These days I’m holding my breath. My eyes must be bugging, my cheeks puffed, numb and tingling, my lips turning blue from the outside in.
Somebody get a pin. Or tickle me. Or something.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
onward and upward
Or: Why I will never be a theatre critic. Or have tea with the queen.
Since about this time yesterday afternoon, Mol has been 10. Double figures. One of my kids is in double figures.
The shock called for high culture, and high culture was got.
I might be thirty-five; I might bristle to the touch, be a bit tough to chew and a little wizened around the edges, but when the banging and knocking had finished and the cloth was lifted, my sensibilities roared and my gut donkey kicked
OH MY GOD! IT’S CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG!
FUCK ME! SHE’S FLYING!
Chaps, I had a tissue up my sleeve, secret-like. I am crap.
But, fuck me. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Since about this time yesterday afternoon, Mol has been 10. Double figures. One of my kids is in double figures.
The shock called for high culture, and high culture was got.
I might be thirty-five; I might bristle to the touch, be a bit tough to chew and a little wizened around the edges, but when the banging and knocking had finished and the cloth was lifted, my sensibilities roared and my gut donkey kicked
OH MY GOD! IT’S CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG!
FUCK ME! SHE’S FLYING!
Chaps, I had a tissue up my sleeve, secret-like. I am crap.
But, fuck me. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Thursday, January 19, 2006
he he he
Am downloading some Glenn Miller for Molster, who is learning to play In The Mood in keyboard lessons.
I get a little jolt every time I see Glenn Miller's face on an album cover, and it's not James Stewart.
I get a little jolt every time I see Glenn Miller's face on an album cover, and it's not James Stewart.
Friday, January 06, 2006
you have 357 days to comply
Zig claims to have forgotten his new year’s resolutions. Year 2 stormed the stairs (for stormed where Zig is concerned, please read rode the Robocop-worthy, cooler than Stannah any day matey stair chair) to the computer suite, to tap their resolutions into a hard drive.
Sarah’s mum says Sarah said (repeat quickly fifty times and score ten points) she resolved to keep her bed tidy. Not the bedroom, for she’s a practical six-year-old with a feel for what’s reasonable.
While hoiking him into his chair, I asked Zig what he’d resolved. He screwed up his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and turned up the corners of his mouth. Hold for ten. Release.
I can’t remember
Apparently he didn’t resolve to do all the washing-up for the year. I checked. Whatever they were, quick as made, his resolutions blew away to make friends with the ether. And probably do all its dishes for the year.
Either:
1) He remembers his resolutions perfectly well, but is concerned that I might hold him to feedingthecatswashinghishandspickingup litternotpickinghisbogeysresolvingworldconflicts every day for a year
2) He remembers perfectly well but is afraid of the cloud of failure should becoming the Archbishop of Ramsbottom not be feasible before December
3) He remembers perfectly well but thinks it none of my bloody business
4) He’s forgotten
Any are possible; I empathise with all. I’ve deliberately side-stepped resolutions this year. I’ve also, until now, side-stepped the side-step, with a breezy whistle. Letting a resolution slide is just too cloudy, and if I don’t let them slide, I might, you know, succeed.
The very idea.
Thing is, in the computer suite on the second floor of a school not too far away, there’s a hard drive. In this hard drive there are Zig’s resolutions, which for reasons 1-4 or 5) Other, he has chosen to keep quiet.
My innards being sneaky, I reckon I’ve got a hard drive too. I’d take the stairs but I forgot to plug in the Robocop-worthy, cooler than Stannah any day matey stair chair to charge.
I'd best just stay here on my arse. Pass the chocs.
Sarah’s mum says Sarah said (repeat quickly fifty times and score ten points) she resolved to keep her bed tidy. Not the bedroom, for she’s a practical six-year-old with a feel for what’s reasonable.
While hoiking him into his chair, I asked Zig what he’d resolved. He screwed up his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and turned up the corners of his mouth. Hold for ten. Release.
I can’t remember
Apparently he didn’t resolve to do all the washing-up for the year. I checked. Whatever they were, quick as made, his resolutions blew away to make friends with the ether. And probably do all its dishes for the year.
Either:
1) He remembers his resolutions perfectly well, but is concerned that I might hold him to feedingthecatswashinghishandspickingup litternotpickinghisbogeysresolvingworldconflicts every day for a year
2) He remembers perfectly well but is afraid of the cloud of failure should becoming the Archbishop of Ramsbottom not be feasible before December
3) He remembers perfectly well but thinks it none of my bloody business
4) He’s forgotten
Any are possible; I empathise with all. I’ve deliberately side-stepped resolutions this year. I’ve also, until now, side-stepped the side-step, with a breezy whistle. Letting a resolution slide is just too cloudy, and if I don’t let them slide, I might, you know, succeed.
The very idea.
Thing is, in the computer suite on the second floor of a school not too far away, there’s a hard drive. In this hard drive there are Zig’s resolutions, which for reasons 1-4 or 5) Other, he has chosen to keep quiet.
My innards being sneaky, I reckon I’ve got a hard drive too. I’d take the stairs but I forgot to plug in the Robocop-worthy, cooler than Stannah any day matey stair chair to charge.
I'd best just stay here on my arse. Pass the chocs.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
up up up up up up up
Molster was given three juggling rings. I’ve nicked them, and practice in the kitchen. Am spending a bit of time unhooking juggling rings from wine racks, swiping them down from the top of the fridge freezer, and hoopla-ing shallots.
It takes a whole different hand position than juggling with balls. A sideways flick is trickier than an open palm toss. As every good girl knows.
I was taught to juggle by a new friend, before he became a good friend. Which he was before I learned to keep three bright balls up in the air.
He’d turned up on my doorstep, with a soft, cheery knock and a backpack full of passata and gnocchi. Knock, gnocchi, passata and company were all welcome. I’d just returned to an empty dump of a student house in a rough part of Manchester, to discover I’d been robbed.
Not being heartless, they’d left me my kettle and a muddy footprint in the center of my bed sheet. With kettle, knock, gnocchi, new friend, footprint and passata, I could conquer the world.
Instead, we went to the park, where I learned how to keep all my balls up in the air.
Haven’t the foggiest where my new friend, good friend is now. Or his backpack.
I’ll keep on tossing the rings.
It takes a whole different hand position than juggling with balls. A sideways flick is trickier than an open palm toss. As every good girl knows.
I was taught to juggle by a new friend, before he became a good friend. Which he was before I learned to keep three bright balls up in the air.
He’d turned up on my doorstep, with a soft, cheery knock and a backpack full of passata and gnocchi. Knock, gnocchi, passata and company were all welcome. I’d just returned to an empty dump of a student house in a rough part of Manchester, to discover I’d been robbed.
Not being heartless, they’d left me my kettle and a muddy footprint in the center of my bed sheet. With kettle, knock, gnocchi, new friend, footprint and passata, I could conquer the world.
Instead, we went to the park, where I learned how to keep all my balls up in the air.
Haven’t the foggiest where my new friend, good friend is now. Or his backpack.
I’ll keep on tossing the rings.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur sez no
I’m the bad cop parent. The one who puts her foot down with a firm hand. The one who says no.
Every so often, however, I’ll take a breather, and – if I don’t exactly say yes to something – allow the impression of a yes to slide past.
When a boy has saved his money until he has enough for a stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur, who am I to say no? Specially when, on the quiet, I really want to have a go.
The impression of a yes (so cunning an impression I’m the one who places the order online) slides past, and a couple of days later there’s a stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur on the living-room floor.
In its box.
Because, no matter that I let the impression of a yes slip past, I’m not the only one able to say no, it would seem.
Being only able to find five of the necessary six high-powered rechargeable batteries needed to power the thing, although there are eight of them in the house, that’s a no. So I make an impression of a yes and charge up the six make-do lower-powered batteries.
To then spend a good half an hour untwisting twisty plastic-covered wire tags to release the beast, to discover that I can’t unscrew the buggering thing's feet from its base. I just can’t get the damn things loose. If I struggle any longer, I’ll wreck the threads, and that will be that.
The stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur has had its foot put down with a firmer hand than mine.
You’ve got ‘til Friday, cats.
Every so often, however, I’ll take a breather, and – if I don’t exactly say yes to something – allow the impression of a yes to slide past.
When a boy has saved his money until he has enough for a stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur, who am I to say no? Specially when, on the quiet, I really want to have a go.
The impression of a yes (so cunning an impression I’m the one who places the order online) slides past, and a couple of days later there’s a stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur on the living-room floor.
In its box.
Because, no matter that I let the impression of a yes slip past, I’m not the only one able to say no, it would seem.
Being only able to find five of the necessary six high-powered rechargeable batteries needed to power the thing, although there are eight of them in the house, that’s a no. So I make an impression of a yes and charge up the six make-do lower-powered batteries.
To then spend a good half an hour untwisting twisty plastic-covered wire tags to release the beast, to discover that I can’t unscrew the buggering thing's feet from its base. I just can’t get the damn things loose. If I struggle any longer, I’ll wreck the threads, and that will be that.
The stonkingly large, stonkingly expensive, cat-hunting robotic dinosaur has had its foot put down with a firmer hand than mine.
You’ve got ‘til Friday, cats.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
run, bellamy
Watership Down is a very, very sad film, Zig decided, lots of squirrels get killed.
This wasn’t the only moment I wondered whether the kids had been watching the same film as us parents, squished up together on the sofa though we were*.
Much is said about the increasing violence and aggression that children absorb through screens today. Yet what is the film that made Molster stark awake until 1am, when she came and snuggled in our bed with Freddy dog, and was sat on and purred to sleep by Major Tommy? What is the film that made the bad dream that brought Zig through before dawn, to squeeze the last half inch out of the kingsize and throw his mother off the edge?
A U-rated film about bunnies, made in 1978.
Art Garfunkle is that scary.
*Until near the end, that is. After a few childhood late 70s, early 80s years of owning the bookofthefilm, before seeing the film, and seeing more spoofs than my childhood cats had rabbit paws on string to pat and gnaw**, I know enough to hop [geddit] from the sofa and out of the room before Hazel felt that he wouldn’t be needing his body any more, so he left it lying at the edge of a field, and stopped for a while to watch his rabbits because even now, all grown up, even typing - and probably misquoting dreadfully – the line, makes my nose and eyes strangely runny. Shut up.
**I’ve never owned or read the actual, you know, book, even though there has to be a copy in every charity shop before a charity shop can be called a charity shop. That and Jaws. It’s the law.
This wasn’t the only moment I wondered whether the kids had been watching the same film as us parents, squished up together on the sofa though we were*.
Much is said about the increasing violence and aggression that children absorb through screens today. Yet what is the film that made Molster stark awake until 1am, when she came and snuggled in our bed with Freddy dog, and was sat on and purred to sleep by Major Tommy? What is the film that made the bad dream that brought Zig through before dawn, to squeeze the last half inch out of the kingsize and throw his mother off the edge?
A U-rated film about bunnies, made in 1978.
Art Garfunkle is that scary.
*Until near the end, that is. After a few childhood late 70s, early 80s years of owning the bookofthefilm, before seeing the film, and seeing more spoofs than my childhood cats had rabbit paws on string to pat and gnaw**, I know enough to hop [geddit] from the sofa and out of the room before Hazel felt that he wouldn’t be needing his body any more, so he left it lying at the edge of a field, and stopped for a while to watch his rabbits because even now, all grown up, even typing - and probably misquoting dreadfully – the line, makes my nose and eyes strangely runny. Shut up.
**I’ve never owned or read the actual, you know, book, even though there has to be a copy in every charity shop before a charity shop can be called a charity shop. That and Jaws. It’s the law.
Monday, January 02, 2006
use or ornament
We park the Dyson between the merchant chest and the hinges of the living-room door. It’s not exactly hidden, not exactly on display. When I twirl round in this computer chair, I stare at its strata: sandy stuff, dirty stuff, paper stuff, fluffy stuff, hairy stuff.
I know you’re supposed the categorise the Dyson as use, not ornament, however, I must spend more time looking vacantly at those layers than at any other bit of useless tut on the units or walls of this room.
Today was the day we took down and repacked each and every shiny thing we unpacked and put up a couple of weeks ago, plus a few that snuck in, seasonally quiet-like. Then we hoovered, because Dysoned is not yet a verb and vacuumed sounds too … empty.
Twirling just now, I noticed the strata are: glitter stuff, dirty stuff, wrapping paper stuff, tinsel stuff, hairy stuff, sweet papers.
My quandary is, although it’s use, not ornament, does my looking at those layers, however vacantly, more often than at any other bit of tut in this room automatically classify the … what do you call the see-through plastic middle bit of a Dyson?.. does it automatically classify that bit as ornament?
Do I have to empty the Dyson before Twelfth Night, or do I keep it as is and enjoy dirty Christmas right into February?
I know you’re supposed the categorise the Dyson as use, not ornament, however, I must spend more time looking vacantly at those layers than at any other bit of useless tut on the units or walls of this room.
Today was the day we took down and repacked each and every shiny thing we unpacked and put up a couple of weeks ago, plus a few that snuck in, seasonally quiet-like. Then we hoovered, because Dysoned is not yet a verb and vacuumed sounds too … empty.
Twirling just now, I noticed the strata are: glitter stuff, dirty stuff, wrapping paper stuff, tinsel stuff, hairy stuff, sweet papers.
My quandary is, although it’s use, not ornament, does my looking at those layers, however vacantly, more often than at any other bit of tut in this room automatically classify the … what do you call the see-through plastic middle bit of a Dyson?.. does it automatically classify that bit as ornament?
Do I have to empty the Dyson before Twelfth Night, or do I keep it as is and enjoy dirty Christmas right into February?
Sunday, January 01, 2006
feathers fly
My first sliver of 2006 daylight sliced a single wince-opened eye. I groaned for water, then grumbled for tea.
I then lay in bed until gone midday, and read a tatty paperback about a man who, finding the minds of his people muffled by torpor, the lands of his people fallow through skills forgotten, the hearts of his people numb and limp, sets off on a quest across land, across sea, past the world known into the world uncharted or unchartered, to find, challenge and vanquish whatever big tog, superking duvet was doing the smothering.
Is doing the smothering.
I then lay in bed until gone midday, and read a tatty paperback about a man who, finding the minds of his people muffled by torpor, the lands of his people fallow through skills forgotten, the hearts of his people numb and limp, sets off on a quest across land, across sea, past the world known into the world uncharted or unchartered, to find, challenge and vanquish whatever big tog, superking duvet was doing the smothering.
Is doing the smothering.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
in with the new
breath dig cox snooze act give receive chortle hum accept reveal fight question answer might drive study work wish nurture grip spell respond surprise support observe ice-cream excite relate turn make lick quicken revolt spell arse renew plot Christine’s Garden dream move challenge savour release alchemy space balance sense tickle.
Friday, December 30, 2005
out with the old
Sloth torpor passive stolid static stagnant fallow gutless lax slack limp flaccid sluggish tepid weary idle aimless fear hesitant regret pies procrastinate avoid poison cheap chocolate filler fancy void inert arse defeat abnegate concede Eastenders hide abjure mass censor forbid abuse saturate cud cross defunct submit withdraw vapid grease numb.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
could try harder
This year is all used up.
I never grabbed it; never wrestled it into submission. Never tied it up, tickled its belly, and rolled it, dizzy and giggling, down a grassy hill into the nettles.
I never licked a finger and, touching it to a day, claimed that day mine.
I never grabbed it; never wrestled it into submission. Never tied it up, tickled its belly, and rolled it, dizzy and giggling, down a grassy hill into the nettles.
I never licked a finger and, touching it to a day, claimed that day mine.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
aslan product placement
We watched a trail for Narnia at school, on the interactive whiteboard.
What?
Every classroom in Mol and Zig’s school now has an interactive whiteboard: a superdooper connect t’internet and … interact … whiteboard.
And they both - that’s the Year 2 and Year 5 classes at least - watched a trail for the Narnia film.
This unsettles me hugely. They attend a Church Of England school because it is the nearest, it is a good school, and it’s important to Geroff and me for the kids to go to school with the neighbourhood kids. Not because it is CofE. Because it is CofE I can – sort of - understand the pimping of Christian allegory through the medium of interactive whiteboard, but shit and fucking hell, it’s advertising. Pure and simple.
How long and how, if not already, will the names creep in? Will McD’s ‘incentivise’ schools to display a small golden arsecheese at the top of the screen, which begins to blink at 11:45? Will Run Spot, run in Nike?
There is an interactive whiteboard pipeline direct to my kids in a place they trust. It won’t take long, the brands can smell it. If they haven’t already devised and funded it.
I don’t like this one little bit.
Wasn’t too keen on the film, either. Which, by the power of interactive whiteboard or otherwise, was the becoming traditional family cinema twixt Christmas and New Year visit choice for 2005. No adaptation betters my head Lion, Witch or Wardrobe, imprinted by reading the damn book. Simple.
The wardrobe is even at the wrong angle. I know. The kids, however, loved it.
What?
Every classroom in Mol and Zig’s school now has an interactive whiteboard: a superdooper connect t’internet and … interact … whiteboard.
And they both - that’s the Year 2 and Year 5 classes at least - watched a trail for the Narnia film.
This unsettles me hugely. They attend a Church Of England school because it is the nearest, it is a good school, and it’s important to Geroff and me for the kids to go to school with the neighbourhood kids. Not because it is CofE. Because it is CofE I can – sort of - understand the pimping of Christian allegory through the medium of interactive whiteboard, but shit and fucking hell, it’s advertising. Pure and simple.
How long and how, if not already, will the names creep in? Will McD’s ‘incentivise’ schools to display a small golden arsecheese at the top of the screen, which begins to blink at 11:45? Will Run Spot, run in Nike?
There is an interactive whiteboard pipeline direct to my kids in a place they trust. It won’t take long, the brands can smell it. If they haven’t already devised and funded it.
I don’t like this one little bit.
Wasn’t too keen on the film, either. Which, by the power of interactive whiteboard or otherwise, was the becoming traditional family cinema twixt Christmas and New Year visit choice for 2005. No adaptation betters my head Lion, Witch or Wardrobe, imprinted by reading the damn book. Simple.
The wardrobe is even at the wrong angle. I know. The kids, however, loved it.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
it might as well be spring
There are four tidal pools of pressies on the living room floor; they spread, wash into each other, then pull away, leaving some of their original and taking something new. This won't end peacefully.
I dipped a tentative toe into the business of assimilating them into the house today. A bottle of port is now in the bottle of port box. Go me.
Christmas has been hibernation. Warm, curled and nesting. With sprouts.
Molster has been at her best friend’s tonight, and has been invited to stay. She needs pyjamas, toothbrush, hairbrush and clean top and undies. I am uncurling, waking up and shaking out to walk them up the road to her. And stay for a drink, of course, now the antibiotics are over.
Big yawn and a stretch. Come on brain, wake up. You’ve got to think of conversation. And talk. And shit.
I dipped a tentative toe into the business of assimilating them into the house today. A bottle of port is now in the bottle of port box. Go me.
Christmas has been hibernation. Warm, curled and nesting. With sprouts.
Molster has been at her best friend’s tonight, and has been invited to stay. She needs pyjamas, toothbrush, hairbrush and clean top and undies. I am uncurling, waking up and shaking out to walk them up the road to her. And stay for a drink, of course, now the antibiotics are over.
Big yawn and a stretch. Come on brain, wake up. You’ve got to think of conversation. And talk. And shit.
Monday, December 26, 2005
all the food groups
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
And Christmas Pussy.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
Chocklit.
And Christmas Pussy.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
god bless us, every one.
To the success of the feast
The success of the feast
To the boy who lived
The boy who lived
To the new Doctor Who
The new Doctor Who
And zombie penguins
Zombie penguins
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner:
Booze:
Saturday, December 24, 2005
ha bumhug
You probably noticed it. In the middle of last week, the Last Chance To Order Before Christmas!! emails gradually, depending on the companies’ faith in their courier service, changed to Sale Now On! Great Bargains!. As I’m sitting smug on a pile of bought and wrapped pressies for those I love, those I like and those I feel obligated to buy for, all were deleted unread.
Who wants to shop for after Christmas when we’ve yet to have the grand unwrapping? Damn, we haven’t even opened a box of mince pies yet. Have yet to do the sprouts.
Imagine my surprise when I check Geroff’s account online and see a £99.99 purchase from Play dot com, dated next Wednesday.
Imagine his surprise. It seems I don’t have a lovely post-Christmas just-sub-£100 treat on its way to me.
Apparently the Christmas holiday is beloved by gits who steal card details, for using those details. The buggers.
Card is now cancelled, the department that deals with refunding our account is closed until Tuesday. We wait to see what other joys they’ve ordered. I have an irritated head about this, an irrational Oh, Will They Give Us The Money Back? drama head, a mocking £99.99 Ha! Is That Your Best Shot? Head, but most of all is my throbbing Ow, Won’t This Blasted Abscess Ever Go Away thump skull against the wall head.
Merry Christmas, One and All. Yes, you too. Just this once.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; stop drinking for five days because of tooth abscess and antibiotics; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Who wants to shop for after Christmas when we’ve yet to have the grand unwrapping? Damn, we haven’t even opened a box of mince pies yet. Have yet to do the sprouts.
Imagine my surprise when I check Geroff’s account online and see a £99.99 purchase from Play dot com, dated next Wednesday.
Imagine his surprise. It seems I don’t have a lovely post-Christmas just-sub-£100 treat on its way to me.
Apparently the Christmas holiday is beloved by gits who steal card details, for using those details. The buggers.
Card is now cancelled, the department that deals with refunding our account is closed until Tuesday. We wait to see what other joys they’ve ordered. I have an irritated head about this, an irrational Oh, Will They Give Us The Money Back? drama head, a mocking £99.99 Ha! Is That Your Best Shot? Head, but most of all is my throbbing Ow, Won’t This Blasted Abscess Ever Go Away thump skull against the wall head.
Merry Christmas, One and All. Yes, you too. Just this once.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Friday, December 23, 2005
you cannot solder an abscess with air
Apologies, Emily.
So it's not as easy as I thought.
I still hopped between Paramol and Ibroprofen, and inched each antibiotic a little earlier than it should have been taken.
I still shoved a table full of food that needed chewing in front of family and friends, drinking a litre of smoothie for myself for the day.
I still made it through the evening and wished friends a very merry christmas at the door, before begging off cleaning up and going straight up to bed.
And coming straight back down to write fifty words or over about how ruddy tricky it is to function with a rave in my jawbone.
Tomorrow will be better. Tonight Frosty will visit to leave something in the kids' advent calendar for the last time in 2005.
I love my husband. He takes care of me. And frowns at me for not being in bed.
So it's not as easy as I thought.
I still hopped between Paramol and Ibroprofen, and inched each antibiotic a little earlier than it should have been taken.
I still shoved a table full of food that needed chewing in front of family and friends, drinking a litre of smoothie for myself for the day.
I still made it through the evening and wished friends a very merry christmas at the door, before begging off cleaning up and going straight up to bed.
And coming straight back down to write fifty words or over about how ruddy tricky it is to function with a rave in my jawbone.
Tomorrow will be better. Tonight Frosty will visit to leave something in the kids' advent calendar for the last time in 2005.
I love my husband. He takes care of me. And frowns at me for not being in bed.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
being a grown up
The seasonal sore tooth has got big ideas and become the seasonal abscess.
Seasonal because it happened four Christmases ago. Same tooth.
But my, my, my, how I have grown. Four years ago found me deep in disbelief that a couple of days of ibroprofen wouldn’t get rid of a sore tooth. When the infection reached my throat - on Christmas Eve, of course - I visited the doctor, not the dentist, got told it was viral and sent home to sit it out.
Oh pain. My theory is that toothache hurts so ruddy much because the tooth is relatively near the brain, so a tooth pain whisper sounds like a shout. Not that an abscess whispers.
Christmas day was spent pale and sideways. It was a poor, sorry sight that whimpered her pathetic arse to the emergency docs on Boxing Day four years ago. Antibiotics were finally dispensed, by an emergency doc that knew damn well it was dental but pitied me so much she kindly diagnosed an infected salivary gland.
And the healing began. But not until I learned just how easy it was to vomit when you can only open your mouth by half an inch. Answer: it is not at all easy.
Anyway: but my, my, my, how I have grown. This year I made a large pot of lentil soup and phoned the dentist yesterday, as soon as I knew the toothache was only going to go one way. An emergency appointment was made for first thing this morning, and antibiotics prescribed. We’ve left the tooth to be sorted out the other side of Christmas. Best not to poke it.
So, I am in big, huge, shapely, mouth, neck and ear abscess-sized pain, but I have the stuff to shoot it down this side of Christmas day.
Leaving me wincing but able. Able to wrap and dispense and entertain and cook and all without a drop of rough tough and rollicking Christmas booze.
Oh, bollocks.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Seasonal because it happened four Christmases ago. Same tooth.
But my, my, my, how I have grown. Four years ago found me deep in disbelief that a couple of days of ibroprofen wouldn’t get rid of a sore tooth. When the infection reached my throat - on Christmas Eve, of course - I visited the doctor, not the dentist, got told it was viral and sent home to sit it out.
Oh pain. My theory is that toothache hurts so ruddy much because the tooth is relatively near the brain, so a tooth pain whisper sounds like a shout. Not that an abscess whispers.
Christmas day was spent pale and sideways. It was a poor, sorry sight that whimpered her pathetic arse to the emergency docs on Boxing Day four years ago. Antibiotics were finally dispensed, by an emergency doc that knew damn well it was dental but pitied me so much she kindly diagnosed an infected salivary gland.
And the healing began. But not until I learned just how easy it was to vomit when you can only open your mouth by half an inch. Answer: it is not at all easy.
Anyway: but my, my, my, how I have grown. This year I made a large pot of lentil soup and phoned the dentist yesterday, as soon as I knew the toothache was only going to go one way. An emergency appointment was made for first thing this morning, and antibiotics prescribed. We’ve left the tooth to be sorted out the other side of Christmas. Best not to poke it.
So, I am in big, huge, shapely, mouth, neck and ear abscess-sized pain, but I have the stuff to shoot it down this side of Christmas day.
Leaving me wincing but able. Able to wrap and dispense and entertain and cook and all without a drop of rough tough and rollicking Christmas booze.
Oh, bollocks.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
capricorn
Winter Solstice, the day disappears from the ground up.
As it reaches the rooftops, I rootle for the secateurs, push my feet into garden shoes, and go out into the soft drizzle.
This year, the thing on the Close is preternaturally large inflatable Father Christmases, Snowmen, and one Homer Simpson (in a Father Christmas hat. He never seems to be fully inflated, so spends his days slumped, bob-feeding from nextdoor's wheelie bin). Last year and the year before the Close virus was gaudy outdoor loops and icicles of flashing bulbs. Last year’s bulbs meet this year’s inflatables, in a blink and a blur of where shop ends and home begins.
Inflatables, bulbs, and brash Christmas tunes from a party at the end of the Close. All lighting up the silhouette of rooftop against watercolour winter sky.
At the foot of the garden I hunt out the Blackpool of bushes, and cut its glitziest branches.
Things To Do
Cake:Soak fruit in booze; chuck all the stuff together and cook; voodoo with more booze; marzipan; ice; eat.
Pressies:buy; wrap; distribute (wearing stiff gauntlet to save fingers). addendum: forget to give Suffolk ones to mum when she visits.
Pressies from kids:buy; make; wrap; post / give out.
Cards:buy / make; give out / post.
Decorations:consider putting up; put up ; take down.
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:buy; drink; buy; drink; be bought; drink; buy; drink; buy; drink ; scrounge; drink; drink; drink ; drink; buy; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink (list in progress).
Genuflect
As it reaches the rooftops, I rootle for the secateurs, push my feet into garden shoes, and go out into the soft drizzle.
This year, the thing on the Close is preternaturally large inflatable Father Christmases, Snowmen, and one Homer Simpson (in a Father Christmas hat. He never seems to be fully inflated, so spends his days slumped, bob-feeding from nextdoor's wheelie bin). Last year and the year before the Close virus was gaudy outdoor loops and icicles of flashing bulbs. Last year’s bulbs meet this year’s inflatables, in a blink and a blur of where shop ends and home begins.
Inflatables, bulbs, and brash Christmas tunes from a party at the end of the Close. All lighting up the silhouette of rooftop against watercolour winter sky.
At the foot of the garden I hunt out the Blackpool of bushes, and cut its glitziest branches.
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
Genuflect
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