Monday, 28 December 2015

Week 220- Quality Streets, glacier cherries and doing the online shop...

My children have turned into feral chocolate scavengers, topping up every meal with chocolate coins they've found under the tree or Quality Streets that have been left lying around.

I have spent the last four days squeezing my 20-month-old son's cheeks every five minutes to check he's not chewing on a Lego brick, only for a long, gooey, string of chocolatey spit to spill from his mouth.

It turns out children who do not eat sweets regularly will virtually inhale anything sugary, given the opportunity.

Coffee creams.

The purple Quality Street with a nut in the middle.

The gold toffee penny that pulls out fillings and takes the best part of a week to finish.

Half chewed jelly tots that have been left under the kitchen table for an undisclosed number of days.

Glacier cherries from the top of an, as yet, uneaten Christmas cake.

Icing off the same cake.

A selection of pudding spoons covered in custard that have been used by a variety of people and left on the worktop waiting to be washed up.

The list is exhausting. 

We're all starting to have a bit of a beige pallor.

So, next year it's going to be different.

I'm going to learn how to cook superfoods.

I'm going to drink eight glasses of water instead of wine a day.

And it all starts here, with such a healthy online shop that Tesco is going to think my account has been hacked.

But first I'm going to help the kids eat all the chocolates off the tree.



Sunday, 13 December 2015

Week 218, playing games, being an 87-year-old, and smelling like farts...

Games my daughter has suggested we play this week...

I am a dog and walk behind her, only to be occasionally patted on the head very hard for being a ‘bad dog.’

I run a shop that sells carrots that cost £54 each.

I am a hairdresser who is only allowed to speak to tell my daughter what a beautiful princess she is.

I am a maid who waits on said beautiful princess.

I am a waitress who feeds said princess.

I am a pilot who flies around said princess.

My son is a 7-year-old (actual age; 20 months), my daughter is his 67-year-old sister (actual age; 4 years), I am their 89-year-old mother (actual age; 37). Their father is dead.

I am an ugly witch who smells like old vegetables.

I’m all for imaginative play but, fucks sake, couldn’t I once, ONCE, be a shit-hot, intensely-cool super hero who doesn’t smell like someone’s just farted?

Nope?


OK. Fine. Do your worst.

Sunday, 6 December 2015

Week 217- sweating, cycling and forgetting your underwear...

So I've done it. 

I've joined a gym. 

It costs about 4p a month, no induction, open 24 hours a day (I will be using it for a approximately 0.5 of those hours a week) and you have to go through a kind of 'beam me up Scotty' style tube to get in.

So it's not the Hilton.

But it's a gym.

I joined on-line at 11.30pm after half a bottle of vin rouge.

I had had a dinner that was 90% Red Leicester, 10% spaghetti.

My slendertone had run out of batteries.

And I thought, instead of going to the garage at the top of the road to buy some more triple A's, I was going to take decisive action.

To sweat. 

To get fit.

To do some actual exercise that involves more than pushing a supermarket trolley containing a weekly shop and two children around.

And more to the point, I'm going to attempt to fit into the 96% of clothes that have been left untouched for the last three years, in favour of a pair of stretching H and M jeans and a rotation of bobbly T shirts.

I've got a proper job.

I'm kicking on 40.

I've got to stop dressing like a drama student who's blown her grant on a trip to India and budgeted the remaining £22 for a yearly clothes allowance. 

The morning after joining the gym I checked the small print and I definitely couldn't get my money back.

So, wearing, what the untrained eye might assume was a pair of maternity leggings and a T shirt I wear in bed, I shuffled down to said gym, with my work clothes stuffed in a carrier bag, as I rightly assumed that if I didn't go RIGHT THEN, I'd ignore the fact I'd joined at all.

I locked up my belongings and headed to the treadmill that was facing a full length mirror.

Gym fact one.

I'm an ugly runner. 

I knew I was an ugly cryer. 

Fine. 

Even Kate Winslet looks questionable when she's having a beal in Titanic.

But facing my bright red sweating face for 11 minutes as I wheezed through a kilometre does not an oil painting maketh. 

Gym fact two. 

You do actually need an induction.

After trying to unsuccessfully get five exercise bikes to work, I started to wonder if that's why it was so cheap, cos everything's bust.

Until the cleaner told me I had to move the pedals to get them started.

A laminated sheet telling you to do that wouldn't be out of the question.

So five minutes and 43 calories later I'm feeling like I've nailed my first gym session.

My head's a bit spinny in an early 90s recreational drugs kind of way.

And I'm looking forward to a shower without anyone shouting 'MUUMMMIIIEEEEEEE!' at the top of their voice when...

Gym fact three

You should pack your gym bag the night before. Or if you're going to do it in the morning, turn a light on so you can see what you're doing. 

I have a dress.

Tights.

A makeup bag.

A My Little Pony.

A size 5 nappy.

And that's it.

No underwear.

So. A quick trip to a Peacocks for a cheap ill-fitting leopard print bra, and I'm ready to start the day.

First gym session.

Done.

At this rate I am so going to be running a marathon by the new year.