1. What's going on in here?
2. Where is your other sock / shoe / glove?
3. Stop running through the kitchen!
4. Where is your brother?
5. STIIIIIG!
6. Why have you drawn on the wall / your face / your sister?
7. Please use the toilet.
8. Get down from there!
9. What have you got in your mouth?
10. QUIT IT!
11. Get off your brother / the worktop / the garage roof.
12. What do you mean he's in the ditch?
13. How many times have I asked you to stay out of your sister's room?
14. IN or OUT, one or the other...
15. Is your room tidy?
16. That's it, I'm leaving home.
17. You can go when you've eaten some salad / vegetables / anything green
18. No skating in the house!
19. Is it bedtime yet?
20. 3 bottles of wine please...
Beautiful Blogger Award
Thanks to l'Aussie for my Beautiful Blogger award
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Meh!
Charlie is 4 years old now and has been out of nappies for a couple of years. The first year or so was bliss, the first time in twelve years that I didn't have a child in nappies. Then for some unexplained reason, he just started weeing himself. He's STILL doing it! He's perfectly capable of going to the toilet when he needs it, there's nothing medically wrong with him, he's dry at night and doesn't wet himself at nursery. He basically just can't be arsed to go to the loo if he's doing something more interesting. We have sticker charts and reward systems. I've tried to explain to him that he'll smell of wee if he doesn't stop doing it, not to mention the health implications, no avail. I've even had him helping me with the washing, putting his pissy pants in the machine etc, but he thinks it's marvelous and can't begin to imagine what my problem is. I know that this is a phase, and that making a big deal out of it probably won't help; blah, blah, but really, what is it with my children random acts of deviant toilet behaviour?
When Jamie was about 2 years old, potty training was in full swing and she was doing brilliantly. She was even dry at night, which I had been thoroughly impressed with. We were going on an outing to the park. This was to be the first outing without pull-ups that would last longer than a quick trip to the local shop. Jamie was totally prepared for this endeavour, she was a big girl now. We discussed it and I had told her; "Just tell Mummy if you need a wee, and we'll go behind a tree or something." This was in the days before I had learned that what is required with Jamie, are specifics.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. I had asked Jamie regularly if she needed to 'go' but she had been fine. We were strolling back through the park and I was chatting to Nicki who was gurgling at me from her pram. I looked up just in time to see jamie dissapear round a tree. I was about to investigate when she reappeared beaming from ear-to-ear, soaked. She'd gone 'behind a tree', stood there and pissed herself. More fool me for leaving out the bit about dropping her knickers.
Nicki struggled to be dry at night for years. It was a combination of things according to the proffessionals. There is apparently a hormone that should kick in around the age of 2-3 which stops the body from producing excess amounts of urine at night. We were told that it is quite common for this hormone to be a bit late in doing its job. This coupled with the fact that Nicki was such a deep sleeper, meant that we were still in persuit of elusive dry nights until she was 6 years old.
When it appeared that she might be 'ready' to tackle this problem, we were given an alarm. It is a good job that we have a sense of humour in this house because the whole thing was beyond farcicle. Every night we wired her up before bed. She had to wear two pairs of underwear under her pyjamas and put the 'sensor' between the two layers. One drop of moisure and the alarm was triggered. Of course the aim of this was to get her into the habit of waking up when she needed a wee, but what it in fact did was wake every other member of the household up except Nicki. This usually resulted in one of us carrying an unconcious, bleeping child through the house to the bathroom and holding her upright while she used the loo.
Having put the children to bed one evening, Stig and I were sat playing cards, when a bewildered Jamie appeared.
"Mummy, Nicki has just walked into my bedroom and weed on the floor. I've tried to talk to her but she isn't responding".
As we ascended the stairs we could hear the shrill beeping of the alarm. It transpired that Nicki had progressed to sleepwalking when she needed the loo. Unfortunately her tired little mind had directed her to the closest possible room instead of the actual bathroom, and she walked into Jamie's room, dropped her two pairs of knickers as far as the alarm wires would allow, and pissed on the floor. We found her squatting in the middle of jamies new pink, fluffy rug in a perfectly round puddle of pee.
When Jamie was about 2 years old, potty training was in full swing and she was doing brilliantly. She was even dry at night, which I had been thoroughly impressed with. We were going on an outing to the park. This was to be the first outing without pull-ups that would last longer than a quick trip to the local shop. Jamie was totally prepared for this endeavour, she was a big girl now. We discussed it and I had told her; "Just tell Mummy if you need a wee, and we'll go behind a tree or something." This was in the days before I had learned that what is required with Jamie, are specifics.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. I had asked Jamie regularly if she needed to 'go' but she had been fine. We were strolling back through the park and I was chatting to Nicki who was gurgling at me from her pram. I looked up just in time to see jamie dissapear round a tree. I was about to investigate when she reappeared beaming from ear-to-ear, soaked. She'd gone 'behind a tree', stood there and pissed herself. More fool me for leaving out the bit about dropping her knickers.
Nicki struggled to be dry at night for years. It was a combination of things according to the proffessionals. There is apparently a hormone that should kick in around the age of 2-3 which stops the body from producing excess amounts of urine at night. We were told that it is quite common for this hormone to be a bit late in doing its job. This coupled with the fact that Nicki was such a deep sleeper, meant that we were still in persuit of elusive dry nights until she was 6 years old.
When it appeared that she might be 'ready' to tackle this problem, we were given an alarm. It is a good job that we have a sense of humour in this house because the whole thing was beyond farcicle. Every night we wired her up before bed. She had to wear two pairs of underwear under her pyjamas and put the 'sensor' between the two layers. One drop of moisure and the alarm was triggered. Of course the aim of this was to get her into the habit of waking up when she needed a wee, but what it in fact did was wake every other member of the household up except Nicki. This usually resulted in one of us carrying an unconcious, bleeping child through the house to the bathroom and holding her upright while she used the loo.
Having put the children to bed one evening, Stig and I were sat playing cards, when a bewildered Jamie appeared.
"Mummy, Nicki has just walked into my bedroom and weed on the floor. I've tried to talk to her but she isn't responding".
As we ascended the stairs we could hear the shrill beeping of the alarm. It transpired that Nicki had progressed to sleepwalking when she needed the loo. Unfortunately her tired little mind had directed her to the closest possible room instead of the actual bathroom, and she walked into Jamie's room, dropped her two pairs of knickers as far as the alarm wires would allow, and pissed on the floor. We found her squatting in the middle of jamies new pink, fluffy rug in a perfectly round puddle of pee.
Domestic espionage
It's 9pm on a school night and Sam has been in bed for half an hour or so. He's fighting sleep so that in the morning he can claim that we put him to bed too early and that he didn't get to sleep for 'Aaaaages'. He's just about to be overcome by sleep when Nicki appears in his bedroom doorway, supposedly on her way to bed, clipboard and pen in hand.
"Name" she demands.
"Errr, Sam" he answers, sitting up on his top bunk and rubbing his eyes.
Nicki's pen stops dead on her makeshift clipboard and she rolls her eyes.
"FULL name" demands an exasperated Nicki, she's clearly dealing with the biggest imbecile she's ever come across.
"Samuel Hayes" He answers, rather pleased with himself.
"Gender?"
"Uuh?" the self-satisfaction is replaced with confusion in an instant.
"Boy or girl?"
"Oh, boy"
"Siblings... Brothers and sisters?"
"Yes" he replies....
There procceeded a full inventory of the Hayes family members until we intervened and sent them both packing back to bed.
I wouldn't know about exchanges such as these if it wasn't for my secret weapon. Not a baby monitor or security camera, but a Doof. What is a Doof you may ask? Well I think every household should have one. Doof, aka Sophie, is Stig's eldest daughter who has lived with us for just over two years now. She's become 'Doof' because when Sam was little he couldn't say Sophie and he used to call her Doofie. It stuck in the way things like that do, the majority of Hayes House don't get to be called by their real names, that would be far too easy.
Anyway, our house is somewhat tiny, and Stig and I reside in the small 'granny flat' extension on the side of our house, which means our bedroom is downstairs. So Doof is my eye-in-the-sky when it comes to overhearing random conversations that the kids have freely, safe in the knowledge that there are no parents in the vicinity. They kind of think she's one of them, which is great for us.
Nicki and Jamie cannot tidy their room together without all out war. It's the only thing that is absolutely guaranteed to cause a major falling out between them.
Nicki - "Your so lazy and selfish! I'm telling Mum and Dad!"
Jamie - *Sigh... "Whatever..." She's not remotely arsed by this prospect.
Nicki - "FINE!" (it clearly isn't fine because by now she's catatonic and screaming at Jamie)
"I'm calling the cops and 30 men will be here in 10 minutes!"
Jamie - (Bored with Nicki's outburst but slightly concerned about the prospect of half the local constabulary arriving at our door en mass)
"Can't you just tell Mum and Dad?"
"Name" she demands.
"Errr, Sam" he answers, sitting up on his top bunk and rubbing his eyes.
Nicki's pen stops dead on her makeshift clipboard and she rolls her eyes.
"FULL name" demands an exasperated Nicki, she's clearly dealing with the biggest imbecile she's ever come across.
"Samuel Hayes" He answers, rather pleased with himself.
"Gender?"
"Uuh?" the self-satisfaction is replaced with confusion in an instant.
"Boy or girl?"
"Oh, boy"
"Siblings... Brothers and sisters?"
"Yes" he replies....
There procceeded a full inventory of the Hayes family members until we intervened and sent them both packing back to bed.
I wouldn't know about exchanges such as these if it wasn't for my secret weapon. Not a baby monitor or security camera, but a Doof. What is a Doof you may ask? Well I think every household should have one. Doof, aka Sophie, is Stig's eldest daughter who has lived with us for just over two years now. She's become 'Doof' because when Sam was little he couldn't say Sophie and he used to call her Doofie. It stuck in the way things like that do, the majority of Hayes House don't get to be called by their real names, that would be far too easy.
Anyway, our house is somewhat tiny, and Stig and I reside in the small 'granny flat' extension on the side of our house, which means our bedroom is downstairs. So Doof is my eye-in-the-sky when it comes to overhearing random conversations that the kids have freely, safe in the knowledge that there are no parents in the vicinity. They kind of think she's one of them, which is great for us.
Nicki and Jamie cannot tidy their room together without all out war. It's the only thing that is absolutely guaranteed to cause a major falling out between them.
Nicki - "Your so lazy and selfish! I'm telling Mum and Dad!"
Jamie - *Sigh... "Whatever..." She's not remotely arsed by this prospect.
Nicki - "FINE!" (it clearly isn't fine because by now she's catatonic and screaming at Jamie)
"I'm calling the cops and 30 men will be here in 10 minutes!"
Jamie - (Bored with Nicki's outburst but slightly concerned about the prospect of half the local constabulary arriving at our door en mass)
"Can't you just tell Mum and Dad?"
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
The Stupid Gene
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.
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.
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!
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Seasons Greetings :s
Christmas is the one time of year that I plan for and look forward to all year round. It gets me through the depressing months when the days are getting shorter and it seems to be dark the whole damn time. Christmas is the time when I can almost understand that lovely, cosy indoors feeling that people chuck about as a reason to like winter. It's also the one day of the year that I can usually get through without having the urge to kill Stig or one of my children. There's nothing like family time at Christmas, watching their faces as they realise "He's been!" and knowing as they open their presents that a year of planning, every bit of penny pinching, every freezing shopping trip to get them that that perfect gift was worth it just to see that look on their faces.
This year however was not a beautiful day of family love and serenity. It was a scene of carnage, vomiting and Heinz tomato soup. After I'd spent a fortune, meticulously shopped for every kind of Christmas snack or drink you could possibly want, baked enough to put Gregg's out of business and wrapped presents like a woman possessed, we all got swine flu.
I was quick to realise that this is no mediocre illness, no poncy winter cold. It's a vicious, knock-you-on-your-arse bastard, which basically involves being unable to get out of bed without wanting to die. We were just moaning blobs of perspiring, shivering crud. This lasted for about a week-and-a-half leading up to Christmas, so I naively assumed we would all be OK in time for the day itself.
For those of you who have never experienced it, be warned. There comes the stage where you have convinced yourself that getting out of bed is possible. Perhaps you are stupid enough to think that you can get dressed and open presents and cook a full Christmas dinner when you have Swine Flu, but you are a delusional idiot and you have been conned by the virus.
We assembled in the living room for prezzy opening, and as the smell of the turkey beginning to cook invaded my nostrils for the first time, I entered phase two and threw up all over the clothes I had struggled so desperately to get into not half an hour earlier. The rest of the day was spent heading back and forth from the loo because the simple act of moving triggers the piggy-flu vomit reflex. Heinz tomato soup, we have discovered, is a perfectly adequate Christmas dinner in the right circumstances.
I say that we all had it; Jamie actually had it last year and managed to survive the repeated bathroom exodus of her vomiting family completely unscathed. Her immune system clearly retains information in the same manner as her brain does. She never forgets a damn thing you say to her, never misses a trick, and never succumbs to the same virus twice it seems, mutated or otherwise. The consequence of this is that Jamie is the authority on swine flu, bird flu, Hayes House flu and any other ailment remotely related. You really don't need an eleven-year-old standing in the bathroom doorway, pontificating on the severity of your symptoms while you barf your life away.
"Well of course I was only sick once or twice mummy, but it was quite severe, almost projectile" she mused "and it was really only because of that Tamaflow stuff, it wasn't very helpful you know, perhaps you would be better off taking paracetamol..."
"Thanks Jamie, that really helps. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all, would you like a bobble to tie your hair back?"
I was experiencing true mixed emotions now, between adoring her for being so lovely, and wishing that she would just piss off and let me throw up in peace.
"No thank you darling, but some privacy would be nice"
I'd have been yelling at her if my head wasn't so far down the toilet that there was no point in trying to speak. I had reached the point of no return. My tomato soup was coming back and there was nothing me, her or "Tamaflow" could do to stop it. I wasn't so sick though that I didn't briefly ponder why her version of the anti-viral drug sounded like a range of sanitary towels.
This year however was not a beautiful day of family love and serenity. It was a scene of carnage, vomiting and Heinz tomato soup. After I'd spent a fortune, meticulously shopped for every kind of Christmas snack or drink you could possibly want, baked enough to put Gregg's out of business and wrapped presents like a woman possessed, we all got swine flu.
I was quick to realise that this is no mediocre illness, no poncy winter cold. It's a vicious, knock-you-on-your-arse bastard, which basically involves being unable to get out of bed without wanting to die. We were just moaning blobs of perspiring, shivering crud. This lasted for about a week-and-a-half leading up to Christmas, so I naively assumed we would all be OK in time for the day itself.
For those of you who have never experienced it, be warned. There comes the stage where you have convinced yourself that getting out of bed is possible. Perhaps you are stupid enough to think that you can get dressed and open presents and cook a full Christmas dinner when you have Swine Flu, but you are a delusional idiot and you have been conned by the virus.
We assembled in the living room for prezzy opening, and as the smell of the turkey beginning to cook invaded my nostrils for the first time, I entered phase two and threw up all over the clothes I had struggled so desperately to get into not half an hour earlier. The rest of the day was spent heading back and forth from the loo because the simple act of moving triggers the piggy-flu vomit reflex. Heinz tomato soup, we have discovered, is a perfectly adequate Christmas dinner in the right circumstances.
I say that we all had it; Jamie actually had it last year and managed to survive the repeated bathroom exodus of her vomiting family completely unscathed. Her immune system clearly retains information in the same manner as her brain does. She never forgets a damn thing you say to her, never misses a trick, and never succumbs to the same virus twice it seems, mutated or otherwise. The consequence of this is that Jamie is the authority on swine flu, bird flu, Hayes House flu and any other ailment remotely related. You really don't need an eleven-year-old standing in the bathroom doorway, pontificating on the severity of your symptoms while you barf your life away.
"Well of course I was only sick once or twice mummy, but it was quite severe, almost projectile" she mused "and it was really only because of that Tamaflow stuff, it wasn't very helpful you know, perhaps you would be better off taking paracetamol..."
"Thanks Jamie, that really helps. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all, would you like a bobble to tie your hair back?"
I was experiencing true mixed emotions now, between adoring her for being so lovely, and wishing that she would just piss off and let me throw up in peace.
"No thank you darling, but some privacy would be nice"
I'd have been yelling at her if my head wasn't so far down the toilet that there was no point in trying to speak. I had reached the point of no return. My tomato soup was coming back and there was nothing me, her or "Tamaflow" could do to stop it. I wasn't so sick though that I didn't briefly ponder why her version of the anti-viral drug sounded like a range of sanitary towels.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
I've survived it again. I went to a place where normal people were, and conversed with them without committing some kind of catastrophic faux pas. Anyone who knows me or even reads this blog will probably know how socially inadequate I can be. Hayes House is my bubble; a turbulent bubble, granted. Nevertheless, when I'm in the thick of it I forget that there exists a whole other world beyond our front door, which at times can be far more intimidating than the abject chaos I live in.
I was invited to a presentation evening given by the lovely Ormskirk Writers and Literary Society, or OWLS, as I came third in their annual Jo Cowell writing competition with my writing about Sam. I don't doubt that if the the award on offer had been for Ingenious Ways to Make a Prat of Oneself in Polite Company, I'd have come first.
As if agreeing to attend wasn't actually a big enough feat, I was asked if I would read my entry aloud at the presentation. Of course I said yes, partially because I'm an idiot, and partially because the writing is so personal to me that I thought it would be just too weird to hear a stranger reading it. Of course when agreeing to do this I hadn't hadn't factored in my complete lack of social skills, the fact that I lose all ability to speak coherently when I am nervous, and the reality that I sound a damn sight better on paper than I do in person.
In classic Clare-style, I realised at the last minute that I had deleted the only email from the OWLS which contained the start time of the event. Unfortunately my attempts to contact them on the day of the presentation were unsuccessful. I didn't know what to wear, when to be ready for, or where the hell we were going. I gave Stig the directions and he very wisely immersed himself in them and pretended to be oblivious to my wandering in and out of the bedroom with random pairs of trousers, muttering to myself.
Over the last four weeks I had become increasingly sick with nerves, culminating in my not eating all day yesterday. This mightn't have been so bad (possibly even a good thing for the diet that I always intend to start but never do) if it hadn't been that the OWLS had wine on offer at the presentation.
I followed Stig's advice (rarely a good plan) and had a glass to calm my nerves. Soon after I noted that I'd stopped shaking and felt almost calm. I thought I was prepared to hear my name called as the time drew nearer, but by the time they did call me I was clutching my entry so tight that I'd crushed the corner of it and I was beginning to lose the feeling in my right hand. I managed to get up to the front without falling on top of anybody and took my place, ready to read.
I thought perhaps I should make some kind of eye contact with some of the room, but unfortunately the old chestnut of imagining people naked scuppered that idea; I'd have had to stare directly at Stig throughout the entire thing and given that I was a bit tipsy I'd probably have lost what semblance of composure I had left. So instead I sped-read through the whole thing in about three minutes without looking up once, and for good measure I even managed a laugh-snort in the middle.
They were very lovely about my writing, and it was so nice to meet other people who enthuse about something I love so much. I may have acquired a few extra grey hairs but I'm so glad I decided to go.
I'd like to say a huge thank you to the Ormskirk OWLS. When they first contacted me I assumed it was some new writer's magazine touting for subscribers or advertising yet another writer's course (my inbox is full of them). I couldn't believe I'd actually won something. Even more so after the presentation evening last night where some of the other entries were read out. I'm really proud that I have a place amongst such accomplished writers, who'd have thunk it? Me!
I have to add though, that any illusions of literary genius were dispelled the instant I walked back into my bedroom and saw my half written sociology essay strewn across the bed in frustration, and sat next to it was the latest example of coat hanger sculpture as crafted by Sam, just to remind me who the real star is.
I was invited to a presentation evening given by the lovely Ormskirk Writers and Literary Society, or OWLS, as I came third in their annual Jo Cowell writing competition with my writing about Sam. I don't doubt that if the the award on offer had been for Ingenious Ways to Make a Prat of Oneself in Polite Company, I'd have come first.
As if agreeing to attend wasn't actually a big enough feat, I was asked if I would read my entry aloud at the presentation. Of course I said yes, partially because I'm an idiot, and partially because the writing is so personal to me that I thought it would be just too weird to hear a stranger reading it. Of course when agreeing to do this I hadn't hadn't factored in my complete lack of social skills, the fact that I lose all ability to speak coherently when I am nervous, and the reality that I sound a damn sight better on paper than I do in person.
In classic Clare-style, I realised at the last minute that I had deleted the only email from the OWLS which contained the start time of the event. Unfortunately my attempts to contact them on the day of the presentation were unsuccessful. I didn't know what to wear, when to be ready for, or where the hell we were going. I gave Stig the directions and he very wisely immersed himself in them and pretended to be oblivious to my wandering in and out of the bedroom with random pairs of trousers, muttering to myself.
Over the last four weeks I had become increasingly sick with nerves, culminating in my not eating all day yesterday. This mightn't have been so bad (possibly even a good thing for the diet that I always intend to start but never do) if it hadn't been that the OWLS had wine on offer at the presentation.
I followed Stig's advice (rarely a good plan) and had a glass to calm my nerves. Soon after I noted that I'd stopped shaking and felt almost calm. I thought I was prepared to hear my name called as the time drew nearer, but by the time they did call me I was clutching my entry so tight that I'd crushed the corner of it and I was beginning to lose the feeling in my right hand. I managed to get up to the front without falling on top of anybody and took my place, ready to read.
I thought perhaps I should make some kind of eye contact with some of the room, but unfortunately the old chestnut of imagining people naked scuppered that idea; I'd have had to stare directly at Stig throughout the entire thing and given that I was a bit tipsy I'd probably have lost what semblance of composure I had left. So instead I sped-read through the whole thing in about three minutes without looking up once, and for good measure I even managed a laugh-snort in the middle.
They were very lovely about my writing, and it was so nice to meet other people who enthuse about something I love so much. I may have acquired a few extra grey hairs but I'm so glad I decided to go.
I'd like to say a huge thank you to the Ormskirk OWLS. When they first contacted me I assumed it was some new writer's magazine touting for subscribers or advertising yet another writer's course (my inbox is full of them). I couldn't believe I'd actually won something. Even more so after the presentation evening last night where some of the other entries were read out. I'm really proud that I have a place amongst such accomplished writers, who'd have thunk it? Me!
I have to add though, that any illusions of literary genius were dispelled the instant I walked back into my bedroom and saw my half written sociology essay strewn across the bed in frustration, and sat next to it was the latest example of coat hanger sculpture as crafted by Sam, just to remind me who the real star is.
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