Casting my mind back a couple of years, I was a lone-parent. I rarely found life a struggle, in fact I relished it. I did an exceptional job bringing up my daughter on my own and she did not want for anything. I have never liked to consider myself as a competitive parent. Of course I want the best for my daughter and feel triumphant when she excels at something but I like to think of myself as quietly confident in her abilities, content with the wonderful human being that she is.
That was until the merit awards came along. The school, gives out much sought after certificates after a certain number of stickers have been collected. The stickers being of the "Great Reading!" "Super Work!" "Fantastic Help!" variety. Collect twelve stickers and get your merit award signed off by none other than The Head then take home to proudly stick on wall of your choice.
"So Darling"
"Yes Mummy"
"These merit awards"
"Yes Mummy, what about them?"
"Who's got the most merit awards? I mean not that it matters, I'm simply curious, just out of interest"
"Johnathon"
"Johnathon? Who's he?
"You know, Johnathon. It's not fair, the teacher's ALWAYS giving him stickers all the time"
Johnathon? Haven't heard much about him before. Hmmm. Well I expect goody-two-shoes Johnathon doesn't have single mum for a parent who works four jobs to pay the bills. I can just imagine him in his beautiful pristine house with his Mummy and Daddy standing over him smiling sweetly while he does extra Maths and English to stay ahead of the game. In fact she's probably a stay at home mum and he's the director of a large firm with a company car, pension and a dental plan.
"Well done son, great job" A sparkle of light pings from his shiny white teeth.
Johnathon, hair combed neatly looks up fondly at Dad and smiles.
"Gee thanks Dad"
A few months later.....
I am disturbed to see one of Missy's friends at the end of the school day coming out of school with tears, real ones streaming down her face. Her eyes are sad and she is inhaling in short bursts the way you do when you can't stop crying. Then another child, this time one of the tough boys also upset. Oh God what's happened? All the kids sobbing. Before I even know what's up I am filled with terror and sorrow. What is it? I scan the sea of red faces for my little angel.
"Baby what is it? What the matter?"
"Johnathon's leaving"
"Oh no really? How come?"
Me thinks he's probably about to attend an international school of excellence out in the far east.
"He's been given a new Mummy and Daddy"
"What do you mean a new Mummy and Daddy?"
I am very confused.
"He's been waiting for a new Mummy and Daddy and they've found him some so he's moving away to be with them"
More uncontrollable sobs.
"Well where are his real Mummy and Daddy?"
"He doesn't have them"
"Why not?"
"They were bad so he lived in a home while he waited for a new set"
Out of school slowly walked Johnathon, cradled either side by his friends, a tiny dot of a boy at least six inches shorter than his peers. His face was red and swollen from his sobs.
I went home that evening and told my man about Johnathon and cried. Things are not always what they seem.
Johnathon has visited school a few time since he left to get a new Mummy and Daddy and is doing very well.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Summer Sale Madness
So I am dragged to Debenhams, the department store for a spot of leisurely Sunday afternoon shopping by my bloke and bloke's best friend. Blue Cross Sale was in full swing and we go our separate ways to dig out some bargains. The clothing department is a shambles, worse than a jumble sale. What struck me about the shop floor was there was not a member of staff in sight. It was impossible to tell which items were in the sale and most items were strewn across the floor. After searching for ten minutes I managed to find an assistant
"Excuse me, can you tell me which items are in the sale?"
I was shot a vague blank look and answered in a monotone Manchester drawl,
"well....some of these items reaaaallaaay" She pointed to an area of shoes.
"So how do I know which items are in the sale?"
"Well, you 'av to look at the laaaaaybulls"
"I have and there doesn't seem to be any indication as to what is in the sale"
"Well...you 'av to taaaayke it to the till" She gestured in the direction of the sales counter. I looked over, nobody there.
"Okay, thank you"
Freak.
So I am in the changing rooms trying on some dresses, a spark of guilt and nervousness comes over me, not sure whether or not I am about to bag myself a bargain and I overhear a conversation between an assistant (like buses, non for ages then two come along) and a customer.
"Can I try these on love?"
"Yeah, 'course. Sorry 'bout waaaayt, it's reaaaallaaay busaaaaaay. Dorn't knor why"
Is it just me?
I reconvene with Man and man's friend and we decide to try our luck with the home ware department. We head towards the lift and press the button. Ping, the lift opens there's a swarm of bodies waiting to get out. From nowhere a lady (we'll call her a lady) with a buggy comes barging through trying to get herself into the lift. Never mind the people trying to get out, she wanted in. I muttered under my breath to my man stood next to me "push in why don't you?" knowing she couldn't hear me as she has already wedged herself in the elevator between the people trying to get out.
We step in too and off we go, next thing her best mate who was stood right behind me said,
"She were only trying to get into lift, you've no right to comment"
I turned to her slightly surprised to have had my mumbled complaints rumbled and said,
"I will comment if I want"
The lady was staring me right in the face so I stood firm and stared back until she looked away. The sales rage was overwhelming me.
"We were in the queue too", She retorted
"Look",I say calmly yet firmly, "I am not about to enter into an argument about getting into a lift"
In other words shut your mouth, you are wrong and rude and I am right and polite. The lift was stuffy and crowded and the elevator had gone down, not up. The doors opened and a woman of the larger persusion squeezed herself in.
The angry friend continued,"We were in queue an' all you know, do you begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting into a lift"
Oh great, try to lay a guilt trip on me now why don't you? Rubbish argument, she pushed in. Is that why it's called a push chair? The lift didn't move. A man, obviously uncomfortable with the disagreement unfolding in front of him pressed all the buttons but nothing was happening.
"Of course I don't begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting the lift, I know you were waiting too but there is such a thing as manners"
Crazy overzealous woman in pushchair is red faced standing in corner of lift looking sheepish. Lift is still stationary and getting warmer. The problem becomes clear. The lift is too full. Fat woman isn't showing any signs of leaving to make the load lighter. I decide to jump ship, I don't wish to share the same sweaty air as mad woman with buggy, over protective argumentative friend and inconsiderate lard arse.
Is it just me?
"Excuse me, can you tell me which items are in the sale?"
I was shot a vague blank look and answered in a monotone Manchester drawl,
"well....some of these items reaaaallaaay" She pointed to an area of shoes.
"So how do I know which items are in the sale?"
"Well, you 'av to look at the laaaaaybulls"
"I have and there doesn't seem to be any indication as to what is in the sale"
"Well...you 'av to taaaayke it to the till" She gestured in the direction of the sales counter. I looked over, nobody there.
"Okay, thank you"
Freak.
So I am in the changing rooms trying on some dresses, a spark of guilt and nervousness comes over me, not sure whether or not I am about to bag myself a bargain and I overhear a conversation between an assistant (like buses, non for ages then two come along) and a customer.
"Can I try these on love?"
"Yeah, 'course. Sorry 'bout waaaayt, it's reaaaallaaay busaaaaaay. Dorn't knor why"
Is it just me?
I reconvene with Man and man's friend and we decide to try our luck with the home ware department. We head towards the lift and press the button. Ping, the lift opens there's a swarm of bodies waiting to get out. From nowhere a lady (we'll call her a lady) with a buggy comes barging through trying to get herself into the lift. Never mind the people trying to get out, she wanted in. I muttered under my breath to my man stood next to me "push in why don't you?" knowing she couldn't hear me as she has already wedged herself in the elevator between the people trying to get out.
We step in too and off we go, next thing her best mate who was stood right behind me said,
"She were only trying to get into lift, you've no right to comment"
I turned to her slightly surprised to have had my mumbled complaints rumbled and said,
"I will comment if I want"
The lady was staring me right in the face so I stood firm and stared back until she looked away. The sales rage was overwhelming me.
"We were in the queue too", She retorted
"Look",I say calmly yet firmly, "I am not about to enter into an argument about getting into a lift"
In other words shut your mouth, you are wrong and rude and I am right and polite. The lift was stuffy and crowded and the elevator had gone down, not up. The doors opened and a woman of the larger persusion squeezed herself in.
The angry friend continued,"We were in queue an' all you know, do you begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting into a lift"
Oh great, try to lay a guilt trip on me now why don't you? Rubbish argument, she pushed in. Is that why it's called a push chair? The lift didn't move. A man, obviously uncomfortable with the disagreement unfolding in front of him pressed all the buttons but nothing was happening.
"Of course I don't begrudge a baby in a pushchair getting the lift, I know you were waiting too but there is such a thing as manners"
Crazy overzealous woman in pushchair is red faced standing in corner of lift looking sheepish. Lift is still stationary and getting warmer. The problem becomes clear. The lift is too full. Fat woman isn't showing any signs of leaving to make the load lighter. I decide to jump ship, I don't wish to share the same sweaty air as mad woman with buggy, over protective argumentative friend and inconsiderate lard arse.
Is it just me?
Friday, 4 July 2008
phobias
Buttons. Unobtrusive, useful, inoffensive? Not if you have a button phobia. Seriously, this is not a joke, someone very close to me has a button phobia. One of my neighbours has a phobia of dwarves. It is believed this irrational anxiety stems from childhood. Hmmm makes it even more unusual that my button hater has a parent and a step-parent that are both clinical psychologists, one of whom specialises in, wait for it, phobias.
Some buttons are okay and manageable on a day-to-day basis. My friend's fear is at its worse when he comes in contact with decorative buttons. Loose buttons, buttins stored in a jar, a button inside a plastic bag (the kind you get as a spare with items of clothing), oversized buttons, unusually shaped buttons and buttons out of place.
He's travelling a long distance, he has been driving for a long time, he is desperate for a coffee and a break. He stops at the service station on the motorway and goes into the shop. He gets a tray, his coffee and a newspaper, and queues. Slowly but surely he gets nearer to the till. Finally, he is ready to pay. The cashier rings up the amount
"That's £9.30 please"
My friend is frozen on the spot. Not at the ridiculous price, this is rip-off Britain remember.
His eyes are fixed, glazed, filled with sheer terror. The cashier is waiting to be paid, my friend is oblivious. He has seen something that to him that is utterly disgusting and terrifying. Wedged in a gap between two counters was a button neatly contained in a clear plastic bag. He lets go of the tray and takes a careful step backwards, eyes still fixed. The cashier is confused. He turns around, walks quickly, heading for the door, now it's a run, he's running fast out of the service station. He gets into the car starts the engine and drives away, fast. No coffee, no paper, no toilet break.
My neighbour was standing in the street minding her own business. She turned to look in a shop window and out of the corner of her eye she saw something at hip level. She looked down, it was a dwarf. The dwarf smiled my neighbour screamed. A blood curldling, haunting, ear piecing scream. She began to run away also. The dwarf looked a mixture of bemusement and confusion. Afterwards my neighbour was mortified, in case she offended the little dwarf. She realises it is irrational but cannot help it. She avoids driving a certain way in the morning to work as there at the bus stop regularly stands, a dwarf.
Back to buttons. There is more to this story. His niece is showing signs of developing it, she is five years old and refuses to wear anything remotely button-like. Did I mention his sister also has it? Could it be learned behaviour? I wonder if his mum used to wear fancy, perhaps sometimes sharp buttons on clothing that could have scratched him during a cuddle. His sister then copied this (she is utterly in awe of her big brother) and in turn she has now passed it on to her youngest child.
We were at a dinner party recently and one of the guests has three decorative buttons on the shoulder of her top. He sat as far away from her as possible, he said he couldn't even look over in her direction for fear it would put him off his food.
I have been looking at phobias and found a few more unusual ones, buttons? Dwarves? They're quite rational compared to some I have found. If you think you are hard done by, there is always someone else worse off than you.
Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic
Androphobia- Fear of men
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women
Chrometophobia or Chrematophobia- Fear of money
Some buttons are okay and manageable on a day-to-day basis. My friend's fear is at its worse when he comes in contact with decorative buttons. Loose buttons, buttins stored in a jar, a button inside a plastic bag (the kind you get as a spare with items of clothing), oversized buttons, unusually shaped buttons and buttons out of place.
He's travelling a long distance, he has been driving for a long time, he is desperate for a coffee and a break. He stops at the service station on the motorway and goes into the shop. He gets a tray, his coffee and a newspaper, and queues. Slowly but surely he gets nearer to the till. Finally, he is ready to pay. The cashier rings up the amount
"That's £9.30 please"
My friend is frozen on the spot. Not at the ridiculous price, this is rip-off Britain remember.
His eyes are fixed, glazed, filled with sheer terror. The cashier is waiting to be paid, my friend is oblivious. He has seen something that to him that is utterly disgusting and terrifying. Wedged in a gap between two counters was a button neatly contained in a clear plastic bag. He lets go of the tray and takes a careful step backwards, eyes still fixed. The cashier is confused. He turns around, walks quickly, heading for the door, now it's a run, he's running fast out of the service station. He gets into the car starts the engine and drives away, fast. No coffee, no paper, no toilet break.
My neighbour was standing in the street minding her own business. She turned to look in a shop window and out of the corner of her eye she saw something at hip level. She looked down, it was a dwarf. The dwarf smiled my neighbour screamed. A blood curldling, haunting, ear piecing scream. She began to run away also. The dwarf looked a mixture of bemusement and confusion. Afterwards my neighbour was mortified, in case she offended the little dwarf. She realises it is irrational but cannot help it. She avoids driving a certain way in the morning to work as there at the bus stop regularly stands, a dwarf.
Back to buttons. There is more to this story. His niece is showing signs of developing it, she is five years old and refuses to wear anything remotely button-like. Did I mention his sister also has it? Could it be learned behaviour? I wonder if his mum used to wear fancy, perhaps sometimes sharp buttons on clothing that could have scratched him during a cuddle. His sister then copied this (she is utterly in awe of her big brother) and in turn she has now passed it on to her youngest child.
We were at a dinner party recently and one of the guests has three decorative buttons on the shoulder of her top. He sat as far away from her as possible, he said he couldn't even look over in her direction for fear it would put him off his food.
I have been looking at phobias and found a few more unusual ones, buttons? Dwarves? They're quite rational compared to some I have found. If you think you are hard done by, there is always someone else worse off than you.
Ablutophobia- Fear of washing or bathing.
Alliumphobia- Fear of garlic
Androphobia- Fear of men
Caligynephobia- Fear of beautiful women
Chrometophobia or Chrematophobia- Fear of money
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Mental Illness
Below are some song lyrics that I wrote recently and posted up on my MySpace site. I wrote this song because of my dad. He is mentally ill and having a bad turn at the moment. Manic depression is very difficult to understand, even those who are close to someone who suffers with mental illness find it difficult to accept that the sufferer's behaviour is a direct result of their condition and should never be taken personally. I have told my father that I want no contact with him until he seeks help. I choose to cut myself and my child off from him as I do not wish her to witness first hand his distressing mood swings and irrational behaviour, the sort that scarred my childhood. I find it too upsetting to be near him when he is so out of character. I have received vicious text messages usually in the middle of the night but for the most part he has stayed away. He has apologised a couple of times for things he has said but then a week later he is back to the psychotic monster I grew up with.
"the baby sitting service is closed, you owe me money from three years ago (a gift), you are so arrogant, you are a snob, you've cheated me, I'm glad I haven't seen you" and so on. He recently left my mum in Greece on holiday and when she returned a few days later half of her face was swollen and black.
My upbringing was a mix fun and trauma. At times we had some very happy experiences and my parents, for all their problems are still good people. Foreign holidays, music lessons, a large house and garden to run around in, always clean and well fed from the outside everything seemed fine. Sadly my dad's mood swings were pivotal to whether or not the rest of the household could be happy that day. His mania "highs", despite him being deliriously happy, full of energy and ready to embark on whimsical and often unrealistic ventures were almost as unnerving as his lows of anger, bitterness, aggression and rage. Not forgetting his lulls of flatness, lying in bed, unable to go to work because he couldn't muster the energy.
I have been criticized for my avoidance but this is my route to self preservation, my coping mechanism is to shut myself off from it all. When I was little I had nowhere to hide, now I do and it is my choice. There is little anyone can do to help when someone is suffering from this kind of illness other than to advise them to seek professional help. There is no reasoning.
I left home when I was very young, from the age of fifteen I avoided going there as much as possible. I would stay at friend's houses as often as I could to get away from him. I began hanging around with an older crowd, people with homes of their own where I could find sanctuary. I knew that I had to move out permanently so I broke up with my devoted boyfriend whom I was very much in love with and began a relationship with a man ten years my senior who I then moved in with. I smoked cannabis incessantly which blocked out the pain, it also became an addiction which thankfully I tackled when I found out I was pregnant at twenty.
The repercussions of the bipolar disorder have rippled through the family leaving a trail of problems. Three of my siblings also had mental health problems in varying forms and my mother is now an alcoholic, I am certain that the years of abuse have taken their toll and driven her to this. The stress of my mother's drinking is a factor as to why after such a long time he has fallen ill again. Living daily with a Jekyll and Hyde character now fuels her drinking. They point the blame to each other when surely the answer is to unite and help one another.
Valium helped mum cope but it also clouded her judgment. "Mother's little helper" also prevented my mother from dealing with other family issues. One of my siblings bullied me and beat me daily. I was constantly called a fat slag, ugly bitch, pathetic whore, after a while I began to believe her. I can see now that my sister's behaviour was likely to have derived from our upbringing but at the time her actions were validated by my parents lack of intervention.
Growing up, there were times when my father's mood was so bad, that he would smash the house up, eventually if we couldn't calm him down we would have to call the police. He would be arrested and locked in a cell. A few times there was an injunction out against him and he wasn't allowed near the house. When this happened it felt like the sun had come out and a wave of relief washed over me, my life had begun again. I'd be able to invite my friends over for tea without the fear all hell would break loose. Of course he'd be sorry, time spent reflecting on his behaviour in a poky damp bedsit would help him see the error of his ways. Her Christian beliefs bound her to the marriage and I heavily resented her for keeping us exposed to the instability and cruelty. He'd beg and plead and without any consultation my mum would take him back. He came home, no apology to his children and life went on as "normal".
His own childhood was turbulent and mental health experts say that this has exaggerated his condition. In calmer more reflective times he realises he needs help and promises to get it but then the manic upswing comes and he is overwhelmed with arrogance and an inflated sense of self importance. Until now, for the nine years my daughter has been alive his mood has been stable. I began to develop a good relationship with him and had forgiven him for the past. Despite the fact that he has never supported me in my singing career (I can count on one hand the amount of shows he has been to, and each time he left halfway through) despite this we had became friends. We would send jokey text messages and have a good banter. His latest bout of mania flaring up now has destroyed the fragile reconciliation made during my daughter's short lifetime.
As the first wave of sinister communication came through from him I found myself constantly on edge. It was difficult to concentrate and I was irritable. Then I had a "heavens open, angels singing" moment. How I deal with this situation and how I react to it is my choice. I can choose to let it worry me constantly and ruin my mood, or I can concentrate on the things that are important to me and enjoy my life. I will not, I simply point blank refuse to allow this disease or the fallout be passed down to another generation.
The icy wall you criticise
Protects me and my heart
From the bi polar bear
That lurks there in the dark
If I'm a snob I'll celebrate
And arrogant hey that is great
At least I'm nothing like you
I know that to be true
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure
The doctor on the pedestal
Said take a drink of gin
But she took it to extremes
Oh the mess she's in
Mother's little helper
Popped in to ease the day
Shielding her eyes
I know she wasn't blind
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure
This is no legacy
I will raise with love you see
No blame, no game of hate you see
What are you thinking of?
I'll succeed in spite of you
You never stayed, left half way through
Your anger will not burn me
Like it did before
I am sure....
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure,
I am sure, I am sure
"the baby sitting service is closed, you owe me money from three years ago (a gift), you are so arrogant, you are a snob, you've cheated me, I'm glad I haven't seen you" and so on. He recently left my mum in Greece on holiday and when she returned a few days later half of her face was swollen and black.
My upbringing was a mix fun and trauma. At times we had some very happy experiences and my parents, for all their problems are still good people. Foreign holidays, music lessons, a large house and garden to run around in, always clean and well fed from the outside everything seemed fine. Sadly my dad's mood swings were pivotal to whether or not the rest of the household could be happy that day. His mania "highs", despite him being deliriously happy, full of energy and ready to embark on whimsical and often unrealistic ventures were almost as unnerving as his lows of anger, bitterness, aggression and rage. Not forgetting his lulls of flatness, lying in bed, unable to go to work because he couldn't muster the energy.
I have been criticized for my avoidance but this is my route to self preservation, my coping mechanism is to shut myself off from it all. When I was little I had nowhere to hide, now I do and it is my choice. There is little anyone can do to help when someone is suffering from this kind of illness other than to advise them to seek professional help. There is no reasoning.
I left home when I was very young, from the age of fifteen I avoided going there as much as possible. I would stay at friend's houses as often as I could to get away from him. I began hanging around with an older crowd, people with homes of their own where I could find sanctuary. I knew that I had to move out permanently so I broke up with my devoted boyfriend whom I was very much in love with and began a relationship with a man ten years my senior who I then moved in with. I smoked cannabis incessantly which blocked out the pain, it also became an addiction which thankfully I tackled when I found out I was pregnant at twenty.
The repercussions of the bipolar disorder have rippled through the family leaving a trail of problems. Three of my siblings also had mental health problems in varying forms and my mother is now an alcoholic, I am certain that the years of abuse have taken their toll and driven her to this. The stress of my mother's drinking is a factor as to why after such a long time he has fallen ill again. Living daily with a Jekyll and Hyde character now fuels her drinking. They point the blame to each other when surely the answer is to unite and help one another.
Valium helped mum cope but it also clouded her judgment. "Mother's little helper" also prevented my mother from dealing with other family issues. One of my siblings bullied me and beat me daily. I was constantly called a fat slag, ugly bitch, pathetic whore, after a while I began to believe her. I can see now that my sister's behaviour was likely to have derived from our upbringing but at the time her actions were validated by my parents lack of intervention.
Growing up, there were times when my father's mood was so bad, that he would smash the house up, eventually if we couldn't calm him down we would have to call the police. He would be arrested and locked in a cell. A few times there was an injunction out against him and he wasn't allowed near the house. When this happened it felt like the sun had come out and a wave of relief washed over me, my life had begun again. I'd be able to invite my friends over for tea without the fear all hell would break loose. Of course he'd be sorry, time spent reflecting on his behaviour in a poky damp bedsit would help him see the error of his ways. Her Christian beliefs bound her to the marriage and I heavily resented her for keeping us exposed to the instability and cruelty. He'd beg and plead and without any consultation my mum would take him back. He came home, no apology to his children and life went on as "normal".
His own childhood was turbulent and mental health experts say that this has exaggerated his condition. In calmer more reflective times he realises he needs help and promises to get it but then the manic upswing comes and he is overwhelmed with arrogance and an inflated sense of self importance. Until now, for the nine years my daughter has been alive his mood has been stable. I began to develop a good relationship with him and had forgiven him for the past. Despite the fact that he has never supported me in my singing career (I can count on one hand the amount of shows he has been to, and each time he left halfway through) despite this we had became friends. We would send jokey text messages and have a good banter. His latest bout of mania flaring up now has destroyed the fragile reconciliation made during my daughter's short lifetime.
As the first wave of sinister communication came through from him I found myself constantly on edge. It was difficult to concentrate and I was irritable. Then I had a "heavens open, angels singing" moment. How I deal with this situation and how I react to it is my choice. I can choose to let it worry me constantly and ruin my mood, or I can concentrate on the things that are important to me and enjoy my life. I will not, I simply point blank refuse to allow this disease or the fallout be passed down to another generation.
The icy wall you criticise
Protects me and my heart
From the bi polar bear
That lurks there in the dark
If I'm a snob I'll celebrate
And arrogant hey that is great
At least I'm nothing like you
I know that to be true
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure
The doctor on the pedestal
Said take a drink of gin
But she took it to extremes
Oh the mess she's in
Mother's little helper
Popped in to ease the day
Shielding her eyes
I know she wasn't blind
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure
This is no legacy
I will raise with love you see
No blame, no game of hate you see
What are you thinking of?
I'll succeed in spite of you
You never stayed, left half way through
Your anger will not burn me
Like it did before
I am sure....
I am nothing like you
Nothing like you
Nothing like you, I am sure,
I am sure, I am sure
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Summer Fair Ills
Yesterday was the school's annual summer fair. Parents and teachers are rallied and cajoled into helping do their bit and throughout last year our efforts raised 8 grand. My offering this time was putting hair up, I am a qualified hairdresser and every skill at these events is utilized. The head of the PTA parked me over by the beautiful pagoda next to the face painting, coloured hair sprays and ice cream van. A constant stream of hair was parked before me as I sprayed, quiffed, back combed, curled, pinned and sparkled with glitter the little princesses. Thankfully the weather stayed dry despite looming clouds threatening overhead.
The ice cream van chugged away and our fantastic summer fair was in full swing. As the afternoon wore on I started to feel unwell, I had a headache, I felt sick and faint. I presumed it was the fact that I had stood for three hours without a drink and had been woken four times in the night by my daughter's over crowded sleepover. My condition began to worsen not helped by the fact that that there were kids running around my feet, and a crowd of people spectating. One child screamed and cried as her grandmother had her hair done. The tantrum caused by the fact she wanted a tattoo and had already had her face painted so wasn't allowed. "NANNY I WANT A TATTOO WAH WAH WAH NANNY I WANT A TATTOO WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" I wouldn't have to put up with this when I worked in a salon. She stampted her feet, wailed, cried and screamed for 10 minutes. I wanted to scream at her "LOOK, NANNY SAID YOU CAN'T HAVE A TATTOO SO SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BRAT, YOU ARE RUINING MY CONCENTRATION!"
By the end of the day I was exhausted and felt much worse. Short of breath, I felt dizzy and my headache had developed into a full blown migraine. I got home and lay down on my bed and tried to figure out what could be making me feel so rough. Then it hit me, the ice cream van! Carbon monoxide poisoning eeek. The engine had been running constantly throughout the afternoon and the wind had carried the fumes over in my direction. I quickly googled my symptoms (doesn't everyone do that?) and my suspicions were confirmed.
I just about managed to get myself ready and went out on the town. All better.
The ice cream van chugged away and our fantastic summer fair was in full swing. As the afternoon wore on I started to feel unwell, I had a headache, I felt sick and faint. I presumed it was the fact that I had stood for three hours without a drink and had been woken four times in the night by my daughter's over crowded sleepover. My condition began to worsen not helped by the fact that that there were kids running around my feet, and a crowd of people spectating. One child screamed and cried as her grandmother had her hair done. The tantrum caused by the fact she wanted a tattoo and had already had her face painted so wasn't allowed. "NANNY I WANT A TATTOO WAH WAH WAH NANNY I WANT A TATTOO WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" I wouldn't have to put up with this when I worked in a salon. She stampted her feet, wailed, cried and screamed for 10 minutes. I wanted to scream at her "LOOK, NANNY SAID YOU CAN'T HAVE A TATTOO SO SHUT UP YOU LITTLE BRAT, YOU ARE RUINING MY CONCENTRATION!"
By the end of the day I was exhausted and felt much worse. Short of breath, I felt dizzy and my headache had developed into a full blown migraine. I got home and lay down on my bed and tried to figure out what could be making me feel so rough. Then it hit me, the ice cream van! Carbon monoxide poisoning eeek. The engine had been running constantly throughout the afternoon and the wind had carried the fumes over in my direction. I quickly googled my symptoms (doesn't everyone do that?) and my suspicions were confirmed.
I just about managed to get myself ready and went out on the town. All better.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Who cares about the African orphanages?
My man has gone. Not permanently, just for a week. To Swaziland, a four hour drive from South Africa. This dusty, mountainous land has its typical dose of problems equal to so many African countries. A series of chance meetings has led to the opportunity to visit some orphanages. Until now I had always been so detached from the troubles that plague our neighbours only a plane ride away. That is until it hit a little closer to home in the form of our late night crackly conversations. It was too difficult for him to go into details, all too raw in his mind. My selfish relief quickly replaced by guilt.
The farewell tone of his daily texts has changed, it is now reminiscent of our courting days.
I love you xxx.
I miss you xxx
I love you xxx
I miss you xxx
So out of character.
As my days unfold every insignificant complaint I make in my mind is quickly transformed into gratitude.
I can't stand this coffee he bought, we have plenty to drink.
Why is there so much bloody packaging in electrical items these days? We have electricity.
Why do I have to wait ten days to get an appointment to see my GP? I don't have AIDS.
The farewell tone of his daily texts has changed, it is now reminiscent of our courting days.
I love you xxx.
I miss you xxx
I love you xxx
I miss you xxx
So out of character.
As my days unfold every insignificant complaint I make in my mind is quickly transformed into gratitude.
I can't stand this coffee he bought, we have plenty to drink.
Why is there so much bloody packaging in electrical items these days? We have electricity.
Why do I have to wait ten days to get an appointment to see my GP? I don't have AIDS.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Nine year olds that calorie count?
So....tomorrow is my daughter's 9th birthday sleepover. I have been pestered into allowing her four friends over to stay for the night. There is a pact between them to see if they can stay up even later than the last time, their record stands at 6 am. Girly squeals of laughter hit me at 2am, I rouse from my coma and vaguely recall shouting "GET TO SLEEP!"
Hushed "Whatever" gently reverberated across the landing. I was told quite matter-of-factly that the party fizzled at sunrise. Distant yet fond memories of Ibiza appeared in my mind, albeit different reasons for staying awake.
There are rules this time. Not set by me, although I prefer a please and thank you now and again. Missy has written a list of dos and don'ts.
1 Do not swear (I'm sure this was written for my benefit)
2 Be kind (nine year olds can be so bitchy)
3 No private conversations (whispering in each others ears is soooo last season)
4 Bring your Nintendos (alas, none of the above will apply anyway)
I'm tempted to add a couple of my own but restrain myself
5 No calorie counting (seriously, one girl in particular reads labels on everything)
6 Eat some fruit (uncontrollable laughter ensues from guests)
I can just see Missy's face, red and mortified complete with angry glare "MOTHER!"
I pull a face and shrug "Whatever"
Hushed "Whatever" gently reverberated across the landing. I was told quite matter-of-factly that the party fizzled at sunrise. Distant yet fond memories of Ibiza appeared in my mind, albeit different reasons for staying awake.
There are rules this time. Not set by me, although I prefer a please and thank you now and again. Missy has written a list of dos and don'ts.
1 Do not swear (I'm sure this was written for my benefit)
2 Be kind (nine year olds can be so bitchy)
3 No private conversations (whispering in each others ears is soooo last season)
4 Bring your Nintendos (alas, none of the above will apply anyway)
I'm tempted to add a couple of my own but restrain myself
5 No calorie counting (seriously, one girl in particular reads labels on everything)
6 Eat some fruit (uncontrollable laughter ensues from guests)
I can just see Missy's face, red and mortified complete with angry glare "MOTHER!"
I pull a face and shrug "Whatever"
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