
  • visit a food fair and pay triple for a lump of grotty cheese, but feel rather virtuous at the same time

You get the idea. That list is now in the bin. The closest I got to anything cultural was to buy one of those jumbo-CD packs of classical music from the local charity shop to listen to in the car, realising too late that one disc would stick forever on Chopin’s piano concerto No. 2 in F minor, 2nd movement.

Instead, I worked a lot. Despite numerous pleas to the Teenager such as, ‘C’mon, come on a day trip with your old mum, we’ll have fun! We’ll pack a Thermos and buy a tin of pear drops’, he refused to budge, preferring instead to play football with his friends every day, even though he’s in a rugby team. Kids.

For my birthday, The Teenager bought me an iTunes card and slowly, very slowly, explained how to redeem it. He recommended several memory apps and another one that pings when it’s time to take your medicine. In return, I stopped his pocket money.

The highlight though, must be GCSE results day, which happened to fall on The Teenager’s birthday. I plied him with an All-You-Can-Eat-And-Then-Some-Breakfast buffet at the Toby Inn (only £3.99, but mushrooms -bizarrely – is there a shortage? – and drinks are extra).

Anyway, he refused to pick up his results, as he didn’t want to ruin his birthday. I drove past his school twelve times, pointing out all the happy kids clutching bits of paper, driving swiftly past the crying girls on their mobiles, but still, nope. He wouldn’t go. So I did what any good parent would do and collected them myself. Bit embarrassing. Had to show ID, sign a form, swear allegiance to the examining board and explain in less than 100 words why The Teenager wasn’t there himself.

I passed. And, brilliantly, so did The Teenager. Highest marks possible. I drove back home and opened the door to The Teenager pacing the room, biting what was left of his nails. I put on my best sad face, wiped a tear away and gave him The Look.

‘Hah! Gotcha. You’re a star!’

Stunned silence,then he ran towards me for a huge hug before launching into a whirlwind of social media. And that, in a nutshell, was my summer. Fleeting but, um, memorable. Next year, I’m taking a caravan in Tenby.

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Dim? Some.

Memory, what memoryI was with the boss one morning last week; we were driving to a warehouse to buy something or other for our latest project.

He pointed towards the humungous Tesco Extra on our left, saying, ‘it’s been refurbished, there’s a Costa there now too.’

‘Oh, um, great! Must check it out, but you know my heart lies with Ocado.’

We got the something or other from the warehouse, loaded the van up and drove away.

‘Hey, boss! Did’ya know that Tesco’s has had some kind of makeover. Someone told me. And Costa’s has opened. That one, over there.’

Silence.

Then, ‘are you winding me up?’

‘Nope, boss. Just know you love your Costa coffee with the caramel swirly thing.’

‘Yeeeeeees (very, very, slowly), but ten minutes ago I told you about it. You’re freaking me out.’

‘Oh.’

‘Your memory, honestly’ – then all I heard was the word ‘dim’.

‘Oi! I’m not dim. I won a medal once. For badminton.’

‘Noooooooooooo (very, very, slowly), I said you’re like a dimmer switch. Sometimes very bright but other times, you know, dimmer. More dim. No, not dim. Just not as bright. But not dim as such. You know what I mean.’

*sulks all the way to the meeting with the architect*

But, he had a point. My memory over the last six weeks has been atrocious. Embarrassingly so. I asked my mum, ‘I know I’m ancient now, but was your memory this bad when you were 41?’

Mums are a polite bunch, aren’t they? ‘Well, dear, we’re all different. We all have strengths and weaknesses. We all find our unique place in the world. But yes, your memory is dire.’

The Teenager plays on this – ‘But you said, you said I could have a Dominos. Is your memory playing up again? Don’t forget you said we could get a dog. AND, remember that £20 I owe you? I’m so happy I paid you back’ (he didn’t. I know this for a fact). Nice try.

Anyway, on the one hand, it’s a great cop-out (pesky MS cog fog), but on the other, I am liable to be hoodwinked on a regular basis, plus I just can’t remember anything important. I have to write everything down, to the point that when I walk through my house, I’m accosted by a forest of post-it notes. Which I can’t remember writing. What does ‘T-hhhhhhh!! CJ R’ even mean?

And as for Costa Coffee. I haven’t been yet. Did I tell you they opened one in my local Tesco Extra?

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