Looking a gift car in the mouth

As we were involved in a minor collision recently (amazingly NOT my fault) the insurance company has loaned us a brand spanking new white car.

Brand. Spanking. New. White. My family.

These are things that should never ever be together, like blue and green, matter and antimatter or Heather Mills and Paul McCartney.

 

Because if they do ever get together the result will be destruction on an unimaginable scale and will cause a rift in the space time continuum. Much like the rift in my bank account that will result from muddy little shoes, fruit rollups, juice bottles, scratchy toys and kicky feet coming into contact with a freaking brand spanking new and white car!!

 

 

I have now mounted a 24-hour vigilance over the damned thing. I rush out the door and shoo away birds that fly near it. I peer through the curtains and glare at anyone who passes and dares so much as look in its direction. The postman must now leave the mail on the pavement. I insist that children hold their breath as they walk past my house. I chased a little old lady with a stick yesterday because she spent too long hobbling past it. And its not even my car!!!  

 

There is a reason I drive a 500 year old piece of junk. It’s so that I never have to worry about it being dirtied, scratched, bumped or broken into and so that people give me a wide berth on the road because I look like an unemployed uninsured crazy lady driver.

 

Somebody please take the thing away.

 

God knows how I’m gonna get it back to the hire company. I can’t possibly drive the thing.  

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The baby Cheesus

I am in love with a cheese ball.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s the love that dare not be voiced, the love that has no name. But I just cannot help myself.

 

Recently I went to a drinks party and there on the buffet it stood in all its magnificent glory. Spherical perfection. Formidable fromageness. Cheddarlicious cheesiness. Encrusted in thick black wax, a chorus of halleluiahs accompanied the opening. I imagine it was something like that at the birth of the baby Jesus.

My cheese comes from Sainsburys. The perfect cheese ball came from the milk of virgin cows raised on the summit of mist encrusted Welsh mountains and cannot be purchased in a mere shop. I imagine one must make supplication to the cheesemaker direct three years in advance together with payment and an essay demonstrating an indepth understanding of the cheese tasting experience and your worthiness to be in its vicinity.

I still dream that we will meet again. That I will spy that beautiful rounded body across a crowded room. But it is only a fantasy. And the knowledge that I will never ever ever have that gorgeous irreplaceable taste in my mouth is killing me.  

 

And now I am alone with just my memories of that cheese ball. I can’t even look at my Sainsburys cheese now, with its revolting rectangular shape and its declaration of being “mature”  - oh wow, how exciting, you are mature.

You disgust me.

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Happy New Year?

 

I just poked my toddler in the eye.

Twice.

I also hit her on the head with my bottle, kneed her in the boob and stuck my foot in her fanny.

Oh, that's not quite right is it.

Now I remember. This is what SHE did to ME.
 

I would like to point out that if I did in fact do the above things to my toddler that I would be arrested. Yet she can do them with impunity. I believe this is a blatant case of age discrimination. I could start a petition, I could stage a rally, I could make an application to some overpaid European Court on Human Rights grounds.

But I’m not going to do that. You know what I am going to do? I'm gonna call the police and have her arrested.

 

Yes I will.

They can take her down the slammer and lock her up and keep her there for at least five hours.

 

And don't bother trying to call her parents because we won’t be in. Becasue I’m planning to do it on New Year’s eve at 7pm.

Oh come on people, have you seen the cost of babysitters on New Year’s Eve?

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Merry Christmas y'all

What is the best thing about Christmas?

Some say it’s the special time you spend with your family, some say it’s celebrating the birth of the saviour of the world, and yet others say it is showing your loved ones you care.

I say bollocks to that.

I say tis the season to be self-indulgent.

Christmas is the time when my musician husband is out working almost every night. It is also the time that my toddler is asleep relatively early having exhausted herself by ripping apart the Christmas tree, stuffing her face with the entire advent calendar chocolates in one sitting and running up to everything in any shop that is shiny or red.

Consequently I am now sitting on the couch in my jimmy jams (pyjamas), surrounded by liqueur chocolates, eating a selection of party food from the freezer and watching a Christmas cooking program that I intend to try and emulate when that now stuffed and roasted turkey jumps off the plate and does a salsa on the frozen surfaces of hell.  

And I am NOT sharing my food with anyone else or having it stolen from my plate by a miniature person who is perfectly capable of feeding herself but prefers her handmaiden to serve her to the accompaniment of the ear-piercing whine of "mummy do it, mummy do it" which is actually a legal form of torture under the Geneva Convention (oh yes it its - I've looked it up).

The best thing about Christmas?  Pretending to be single and childless.

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I had a dream ...

My husband and I are having a standoff over the cooker. Not literally, obviously, because there is so much grease on that thing we’d both slide right off it. 

I told him the cooker was still not working and needed to be fixed. He asked me what did I want him to do about it?

Well, my darling, my soul, my light, my occasional bout of indigestion, here it is.

 

I want you to get a ridiculously overpaid job, say as a professional footballer where you get five million squillion dineros per minute to do something that has no tangible benefit to humanity so that every time something broke down, like the cooker or the toaster or the car I could just go and buy a new one. And then when the house got so messy that I couldn’t stand it anymore I could just move.

And then I could plug the cracks in my face with so much botox and filler that my child wouldn’t recognise me. And I could totter around in two storey high platform high heels and skinny jeans until I am one hundred and three carrying a handbag over my arm which was large enough to contain all my earthly possessions but which actually contained a small beaver (dogs are so last year) whose intestines had been removed so that it did not shit in my handbag.

Am I asking too much? I don’t think so.

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Killing me (not so softly) ...

My kitchen appliances have entered into a suicide pact.

First, the toaster went on a starvation diet and refused to ingest anything. It was only a very young toaster, so I’m thinking possibly it was anorexic.

Now the oven is experiencing a slow prolonged and, for me, an extremely painful passing away, as the last bit of heat dissipates from its cranky old body.

They say troubles come in threes, so I’m expecting to wake up one morning and find the vacuum cleaner hanging from the ceiling, with a note beside it saying “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take the mess anymore”. And who could blame it?

No, the appliances are not to blame. The blame must be placed firmly where it lies.

With my sister.

My sister visited for two weeks and during that time she had the audacity to clean up after herself every day. Imagine! The nerve of that woman!

She thought that she was “helping”, but what she was actually doing was deluding my poor appliances into believing that living in a clean house was a real possibility for them.

It was not. It never was. It was always a pipe dream that could never come true. And now my appliances cannot face life knowing that it will never be as beautiful or as clean as it once was. Occasionally I hear sobbing emanating from the kitchen.

Honestly sis, why’d you have to go and put stars in their eyes?

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