Friday, 29 June 2012

Does my dick look big in this?

What does your car say about you?

Who cares? Cars aren't important to me, they just have to work, be cheap to fix, cheap to run and fit a pushchair in the boot.

Well.....a pushchair, two camping chairs, a baby back-carrier, balls, wellies, buckets and spades, bags of clothes for the charity shop I never manage to get to.

But back to the point. If I'm going to run my own business, my car is going to start giving out signals about the kind of person I am, the company I run and most importantly whether or not I'm successful. People will judge me on it and for the first time it might matter.

So I asked a friend, what does my car say about me?

"It's says you're a mum" was her simple reply. And why?

"Because it's full of dents and scratches down the side"

Well surely that just says I either live in a pretty dodgy area or I'm a terrible driver. She disagrees.

According to her the scratches and dents show that I've got other things to worry about. That the crying baby I'm trying to fit into the too-small trolley is taking all my attention, so I don't notice the trolley bash against my door, repeatedly.

That the loud screaming in the back of the car and the even louder music (to drown it out) prevent me from hearing the scrapes along the wall as I speed reverse into the drive.

And the nursery rhyme actions in my rear view mirror to entertain the smiling sing-a-longa baby in the back seat disturbed me long enough to miss the hedge I just reversed into. (twig meets reverse lights - ouch)

Ok I get it. It's not very new, it's not very flash and it's covered in scratches. It screams public sector, it screams working mum.

But change my car because of what it says about me and pretend to be something I'm not? I'd rather take the train.

Does my dick look big in this?

Monday, 25 June 2012

When Granny met Bevan

I've grown up looking at this photo but never used to appreciate what it meant to my Great Grandmother, or why my Nan was so proud of her mother shaking hands with this man.

This is a picture of my Granny Jones meeting Welsh Labour politician Aneurin Bevan and it takes pride of place in my Nan's living room.

She's not sure exactly when it was taken, somewhere around 1950. The Dee Park estate had just opened, a brand new collection of perfectly formed council houses. Nye Bevan was to visit and my Granny Jones was chosen, because she was 'very clean' and had a big family - or so the story goes. She had 12 children.

My Great Grandmother shaking hands with the founder of the NHS.


Wednesday, 20 June 2012

When work is the perfect excuse

The countdown clock has started and the tension is beginning to build. Less than 3 months to go.
I’m leaving my job, my big fat public sector pension and I’m setting up on my own.
But that isn’t what’s making me nervous.  From September, I’’ll be doing the school run.
No car waiting with the engine running, no traffic build-up to avoid, no flexi-clock ticking away timing my arrival in work. Simply put, I’ll have no more excuses. The boy is starting  school and I’M going to have to stand by the gate.
And smile
And chat
To be honest I’m shit scared. I’m supposed to be all nervous and excited about my eldest starting school and worried that he might not settle in properly…..blah blah blah blah blah blah.    But I have none of those fears. The teachers seem nice, the building is lovely and he knows a few people already.
But will be EXPECTED TO STAND NEXT TO THEM AND CHAT. Probably for a good 10 minutes.
I won’t have work as an excuse anymore. In my new world I will do work after the school run and once the kids are in bed. In my new world I will act like the perfect mother, walking my child safely to school come rain or shine. (and walking back up that bloody big hill again, sweating like a fat lass at a dance and wishing I’d taken the car)
So I’ve got 3 months to find an excuse. I can’t withdraw my resignation, that just looks like I’ve bottled it. I’ll be working up til September so no time to wander on down to the playgroup and pick up a few mates that way.
I’m just going to have to face it. Stand alone for a while, hope someone notices me. Smile politely and look friendly (fine line between friendly and slightly mad). If I’m ignored I’ll play with my phone (slight problem with no mobile signal). 
Or I could go for the really painful option and force myself (with a bit of under-the-breath bullying ‘do it you coward, come on you unsociable bitch’) to go over and talk to them. Walk into a group of mums who know each other really well and say something cheesy “Hi, it’s my first day, what’s your name?”
What do you reckon? No me neither. Better phone the breakfast club.

Sunday, 17 June 2012

Lusting after coffee

I have fallen in love with this machine. I don't do the lottery but if I did, I'd buy one of these.

I have no desire for a flash car, or a mock-tudor mansion, or even an Olympic-sized swimming pool. I don't really need a big villa on the Costas.

But I do like decent coffee every day, so I'd buy one of these and occasionally treat myself to hiring a barista to operate it.

Happy Days.

I blame  @ravecoffee .

See this and more here

Tuesday, 12 June 2012

To the Bride.....Iechyd da!

What makes a good hen weekend?

The bride-to-be having one last fling? The bridesmaids falling down drunk? Someone going missing and turning up in a strange man's bed the next day?

Or tacky pink barbie dresses, matching outfits, veils and L plates? It's all about broken heels, broken windows and broken feelings.


Laughter makes a good hen weekend. Hours and hours of sometimes sober, sometimes wine fuelled, belly-aching, side-splitting laughter.

Low sugar, lack of sleep, hangover headache induced laughter. Laughing at things that no one else will find funny. Laughing at things you hoped you'd forgotten.

And laughing everytime you see someone who shared it too.

Now THAT's what makes a good hen weekend. And I've just been on one.

Not a prison cell or broken relationship in sight (just a lot of unused darker than dark fake tan and some unfinished dares).

TOWIE - thanks for the memories. 

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

Staying-in-bed Olympics

There’s no moving me, I won’t be beaten. We’re competing in the ‘staying-in-bed’ Olympics and I’m going for gold.
You thought your luck was in when I reacted first to the cries, didn’t you?
A quick glance at the clock, 5.45am, on a Saturday. You roll over to face the wall as you hear me talking calmly, hushed, my reassuring tones soothing the baby. You’re hoping for one of two things; I get her back to sleep and return to spoon you back into slumber; or I’ll take her downstairs, out of earshot and play with her quietly until the 4 year old whirlwind races in to wake you up.
But I’m on to you. There’s no way this baby is going back to sleep and there’s no way I’m getting up. So let the games begin.
I climb back into bed, baby wrapped tightly in my arms and soothe her “shh” stroking her gently, urging her to close her eyes. Just 30 more minutes, please.  I close my eyes tightly and pray silently.
She wriggles, she kicks, she’s up in a second. Sitting, shouting, pulling my hair, fingers in my eyes. I keep them closed as tight as I can, ignore the fingers poking me, the nails scratching my cheeks. I know that if I persevere she’ll get bored, she’ll move away to the other side of the bed. To Daddy.
A few more minutes and she’s gone. Shouts of “DA, DA, DA” ring through the air and I hear you groan. “You get up” you say. I ignore you, pretend I’m sleeping.  I know you are weak. I know you can’t take the ear-pulling, elbowing and slobber sliding down your cheek. The snot being rubbed into your face.
We both know we’re in competition, we both know we’re playing the same game. We both know I’m going to win.
If I wanted to get up, I’d have jumped out of bed by now and you know it. This is all about staying power, will power, the power to resist, the ability to ignore the grating sound of a child now starting to whinge.
Just a few more seconds and I’m there.
“God, I’ll get up then” I hear you complain as you spring out of bed. I smile silently in my sleep.
Victory is mine (until tomorrow).