I'm sure I can't be the only one...

...who instead of walking down four steps into the Co-op...

...has walked down 150 yards of zig zagging concrete ramp...

...before realising they weren't actually pushing a pram and the baby was at the childminder's?

In other news, I had an email from a pervert wishing to buy my underwear on Ebay and asking me to wear it before sending.

I suppose I should have expected it really but I was still shocked.

I've got a contract!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Had an interview on Weds for a big freelance contract (3-4 months) with Werewolf District Council and they just phoned to say they want me!

This is a big relief as it means I can retain at least some of my underwear for personal use and not have to sell it on Ebay.

Also a relief for ParsleySage who was starting to crack under the financial strain of supporting 4 kids an unemployed poet a demanding ex partner and two households.

Am celebrating with a mug of Ovaltine. If that were a boat, consider it pushed out.

...or was it a Snickers? D

Have just prepared a tender document for a piece of freelance work in TWO HOURS FLAT. It normally takes me a whole day. But seeing as I got back from dropping Smudge at childminder's at 9.46am, and the deadline for tenders was 12 noon today, I didn't have a full day.

I'm just hoping I remembered the change the name of the organisation I was tendering to on all the bits I cut and pasted from previous tender documents!!!

I've already spotted that right underneath where I boasted that my "written skills, editing and attention to detail are exceptionally good" I plunged myself into apostrophe shame by referring to the East Midland's.

They can't black-mark me for that, though, since their reply acknowledging receipt of my tender (at 11.57 a.m.!!!! ) began "Dear Nicola". Which isn't my name.

I am now celebrating with a ham sandwich to calm my hysterical state (caused by the surge of adrenalin) before launching onto the next task... preparing a presentation for another contract interview on Wednesday, which I am looking forward to flunking with my usual style and panache.

Last night I dreamt I was a prostitute!!!!!!!

This may or may not be because I have resorted to selling my underwear on Ebay in order to make some cash because I don't have a job.

(Probably not as seedy as it sounds. Since having the baby, parts of my body that used to resemble a pair of firm, ripe grapefruit no longer do. As a consequence, nothing fits any more. And given that I was addicted to underwear shopping in the days when my finances could countenance an addition of any description, there's plenty to get rid of.)

Prostitution and lingerie in one post. Happy Birthday, TKK!!!!!

Am in shock!

Baby Smudge, AKA 'The Fruitarian', not only ate ALL his homemade Lamb'n'Lentil Hotpot but actually GOBBLED it down.

He has a cold, so I can only assume his taste buds are on strike and he thought it was something else.

The maternal wench
must remember to clench
when she dost sneeze.
Otherwise she wees.

I sat on the bed with my grant application and a cup of coffee and thrashed it into shape (the application not the coffee. what shape is coffee anyway?) and have decided that I will make those amendments and then stick it in the post and not put any more time into it.

Then my tummy started rumbling so I have made myself a pot noodle (spare rib flavour) which I shall be consuming in precisely 2 minutes' time.

After that when my application is amended and printed off and in an envelope I am going to do some tidying up. So there.

Sorry for being a miserable cow. Thanks for all the hugs n stuff.

X

I was going to go to my Monday morning exercise class, which is my favourite (i.e. ONLY) bit of dedicated me-time of the entire week.

But now I'm feeling down and I'm not.

Even though my obsolete baby pouch flops over the waistband of my trousers when I sit down.

Nice.

I am feeling oppressed by the state of the house, all the work I have to do today to get my grant application in to get some money even though they probably won't give me the grant, and the fact that I am a grumpy old bag who's probably unbearable to live with. Also that I now have a ridiculous number of grey hairs and that baby Smudge appears to have gone Fruitarian without my permission. All the other mums are boasting about how their babies are eating cordon bleu or at the very last decent home cooking and Smudge will only consume apples, pears and plums. Also that granddad K can't come to the christening cos he'll be in America, and we can't change the date 'cos it's the only date for God knows how many years to come that my entire family will be in the same country at the same time. Also that I haven't got a job (obviously) and what's left in my bank account isn't going to last very long and we need everything that's in my savings account from the divorce settlement to buy our house but as long as PS's ex can afford 4 foreign holidays a year that's ok - after all we are going to Skipton for a week with my mum and dad! Also that I am very, very tired and want to sleep for a week. Also that I can't stop worrying that if PS gets run over by a bus tomorrow, God forbid, Smudge and I will be destitute and have to move in with my parents. Also that PS's daughter hasn't been round since (December? January?) and is missing her baby brother growing up. He won't even know who she is. Also that although we had a nice weekend with TAF I am not finding being stepmum to a 3 and a half year old very easy. Also that I forgot to kiss Smudge goodbye when I took him to the childminder this morning. And finally that I wish I had a cat, or specifically, my cats.

So all in all (and since my exercise class started 15 mins ago) I am going to go and remove my Primark trackie bottoms and charity shop t shirt and replace them with something more respectable to cry down.

Au revoir.

is a condition that produces restlessness and irritability caused from being in a confined space. The actual term is slang for a claustrophobic reaction that takes place when a party is isolated and/or shut in, alone or together, for an extended period.

But luckily both Baby Smudge and I survived the day, and ParsleySage brought me purple tulips and a chocolate orange to celebrate (and to soften the double blow, viz: he's gone out on the town tonight with his colleagues while I stay here minding the baby...just for a change.)

So OBVIOUSLY I am:
a) eating the chocolate orange.
b) digesting the slovenly pleb food I consumed before the chocolate orange.
c) digesting the ice cream I consumed in between the slovenly pleb food and the chocolate orange.
d) drinking Southern Comfort in a very unwholesome alcohol to lemonade ratio.
e) watching a film. If I was really going for it I should be watching porn, but sadly I'm too full of junk food for that sort of behaviour.
f) wrapped up in a fleecy blanket on the sofa.
g) if I had any fags, I would be smoking one.

Anyway the baby is sleeping upstairs like a, er, baby, and I have got the monitor switched on (before you call social services).

Is it physically possible to eat a whole chocolate orange in one sitting? And what will happen if I do?

*ponders while munching*

Why the fuck did I wait this long before putting a jumper on????

I am freezing my tits off here.

Only just switched the heating on as well.

In other news, I'm currently ploughing through the 27 people who've applied to be my critical mentor in the event that Arts Council England decide to give me any money to write my next poetry collection.

Some of them are genuinely good, but this is my personal favourite:

"I am unpublished, apart from advertising copy, and have never written, or attempted to write a poem in my life. I am also unfamiliar with your work, which according to your brief, is perhaps a small advantage. Additionally, your unusual brief appeals to me.

Contact me if you decide we should meet."

"All embracing?" Why does this make me want to run very very fast towards the nearest police station?

I really hope he's not reading this. D

And in other other news... I am chickenshitting around about sending a difficult email about something else. So who's gonna give me a kickupthearse then?

Ta.

Ok, so I should be working (or more accurately, attempting to obtain work/money) while the babe is at the childminder's, but I haven't blogged for so long I fear being excommunicated.

You know that BT ad where the dopey bird is in bed sulking cos she's lost the folder and mr open shirt says, all casual like, "we'll just make another one" and she thinks he means she's gettin it hard all night when really he's talking about the marvels of the BT Digital Vault service?

Yeah, that one.

Well it's BOLLOCKS.

I opened my BT Vault and tried to upload ONE MONTH'S WORTH of (not excessive) photos from my files and it said it was going to take FOUR HOURS AND 36 MINUTES.

So uploading "everything since they were babies" would take, in my estimation, for (say) an 8 year old child, EIGHTEEN SOLID DAYS, 24 hours a day.

So, mr "we'll just make another one", please ask yourself whether watching your computer say "uploading" for the next 18 days (your idea of fun) is any less excruciating than rearing a child for the next 18 years (her idea of fun). And do your shirt up. And comb your hair.