Start All Over Again

Right.  This is ridiculous.  I actually have No Inspiration to Blog.  All the things that I want to write about seem to be really rather dull for a person (you) to read.  And anything slightly less dull is really rather too much of a hassle to get down on paper.  Or screen.  Or whatever.
And so it has happened.
Finally.
I have, it seems, forgotten why it was that I started to blog.
And because I have forgotten why I started to blog, I have forgotten what to write about.
Which is plain silly.
Because the reason I started to blog, in October 2008,  was to write down the lovely, memorable things that happen over the years, so that I will have a diary to look back on one day, when these dear children of mine are grown up.  And gone.
I need to be able to look back, and marvel, and giggle, and cry...and remember.
And I have forgotten all that in the need for approval.  Comments.  Feedback.
?????
That maddening feeling that what I really want to write is just a little boring.  Dull.  Repetitive.  Samey. Blah blah blah.  That someone is judging what I am writing.  That I am reading the comments before the post is even written. Crazy.
And so I am going to stop doing that.
And write.
Write about dear little Youngest  and the things he says.  Things that make me smile and giggle and laugh out loud.  Write about Daughter and her wonderfully quirky ways and generous heart.  Write about Middle Son and his way of making me laugh until I hurt.  Write about Eldest and how he warms my heart and my life.  Write about Husband.  How he makes my life whole.  Write about Stuff that happens to ME and not worry about who comments and when and why.
Doesn't matter.
What matters is that I get to log my memories.
I am now writing this for myself.
I really don't care who reads it, when, why, who comments, who doesn't.
I need these memories written, and the only person who can do that is me.
You see, along with the endless poo stories or inconsequential nonsense about ponds or carpet shops, I have the most appalling 'on the quiet' sentimental side.  I cry at the slightest thing on the telly, and can quite often be seen sobbing.  Marley and Me (sobbed so hard my head hurt) or the World Cup (cry when they sing the National Anthem).
My children think I am mad and my husband loves me for it.
And sometimes that sentimentality spills out here on my blog.
And I know which of you will find that sweet. And I know which ones of you will find that irritating. So I don't do it.
Well, buggery bollocks,  am going to do it now!
Sentiment, unashamedly so, will SPILL from the screen, slopping all over your keyboard.
Really pathetic moments that I need to record.
Am going to write whatever I want because Ladybird World Mother is MINE! ALL MINE!
Cue mad laughter.
Yes, I know that you all do this anyway, and are reading in total astonishment that I am even THINKING such thoughts.  That I actually give a monkey's bollocks what anyone else thinks.
It IS madness.
Actually, it's not.  It's called lack of confidence.
So.
See you soon.
Please bring a hanky, a sick bag and your seat belt fastened at all times.
Or else just a sense of the ridiculous.
If, however, you come and you go, and you think what I have written is a load of tosh, then I will be blissfully unaware of it.
And will still have my memories building up nicely in this little blog of mine.
Which is, after all, what this is all about.

xxx

Rain!!!

Right. It's time to blog. I have had a good old look at this layout business and it doesn't seem like the end of the world. Just a darn sight more complicated and until I find my feet, or rather my fingers, will just post about gentle things, and not bother with pictures or links because that would be very VERY scary. Anyway. Now to tell you all about this fascinating old life of mine. Enthrall you with wisdom, enlightenment, joy. Make you feel like it was worth coming here to visit.
Right. Um. Well.
Oh, yes!
Have bought a rain gauge.
I said a RAIN GAUGE. You know, one of those things that you shove out in the garden and measure how much rain you get. Why? Because then you know how much rain has fallen. I know, I know, I HAVE become enormously dull, but that is because we are trying not to spend any unnecessary money, and so I haven't been able to get out and buy things like CLOTHES or NICE THINGS but instead am buying things like RAIN GAUGES or TOILET LIMESCALE REMOVER.
Not very exciting, eh.
But am surprisingly rather pleased with my rain gauge. Half an inch of rain on Saturday night. A quarter of an inch since then. That makes three quarters of an inch! Which means that we need it to rain every day until about December for this drought of ours to be over. Apparently.
Having slid and squidged my way round our Bluebell Wood in mud up to my ankles, am amazed by the seriousness of this drought. My friend's husband is an engineer and has to work out HOW to make sure that there will be enough water for everyone during the Olympic Games. Don't envy him that job.  Because however you look at it, there won't be enough water for everyone at the Olympic Games.  Because there isn't enough water for everyone WITHOUT the Olympic Games.
But meanwhile there is water in our little stream running through our wood, and everything looks green and verdant and spring like.  And enough water for me to dash out to check the Rain Gauge.
Marvellous!
Life can be SO satisfactory at times.
Ker-ist.
Note to self.
'Get a life.'
Not half as much fun as rain gauges, though.

Lost!

What in tarnation has happened to my blog? Have only been away for a month or so, with the odd little visit here and there, and here I am back again, and the WHOLE THING IS CHANGED. Haven't a CLUE where to find my old posts, and have no idea whatsoever how to publish this post... feel like a newcomer all over again. Next thing I need to do is to change the flipping photo at the top of my blog. Me and two glasses of champagne look so tacky. But HOW? Right. Going to explore this totally new face of Blog Land and see what I can rescue from the ruins. See you soon!

Sorted.

Extremely pleased with myself.
Odious little man (Steve from Accounts) rang again from VISION PUBLICATION GROUP (see last post) and asked me again for the money I so called 'owed'. I had, in the time since our last dear little phone call, contacted Trading Standards, and a very kind solicitor from the Federation of Small Businesses. Between the two of these phone calls, I managed to get a letter together to send to Vision. This letter was unsent but ready to go, when Steve (see above) called.
I hit him with it.
Gave him What For.
Told him about the business forums I had found on the internet, where at least 30 other people had experienced the same thing FROM THE SAME COMPANY!
Told him about contacting Trading Standards and the FSB legal department.
Told him that unless he provided concrete evidence that I HAD confirmed the invoice, that I would be contacting the police for harassment.
I was on a roll, my voice no longer quiet and uncertain, but booming and confident and DETERMINED that the bullying should stop.
Steve from Accounts told me that I should talk to Andy from Accounts.
And rang off. Fast.
Next day we got a call from Vision saying that the invoice had been cancelled.
Ridiculous, eh? Like a bully in the playground who just needs someone to stand up to him.
Anyway, I did.
And will NOT be getting into the same situation ever again.
Do you know what? I actually asked to listen to the recording of the so called confirmation phone call. I sounded so damned NICE and NORMAL, if a little bewildered by the assumption that I had agreed to an advert. I could hear my voice saying, 'Actually I need to talk to my colleague,' and 'This sounds good in theory but in practice...' etc. All interrupted. All ignored. And all to the background of the children at my pre-school playing...
Makes me steam with rage that people take advantage like that.
And so, while I will always remain polite, I will never again fall into that trap.
It just goes to show how the very worst of mankind use the nice people out there for their gain.
But not this time.

GO AWAY!

Aren't pushy people on the phone just the pits?
Was rung up last week by odious little man who demanded money from us for an invoice supposedly confirmed, by phone, a month or so before. The invoice was for an advert, with money going towards a charity. We had already done one advert in the summer, and were SO not up for yet another one. I explained to him, very nicely, that we were a tiny little pre-school, and not really up for forking out another £600 when we needed every penny for the children. I was sure that he understood, blah, blah,blah.
He didn't.
At all.
He started to get rather unpleasant, and told me that there was a 'recording of the confirmation', and invited me to listen to it.
Which I did.
And could hear myself, (cor, I didn't 'alf sound posh and all) saying Yes to this, and Yes to that, and then explaining that I would be delighted to give the money but not now... and then being talked over by the voice at the other end, before the phone call abruptly ended, and I was left with a £600 bill.
But...!
But...!!
And all of this happening because I am polite to a pushy, aggressive sales person last October.
Believe me, it's hard enough telling these people to naff off when sitting quietly at one's desk, surrounded by paper work and Stuff. But to be surrounded by 20 small children, at our pre-school, one holding my hand, the other needing their nose wiped, it becomes almost impossible to give one's full attention to a full spate of sales technique at the other end of the phone. I kind of zoned out when the pushy sales lady (who rang right in the middle of a morning session at our pre-school) went on and on about how kind we were, and what she wanted, and how she was going to go about doing things for us. But I put the phone down knowing that I hadn't committed to anything. Phew!
Only to get another phone call some time later saying that they were so delighted that I would like another advert (costing £600) and how would I like to pay.
Stutter!
What?!
I was totally taken aback by their engineering of the conversation to make it sound like I HAD confirmed.
The very dull end to this very dull tale is that I am now in the process of trying to prove that I did NOT commit to yet another advert in some poxy publication and that we will NOT be paying out £600 for an advert we don't want.
It is taking up hours of my time, and I am getting more and more annoyed as each phone call, email, letter goes on.
I now have Trading Standards on the case, plus the Federation of Small Businesses.
Feels like bullying. It really does.
Cross your fingers for me, folks.

Pee'sd off

Christ, have done it again.
Very Nice Man came round to fix the gutter, which had been ripped off during storms of late (causing much grief in night as one heard the bang bang banging of loose guttering about six feet away from head ALL NIGHT LONG).
Anyway.
Very Nice Man arrived with very long ladder and proceeded to go up very long ladder to wrench bastard guttering away from roof and replace with new. Hooray!
I hovered at the bottom of ladder while Very Nice Man shouted a lot from the top of the ladder. Most of which I couldn't hear, as he was face to face with roof, and sound was rather muffled.
Anyway.
Offered him some tea. Called for dog who was sniffing about. Dog came, and neatly cocked his leg and pee'd all over the Very Nice Man's tool box.
Ker-ist.
While Very Nice Man was still speaking I backed into utility room, which was conveniently placed just behind me, grabbed large wad of loo paper also conveniently placed just behind me, and made for the tool box, loo paper hidden behind my back.
Very Nice Man was still talking.
Bent over double quick, wiped back, forward, sideways and a quick flourish to finish, and made for the compost heap with what I hoped was a Nonchalent sort of walk.
Very Nice Man didn't have a clue.
Thought that I really ought to wipe it with proper antibacterial wipes, so went back into house.
But phone rang, I got distracted, and the next thing I knew was the Very Nice Man was at my front door with his tool box.
Bye, he said, cheerily.
Bye! I said back. Not looking at tool box.
Which was decidedly damp.
Oh, for God's sake, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE OWNED UP EITHER.

O Christmas Tree!

Oh, God, no.
It's that time of year again.
Yuletide.
When the children assist in the Decorating of the Tree.
Help. Me.
Not that I am Anal by any stretch (sorry) of the imagination, but I DO like my decorations to look sort of Nice.
About this time, up goes the tree, and I grit my teeth and clench buttocks as Children, with squeals of joy, ruin the Bastard Tree in about three minutes.
A cluster of glittery sort of horrors are placed all over it, while endless small (WHY?) bits of tinsel are draped round and round and ROUND it until the green of the tree is totally obliterated, and it resembles a rather unpleasant sort of Naff Lady Costume in Panto.
And the baubles.
Oh, God, don't let me even THINK about the Baubles...
Each January I surruptitiously chuck Nasty Baubles in the bin, and breathe sigh of relief that NEXT year we will have tasteful, modest, rather Chelsea looking decorations on our tree.
And what happens the next December? Eh?
Blasted teachers (am one of them) send home tatty old bits of tinsel and tired felt, wrapped round lavatory rolls, while Proud Child bears this treasure home, and carries it, with great Pomp and Circumstance, to the tree.
And hangs the Horror on it.
I WANT MY TREE BACK.
I want a modest little ensemble of lights and glass and colour. I want people to Oooh and Ahhh as they first take a peek of it. I want to sip champagne, with the fire roaring, the tree twinkling, and friends chatting.
I want, I want, I want....
And so, last night we decorated the tree. And I clenched said buttocks while children bickered over where to put tinsel, lights, baubles and general crap.
When I realised that they actually were Doing It Right.
!!!
!!!
!!!
Really!!!
Middle Son instructed younger two to stand back while he draped lights round and round. Standing back to check they were even.
!!!
Youngest draping tinsel randomly round anywhere, and the others telling him to stop, as they hadn't finished doing the lights yet.
!!!
On finishing the lights, out came the tinsel.
Oh, Ker-ist.
Round the tree the tinsel went, children standing back and looking at their handiwork as they decorated.
!!!
Up went lovely bright red baubles, then gold. Always being checked they were in the right place.
'It's looking good,' commented Middle Son occasionally, to himself.
And it was!!!
The fairy lights twinkled in all the right places, the glass bits danced with light, the shiny bits shone just in the right places, and when the tree was done, and we all stood back, we gave out a unanimous, Ahhhhh.
Because it was beautiful. Truly.
And I felt ashamed of my horrible pre-conceived ideas of how Crap my children were at decorating trees and such.
Because they are rather Superb after all.
And we spent an evening in the company of the most beautiful tree in the world, with the firelight glancing off tinsel and glass, and glinting most satisfactorily through my glass of wine.
Hooray!! Another milestone passed in this Parenting Malarkey.
Chuffed, I am.
Really Chuffed.

Password? What Password?

Today I actually wondered what my password was, as I tried to get onto my blog.
I FORGOT it!
For Flip's sake.
I actually Forgot My Password.
This is madness.
I LOVE my blog. Hoover round it regularly, polish all the nick nacks...
Put some nice pictures up.
Invite friends over to look at pitiful worded offerings about Poo.
Laugh at comments.
Cry at comments.
Visit other blogs and offer to do the washing up. (not really, which is WHY blogging is so fabulous)
And there I was, that little flashing thing on the screen hovering over the rectangle space where the password should go, thinking...
What the hell IS it?
My password.
Blank.
Scratched head.
Picked nose.
Drummed fingers on keys.
Asked myself out loud.
And after several moments of painful thought, remembered.
Hooray!
At last!
Typed it in.
And there I was! On my blog again after weeks of absence. Purple person at top of blog with lots of champagne.
God, I thought.
Must change that picture, I look like a loon.
Which, of course, I am.
Looked at all the names down my blog list.
Hovered over them. Very glad to see those familiar names again after my absence.
It's not changed! They're all here!
Rather like coming into room where party is and you know everyone.
Fab.
And so, here is my paltry middle of December offering...
Crap, eh?
But heartfelt crap, so that's OK.
Flipping heck, this is hard work. I had forgotten how I need to check each sentence for being spelt right, and not too long, and not too short. Might have to take up Facebook instead.
NO! NEVER!! Well, actually DO have Facebook account, and occasionally go on it so that I can feel smug about all the other people who go on it incessantly and say things like, 'Am doing my washing.'
???
Right, going to write down my password so that will remember it when I next log in.
And then am going a'visiting. Get your kettles on...milk and a little sugar, please.
See you in a mo'!
xx

Insect Days

Had the most glorious time today.
It was an Inset day (Insect day) and after asking Youngest where he wanted to go, he announced, without any hesitation at all...
'DFS please.'
Ker-ist.
Had thought that he might like to go swimming/bowling/cinema/beach (please, no, too flipping cold) or maybe a little hot chocolate with a bucket of marshmallows on the top.
Nope.
DFS.
"OK!" I said. Brightly. Tightly.
And we did.
After a mighty nice breakfast at our local deli... BEFORE which Youngest complained long and hard about WHY should we have breakfast somewhere else and WHY didn't we just stay at home and WHY should he go when he didn't want to, etbloodycetera, and AFTER which Youngest said, WHY don't we come again tomorrow, and when I said No, quite firmly, due to the eye watering bill, he said but WHY until I quietened all of that sort of questioning with a Look.
Anyway, and so to DFS we went.
For God's sake.
And, once again, DFS poured its magic over us.
No, really!
We started with the Crap Sofas by the entrance (bright red and rock hard, euurggh, we all said) and moved on to the Floral Section (swirly flowers and shiny hard legs, eurrgghh, we all said) And then we moved on to the Electronic Chairs.
Really!
Awesome stuff.
You press a button and watch as your feet slowly appear from the floor until they are well above you and all you can see is the ceiling. We all sat in various violently coloured Electric Chairs (as Youngest called them) and waved cheerily across the yards of carpet and wandering Pensioners. (I have to watch that, as Pensioner will be me in 9 years)
And we ended up on a vast thing, about 15 feet long, presumably a sofa, but really, you would need a Hangar for that piece of kit...
We all sat in a straight line on this huge slice of Upholstery, when along came a rather keen shop assistant, eyes on stalks, as he probably thought we would buy the bugger.
Nope.
But I said conversationally, nice sofa, how much, and he lit up like a Christmas Tree, and told us everything we never wanted to know about sofas, until our eyes glazed over and we began to swoon with boredom.
And so we left the Boring Man, as Youngest so aptly described him, and rejoined the normal world outside the shop.
It was fun, though, and we might make another trip next Insect Day, weather permitting.

Stop the World, I want to get off.

I am utterly spent. Nothing left. Exhausted.
And yet...
I keep on going, knowing that I am tired to the bone and need to stop.
I keep on going, clearing, moving things back to where they belong, moving things back to where they belong AGAIN, and then repeating the process, every single day of my domestic life.
Parenting, nurturing, caring. Such a business. Such a knackering, bone-cracking, mindlessly, needlessly EXHAUSTING season of life.
Today I don't like it very much. I want to get off. Please.
But that wretched momentum keeps me pinned in place, unable to escape.
Even if I COULD escape, I wouldn't go. Obviously.
Just because I look spent and tired and fed up, doesn't mean that I should bugger off and let some other poor old dear do it.
We ALL feel like this from time to time.
Only this 'time to time' seems to have stretched right through the Summer Holidays, right up to the present moment, without releasing its grip.
I'll be fine soon. Look back on this period of time with a sense of sympathy for myself. Be glad that it's over.
But for now, it isn't over. It's right here.
And soon I'll have to get off this chair, and the comfort of hammering away at keys on my computer, seeing the words form on the screen, saying just what I am feeling, and where I would rather be. And I'll have to make tea, run baths, cajole, smile, and be a mother.
Don't want to.
Sigh.
This is NOT my usual post, eh?
Sorry, chaps.
I'll write soon about Stuff and Nonsense, giggle while I'm typing, enjoy the way the post is going, look forward to pressing that Publish Post button...
But for now I am Eeyore-like.

"I might have known," said Eeyore. "After all, one can't complain. I have my friends. Somebody spoke to me only yesterday. And was it last week or the week before that Rabbit bumped into me and said 'Bother!'. The Social Round. Always something going on."


Oh, well, better get on. Tea beckons.
Just one more quote and I'll be off...

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he.
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."