After putting the phone down I found, and forwarded, the email I sent her on 15 October telling her about the issue and asking her to make a decision.
I expect her apology to me is imminently forthcoming. Not.
And now I am ANGRY.
After putting the phone down I found, and forwarded, the email I sent her on 15 October telling her about the issue and asking her to make a decision.
I expect her apology to me is imminently forthcoming. Not.
And now I am ANGRY.
While getting ready to leave the pub, I was wrestling my arm into my coat and managed to shove my elbow into a plate of baked beans and chicken nuggets being carried across the room by a waitress who had snuck up behind me.
We both apologised profusely and I made a hasty exit.
As I crossed the car park I put my hand in my coat pocket to get my glove... and pulled out a chicken nugget.
I still feel bad about the poor child who didn't get their full complement (compliment, whatever) of nuggets! But it was a bit fluffy by the time I retrieved it (owing to the light coating of baked bean juice).
]]>Parsley's ex-partner's mum died on Monday, so I sent a text to Parsley's daughter yesterday which said,
I am so sorry you lost your nan. Xx
The response:
Well she had far from warm thoughts about you! and you didn't know her, so it's none of your business
I'm going to apologise again here because some readers may find my attitude offensive or disrespectful. But I really don't give a FLYING FUCK what your nan thought about me, darling. You say "you didn't know her, so it's none of your business"... so by exactly the same token, she didn't know me, and it's none of her business.
But I do know YOU, and you are my business whether you like it or not, and I sent a message of sympathy to YOU. So what I would really like to say to you, and can't because I have to turn the other cheek as always, is don't be so bloody rude next time. I am sick to death of your rudeness. I would like to say your dad's patience with you won't last for ever, except I know it will, because he is a wonderful father who loves you far more than you deserve.
Because of her rudeness I had a f**king sh*t night's sleep again, and today I have such a nightmare day, I already had a ridiculous amount to do, but have been emailed a load more on top of that, and then have to go straight out and manage an event tonight. I won't get back until after Smudger's bedtime and I didn't get to see him this morning. Parsley kindly looked after him while I clutched at the last vestiges of rubbish restless sleep, and when I got up to spend some time with them before they left for the childminder's, they were already in the car heading out of the drive ten minutes early.
The foulness of my temper this morning is off the scale. How do I break out of this mood? All advice welcomed, and I promise I won't shout at you (unless you start defending Parsley's daughter, in which case I will shout at you, so if that's your angle, don't bother.) 
Six: No, it's...
Cheap Double Glazing Man: Right, so it's just you then.
Six: ??????????
Have we lost two centuries when I wasn't looking?? 
He had driven all the way from Leicester to Newport Pagnell with it stuffed up there.
I had to pick it up and put it in my handbag before anyone saw
They are quite 'well orff' and have recently bought a jolly nice pad in Buckhurst Hill. Every single item in the house came from John Lewis. Parsley and I developed House Envy and were forced to spend our first evening, once we had retired to bed, compiling (with some difficulty) a list of "Things about this house that are not as good as our 1970s 'scope for improvement' abode" in order to console ourselves.
However, our second evening proved decidedly less entertaining.
I'm sure that watching my child projectile vomit repeatedly over me, our hosts' beige carpets and their leather sofas will be funny in retrospect.
One day.
Six hours later, having drenched every item of clothing he, and I, had brought with us, as well as a selection of bedding, fixtures & fittings etc., he finally fell asleep on daddy's chest... at which juncture I developed the Tom Tits and spent the WHOLE NIGHT running to the loo about FORTY-FIVE TIMES. My arse is now sorer than a rent boy's and I NEVER want to do another poo so long as I LIVE!
After a night of no sleep whatsoever, and in a fit of shame, we packed our belongings at 7am on Sunday morning and made a hasty departure on our (fortuitously trouble-free) journey back to the midlands, during which Parsley kindly played 'guess the nanimal' with me all the way home to take my mind off the hideous heaving in my stomach.
I have never been so happy to get back to our house, which may not have John Lewis light bulbs but is at least home... and I know where the toilet rolls are kept when I need one at 4 a.m.!
Me: Would you like your Oatibix now, Smudge?
Smudge: Yes!
Me: Yes, please.
Smudge: (looks scornful and points towards door) There's kitchen!!
Barack Obama has won the Nobel Peace Prize.
And as if that wasn't difficult enough to comprehend...
He's won it for his future achievements in nuclear disarmament, relations with middle east etc.
Does this mean I can win the Nobel Prize for Literature for the amazing novel I haven't written yet?
Great!
As a result of the above I have been applying for various jobs in schools and last week I toddled along to a local(ish) college to be part of their ‘Creative Day’. The students are aged 14-19 so this is a bit of a departure for me, as most of my work has been with either adults or younger kids. I have only once before worked with yoof and I didn’t enjoy it much. Or, to put it another way, I am Scared of the Big Kids.
The brief for the Creative Day was ‘loose’ to put it bluntly. I received a briefing document which banged on about creating a mascot and logo and had to phone the Deputy Head to ask for clarification on how they saw my skills as a poet fitting in. The best advice she could give was, “Don’t come prepared”. Apparently the school had some vision of creative practitioners in various disciplines (there were 16 of us in total) ‘floating’ around the school, dipping in and out of various classrooms and being called upon to provide inspiration to hordes of enthusiastic, culture-hungry students and staff as they went about their creative tasks for the day.
Hmmmm.
Creative Day:
Having dispatched Smudge off to nursery at an unearthly hour (7.45am) I drive the five miles to the school and am greeted in the car park by some young ‘creative ambassadors’. They escort me to a briefing with coffee and croissants (very civilized; can’t eat any, too scared). Afterwards the deputy head takes me aside and tells me that although most of the creative practitioners (that’s ‘arty types’ to you and me) have been allocated four tutor groups to work with, I’ve only been given two because they felt that one of them would need “a lot of support”. Alarm bells ringing yet? Yes, me too.
However I have no time to make a run for it since one of the young ambassadors is ushering me to my classrooms where I meet the first, less needy of the two teachers I’ll be working with (media studies, looks perfectly happy with his lot) and then thrust in the direction of the classroom where “we think you’ll be spending most of your time” (goddamnit, those bells are loud!)
At the front of the class, Mr H is cowering behind his pc. He is an ICT teacher. He looks profoundly uncomfortable with (a) being involved with anything ‘creative’, (b) being a teacher, ( c) being alive. He thrusts the brief for the day at me and mutters something about not having any ideas. I am suddenly very glad that I spent a whole day preparing to not come prepared. I cannot see the students at all because they are hiding behind banks of computers. Yes, that’s right, we are in the ICT suite - an environment not wholly conducive to creativity, interaction, communication or any of the other aims of the day.
One of the requirements of the day was that students were supposed to bring in recycled items to help them complete their creative tasks. Mr H enquires in a resigned tone whether anyone has brought anything. No one has. However, at this minute a girl arriving late enters and drops onto Mr H’s desk a loo roll tube (slightly squashed). Bingo!
I politely suggest to Mr H that the students might remove themselves from behind the banks of monitors and come into the middle of the room, where I can at least see their faces (acne & hair straighteners rulez ok).
I do a couple of ‘icebreaker’ exercises to try and reduce the heady combination of ambivalence, reluctance and downright hostility I’m sensing. Responses vary from the self-conscious shruggers and gigglers to the lads engrossed in drawing a large erect penis.
A student ambassador enters and ask us to pick from a hat our ‘word for the day’, upon which we are required to prepare a creative presentation to be shown to the entire house (16 tutor groups) later. Our word for the day turns out to be ‘colour’. Trying to suppress my inward groans at its naffness, I ask students to shout out anything they can think of to do with ‘colour’. Silence reigns. I put on my most encouraging/inspiring/supportive face/voice/body language and eventually someone does shout something out. I am so relieved that I respond with unfettered enthusiasm. It is not until the words have left my mouth that the inappropriateness of my response strikes me.
Student: Racism?
Me: Racism! Great stuff!!!!!
Hastily abandoning the exercise, I turn instead to the recycling theme and ask students to think about things they have thrown away this week, both concrete and abstract, in small groups. I make my way around the groups, none of whom seem to be able to come up with anything. Not. A. Fucking. Thing. In most cases, we seem unable to get off the starting blocks due to an astounding lack of pens, considering these are students. In a school. What has happened to the concept of a ‘pencil case’? I approach a sandy-haired miss, who I shall call Naomi.
Me: Have you got a pen you can use so your group can get started?
Naomi: Nah. It’s in my bag.
Me: Where’s your bag?
Naomi: It’s over there.
Me: Well, could you go and get it please?
Naomi: Nah, I can’t be bovvered.
Me: Well, go and get it, it’s not far away is it?
Naomi: I’ve forgotten my pen anyway, I’ve just realised.
Me: Can you just check?
Naomi: You can’t tell me what to do!!!!
Me: Actually, Naomi, I can. Because I am an adult and you are a child.
I am to discover, during the course of the day, that ‘You can’t tell me what to do’ is Naomi’s stock response to any suggestion that she might actually do anything.
As I make my way around the room, one long haired lad thrusts his hand at me and says, “Hi, I’m Crispin”. Crispin, I soon realise, is the only intelligent and articulate lifeform present (I include Mr H in this analysis). Needless to say, he doesn’t seem to have a great many friends. Apart from me.
Meanwhile, chaos has broken out at the front of the room. Two students sent to collect resources for making the mascot later have burst back into the ICT suite shouting, “They are doing SAWING downstairs!!!!!” I assume this refers to one of the other arty types, evidently working in a more appealing artform than poetry. A rumble of discontent begins. “Miss, this is boring.” “When are we going to start making the mascot, Miss?” “When’s break, Miss?”
Having been a Mrs in the past, I don’t like being called Miss. Why not address me with, “Person with failed marital past, this is boring?” or, “38 year old spinster, this is boring?” However, I don’t want to contravene any behavioural code so I grit my teeth and put up with it.
I won’t describe the rest of the morning in detail but they do settle down a lot after the break when the class is split into two groups to create a mascot (the girls make a nice lion using Mr H’s lucozade bottle and the empty loo roll tube) and the House logo (6 lads muck around on the computers while Crispin creates a logo). I even get the chance to make a visit to my other tutor group, who are rattling along just fine.
Back in the ICT suite, as the lion and logo take shape I realise that we still have not prepared our presentation on the theme of ‘colour’. I ask Mr H whether I might remove a small number of students to do some writing on the theme. He agrees and I ask for volunteers. Hahahahaha. Then I ask Mr H to nominate some students.
Needless to say, Mr H nominates the four ‘least engaged’ lads in the room, and waves us goodbye with the most enthusiasm I’ve seen him display all morning.
So, here I am in the foyer area, with Jason (fat, quiet), Jon (football mad, wearing Leicester City kit), Steve (fat, lary), and Zach (ginge with bling). Those aren’t their real names. All aged between 14 and 17. We need to write some poems on the theme of ‘colour’. If you can imagine a less appealing scenario, I’d be interested to hear it.
But in fact I quite like the lads now I’ve removed them from their natural environment, and seeing as I spent a whole day preparing to not come prepared, I’ve got a few ideas up my sleeve. Before they know it, I’ve tricked them into writing some poems, and then I release them back into the wild before they realise what’s happened. Mwhahahahahahaha.
I put all the lads’ writing together and give it to Mr H to go into the presentation. That afternoon, 500 students file into the hall of the neighbouring high school to see what each tutor group has prepared. As our turn approaches, panic sets in among Mr H’s class. A whisper of “I’m not doing it” spreads like wildfire along our row of seats. I plead with Crispin, who flings his hair back and looks at me superciliously.
“I am not a public speaker,” he announces peevishly.
Trying not to attract attention to myself, I crawl along the row of seats, begging the students to be brave and deliver the presentation. To my surprise, obnoxious Naomi and another girl eventually agree, and when I return to my seat, Mr H (showing unprecedented initiative) has bribed Crispin and lary Steve with chocolate to get them to do it too.
At the last minute, at the very moment that Mr H is descending the auditorium steps, Naomi has an eleventh hour “I’m not doing it” panic. “Go on, Naomi,” I plead. “You can’t tell me what to do!” she shrieks. I fix her with a murderous glare. She goes.
After all that, I have to give them credit. They read the poems. They read them beautifully. We are the last tutor group to do our presentation before the break, so as the Head of House stands up to talk, I crawl once again towards Zach and the lads to congratulate them on their poems.
“I didn’t write that,” says Zach astonished.
“Yes, you did!” I tell him. “I didn’t add anything, I just put all your words together.”
Zach looks astounded, and then suddenly, just a little bit proud. But I have become aware of a shuffling noise, and 500 youthful heads turning in my direction, and the Head of House’s voice floating up the rows of chairs towards me. Yes, me.
“Will you please STOP TALKING AT THE BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
The pencil case may have become outmoded but some things, it seems, will never change.
Codicil: Am I cut out for this lark? No. The day did help me make some decisions about my future workshop practice, namely, that I don’t wanna [work with this age group. Ever again.] The younger ones are fine. If you work with 14+ kids every day, you have my unstinting admiration. Please carry on. Don’t mind if I don’t.
]]>At the same moment I remembered the man from the garage was coming to collect my car for its MOT, so I dashed outside with a plastic bag to empty my trusty Honda Civic of all its cereal bar wrappers, random cds and child paraphernalia, to a backdrop noise of the bin lorry making its way along our street.
As I bent deep into the recesses of my car to scrape tissues off the floor, exposing a bit of flesh owing to my hipster jeans, I felt a delightful gentle and sensuous stroking along my exposed section of spine.
"Alright, darling?" I muttered absent mindedly.
When I stood up 10 seconds later, Parsley was nowhere to be seen - but the recycling boxes had been emptied!
So - Parsley or the bin man? You decide.
Smudge: Look that fence!
Six: Oh yes!
Smudge: It's green.
Six: No, it's not green. It's wooden.
Smudge: Uh?
Six: It's made of wood.
Smudge: Oh.
Six: Do you know where wood comes from?
Smudge: Daddy got it!
Meals: Fruit Loaf snack (Tried). Shepards [sic] Pie, Peas + Gravy (Ate all).
'Smudge has had a great first day at nursery! He has been building towers with the bricks in the sand and playing with the popoids. Smudge has drawn a lovely picture with the chalks and has had great fun playing with the cars.'
Now I just need to find out what popoids are!
]]>Smudge: Donkey!
The answer, incidentally, is the number of pounds I will be overdrawn by in 3 days' time 
Had to forcibly strap him into his high chair with some Oatibix at 7.40am so I could run upstairs and have an urgent poo (before I was responsible for children I never knew what a luxury it is to be able to poo whenever you choose).
However, my flushing (sorry for any unnecessary detail but it was a 'three flusher') woke up ParsleySage anyway and he joined me on the sofa while Smudger finished his breakfast and I made unsuccessful advances to Parsley in his dressing gown (advice note to partners of 40 something men: apparently they need a coffee first, and the presence of a banana-smeared toddler can be detrimental).
Ushered Smudger upstairs, where I wished I'd done a 'sniff test' on his bottom region instead of the 'pull the back of the nappy and have a quick peek test', since the contents had gone quite a long way (I have now washed my thumb).
Washed, nappychanged and dressed Smudge, packed his bag and Parsley took him to the childminder while I took a shower, missing two phone calls to let me know I've got some more work in September (£700 for two days' work: back of the net!)
Today had been officially designated a 'Parsley & Six' day. Periodically we make time for these days since we never got much chance to be a couple (long story for those who don't know it but basically after 12 years of infertility, I left my husband for ParsleySage, who I'd been seeing for all of about 6 weeks, and got pregnant about 5 minutes later - a bit of a 'surprise' for us both).
On Parsley's return we, er, enjoyed the quiet surroundings (nice cup of coffee and a sandwich, that sort of thing 
) before heading off to the Cow & Plough which is a real ale pub in the countryside that serves massive doorstep sandwiches (I just about managed my smoked salmon but certainly could not have got my mouth around Parsley's Club!!!)
Drank too much rosy wine (I dunno how to do an accent so we'll pretend that's a cute affectation) and tried to walk it off at the Botanic Gardens afterwards but failed (so pissed, I bought a lilac bicycle in Asda later).
Came home and am now sprawled on sofa (I was on the floor, but Parsley threatened to draw a chalk outline around me) while the Sage goes to collect his three sons and attempts to find out his daughter's GCSE results, which no one has so far deigned to impart to us. Can't be bothered to take off my Converse so my feet are on a newspaper.
Later when all the boys get here I'm gonna cook a big fry up.
I like Parsley & Six days
Smudge: Move!
Mummy: No, we don't say 'Move', do we?
Smudge: Bouncing!
Mummy: No, you can't bounce on the bed because we are still in it.
*child pauses for thought*
Smudge: Actually - Move!
ACTUALLY????!!!!!
This time last week you were still ONE!!!!
]]>I'm just analysing all the feedback forms and the following really made me laugh:
Please describe any new skills you have learned, or things you have got better at doing...
"I have learnt how to draw a gerbil."
Now that's vocational.
]]>
I can't quite believe my baby will be 2 tomorrow. Exactly 2 years ago I was awake as well... having contractions every 3 mins and turning up the TENS machine 
I know that Smudger's half-sister (she doesn't deserve to be called his sister) will not bother sending so much as a text saying Happy Birthday let alone a card or present. That gets me down. She probably won't bother coming to his party on Sunday either. That might not be a bad thing however, since I have not forgiven her for the last incident (when she told me to 'fuck off' on Facebook because I dared to post some pictures of Taf looking happy at our house) and I don't particularly want to look at her or speak to her. I'm done with trying to see things from her perspective. I need to stop caring so much. I know people mean well when they try to tell me how much she is hurting inside. I don't want anyone to be hurting but there's NO excuse for hurting other people and I have had enough. I really sincerely hope that she and Smudge will develop some form of sibling relationship in the future but a door has closed in my head now.
]]>Behind the counter a box of 'versatile sling material' could not help but catch my eye.
The brand name?
Collar 'n' Cuff
Happening to be in Asda on a rainy afternoon recently, I went to peruse the ladies' socks section only to find it full of pink socks with little polka dots and scottie dogs and other frickin' nonsense. I'm a woman, not a MORON. Why would I want to wear that twee crap on my feet? So I hot-footed it (please pardon pun - it was unintentional) to the young boys' section, where not only could I select a nice young boy a five pack of nice bright stripey socks that even a colour blind freak couldn't mix up with his own, but I could buy them in a size that actually fits, instead of the ubiquitous 'one size', aka not my frickin' size.
The essence of the thing being that I have ridiculously small feet (size 3, or 36 if you want me to come over all continental). I don't know why this is but I suspect it might have something to do with ballet dancing on my toes (or 'en pointe' as they say in the business). I believe it may have stunted my foot growth. I am quite petite on the whole but when I was a child my feet were actually very long in relation to my body. I once got onto the front page of the local paper after winning a dance trophy two years running, and they printed the wrong surname, randomly giving me the name Driver, alongside a terrible photo in which my elongated clown feet caused my brother to enquire whether my feet had grown so big as a result of "all that driving". That's brothers for you.
Anyway, my feet never grew again and now that I am actually a driver if not a Driver, I find it quite difficult to reach the pedals with flat shoes on, which is a sad predicament for a 38 year old with a dodgy leg who only wears flat shoes because I risk falling off anything with heels owing to having feet so small (little better than hooves and let's face it animals with hooves have four of the buggers to balance on) that my balance is crap.
That was a long sentence, wasn't it?
My second toe is also longer than my big toe, which I know is weird, and my toes are all tucked under one another in funny directions. I also have an instep so outrageously high that my mother used to have to take me from East Anglia to London on the train to buy me shoes, because my feet were 'A' width which is only stocked by specialist suppliers to people with weird feet.
Anyway. I have new socks, and ParsleySage has been mocking me because I insist on washing new socks before I wear them. ParsleySage says that I am denying myself one of life's greatest pleasures - the putting on of brand new socks. However, my mother, purveyor of infinite wisdom, always told me (along with other pearls like "older men usually father girls") that if you wash new socks before you wear them, they keep their shape better. This is probably some 1950s old [house]wives tale but I am an old fashioned girl at heart and into the washing machine my stripey boys' socks went.
They have now been washed and I wore the green stripey pair today to match my green top and they were VERY VERY COMFY. I just wanted you to know that.
]]>On the up side, he perked up after some Nurofen for Children, so we thrust him at the childminder and ran.
On the down side, I missed some of the crucial plot twists in Harry Potter and the Half-Baked Pringles owing to being asleep.
On the upside, I very much enjoyed sitting in the 'Director's Hall' at Cinema De Lux in a fat leather(ette) chair with a sliding table for our drinkypoos and a little box of snackettes brought to our seats by charming staff.
On the downside, I now have a splitting headache having got a bit drunk on mojito cocktails that were brought to me while sitting in the fat leather chair in the Director's Hall, and have had to cancel the babysitter and my birthday evening out.
On the upside... I still look pretty hot for 38 
One entertaining aspect of this is that when we are chatting in bed at night (yes, we do occasionally talk as well) he will quite often fall asleep mid-conversation - nay, mid-sentence - and start talking complete nonsense without any warning.
Take the other night, for example. One minute he's verbally applauding the finer qualities of my breasts (as you would), and then suddenly he launches in to a comparative study of vacuum cleaners in 2004.
I have to admit to having been slightly confused for at least a couple of minutes.
Me: Time for Countdown!
Smudge: Countdown now?
Me; Yes - shall we go and watch Countdown?
Smudge: Countdown! Hooray! *jumps up and down with excitement*
When it's the numbers round he points at the numbers that come out and shouts (completely wrong and random) numbers.
*sigh*
In 2002, at the conclusion of her hen weekend in Edinburgh, my mate Boglet bought all of those present a 'hairy haggis' keyring. I've had it ever since but, alas, it detached itself (appropriately enough, in a pub car park) this weekend.
If you asked me what was so fantastic about that weekend now, I'd be hard put to explain it all (except that we drank a LOT of Flaming Sambucca and smoked a LOT of fags).
At the start of the weekend we each had to draw, at random, two 'challenges' from a bag. We had all contributed some challenges to the bag, so no-one knew exactly what they were going to get. Photographic evidence had to be collected to document the achievement of each challenge.
I got 'Drive a bus' (I did get as far as sitting in the driver's seat, and the girls decided that counted) and 'Hug a traffic warden'.
Walking up an Edinburgh street on the second day of our weekend, the girls suddenly became very excited and starting gesturing across the road and whispering "Sixy! Sixy! Traffic warden!" and whipping out their cameras at the ready.
This resulted in one of my favourite photos of all time:
I know you'll want to know, so I can now exclusively reveal that the conversation ran thus:
Sixy: Excuse me - have you got the time please?
Traffic warden: Yes - it's ten past twelve.
Sixy: Oh - THANK YOU!!!!
*embraces astonished Traffic Warden with ardent enthusiasm, and then walks off*
Bye bye, hairy haggis...
]]>Nobody tells you when you are a frivolous young thing that life will eventually bring you to these depths.
Highlights of half term:
At the Space Centre, watching a fantastic digital media projection of the world turning on the domed sreen above our heads:
"Der's a ball!!"
Entering the kitchen and seeing me slaving over a hot stove, having earlier been informed that dinner will involve that majestic foodstuff, the mighty Sausage*: *(and I ain't talkin' about Mr ParsleySage on this occasion )
"Where is sausage gone?"
On seeing Daddy enter the car wearing a hat which, truth be told, did bear a teeny tiny resemblance to Grandpa's:
"Daddy Pa-Pa Hat!"
And finally... on being moved to a more comfortable position whilst fast asleep:
"Tank you pleez"
...by electrical hum?
I can't be the only person, can I?
More than once I have had to get up at 3am and go into Smudger's room (at the other end of the landing) to switch the radio off at the plug (it's already off but the switch is on) because I can't concentrate on being asleep otherwise.
I suspect you are going to tell me this is not normal.
But I can hear it I tell you!!!
I know this because yesterday morning, from behind the privacy of a locked door, I overheard him making the following announcement to his dad:
"Mummy go wee-wee"
Today I went on a training course. The first question on the evaluation form was, "How did you find the trainer?"
I felt I was morally obliged to write, "I came up the stairs and turned left".
Pedant? Moi?
(Parsley's worse).
