I often wonder why I started a blog when my life is so dull, but then Stig will do something epicly stupid or the kids will astound me with some new ingenius method of hellraising and ta-dah! I have new material. Unfortunately even they've been letting me down recently. It seems to be me who's causing all the trouble, but then when I think about it, I've always done a pretty good job of being stupid myself. Gerry used to call me a 'Cooking Falamity'.
My friend, Kelly, delights in my random unfortunate incidents. So much so that it has come to the point that when I perform one, I have to ring her immediately to tell her about it. A consequence of this is that even as these ridiculous things are happening to me, I can already see the funny side and imagine her squealing with delight and hurling well-deserved insults down the phone at me.
I could tell you about any of the numerous times that I have fallen down various stairs or tripped in public but they are the least embarrassing of my catalogue of fuck-ups. I once accidentally flung a carrot accross the aisle of Waitrose. I still have no idea how I did it, but it narrowly missed a young child. Then there was the time I was living in my first flat. It was around the time Gillette brought out the womens' shaving gel. I had only ever owned one can of this stuff before and the pump on it had been faulty. It took ages to squeeze out enough gel to shave one armpit.
So I was in Morrisons, carefully examining the canisters on the shelf before me to make sure that my next shaving experience wasn't going to be as painfully slow as those of the past few weeks. I removed the lid and sniffed at the top, smelt quite nice. Then I gently pushed the pump down to test if the stuff was actually going to come out of the can.
A narrow jet of blue-green shot about 3 meters out across the aisle. This was a slow motion incident. It travelled leisurely across the aisle and as I watched it, I thought what a pretty colour it was, then told myself off because I had just propelled shaving gel across a supermarket aisle and I was admiring the bloody colour. Bringing myself back to reality, I glanced ahead of the parabolic arch to judge its trajectory, only to spot a woman who was stood scrutinizing the toilet rolls. I considered running over and shoving her out of the goo's path, but figured not only was this a tad dramatic, but I'd never get to her in time. I wanted to call out but by now it was too late and I was scared to draw attention myself because the splattering was now inevitable. A silent prayer ended just in time for me to witness her getting hit in the side of her head by a turquoise blob.
Miraculously she didn't seem to have noticed. But then she lifted her hand to her hairline, dangerously close to the gunk, and scratched. The shiny green blob instantly transformed into a frothing white lather. Much to her husband's bewilderment, it expanded to fill most of the side of her head. I scuttled off to the furthest checkout I could find. As I walked back past the end of the aisle on my way out of the supermarket, I noticed that a small crowd gathered around them.
I thought it was just a natural part of growing up, feeling awkward and embarrassing yourself. There was a time when I thought I would grow out of it, and develop into a grounded young woman who was in control. Alas I was deluding myself; it turns out that this 'gift' a lifelong affliction.
I was blowing my nose recently. Not a difficult or complicated task, you would think. But still, I managed to yank my nose stud out with my tissue, and shove it right up my nostril in one swift motion. Kelly was overjoyed.
I used to have a pair of slobbing about trousers. They weren't particularly attractive. They had some kind of shoelace type material threaded around the bottom of each leg, but they were so comfy that I lived in them when I was in the house. So, I was wearing my slobbing about pants one day whilst farting about in the kitchen. I wanted toasties but the toastie maker was up on top of the kitchen wall cupboards. I'm a bit of a dwarf so staring up at the space between the top of the cupboards and the ceiling, from all the way down on the kitchen floor, presented an interesting challenge. I really am too overweight to be shuffling about on the kitchen worktops but nevertheless I heaved myself up above the washing machine, figuring if the worktop buckled, I would be supported by the washer.
The washing machine had one of those fake cupboard doors to match the rest of the kitchen (why do people feel the need to hide the fact that they actually wash their clothes?). As I fumbled about for the toastie maker on top of the dusty cupboard, I planned my descent. I knew my stumpy legs wouldn't reach the ground and I didn't want to risk jumping down with the added weight of the gizmo (never mind that it was 0.001% of my total bodyweight). I thought I could stick my foot in the indented bit of the washer door and use it to 'climb' down. I stood at the on the worktop and absentmindedly pushed the mock cupboard door open with my foot as I wrapped the wire around the toastie maker so I wouldn't get hit in the face with a flying plug. I was so prepared, I had thought of everything!
As I fell to the floor, again in slow motion, I couldn't understand what had gone wrong. Why weren't my legs below me? Why was my foot all that way up in the air? It was an agonising wait till I was to make contact with the tile floor. I fell silently through the air hoping that my vast arse wouldn't break any floor tiles, because then the humiliation really would be complete. I hit the floor, flew back against the cooker and almost knocked it through the wall and into our back yard. My initial thought was 'Kelly is going to love this'. As I lay on the floor with my head partially in the oven and one leg still flailing about in the air above me, I looked up and realised that the stupid shoelace thing in my trouser leg had got caught on the stupid fake cupboard door handle.
I had another incident with a kitchen cupboard. More door handles to be precise (brass ones of course, A-La-Stig). This time it all happened so quickly, unlike falling off a worktop or down the stairs. I was carrying a drink back from the kitchen. I walked past our weird cupboard-under-the-stairs thingy, when all of a sudden my drink went flying and I was aware of a very unusual feeling in my nether regions. It transpires that the door handle (being at waist height) had caught the side of my pants as I brushed past it. In seconds-from-disaster fashion, I was blissfully unaware that events had been set in motion and it was already too late for me. I forged ahead, oblivious, until the fabric reached its limit and twanged me back, causing my drink to fling itself across the room and my underwear to shoot violently up my arse. Kelly was in the house that day I thought she might actually have a stroke.
I type this as I lie here with a broken leg, a result of a clash between myself and the garden fence. Kelly babysat my kids while Stig took me to A and E, and predictably wet herself as I struggled to hobble to the car. I won't go into detail except to say that the fence won this time, and that a few karate lessons 18 years ago does not Bruce Lee make.
Beautiful Blogger Award
Thanks to l'Aussie for my Beautiful Blogger award
Tuesday 13 September 2011
Sunday 26 June 2011
New BBQ IQ Test
Let me explain...
Stig is the driver in our family as I'm beyond crap at driving and gave up trying to learn after having spent a small fortune on 3 different driving instructors, who all concluded that I was pretty much unteachable. Hence, if we need bits of top up shopping though the week, Stig normally goes and gets it to avoid all seven of us having to go on a family expedition to Asda.
Stig has a very specific deficiency when it comes to reading shopping lists. If I put 'Special K' on a shopping list, I'll get 'Special K Red Berries', if I put 'Beans', I'll get 'beans', but with little mini sausages and potentially a whole load of other non-descript crud in them. This is kind of thing I'm used to by now.
I write a shopping list. It lists all the ingredients needed to feed us for several days. He returns with the sacred Netto carrier bags. For those of you who have never lowered yourselves to shop in Netto (I'm not proud), their bags are made from thick, shiny, black plastic. There's not a sniff of a clue as to what I'm getting until I expectantly tip out a Netto carrier bag, and I am greeted by a plethora of random, inedible shite which, bizarrely, won't even equate to one decent meal. I am Ainsley Harriot, starring in some king of twisted version of Can't Cook, Won't Cook. It's my own personal living hell.
Stig was once caught in the tins aisle, sticking two fingers up at Morrison's value chopped tomatoes because he couldn't find the tomato soup which was on the list. My answer to his slap-dash approach to shopping is to write very specific shopping lists; eg 'Bisto original Gravy Granules. RED TUB!'. For this I have endured much piss-taking over the years, but it's the only way to improve the odds of Stig coming back from the supermarket with anything resembling what is actually on the list.
Today we decided we're having a BBQ. I wrote a small list of some extras we need such as milk, bread etc. I put '4 Warbutons Bread Rolls' on the list. Now, I realise how that reads, but given the recent piss taking of my overly elaborate shopping lists, I didn't want to overdo it. Plus, given the fact that when shopping in Netto, these are the only bread rolls we ever buy, and the fact that we had 15 people to feed, I foolishly presumed that it was obvious that more than four bread rolls were required. With hindsight I clearly should have specified the word 'packs' because Stig, the ever-reliable UFB came back with 4 single bread rolls... to feed 15 people.
I mean does he think this like feeding the five thousand with a bucket of fish? I'm not bad at catering for large groups of people at short notice, but gimme a break, even I can't be expected to do it with a quarter of a burger each!
So, muttering to himself, and chuntering at me under his breath, he begrudgingly went back to the shop for more rolls. He came back with ONE pack of 12 rolls. So we're up to one burger each now, whoop-de-do!
It is amazing to me that I had to go back to the shop with him, Spar this time as he was too embarrassed to show his face in Netto for a third time. He was now catatonic; ranting like a mad man about my lack of clarity when it comes to fresh bakery produce.
This is the ultimate test of the uselessness of a man, ask him how many bread rolls one needs at a BBQ for 15 people. Simple, yet very revealing. My man failed miserably and finally sealed for all time, his much deserved title of world's most inept shopper ever to have set foot in Netto (and that's not easy done folks). Congratulations my darling Stig, you've finally done it! :p
Stig is the driver in our family as I'm beyond crap at driving and gave up trying to learn after having spent a small fortune on 3 different driving instructors, who all concluded that I was pretty much unteachable. Hence, if we need bits of top up shopping though the week, Stig normally goes and gets it to avoid all seven of us having to go on a family expedition to Asda.
Stig has a very specific deficiency when it comes to reading shopping lists. If I put 'Special K' on a shopping list, I'll get 'Special K Red Berries', if I put 'Beans', I'll get 'beans', but with little mini sausages and potentially a whole load of other non-descript crud in them. This is kind of thing I'm used to by now.
I write a shopping list. It lists all the ingredients needed to feed us for several days. He returns with the sacred Netto carrier bags. For those of you who have never lowered yourselves to shop in Netto (I'm not proud), their bags are made from thick, shiny, black plastic. There's not a sniff of a clue as to what I'm getting until I expectantly tip out a Netto carrier bag, and I am greeted by a plethora of random, inedible shite which, bizarrely, won't even equate to one decent meal. I am Ainsley Harriot, starring in some king of twisted version of Can't Cook, Won't Cook. It's my own personal living hell.
Stig was once caught in the tins aisle, sticking two fingers up at Morrison's value chopped tomatoes because he couldn't find the tomato soup which was on the list. My answer to his slap-dash approach to shopping is to write very specific shopping lists; eg 'Bisto original Gravy Granules. RED TUB!'. For this I have endured much piss-taking over the years, but it's the only way to improve the odds of Stig coming back from the supermarket with anything resembling what is actually on the list.
Today we decided we're having a BBQ. I wrote a small list of some extras we need such as milk, bread etc. I put '4 Warbutons Bread Rolls' on the list. Now, I realise how that reads, but given the recent piss taking of my overly elaborate shopping lists, I didn't want to overdo it. Plus, given the fact that when shopping in Netto, these are the only bread rolls we ever buy, and the fact that we had 15 people to feed, I foolishly presumed that it was obvious that more than four bread rolls were required. With hindsight I clearly should have specified the word 'packs' because Stig, the ever-reliable UFB came back with 4 single bread rolls... to feed 15 people.
I mean does he think this like feeding the five thousand with a bucket of fish? I'm not bad at catering for large groups of people at short notice, but gimme a break, even I can't be expected to do it with a quarter of a burger each!
So, muttering to himself, and chuntering at me under his breath, he begrudgingly went back to the shop for more rolls. He came back with ONE pack of 12 rolls. So we're up to one burger each now, whoop-de-do!
It is amazing to me that I had to go back to the shop with him, Spar this time as he was too embarrassed to show his face in Netto for a third time. He was now catatonic; ranting like a mad man about my lack of clarity when it comes to fresh bakery produce.
This is the ultimate test of the uselessness of a man, ask him how many bread rolls one needs at a BBQ for 15 people. Simple, yet very revealing. My man failed miserably and finally sealed for all time, his much deserved title of world's most inept shopper ever to have set foot in Netto (and that's not easy done folks). Congratulations my darling Stig, you've finally done it! :p
Saturday 25 June 2011
My Friend Gerry Ryan
How can I describe to you my friend Gerry? I've known him half my life. There’s so much of Gerry that I could tell you about, that whatever I say could never do him justice.
Gerry has been so many things to me, the word ‘friend’ just doesn’t cover it. Very few people understood the relationship Gerry and I had. I met him when I was 16 and he was in his early sixties. We were regular fixtures down our local pub, and nightclubs for that matter. He revelled in the attention we'd attract, and the speculation over what a sixty-something man was doing in a nightclub with a load of teenagers. He was my best friend and watched me go from one teenage catastrophe to another without ever saying “I told you so". He'd let me make my own mistakes and be there to pick up the pieces when things inevitably blew up in my face. People often expect you be something you’re not in life, but Gerry didn’t think like that. He accepted people, and he either liked you, or he didn’t.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Champion ditherer and mischief maker, impatient, loyal, generous, and waging a constant battle against his own eyebrows. Master of the perfect egg and chips and falling magnificently when drunk.
There was once an incident at Loch Ness involving a bright yellow JCB, which was parked up for the night next to Urquhart Castle. It had been left with its lights on and was the only thing visible for miles in the darkness, but the dozy old sod still managed to fall over it and land in the bucket, pissing himself laughing and rubbing his sore backside.
There was a notorious summer when he fell asleep on his side in the sun, sustaining one burnt arm, one burnt leg and one burnt butt cheek. One half of him was a deep crimson and the other drip white, separated by a clear line that ran neatly down the centre of his face.
We used to drive out into the countryside in the summer. We’d put music on loud and I’d stick my feet out of the passenger window and we’d drive for miles. His hair would fly out of the open windows as we drove along and he never failed to trap it when he closed the sunroof, not realising this until he tried to get out of the car, and finding that he was stuck there. At which point he normally hurled abuse at himself in the form of “Bloody fool Ryan!”
He hasn't quite been the old Gerry I know and love over the past few years but he was still my friend and so much more than that. His mischievous side now manifested itself in the form of getting thrown out of shops for being rude to people, blaming everyone else, and his own car, for his now terrible driving and barging old ladies trolleys out of the way in Morrisons. He felt it was his right and privilege to be cantankerous in his old age, and he took full advantage of it.
Gerry died on the 7th June 2011, aged 76, with me at his side and his son and girlfriend, who are also my best friends in the world. We may not have been the most conventional of units but we are a family in our own way. We watched the paramedics drag Gerry out of his flat and work on him relentlessly all the way to the hospital, but we knew he had gone. He had phoned his son for help that morning and hung on just long enough for us to get there. In the chaos and panic and in his weak state, he managed to look each of us in the eye before he slipped away.
We said goodbye to him as he would have wanted, with a wreath that was a pint of beer, playing Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks and Imagine by John Lennon, acknowledging his scouser routes, and the final insult as the curtains closed around his coffin was Always Look on the Bright Side of Life by The Monty Python team, just as he'd always requested. A few nights later in the early hours, I took his wreath down to the beach, set fire to it and pushed it out into Gerry's beloved Morecambe Bay, which is where his ashes will be scattered.
I don’t know how my life would have turned out if it hadn’t been for Gerry. He brought so much wisdom and fun and mischief into my life and he understood me probably better than anyone back then. I still can't quite believe he's gone. He was one in a million and there’ll never be another like him, some would say that’s probably a good thing!
I love you Gerry, and I’ll miss you so much my old friend. Rest in peace x x x
Gerry has been so many things to me, the word ‘friend’ just doesn’t cover it. Very few people understood the relationship Gerry and I had. I met him when I was 16 and he was in his early sixties. We were regular fixtures down our local pub, and nightclubs for that matter. He revelled in the attention we'd attract, and the speculation over what a sixty-something man was doing in a nightclub with a load of teenagers. He was my best friend and watched me go from one teenage catastrophe to another without ever saying “I told you so". He'd let me make my own mistakes and be there to pick up the pieces when things inevitably blew up in my face. People often expect you be something you’re not in life, but Gerry didn’t think like that. He accepted people, and he either liked you, or he didn’t.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Champion ditherer and mischief maker, impatient, loyal, generous, and waging a constant battle against his own eyebrows. Master of the perfect egg and chips and falling magnificently when drunk.
There was once an incident at Loch Ness involving a bright yellow JCB, which was parked up for the night next to Urquhart Castle. It had been left with its lights on and was the only thing visible for miles in the darkness, but the dozy old sod still managed to fall over it and land in the bucket, pissing himself laughing and rubbing his sore backside.
There was a notorious summer when he fell asleep on his side in the sun, sustaining one burnt arm, one burnt leg and one burnt butt cheek. One half of him was a deep crimson and the other drip white, separated by a clear line that ran neatly down the centre of his face.
We used to drive out into the countryside in the summer. We’d put music on loud and I’d stick my feet out of the passenger window and we’d drive for miles. His hair would fly out of the open windows as we drove along and he never failed to trap it when he closed the sunroof, not realising this until he tried to get out of the car, and finding that he was stuck there. At which point he normally hurled abuse at himself in the form of “Bloody fool Ryan!”
He hasn't quite been the old Gerry I know and love over the past few years but he was still my friend and so much more than that. His mischievous side now manifested itself in the form of getting thrown out of shops for being rude to people, blaming everyone else, and his own car, for his now terrible driving and barging old ladies trolleys out of the way in Morrisons. He felt it was his right and privilege to be cantankerous in his old age, and he took full advantage of it.
Gerry died on the 7th June 2011, aged 76, with me at his side and his son and girlfriend, who are also my best friends in the world. We may not have been the most conventional of units but we are a family in our own way. We watched the paramedics drag Gerry out of his flat and work on him relentlessly all the way to the hospital, but we knew he had gone. He had phoned his son for help that morning and hung on just long enough for us to get there. In the chaos and panic and in his weak state, he managed to look each of us in the eye before he slipped away.
We said goodbye to him as he would have wanted, with a wreath that was a pint of beer, playing Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks and Imagine by John Lennon, acknowledging his scouser routes, and the final insult as the curtains closed around his coffin was Always Look on the Bright Side of Life by The Monty Python team, just as he'd always requested. A few nights later in the early hours, I took his wreath down to the beach, set fire to it and pushed it out into Gerry's beloved Morecambe Bay, which is where his ashes will be scattered.
I don’t know how my life would have turned out if it hadn’t been for Gerry. He brought so much wisdom and fun and mischief into my life and he understood me probably better than anyone back then. I still can't quite believe he's gone. He was one in a million and there’ll never be another like him, some would say that’s probably a good thing!
I love you Gerry, and I’ll miss you so much my old friend. Rest in peace x x x
Musical Beds
When I went to bed the other night, everyone was where they should be, kids all tucked up asleep. Stig was watching TV and said he’d be in shortly. I fell asleep in a house of calm, quiet order.
When I awoke at 4am though, the living room TV was blaring. As I tried to focus my eyes I realised that it wasn’t Stig who was lying next to me, but Charlie. Further investigation (stumbling around the house trying to locate my husband) revealed that Stig was asleep on Charlie’s bed and Sam and Nicki were asleep on the living room sofas with the TV on full blast.
This is not unusual in Hayes house. I love my bed and for the life of me cannot fathom why kids would rather sleep in the most uncomfortable of places, covered in nothing but a threadbare throw rung, freezing cold, than in their comfy warm beds. What possesses someone, when they wake up at 3am, to think, ‘I know, I’ll leave this dimly lit haven, wonder downstairs and catch the latest episode of the shopping channel’??? And why turn it up loud? I am waiting for them to start dreaming about cheap replica jewellery or the latest exercise gizmo.
We’ve tried all sorts, they all have bedding in their favourite colours; in Jamie and Nicki’s case this is red and pink respectively, so their bedroom, worryingly, is slightly reminiscent of a cheap brothel, complete with a reddish glow as their light shade and Nicki’s bedside lamp are a deep pink. They all have character bedding, Sam has Disney cars, rockets and Mario plastered everywhere. Charlie (much to Sam’s indignence as they also share a room) has In the Night Garden, Thomas the Tank and Tweenies bedding and stuffed toys everywhere. I’m beginning to feel like I’m being stalked by Iggle bloody Piggle, because not content to keep the entire population of the night garden in his room, Charlie leaves effigies of him all over the damn house.
Years ago I would scurry around in the wee hours, re-depositing small children in varying states of consciousness into their own beds. But having four smallish children it just became farcical. So now they get left where they are with a spare duvet chucked over them if they’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter where we sleep as long as we do actually manage to get a decent night’s kip!
When I awoke at 4am though, the living room TV was blaring. As I tried to focus my eyes I realised that it wasn’t Stig who was lying next to me, but Charlie. Further investigation (stumbling around the house trying to locate my husband) revealed that Stig was asleep on Charlie’s bed and Sam and Nicki were asleep on the living room sofas with the TV on full blast.
This is not unusual in Hayes house. I love my bed and for the life of me cannot fathom why kids would rather sleep in the most uncomfortable of places, covered in nothing but a threadbare throw rung, freezing cold, than in their comfy warm beds. What possesses someone, when they wake up at 3am, to think, ‘I know, I’ll leave this dimly lit haven, wonder downstairs and catch the latest episode of the shopping channel’??? And why turn it up loud? I am waiting for them to start dreaming about cheap replica jewellery or the latest exercise gizmo.
We’ve tried all sorts, they all have bedding in their favourite colours; in Jamie and Nicki’s case this is red and pink respectively, so their bedroom, worryingly, is slightly reminiscent of a cheap brothel, complete with a reddish glow as their light shade and Nicki’s bedside lamp are a deep pink. They all have character bedding, Sam has Disney cars, rockets and Mario plastered everywhere. Charlie (much to Sam’s indignence as they also share a room) has In the Night Garden, Thomas the Tank and Tweenies bedding and stuffed toys everywhere. I’m beginning to feel like I’m being stalked by Iggle bloody Piggle, because not content to keep the entire population of the night garden in his room, Charlie leaves effigies of him all over the damn house.
Years ago I would scurry around in the wee hours, re-depositing small children in varying states of consciousness into their own beds. But having four smallish children it just became farcical. So now they get left where they are with a spare duvet chucked over them if they’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter where we sleep as long as we do actually manage to get a decent night’s kip!
Monday 14 March 2011
Spring is coming! At least it better be because I think we all need a bit of light, warmth and sunshine. Since last spring I have acquired several wrinkles, the odd new grey hair (nothing that Wella can't cure), yet more body mass (Weight Watchers and I are currently negotiating an agreement on how to eradicate this) and several more members of the extended Hayes clan.
The grey hairs and body weight, I won't bore you with. As for the rest; where to begin...
Several years ago when Stig a scrawny 18-year-old he was in a relationship which produced an unexpected pregnancy. Unfortunately this relationship ended before the baby arrived. A little girl was born but some weeks later her young mum was struggling to cope and so she took the decision to have the baby adopted. Stig fought to be awarded custody of his daughter, but it was decided by the powers that be that a young, single, working Dad with no family support could not provide a suitable environment in which to raise a child, and his baby girl was taken away.
That was almost twenty years ago. Stig tried several times over the years to register himself available for contact in the hope that when his daughter reached adulthood she may try to contact him. It turns out that although the Adoption Contact Register is a wonderful thing, it's no substitute for Facebook. We received a strange message from an unknown woman who asked where he was from and how old he was. We should have twigged instantly but the name was unfamiliar so we didn't pay attention to the age of the mysterious contact. It was only when one of the messages mentioned that they were looking for people who knew Stig's old girlfriend that we began to get excited. It was her.
There followed several rushed messages, then long chats via instant messaging. She had been living 3 miles away from us all these years. We could have walked past her in the street many, many times. Sure enough a fortnight or so later her younger sister came across her in a shop in town. It seemed she and Stig were destined to meet. Tentatively the arrangements were made. Stig and I were to meet her and her adopted mum (who has been incredibly supportive throughout) for lunch. Stig barely slept the night before. He was a mass of nerves and excitement. I was the calm one, following him around the house the next morning with words of reassurance as he flapped and worried and shook with nerves. He didn't know what to with himself, if it had been up to him we would have arrived for lunch two hours early. As it was we arrived half an hour early and I tried to keep him calm as we took our seats at our table.
As they walked through the door of the restaurant though, it was me who's face crumpled the instant I saw her. I felt like such a idiot and was almost relieved when I composed myself enough to look up, and saw that she had tears streaming down her face too. Seeing them share that first embrace was just magic. There wasn't a dry eye between the four of us, it was the most emotional experience.
There have been several afternoons spent together since and, I hope, there will be many more. She has met her half brothers and sisters, they are all like mini clones of each other, it's beyond uncanny. She has a lovely boyfriend and a young son, who looks just like a mixture of Charlie and Sam at that age. Stig often grins that he found out he is a 'grandad' via Facebook. The whole thing has been the most surreal experience but the best feeling.
So the Hayes clan continues to expand it seems. We have often thought of her and have hoped this day would come for so many years. It feels almost like things are complete, but he has been told in no uncertain terms that if any more mini-Stigs appear on our doorstep, I'll need a considerably better equipped kitchen with a bigger oven!
The grey hairs and body weight, I won't bore you with. As for the rest; where to begin...
Several years ago when Stig a scrawny 18-year-old he was in a relationship which produced an unexpected pregnancy. Unfortunately this relationship ended before the baby arrived. A little girl was born but some weeks later her young mum was struggling to cope and so she took the decision to have the baby adopted. Stig fought to be awarded custody of his daughter, but it was decided by the powers that be that a young, single, working Dad with no family support could not provide a suitable environment in which to raise a child, and his baby girl was taken away.
That was almost twenty years ago. Stig tried several times over the years to register himself available for contact in the hope that when his daughter reached adulthood she may try to contact him. It turns out that although the Adoption Contact Register is a wonderful thing, it's no substitute for Facebook. We received a strange message from an unknown woman who asked where he was from and how old he was. We should have twigged instantly but the name was unfamiliar so we didn't pay attention to the age of the mysterious contact. It was only when one of the messages mentioned that they were looking for people who knew Stig's old girlfriend that we began to get excited. It was her.
There followed several rushed messages, then long chats via instant messaging. She had been living 3 miles away from us all these years. We could have walked past her in the street many, many times. Sure enough a fortnight or so later her younger sister came across her in a shop in town. It seemed she and Stig were destined to meet. Tentatively the arrangements were made. Stig and I were to meet her and her adopted mum (who has been incredibly supportive throughout) for lunch. Stig barely slept the night before. He was a mass of nerves and excitement. I was the calm one, following him around the house the next morning with words of reassurance as he flapped and worried and shook with nerves. He didn't know what to with himself, if it had been up to him we would have arrived for lunch two hours early. As it was we arrived half an hour early and I tried to keep him calm as we took our seats at our table.
As they walked through the door of the restaurant though, it was me who's face crumpled the instant I saw her. I felt like such a idiot and was almost relieved when I composed myself enough to look up, and saw that she had tears streaming down her face too. Seeing them share that first embrace was just magic. There wasn't a dry eye between the four of us, it was the most emotional experience.
There have been several afternoons spent together since and, I hope, there will be many more. She has met her half brothers and sisters, they are all like mini clones of each other, it's beyond uncanny. She has a lovely boyfriend and a young son, who looks just like a mixture of Charlie and Sam at that age. Stig often grins that he found out he is a 'grandad' via Facebook. The whole thing has been the most surreal experience but the best feeling.
So the Hayes clan continues to expand it seems. We have often thought of her and have hoped this day would come for so many years. It feels almost like things are complete, but he has been told in no uncertain terms that if any more mini-Stigs appear on our doorstep, I'll need a considerably better equipped kitchen with a bigger oven!
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