Archive for April, 2010


Thursday, April 29th, 2010

I am seeing it too often. That’s all.

Once, Twice, Three Times a Tw….

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

(warning: I may swear)
Got woken up with a phone call at 6.30 from Beardieboy, sounding concerned. He’d gone outside at 6am and could smell gas strongly. He called the gas board who said don’t switch lights on and they’d be there within the hour. I was confused but I got up and stumbled into some clothes, found conveniently in my floor wardrobe and I looked in the mirror thinking ‘oh shit’. I needed to wash my hair.

My mind, faced with such an important challenge, immediately started to process all the information. I couldn’t use gas if there was a gas leak could I? But then, there is a flame lit constantly in the boiler. I went round the house searching for the smell of gas. Nope. I went outside the front door. Nope. I phoned Beardieboy and called him a twat.

I got back in and suddenly thought, not only is he a twat he’s a murdering twat. Not only did he make a mistake but he, thinking he could smell gas, pissed off to work leaving his family potentially unconscious in their beds. Then, for good measure, he phoned me, not thinking that the first thing I’d do would be to turn my bedside light on to find my phone. See. Murderous twat.

Sorry, just needed to say.

I washed my hair, switched all the lights on, sort of out of spite. I got everybody out of bed and started breakfast. The beautiful au pair came down to tell me the gas man was outside. I went out to apologise for wasting his time, only to find him pacing around excitedly.
‘Ohhh yes, I can smell it strongly. Strongly!’ pace, pace. Bollocks, Beardieboy was right. Still, that definitely makes him a murdering tw…well you get the drift.

The excited gas man obviously hadn’t had a good leak in ages. He had to come and check in my house, which thankfully was fine (and quite tidy for a change) and went back outside to stand guard by the leak till the men with diggers came. Well, not stand so much as bob about nervously.

I phoned Beardieboy to tell him he was right all along. He was smug. Smug twat.

Snip Snip

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

So there I was, sitting in my very uncomfortable office chair thinking about whether to apply for another job, again. In the middle of a difficult decision about coffee or hot chocolate with my mid morning toast I had a phone call from home. I almost never get phone calls from home, mostly because the kids are usually in school, the au pair likes the gym and the dogs, as clever as they are at opening bins, cannot yet use a phone.

Sobbing greeted my ear followed by a very distressed message from my eldest daughter telling me that my youngest daughter, aged 5, had decided to restyle her hair completely, with scissors.

Me: is it bad?

Her: very bad

Me: will I be upset?

Her: I’m upset for you

Me: send photos

A very long 30 seconds pass.

The phone vibrates

the vision of a child's hair after a creative moment with scissors

I Cutted My Hair

(please notice how long it *was*)

I texted back: send me a picture of the front.

30 more tortured seconds gazing in disbelief at the first picture were interrupted by another vibration.

solemn child with terrible self-cut hair

I'm Sorry

(check out the tuft of micro-fringe that no longer hides the solemn expanse of forehead)

I took a deep breath, made a phone call and texted back: meet me at the hairdressers at 5pm

My colleague was almost on her knees in a puddle of unrestrained laughter and piss, obviously entirely at my expense. Thanks chum. I was on the edge of sobbing when I suddenly realised I had to tell Beardieboy. I went over the edge and sobbed. Then, being the woman that I am I made the decision: coffee. I drank the coffee and made another call. Beardieboy answered sounding like he was on top of the world. Poor sod. He went from hyper-happy to utterly appalled in a  matter of seconds. Poor sod. His beautiful child mangled by a misadventure with some kitchen scissors. I refused to send photos and said I’d sort it. I had a plan, it would work. If it didn’t work, in my mind I planned a Stephanie style pink wig. ‘It’s a fun wig, you’ll have fun in it, your friends will think you’re a hoot’.

5 O’clock arrives. The hairdresser took a very deep breath and on at least three occasions put her scissors down and walked away to compose herself. Every time she thought she’d solved it she discovered another hack or tuft and yet more had to come off to blend it in. Meanwhile I sat there rubbing my face like a neurotic. The salon manager came to the rescue with yet more coffee. The coffee helped me, and training evidently helped the hairdresser. She toiled for 20 hard minutes before giving me a brief lesson on styling to hide bald patches. Now I wouldn’t like you to get too close and study this for tufts but with a bit of hairspray this will work. She even has a bit of Parisian chic going on.

A relieved child after a professional snipper has rescued her do

Post Haircut Haircut

A handful of disney hairclips and everyone will think we’ve gone for something radical for spring.  Our house is now sleeping beauty but with scissors not spinning wheels. We ceremonially collected all the offending articles up and we’re locking them in the west tower until she’s old enough to know better and if she still decides to screw up a perfectly good haircut at that stage then good luck to her.


Tuesday, April 13th, 2010

Beardieboy has an ego as fragile as a spring  jonquil. he used to vie for gigs with the opening line ‘Put us on the bill with anyone, we’ll blow them out of the water’. He believed it and generally that’s exactly what they did. A lot of spit, blood and water (and the odd shopping trolley) have passed under the bridge since then and neither of us have performed in any project for six years. Well, that’s not strictly true. We’ve both sung at funerals but let’s not go there.

bearded man plays guitar swearing under his breath at photographer

Beardieboy. Yes, he really does have a beard.

About 11 months ago we decided to have a go at a project together. We settled on the name Less for Murder and started writing songs. We started really well. *started*really well.  Life does its thing and we’ve sputtered along.  The biggest issues has been perfectionism. Beardieboy desperately wants it to be perfect, and who can blame him. Perfection has a high price, to achieve it you usually have to set aside many other things. Having been a single parent for many years though I do recognise that best is perfect when perfect itself is unobtainable. I’ve cajoled, tickled, begged, shouted, begged some more and finally he’s submitted and we’re going to do a short slot at the end of May, it’s not a full gig, it’s not an open mic, it’s somewhere in between.

He’s still very nervous and I don’t want to make a big deal but I’ve very fucking excited indeed. I haven’t sung a song of my own in front of a crowd of people since I was 5 months pregnant with this.

a small child with a unique sense of style

She chose all her own clothes. Honest.

We haven’t had any photos taken, still have a list of songs as long as your arm to work on and I still can’t tie him down to recording anything, but that’ll come in time. He’s more amazing than he knows. Me, I know how bloody fabulous I am 🙂

Giving up Nick Owen. And Cake.

Tuesday, April 13th, 2010

I haven’t been as big a blogger as I thought I’d be. I think I spend far too much time working, or something. Actually, the honest truth is I’ve spent a huge amount of energy recently avoiding doing three overdue essays for my counselling course. They aren’t long essays and the amount brain power required to actively avoid doing these essays directly corrolates to the amount of brain power required to complete them.  Maybe I should just do them. Oh my christ, what kind of tie does Nick Owen have on? It looks like it’s made out of luminous crepe paper vomit. How chic! His vomit-tie completely overshadows everything else on the screen, including his face, which is going some when you have a face like a congenial bag of spanners.

Sorry, I got distracted there. See. See how it happens? I start thinking about essays and suddenly the likes of Nick Owen and his tie come along and divert my attention.

Cakes. Cakes also have the same affect as Nick Owen. Distracting. You know, which one should I have? Why chose? Why not have them all? Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have all of them, maybe I should show restraint. Sod constraint, I like cake. See, I get all confused.

So I’ve come to the decision that I’m going to give up cakes and Nick Owen, till the end of July, when my course finishes. This would be a sort of post-Lentern abstention. I always was a little rebel. Me, giving up Nick Owen at the age of ….oh the numbers on my keyboard aren’t working. Technical hitch.

Easter Bonnet. Fail.

Thursday, April 1st, 2010

Arseface. I took a half day off work to go to my daughter’s Easter Bonnet parade, took my beautiful au pair to lunch first and arrived at school only to discover that reception class were not joining in. What? WTF? They’re five!! Five is the perfect age to make and wear an incredibly stupid and pointless hat and laugh at your mates. My poor baby was the only child in her class wearing an incredibly stupid and pointless hat. When I arrived she looked mortified, and I felt accused of child abuse. To placate her we were allowed to leave early, which is a good job because it’s awfully hot in those schools when you’re embarrassed to high hell.