7weird

I know I’m a day early but I won’t be here from tomorrow until the weekend and I can’t miss this weeks Weird Post!

We’re now on week 5 of Mama’s challenge and I’ve got to say that I’ve been looking forward to this one!

Are you ready?!

What is the weirdest thing you collect?

Drum roll please…..

 

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That’s right folks.

My secret is out.

I collect:

                                    

         Elvis memorabilia

 

But do you want to know what the weirdest thing about all of this is?? (And yes, it does get even stranger!)

Up until recently I had never seen an Elvis film and nor do I know very many of his songs :D

Let me explain…

A good few years ago my best mate Rach decided it was high time we went on a little sojourn together and organised a trip to the seaside town of (my beloved) Scarborough with our partners of the time.

We found the cheapest deal going-a coach trip followed by a one night stay at The Grand Hotel, plus dinner, entertainment and breakfast included.

The entertainment happened to be an Elvis impersonator.

And the trip happened to be full of sweet little old dears that thought we were just the bee’s knees.

We had an absolute ball.

Honestly, it was one of the best times of my life.

After Elvis had finished his gyrating and hound dogging, he left the stage to (believe it or not) sign autographs and have his photo taken with his many adoring fans.

It was a dare.

Rachel dared me to ask for a picture.

I don’t renege on dares.

Uh huh huh

Uh huh huh

So I waited for the multi coloured crocheted, Cote scented sea to part and then I bravely tapped The King on his shoulder.

He turned, half heartedly and then did a double take.

“You’re not a Granny!”, he exclaimed, almost in love.

I smiled my most endearing smile and enquired, “Can I have my picture taken?”, whilst batting my dainty little moonbeams in his direction.

He regarded me briefly and whispered, “Don’t be cruel. Are you sincere?“, with a suspicious mind whilst tapping his blue suede shoes nervously.

“You are always on my mind“, I replied breathlessly, snuggling up to his sweaty sequins.

Any way you want me?”, he asked, temporarily reassured.

Baby let’s play house,” I said, pulling him closer, “My, my, you’re just a big hunk o’ love“, I admired, my hands sweeping across his pot belly.

And we smiled as the camera clicked.

When I was a lot *ahem* bigger. Although, The King wasn't exactly looking his best ;)

When I was a lot *ahem* bigger. Although, The King wasn’t exactly looking his best ;)

Before he released me from his clammy grasp, he swept me close and said,”Honey, I have a burnin’ love that’s catchin’ on fastCome along, are you lonesome tonight?. I need your love. Just pretend?”, he begged.

I sighed and shook my head, I needed to let him down gently, “The first time I ever saw your face I was mesmerised. But now it’s a faded love. I’m sorry but it’s the end of the road, say an evening prayerfella. Don’t be a fool. I’m in it for ol’ times sake and for the heart, not just for the good timesFollow that dream,” I nodded sympathetically, “Forget me never“.

“Fine”, he sniffed, “I got a woman, way over town that’s good to me. I got lucky. I met her today, the lady loves me“, he sighed deeply, “Kiss me quick?”

I’ll hold you in my heart, I’ll never let you go but sorry, no!” I stammered, disgusted, feeling all shook up.

I’ll never fall in love again“, he replied, his eyes sparkling in the disco lights.

Hands off“, I hissed, after he pinched my bum for the second time, “Otherwise you’ll be in for the jail house rock. I’m leavin’

And it was there we parted ways.

So that was the night I met The King.

He’s not dead, he’s just rocking it up for the old folks along the coast.

The teapot I painted myself, the t-shirt I wear for shits and giggles and the salt and pepper shaker was bought by Rach ('cause it looks like me and The Man)

The teapot I painted myself, the t-shirt I wear for shits and giggles and the salt and pepper shaker was bought by Rach (’cause it looks like me and The Man) I had a lucky Elvis lighter too but Kenneth’s sister lost it and life hasn’t been the same since…

P.S. I had to Google his song list because I didn’t have a clue!

P.P.S. I’m back at The Grand to witness His Majesty in all his glory on the 10th August if anyone wishes to join myself and the delectable Kenneth for one hilarious evening. Oh, and listen to The King, of course :D

Mrs. Magic Fingers

Today I experienced my first ever ‘real’ massage.

And by that I mean it was performed by a woman who’s job it is by trade and not by Kenneth (who generally has an ulterior motive and wandering hands).

I’m still feeling rather blissed out by it all, if I’m honest, so if this is a rubbish read today you have my apologies. I’m sure I’ll be back to my usual stressed out, high wired self by tomorrow.

I was genuinely excited this morning, in fact, I was for the most part of last week in the build up to it.

I didn’t really know what to expect.

So when Heather came to collect me from the waiting room, my stomach was in the process of trying to quell the hundreds of little butterflies that had suddenly decided they wanted to escape the confines of my insides.

We entered her room and I hastily removed my sunglasses as my eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting.

The room itself was small and pleasantly warm with a heady mix of aromatherapy oils wafting through the air making me feel like I’d accidentally wandered into the perfume section at Boots. Thankfully, there were no orange women with frighteningly white teeth waiting around the corner to spritz me with Britney’s latest offering and so I sat down on the proffered chair, eyeing the massage table nervously.

Heather, a short wisp of a woman with an oddly hypnotic voice smiled warmly and we quickly went through the obligatory medical questionnaire. I told her about my stomach ulcer and ectopic arrhythmia (dicky ticker) whilst she scribbled notes rapidly from the chair opposite.

She informed me that she would be performing a full upper body massage that would last for an hour and asked me if I had any questions.

With a combination of the heat, smell and Heather’s silky voice, I swayed slightly in my seat already feeling like a snake in a Charmer’s act and slurred, “Um, I just have to visit the bathroom before we start…”

She nodded and pointed towards a connecting door. After relieving myself and sloshing some cold water on my face, I re entered the room to find her stood by the main door.

“Right,”she whispered, so I had to lean forward slightly to hear her, “I think we’re ready. Strip down to your knickers, lay down on the table with your head in the hole and the towel over your back. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes” and exited, closing the door behind her soundlessly.

I began removing my clothing and laying it out on the chair when the ‘soothing’ melodies of a rushing river started up closely followed by pan pipes.

As I wriggled up onto the bed, I scrutinized the ceiling closely, searching for the source of the music and wondering about hidden cameras.

I stuck my head in the hole and promptly inhaled a nostril full of that sterile tissue paper stuff they use to make everything hygienic these days.

Reaching round underneath the table, I busied myself widening the hole in the tissue and pulling it back as best I could when Heather’s voice said, “Ready?” right next to my left ear making me jump.

I nodded as best as I could, my head being jammed into the hole and felt the towel slide down my back.

The next thing I heard was a loud slap as her hands met one another and she started rubbing them back and fourth vigorously. Images of Mr. Miyagi flashed through my mind as I stifled a giggle and tried to relax.

Oh Samantha Son, are you ready for the ride of your life?

Oh Samantha Son, are you ready for the ride of your life?

Then she began with long, sweeping strokes up my back and sides.

That woman had the hottest hands I’ve ever felt in my life.

I wondered briefly if she’d been out of the room warming them on a radiator whilst I was de-robing before my whole body went limp and I seriously had to work at controlling my facial muscles to stop myself from dribbling. I didn’t even care that I was inhaling strips of tissue.

I glanced down at the carpet, looking for tell tale patches of the women that had gone prior to me, before thinking, “What the Hell. If I slaver, I slaver”, and gave in to the sheer bliss of this magical woman’s fingertips.

That was until she arrived at my shoulders.

Then she morphed into some kind of evil demon and I was quickly transported from Heaven straight down into the bowels of Hell.

As she tugged and pulled at my shrieking muscles and I gasped in pain, I marvelled at how this tiny slip of a woman could possibly house all the strength of a Pro Wrestler.

Just as I thought I couldn’t bear any more of this torture she stopped and moved on to my head.

My muscles breathed a sigh of relief and I resumed my dribbling, slack jawed expression.

She asked me to roll over where she finished off by ‘stimulating various pressure points that could ease my heart’, slipping her hand under the towel and groping my chest like some inept park pervert but by then I was too zoned out to care. She could’ve performed a limb amputation at this point and I wouldn’t have felt a damn thing.

Upon finishing, she disappeared out of the room and I was left to get dressed, stumbling into my clothing like I’d just consumed a bottle or two of wine.

I left, slurring my gratitude to my new best friend (even though she caused me so much agony, my body has never felt so wonderful) and weaved my way down the road to catch my bus home.

Now I’m sat here after painting The Boy’s nails multiple colours, doing the washing up and attending to everyone’s needs and I feel amazing.

And pissed.

May this feeling last as long as is possible!

Oh, and I booked myself in again next month.

This time there will be no trepidation.

I can’t wait :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo (2)

A few weeks ago, one hazy Summer’s evening, I took myself off for a walk to clear my head and get my thoughts in order.

I didn’t even think about where I was heading, my feet took their much known and loved path automatically.

Down through the cool, dark interior of the woods, across the Indiana Jones bridge and out onto the hill above the train tracks and canal.

From this vantage point one can see for miles.

The opposite side of the valley sloping upwards, the towns and villages nestled in their folds, it truly is stunning countryside.

I sat down in the shade of a tree, my back pressed up against it’s rough bark and contemplated how very blessed I felt at that moment.

Laughter greeted my ears as these two boys approached, completely oblivious to me in my hiding place.

They chatted excitedly of plans for their Summer holidays and I smiled nostalgically to myself whilst snapping this photo.

I remember those days…

When Summer felt endless.

And every day was filled with innocence and such carefree fun was to be had.

To me, this is quintessentially Summer Lovin

 

 

I was all up for writing my usual humorous post about how traumatic the start of the Summer holidays has been-believe me, I’ve already got a few tales to tell!

But NAPR posted today about a website called Stories That Must Not Die and asked for, well, tales that need to be told.

I felt the itch to contribute immediately.

Not because I feel like what I’m about to tell you must be remembered because, believe you me when I say this, I hope that I won’t be remembered just for this particular post.

I wanted to share this part of me with you because I can, because I hope that someone out there reading this will take a small amount of comfort from it and understand that whatever happened, whatever they feel they ‘did’ to ‘justify’ this or whatever came next…it was not your fault.

That’s the main point I’m making here, listen well and listen good…if this happened to you- it was not your fault.

Now take a minute to contemplate this, let it settle….and breathe.

I’m going to talk about rape.

More specifically, I’m going to tell you about when I was raped 4 years ago.

The night I 'deserved' it

The night I ‘deserved’ it

Are you ready? Take a gulp of wine, draw back on that cigarette and brace yourselves.

I hadn’t been out in a couple of months and when my best mate Rach told me our friend’s band was up from Wales playing at our usual haunt I was planning my outfit and ready to par-tay a good week in advance.

I positively couldn’t wait.

That night I dressed myself up, looked in the mirror and thought, “Yeah, you scrub up nicely tonight!”, a rare admittance but damn, I did feel good about myself.

I taxied over to Rach’s house full of excitement.

‘Possibilities’ didn’t even enter my head.

Yes, I was single but that night it was all about spending time with my friends and enjoying the show.

That was it.

I hadn’t even packed any condoms because pulling wasn’t on the agenda.

It was all about friendship, fun, laughter and dancing.

I couldn’t wait.

We made our way over to the club and I had an amazing time-I danced, I sung (until my throat went hoarse!) and I loved every minute.

Then suddenly, this wave of exhaustion enveloped me.

So I bade farewell to my friends and headed across the road to the takeaway to grab a bite to eat to accompany me home.

I entered the shop, the guy behind the counter flirted with me, I asked to use their toilet, he offered to show me where it was…and then??

The following day I awoke to a broken toe, bruised and swollen knees, bite and scratch marks across my breasts, a welt across my bum, finger print bruises around the tops of both arms and I’d been penetrated-vaginally and anally.

I hurt.

All over.

My head felt like cotton wool and for the love of God, I couldn’t remember a damn thing.

I panicked.

I was home in my own bed and had no idea as to how I’d arrived there.

I also had texts on my phone from him saying “what an amazing shag I was”.

I called my friend in desperation.

She knew what to do.

A few hours later our local Police Rape Crisis Unit had turned up and I was photographed, swabbed, examined and interrogated.

They were ready to move on my say so.

But.

I was such a fucking mess that I told them ‘no’.

How could I accuse someone of something as serious as rape when I had no fucking clue as to what had happened to me?! (Even when I was well within my rights to do so).

What if I’d have been so ‘drunk’ I’d have said yes? (Although, being so ‘drunk’ proves that any kind of consent isn’t actually possible).

What if this ‘poor guy’ just saw an opportunity and took it?! (He shouldn’t have gone anywhere near me in that condition-full stop).

Who was I to fuck up someone’s life so irreversibly???? (Who was he to affect my life so traumatically just for his own kicks???)

And so I said ‘no’.

I said ‘I needed to think about it’.

I didn’t pursue it-and still haven’t to this day.

I held onto my ‘evidence’- my corset, skirt and underwear for two years and then I dumped them unceremoniously into the trash.

I attended counselling at Rape Crisis.

I put myself back together again.

Shard by shard.

It wasn’t the violation (although, that was bad enough) that got me. No. It was the lack of memory. All I have from that evening are visions of an orange room. Still to this day, if someone sighs (about anything) and says, “Don’t you remember…?”, I bristle.

Like Dory, memory issues have become a huge thing for me.

It doesn’t matter that I was spiked.

My memory is something I pride myself on (not day to day-at that I’m admittedly shit!) but generally, it’s pretty damn good.

I decided not to take it further and sought counselling instead.

For me, it was the right thing to do-and no, before you all jump on me, it wasn’t for him it was for me.

Yes, I could’ve taken it to court.

And I could’ve won.

Yes, the guy in the takeaway most certainly took advantage of my condition-it was confirmed I’d been spiked with Rohipnol.

And yes, this guy would have deserved everything he had coming to him and more.

But.

I didn’t want the trauma.

All I wanted was to put it behind me.

Before you all call me selfish, let me say one thing to you….fuck you.

My loyalty isn’t to anyone else but myself.

I made no bones about telling everyone I knew who frequented his establishment that this happened.

As a result, he lost his job.

It was my choice to make not to be dragged through the courts and publicly displayed. Mine.

That guy, my rapist, got fired.

The following year (on New Years Eve) I made a point of going into that place for food.

I sat at a table, ate my meal and then (unlawfully) wandered upstairs to confirm my orange room.

I found it.

I also found peace.

I can safely say that I’m over my ‘experience’.

I didn’t deserve it. And no one ever does.

Whatever choices I made afterwards were perfectly right for me personally.

That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll be right for you.

All I’ll say is-go with your gut.

Feel what you need to feel.

Take time to breathe.

Then make the right decisions for you.

There shouldn’t be any pressure from any external sources.

I don’t care about statistics-what do they mean to me and my life?!

The main thing is that you reach a point of peace-however you may get there.

And I’m not advocating that rapists should get away with their actions either-I am in no way a rape apologist.

My message is this, do what is right for you- it’s your decision. You, and only you, need to make that choice. Don’t ever feel guilty about what happened to you or the decisions you choose to make. It has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else and their opinions mean very little. Ultimately, your well being is what is most important. Focus on looking after you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

7weird

 

My my, how time flies…is it Wednesday again already??

This weeks question has actually had me flummoxed:

What’s the weirdest habit/routine you have?

Now I know this is probably going to sound strange coming from me but I don’t really have any weird habits or routines.

Seriously.

I honestly don’t.

I have irritating to other people ones. OCD type habits. Annoying little rituals that drive Kenneth and Geeg crazy but nothing that reeks of oddness.

So I’ll tell you a couple of those instead.

  • Whilst washing up I have a set order to what gets dunked and scrubbed first. It goes like this: glasses, cups, cutlery, plates, cooking utensils then pans. To me it’s just common sense-wash the ‘cleanest’ first all the way through to the grubbiest/baked on crustiest. This drives Kenneth mad, particularly when I’m hovering over him tutting and huffing. Hey, I like my shit the way I like it!
I think Kenneth's way of avoiding me is sleep

I think Kenneth’s way of avoiding me is sleep

  • When cleaning the house I have to start from the top and work my way down. Another bone of contention is when Kenneth offers to help and starts the jobs downstairs. Argh! You’re messing with my cosmic mojo, man. Just sit down and let me do my thang!
This is probably very true...but only if it gets done in the right way

This is probably very true…but only if it gets done in the right  kind of way

  • Whenever Kenneth or Jean put The Boy to bed I have to say (and I can’t stress this enough-the world will likely end if I don’t. Or maybe we’ll be struck by lightening…something catastrophic anyway) “Don’t forget the door lock!”. and the minute they get back downstairs, the first words out of my mouth will always be, “Did you do the lock?!” This drives them insane. Like, glowing red eyes, I’m ready to kill you now, type crazy. In my defence though, on the couple of occasions I’ve bitten my tongue (drawing blood) and decided not to utter this sacred commandment, they’ve forgotten the bloody lock. Sigh.
  • On visiting the cinema, I have to sit three rows from the back and slightly to the right (from facing the screen). Admittedly, this does sound a little odd but there’s reasons behind it. 1) I have to be able to see the edges of the screen otherwise, if there’s any roller coaster/dropping from high buildings/broomstick flying type action happening, I get a kind of motion sickness. If I can see the edges then my brain can cope and rationalises to itself, “Ah, it’s okay, this shit’s not real”. 2) My left eye is more dominant than my right. So if I can see more of the film using my left side, it’s better for me. Optimum viewing pleasure. :)

And I reckon that’s about it folks.

See? Not so weird really!

IF you want to take part in the weirdness, hop on over to Mama’s blog and check it out. You never know, you might learn something new about yourself. Go on…join the oddballs club!

 

 

 

Potty About Pain

The Boy has another new obsession and this one is really quite alarming.

A few weeks ago his class went on a trip to Fairburn Ings-a nature reserve type place where they experienced the delights of pond dipping and creepy crawly hunting.

(This is Oscar trying to say Fairburn Ings, cracks me up every time! :D )

During the afternoon, a little girl called Megan injured herself and Oscar’s support worker, Miss. C, had to whisk her off to hospital.

Oscar was quite fourth coming that afternoon and our conversation went like this:

The Boy (whilst engrossed with a model train review on his iPad): Megan hurt arm today, Mummy.

Me: Did she? Poor Megan. What happened?

The Boy: She went to hospital with Miss. C.

Me: How did she hurt her arm, Dude?

The Boy (with an ominous expression): It was the dragonfly’s fault.

Me: Oh. Okay.

And then I text Miss. C for the rest of the tale.

Apparently, little Megan had been climbing on a large dragonfly statue, slipped and fallen, breaking her arm and Miss. C had had to accompany her to the hospital to await the arrival of her parents.

So Oscar got it right…kind of.

That evening whilst I was tucking him up in bed, I tried to explain to him that if Megan was at school the following day then she’d likely have a pot on her arm.

He stopped wriggling around and regarded me wide eyed, “What’s a pot like?”, he asked, enthralled.

“Well, your body has bones in it to keep you up straight and sometimes if they get knocked really hard they can break. So the hospital put a hard case on your arm called a pot, to keep it together so it heals again”, I replied, quite impressed with my own answer.

He rolled the sleeve of his pyjama top up and scrutinised his arm intently, turning it this way and that, “Where are bones?” he asked, puzzled.

“They’re inside, dude. Under your skin”, I grinned.

Frowning, he ran one hand along the thin skin of his wrist and then nipped it forcefully, “Like veins? Look, Mummy. See?”

I batted his hand away and nodded, “Yeah like the veins but I’ve told you before about pulling on those! They’re supposed to be there!”

“But they’re blue!!”, he shouted gleefully, grabbing at his arm again.

Rolling his sleeve down quickly and ignoring his protests, I tucked him up, read ‘Lots of Nuts’ (yup, we’re still reading that every night!) gave him a kiss goodnight and forgot all about it.

The next day he was excited to see Megan in the playground sporting her new accessory. I’d already warned him (on pain of death) about touching it, so he followed her around merrily, observing her arm like it was a fascinating new creature he’d just discovered.

And it went on like this for days.

Megan’s pot was the highlight of conversation around the dinner table for a good fortnight.

Then one day last week I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when a rhythmic thumping noise started up from the living room.

I stuck my head around the door to find Oscar vigorously banging his arm against his toy box.

Grabbing him, I pulled him onto the sofa and asked, “What on Earth are you doing?!”

He grinned up at me, rubbing his red arm and stated happily, “Breaking arm, Mummy. Want to go to hospital with Miss. C and get a pot”.

For the love of God…

I sighed wearily and tried to explain that breaking an arm hurts…like, a hell of a lot. And that a trip to the hospital really wouldn’t be fun. Plus, he’d be accompanied by boring old Mummy and not Miss. C.

This seemed to quell his ideas and I breathed a sigh of relief.

That was until Miss. C informed me on Friday that he’d spent a good part of the afternoon banging his arm on the floor at school and then got teary eyed when she’d told him to stop it.

Uh oh.

It seems this little plan of his hasn’t quite vanished as I’d hoped. In fact, The Boy appears to have figured out that if he does it at school then it will be Miss. C who whisks him off to the hospital.

Very clever of him, really.

Except now I don’t know what the Hell I’m going to do about it.

I can’t wrap the kid in bubble wrap but at this moment in time it’s sorely tempting.

All I can do is be extra vigilant and warn everyone else to do the same.

I’m hoping that this new obsession will wear off during the Summer holidays, at least he won’t be seeing Megan and the coveted pot everyday.

Until then, it’s a Red Alert.

We’re all on Oscar Watch!

 

 

 

 

 

 

This week has been a pretty tough one.

Sadly, Kenneth’s much loved Grandma passed away unexpectedly.

One of my close friends had a suspected heart attack and whilst in hospital they found a shadow on his lungs.

My Dad got rushed into hospital with a chest infection and whilst he was in there, they found other stuff wrong too- which could be connected to the infection, it’s not been clarified yet.

Thankfully, I received a brief email this morning from my Mum saying that he was feeling a lot better today and could possibly be released tomorrow.

But I’m struggling with all of this at the moment.

The main thing I’m finding difficult is not being able to just pick up the phone and call them whenever I get the urge to hear their voices.

We have FaceTime but my Mum can only use it when she’s in an area that has free WiFi and even then the connection is temperamental at best.

Plus it means that I have to wait for them to call me-which could be any time and if I’m not at home then I don’t get the call.

It’s proving a difficult one to get my head around, I’ve gone from knowing they were just up the road and having a ‘direct line’ to sitting and hoping that I might get a brief chat with them sometime soon.

My best friend has recently been out of commission too. She’s had some serious shit of her own to deal with and as a result has been incommunicado for quite some time. She’s getting better now, thankfully, and I should be seeing her tomorrow evening for a catch up but it feels like it’s been an age.

And since Kenneth finished his degree, his workplace has flung more and more shifts in his direction, making it damn near impossible for us to spend any quality time together. Lately, we really have been ships that pass in the night (or early morning, to be more accurate).

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve felt lonely.

Not just bored or restless.

But real, gut achingly, lonely.

And just as it was coming to it’s climax last night and I seriously felt like I was about to unravel, having spent a good portion of the evening worrying about my Mum and Dad plus crying over the huge gaping hole that appears to have grown inside me, a succession of wonderful things happened.

My phone pinged and I received an email from a fellow blogger. An ‘I saw this and thought of you’ mail. Just randomly. Out of the blue.

It’s content made me smile and that hole closed up just a fraction.

Then my incommunicado bestie rang and let me, very generously after all she’s been through of late, cry out every bit of pain I’ve been feeling and emotionally purge myself.

And the hole shrank some more.

Next up was a call from Kenneth’s Mum, I didn’t get much of a chance to speak to her but still, the offer and thoughtfulness was of huge comfort.

Then another fellow blogger whom I speak to privately called and we chatted about all sorts of randomness for well over an hour.

By this time, that hole had turned from an immeasurable swirling vortex into something tiny and manageable.

And then Kenneth rang from work (which never happens) to make sure I wasn’t contemplating throwing myself off the nearest cliff and the hole healed over.

I took myself off to bed, thoroughly exhausted and so very ready for sleep.

Today I feel drained but whole again.

That overwhelming feeling of aloneness has evaporated.

After such a stress filled emotional week and getting to the point last night where I genuinely felt like I’d reached my limit, it’s amazed me how much an effect those small acts of kindness from ‘virtual’ friends truly had.

I actually have this plaque hanging in my kitchen

I actually have this plaque hanging in my kitchen

So I want to thank you two (you know who you are) for dragging me out of my slump. I don’t know if you realised at the time what that meant to me.

And I’ve made a mental note for the future: If ever I feel so alone again, I know that there are people out there who care and who I can rely on to pull me up, shake me off and make me laugh.

Sometimes, a little note or a quick phone call is all a person needs :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

146

On our recent trip to Alton Towers I experienced my first cable car ride.

It was…intense.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the view of the contorted metal constructions of the rides from our high perch.

The beautiful woodland scenery sprawling out below us.

And the amazing rolling hills and valleys that surrounded the park.

But.

I did not love it when it slowed down and stopped mid crossing.

I did not enjoy the sensation of rocking from side to side in the breeze.

And nor did the realisation of the fact we were suspended in a small container dangling from a thin wire provide me with any kind of comfort.

Visions of scenes from James Bond flashed through my head as I contemplated how close we were to the tree line and whether or not I could jump, should I have to.

Thankfully we made it to the other side without having to perform any death defying stunts.

The Boy thought it was a hoot.

I disembarked shakily and decided to admire them from the safety of the ground instead.

I experienced a sheer terror moment akin to a James Bond film when the SkyRide cable car we were in halted and started swinging alarmingly in the breeze

I experienced a sheer terror moment akin to a James Bond film when the SkyRide cable car we were in halted and started swinging alarmingly in the breeze

 

We made our way up to bed through a throng of revellers who were attending a wedding reception at the hotel that evening.

The Boy settled down pretty quickly and was snoring away within minutes after his hard day filled with meltdowns and Driving School.

Geeg was also out like a light.

For this last night we’d decided to swap beds as Jean wanted an undisturbed sleep to put him in good stead for driving back the next day, so Jean and Oscar occupied the two singles and I got lumbered with the double bed and Geeg.

Now I’ve had the misfortune pleasure of sleeping with her before.

Imagine going to bed with a large, wriggling, writhing octopus who snores like a buffalo and you get the picture.

I wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest.

But, it was a king sized bed and we’re only small, so I hoped it wouldn’t be too horrendous an experience.

I made myself comfortable and just as I was dozing off, a large group of whooping, whistling and shouting party goers made their way down the hallway outside our door.

Thankfully, they didn’t rouse the kids so I sighed, rolled over and tried again.

After the third time going on to 1.30am, I was gritting my teeth and mentally composing a venomous speech that I planned to spew fourth at the next lot of inconsiderate twats wedding guests that decided to pound down our hallway.

Luckily for them I drifted off at that point only to be awoken at 3am with Geeg twisting my left boob like she was trying to open a particularly stubborn door knob.

My eyes flared, I slapped her hand away and hissed,”What on Earth are you doing?!”

I scrutinized her face in the darkness for signs of life.

And was rewarded with a gigantic snore as she shuffled and rolled in the opposite direction.

So I placed my foot in the small of her back and slid her as far away from me as I could without shoving her out of the bed completely.

For the rest of the night I slept with one eye open.

The Boy bolted upright in bed at 8am and grinned at me over the top of Geeg’s prone form, “Play in wardrobe?” he whispered hopefully.

I shook my head sternly, glanced over to Jean’s bed and put my finger to my lips.

Jean was laid on the top of his covers, fully clothed with one leg up and headphones firmly jammed into his ears.

Puzzled, I slid out of bed and crept over to him, leaning down as close as I could in the gloom to see whether or not he was yet conscious.

It was at that point that his eyes flared opened and he screamed which in turn, caused me to scream in response.

The Boy burst out laughing and Geeg grunted her disapproval at being woken so dramatically.

And there our day began.

After witnessing the absolutely miserable weather outside we decided it would be best to head on home after breakfast and so we dined, packed and got presented with the crazy bill upon checkout (I’m surprised there wasn’t a charge for air, they seemed to figure out a way to bill me for everything else).

I fished my purse out of my bag and reluctantly handed over my bank card whilst The Boy turned around to an elderly couple behind us and excitedly informed them, “Mummy’s got Hooters!”.

Geeg promptly collapsed onto the floor in a fit of giggles which only encouraged him to further elaborate on his statement, “Mummy’s got Hooters! Look, lady, look! Pretty Hooters!”

I felt the blood rush to my face as I turned to the stunned couple and pointed at my purse, “He’s referring to the owls on my purse, see?”, I stammered, whist throwing Geeg a murderous look.

(I will never stay there again. The Palace Hotel in Buxton, robbing people since 1911)

Anyway.

We piled into the car and set off for home.

About half way there, Geeg got a call from her boyfriend and was chatting away happily about her escapades at Alton Towers when Oscar, rather suddenly and very loudly exclaimed, “Daddy I need a poo“.

Geeg started her crazy giggling and once again I threw her ‘the look’ in the rear view mirror and then swivelled around to face The Boy who’s expression had turned oddly serious.

Well have a poo dude-it’s okay, you’re wearing a nappy“.

He contemplated this for several seconds before stating, “Oscar want to poo at Alton Towers“.

Finding it difficult to contain my amusement now, I answered, “Sorry kiddo, no more Alton Towers. You’ll have to make do with pooing in the car” and turned back round to face the road, catching Jean’s smirk as I went.

Five minutes later and his voice piped up again, “Oh Daddy! I’m having a poo!”.

Well that was it, the entire car plus Geeg’s boyfriend erupted into uncontrollable laughter, all except for Oscar who had adopted a look of pure concentration.

We stopped at the services shortly after to attend to *ahem* bathroom breaks and I treated everyone to their much coveted Burger Kings and fended off demands for ice cream, “Definitely not in the hire car! I don’t care how careful you’ll be!”

We finally arrived home, both Jean and myself thoroughly shattered and the kids in high spirits, around 2.30 in the afternoon.

All in all, it was an insightful holiday.

I now know that:

The Boy can handle hotels.

That Geeg is a weird ass little thrill seeker (is that kid actually my child?!)

And that Oscar cannot be separated from Katie. Ever. If we should plan another trip together again (I have the bruises to prove it).

In fact, The Boy hasn’t stopped chattering about it since, plus he’s developed a new obsession-watching the roller coasters on his iPad. (Rather him than me-he’s on his own with that one!)

And me?

Yeah this is me. Although, what I can say is "Well done me for resisting the urge to feed Geeg to a mechanical shark. And yay me for not investing in some high strength Gaffer Tape even though the thought did cross my mind-several times. Well done me for  ensuring that both myself and my kids survived the weekend"

Yeah this is me. Although, what I can say is “Well done me for resisting the urge to feed Geeg to a mechanical shark. And yay me for not investing in some high strength Gaffer Tape even though the thought did cross my mind-several times. Well done me for ensuring that both myself and my kids survived the weekend”

I don’t think I’ve fully recovered yet.

I could use a holiday (sans children) to get over my holiday.

Roll on October and Marrakech….87 sleeps and counting!! :)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

7weird

 

It’s that time of the week again folks-you’ll all have to wait until tomorrow for the last instalment of Temporary Relocation of the Asylum as Weird Wednesday takes precedence (being Wednesday an’ all).

So today, Mama’s question is…drum roll, please…

What’s the weirdest thing you do to relax?

This made me chuckle rather naughtily but I promise I won’t go down that road, besides, it’s not exactly weird, right?! ;)

I didn’t have to think too hard about this, being the oddball that I am, so here we go!

1) I love to tie a strand of my hair in a knot and scratch the knot with my thumb nail.

It’s a comfort thing and half of the time I don’t even realise I’m doing it. I love the sensation of the taut hair rubbing against the sensitive skin under my nail. I can’t possibly tell you why-I just do! It feels good…and relaxing.

photo (1)

2) Sniffing Kenneth’s hair.

Yeah.

Not the hair on his head because that just smells like shampoo, more specifically his beard. I could happily spend hours (although I doubt very much he’d let me as that man can’t sit sit for longer than ten minutes at a time!) with my nose buried in his bristles. There’s something that’s just so damn intoxicating about that scent. It’s like what ‘new born baby’ smell is to others. It’s a mixture of coffee, cigarettes and an underlying musk that is man. If only it could be bottled, I’d spend hundreds…

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(Are you concerned about the state of my mental health yet! ;) )

And lastly, this is a reeeeeally odd one…

3) Chewing sponge like gum.

Granted, I don’t do it these days but when I was a kid I adored bath sponges. Just to clarify here, I never actually swallowed, I simply ripped off pieces and chewed it like, well, gum! My Mum would despair every time she entered the bathroom and spotted a new chunk missing. The feel of it in my mouth is indescribable and honestly, even just writing about in now makes me salivate. I have put a stop to this bizarre habit these days but whilst I was pregnant with Geeg I had an uncontrollable craving for it-natural or synthetic, it didn’t matter. It was so strong that I ended up paying a visit to the docs to check whether or not chowing down on Spongebob would be unhealthy for the baby. He looked at me like I was absolutely insane and spoke very slowly in response but to my delight, he confirmed that it was quite safe. Geeg’s Dad promptly whisked me off to the nearest petrol station where I procured a huge car washing sponge and I’d devoured it within a week. It was pure heaven!

Now I know you’re concerned ;)

Sleep with one eye open my springy friend, your days could be numbered

Sleep with one eye open my springy friend, your days are numbered

So there you have it, granted these are definitely weird ways to relax but hey, you’ve got to take your comfort where you can get it!

 

 

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