Category Archives: Daily Life

Sep 21 2014
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Daily Life

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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Aug 18 2014
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Daily Life

Older. Not Wiser.

older. not wiserI clung on as long as I possibly could.

On my birthday last week, I loudly proclaimed that, actually, actually, I wasn’t technically 41 until 8.04pm, so basked in the fading glow of my 40th year for most of the day.

I had a leisurely morning, a leisurely lunch with my mum and a leisurely evening with a friend. Very leisurely.

Anyway, after blowing out my candle (singular – I’m now too old to merit one per year) and making a desperate wish (nope, not telling), I scribbled a list of everything I would might achieve over the next twelve months, now I was of a Grand Old Age:

  • I will create a Capsule Wardrobe. A classic trench-coat, several well-cut pairs of trousers and a few silk blouses that hang just so. Plus some select pieces of discreet, yet classy jewellery and a couple of well-chosen scarves, which I would learn how to tie in many different ways, like all the French woman do.
  • Likewise, I would ditch the student wardrobe I’ve been cultivating for the last few decades. I would consign my ‘It’s Your Round’ t-shirt to the charity shop pile, along with my Gap hoodie, washed so many times, it’s faded from bright green to vomity-puce.
  • I will begin a proper skincare regime, with different creams for different parts and different times of the day. Day cream, night cream, afternoon cream, eye cream, neck cream, ear cream and hand cream. I would be slathered.
  • I will consider a National Trust membership, which will give me unlimited access to three thousand sites, ensuring a delightful day out every weekend for the next two hundred years. I will not go straight to the gift shop/ye olde cafe; I will instead join a guided tour and follow the held-aloft umbrella with all the other tourists. However, I will still buy a jar of honey/jam from the gift shop before leaving.
  • I will learn how to cook and love risotto. And a proper Sunday lunch, rather than going for a Carvery, along with a twenty-deep queue of other people. Who nick all the roasties before my turn. And steal all the gravy, tsk.
  • I will no longer hide the fact I highlight TV programmes I want to watch in the Radio Times, with my special fluorescent pen.
  • I may invest in a foot-spa. And one of those things that makes your bath ripple like a jacuzzi.

Yup, I have a plan. I already feel older than my years with this pesky MS – the cog fog, the pavement-watching, the dozing off in front of the telly. Should I embrace it?

Thinking about it, maybe I shouldn’t. I’ve just had a letter from the university I’ll be joining in September. A lovely invitation to Fresher’s Week. Really. Should I stay or should I go?

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Jul 06 2014
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Daily Life

Adventures in Blunderland

BlunderlandI am about to start the third week of my New Me regime, i.e. ELF (Eat Less, Fatty).

My lovely trainer has shown me some exercises to boot my metabolism out of its lengthy hibernation, and amazingly, it appears to be working.

Combined with snacking on Brazil nuts and sunflower seeds rather than Cheez-E-Puffs or Curly Wurlys, I am feeling a tad virtuous.

It hasn’t all been plain sailing though. I bought one of those resistance band thingies, with two (pink) handles. The trainer showed me some smart moves I could do at home. Easy, no? The plan was to sling the band round the pillar in my living room and use that as resistance, pulling away to tackle my burgeoning bingo-wings. 15 reps, rest, 15 reps, rest, 15 reps, rest.

Who said exercise was hard work? This would be a doddle. I could watch telly from the pillar, catching up with my favourite junk programmes, i.e. ‘I Wanna Marry Harry’. Fabulous time management and I duly gave myself a pat on the back.

First problem, pillar is actually quite large, so I ended up hugging the darned thing to wrap the band round it, just as The Teenager came downstairs, rolled his eyes and seeing me incapacitated, made a break for the fridge.

Right. handles sorted, move forward a bit and….I was off. Did my reps, felt a little bit of a ‘burn’, rested, started again. Meh. Adverts. I always fast forward, so I reached for the controller, trying to put both handles in one hand. Almost there……thwack. Couldn’t do it, the resistance band thingie flew backwards, one handle whacking me smack in the eye. The Teenager rolled his eyes and darted back upstairs.

I kicked the stupid band thingie around the floor a few times (it’s still exercise) and decided to try on my new sports bra instead. Well. Whoever invented this Medieval torture device deserves to be pelted with soggy rugby socks. I ended up with one arm stuck in the air and the other attached to my thigh. After struggling to free myself from the evil contraption for over five minutes (and bouncing over to the window to close the curtains), I flopped onto my bed, limp, weak and exhausted.

I will not be beaten by these sporting accessories, although my kettlebell is still being used as a doorstop after I dropped it into the cat’s food bowl by mistake. Fear not, she’s still with us – she wasn’t eating at the time. The ELF Challenge continues…

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Jun 14 2014
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Daily Life

My Life As A Half-Orphan

Father's DayDadExcuse the sensationalist title.

Tomorrow is Father’s Day, that one day in the year I dread/look forward to in equal measure.

My dad died a few months before my 5th birthday as a result of complications arising from his MS – the biggest complication being that he had MS in the 1970’s.

No MRI’s, no DMD’s. The first picture is of me at nursery before he died. That dress! And I still bite my lip.

Anyway, I first became aware of Father’s Day when the kindly folk at Social Services held a party for all us peeps who had lost a parent (careless). Being told at every juncture that this was for our benefit as we were poor, deprived children who couldn’t hope for much in life put paid to that and I left, humiliated and confused.

In primary school, I dreaded Father’s Day. We were told year in, year out, to draw our family. In Year 5, I drew my older brother standing on a rock, so he looked taller than the rest of us. If the teacher squinted, she could perhaps think he was my dad, as I placed him before my mum. I was embarrassed. Divorce was unusual, the death of a parent was non-existent.

In Year 6, I was called forward to the teacher’s desk on the first day of term and asked about my dad. Must have been a marked-point in the register. I replied (in front of the entire class) ‘Yes, he’s dead, can I go back to my seat now?’

Fast forward a good few years to my wedding day. A mixed blessing. I missed my dad. Fast forward some more years and I come to the whole MS palaver. I got his eyes, I got his MS. I hope I got his cheeky sense of humour too.

I’ve cobbled together tales I’ve learned about him – how he hung out tea-bags to dry on his sister’s washing line to wind her up in front of her neighbours, how he sat before a glass of water in a pub for so long, when people came up to him and asked him what he was doing, he told them he was waiting it to turn to wine. Gentle humour, but it makes me smile.

Now, I don’t feel so sad. He was 35 when he died, I’m now 40. He really does live on – in my son, with his cheeky grin and knowing look. I just wish he had the chance to meet his grandchild.

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Jun 01 2014
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Daily Life

Take An Old Bag Shopping…

shopping bagI do, honestly.

In Wales, you’re charged 5p for a flimsy slice of super-thin polythene (could be white or red/blue stripes), guaranteed to spill your groceries/loo-roll/hi-juice  or worse onto any pavement right outside the supermarket.

And not in a good rom-com kinda way, avocados and mangoes (of course) rolling artfully towards a hunky-chunky-monkey of a man, just ready to pick up your tumbling food and a lot more besides. Whay hey.

So I am a bag lady. ‘Wanna bag?’ is met with a smug , ‘Tch, brought my own, fumble, fumble, dontcha know.’ Carefully selected from the Orla Kiely range at Tesco and independent book-stalls in New York. Natch.

Anyway, I am armed and prepared for Serious Supermarket Shopping to subsidise my meagre Ocado order. I can’t resist a sneeky peek at the sensational offers I’m missing out on

Sad salads, miserable mince, tacky tacos and cheap cereals. Two for one on coffee. Buy one get one free on curry sauce. Eww. Snagging the last of the asparagus bundles, I head to the check-out.

And here is where the fun starts. My hands refuse to play ball. The check-out-meister whizzes through my shopping with obscene speed. Everything is flying everywhere. ‘Having a nice weekend?’ he asks, smirking, flinging my solitary can of beans westward, way beyond my reach.

I have long given up asking The Teenager to accompany me. Apparently he would rather wear a skirt to school than walk next to me, trolley trundling behind. When the price is barked at me, I take a step back, fumble with cash/card and finish packing. Picking up my cucumber from the floor as gracefully as I can.

This is why I shop on the internet. I have a succession of lovely men knocking my door, holding out parcels. Heaven. All I have to do is laugh off the jokes that my name is spookily similar to an American singer/actress. Never heard that one before, lol. Lol.

On a happier note, I have just cooked a rather marvelous chicken meal for Sunday dinner. The Teenager responded by telling me he would prefer to starve. A likely story. Apparently he would rather have a pie. Which we have had forever until he asked for a cooked chicken Sunday dinner.

It’s me. Isn’t it?

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