Me and M&E

I love receiving emails. I love the feeling when I open my mailbox and see Inbox(25). It creates the most exciting feelings of anticipation within me, yet I don’t really know why, especially considering that most of the time my emails are junk. “You have received a new Super Wall post from [insert name here of prolific Super Wall posters]“, or “Check your credit rating for free online now!”, or even “Viagra for free”. Hmm, I might have a think about the viagra, well if it’s free…….

Anyway, last night I arrived home to Inbox(2), which wasn’t that exciting, but when I clicked onto the Inbox and discovered that I had two emails from the same sender, I almost cried, and not because I was disappointed.

These emails were from the local council. To be precise; the school admissions section of the local council. Lo and behold, they were confirmation emails that my little girls had officially grown up, or rather, that my little girls had officially been accepted to start at the school we had chosen for them for September.

Yes, I was indeed happy at the time. So happy in fact, that I woke Alex up to share the good news. I was relieved that they had been accepted into our (and their) first choice, and that it was all sorted out, apart from the uniform side of things.

However, in the cold light of day (and believe me, it has been freezing today with wind and heavy rains), I could cry.
It’s like I’ve been whacked in the head with a big huge hammer, and suddenly it’s dawned on me. They’re growing up! They’re getting big! They are not babies anymore! They are about to embark on one of the biggest, most influential and determining adventures of their little lives, and I for one am absolutely terrified!

I mentioned to Alex earlier that I am totally dreading their first day of school. He said; “why? Because they will cry? I bet they will cry their eyes out!” And there’s no doubt about it, they will do. But that wasn’t why I was dreading it. I replied with; “no! I will!”

I realised that I won’t have them with me all day, every day anymore. My journey to work will be done alone, without the little games we play (we look out for people who have bright hair, walk funny, and we spot the same people who were on the bus the day before), and without someone to talk to, or someone sat on my knee.

It has all hit me today, that I am going to miss my little friends, my best little friends. So from now until September, I am going to make the most of every single day we have together, and cherish every little moment, no matter how insignificant it may seem at the time, because come September, it will be so fondly remembered.

Don’t get drunk, I will make you spend all your money on food you don’t want!

I hope you all had a good Easter weekend. Mine felt like any other weekend, but with slightly more alcohol than is usual.
First off, I had to work on Good Friday, so of course I had to have a good moan and a good old whinge about how I was working both Bank Holidays, and everyone else kind of had a choice. This wasn’t actually the case, but I was feeling sorry for myself at being dragged into work for a paltry 2 and a half hours.

Saturday was fab. Alex went down to London to meet his dad to watch Tottenham Hotspur play against Portsmouth (and they won! Yay!), so the kids and I went and had a late breakfast (almost brunch I guess) at Sainsburys. Then we went and bought educational books for pre-schoolers, with sheets of gold star stickers, and we bought Winnie The Pooh biscuit cutter shapes. Our day was set!

I spent a good hour and a half sat at the table with the kids, trying to explain the meaning of rhyme; “now think about this, does wall sound like frog, or does it sound like ball?” (whilst nodding furiously as I say the rhyming word!)
It was great fun, but I felt ready for a break after the first hour, so I distracted them with the prospect of getting messy making honey and chocolate Winnie cookies.

Once the cookies were cooled, and tasted (YUCK!), we settled down to a colouring-in session with a Spot The Dog book, and home came Alex armed with a chicken bhuna curry, pilau rice, nan bread and lamb koftas from our most favourite take away in the world.

Then we all snuggled up on the sofa and watched The Day After Tomorrow, which must have been riveting for the kids, as they both fell asleep!

I woke up yesterday (Sunday), and I was shattered, having spent the whole of the night before in bed, in complete agony (women’s problems, you know). So, Alex kindly took the kids out to the park where there was an Easter Egg Hunt and a bouncy castle.
They came home with rosy red cheeks, and Alex regaled tales of the geeky kids (I am so glad ours are not the geeky ones), who were dressed very prettily in Easter Bonnets with frilly, flowery dresses. Poor things.

Then Alex went off to the pub to meet a friend and watch (more) football……sigh.
We had arranged that we would go out for tea somewhere local, as a family, so I kind of expected he would be home for around 5pm at the latest.
His battery ran out on his phone…… conveniently! And it was getting ever closer to 6pm, let alone 5pm. He had texted me at 3:45 saying he would have one more, then he’d be home, but 2 hours later, and no sign of him.
By this point, I was starting to worry a little. This wasn’t like him, he was usually reliable, and he had felt guilty about going out in the first place, so panic set in a little. I got online and started to check local news sites, only to find; “Gunman enters pub and shoots drinkers!” OH MY GOODNESS. When I finally connected to the story, I noticed it was miles away, and two nights previous. Phew, although, still OH MY GOODNESS! How awful!
As I contemplated calling the police to see if anything had happened out there, I saw him stroll past the window to the door. It took a few seconds longer than usual for him to get inside the house, and as he staggered in giggling, I knew he’d just got carried away with the moment and got drunk!
So, I still made him take us all out for tea, and ensured I got to choose (he’s been harping on about going to this Greek restaurant as we always have Italian, for ages), so I chose Italian! Ha!

As he sat trying to concentrate on his menu, I thought “If you can’t beat em, join em”, so I ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigot, and proceeded to drink it all to myself. Delicious, although I didn’t think that this morning, or this afternoon, or this evening.

Still, it was a good meal all the same, apart from the shocking price, which was kind of my fault as punishment for him being late, drunk and embarrassing!

It’s all a case of trial and error….

Any regulars to this site (do I even have any of those? I really am not sure! One would be nice, two would be fabulous, and even 3 would be amazing, so if you are one of them - thanks, again!), may have noticed over the last few days that I keep chopping and changing my mind with regards to how this site is going to look.
I just can’t seem to settle on anything and stick with it at the moment, and this is something that is reflected in my choice of home too.

Lately, I have been wanting to move somewhere new…… again. I have lived in approximately 12 or 13 houses or flats in the last 9 or 10 years. Ridiculous? Yes. On the run? No, it’s not really that exciting I’m afraid. It’s more to do with the fact that this is how my life has been from day 1. Being a soldier’s daughter, we would live somewhere for 3 years, then move. Then live somewhere new for a year, then move. Then live somewhere new again for 2 years, then move, and so on and so on. You get the picture. Because of this, I think I have some kind of “new house and new area craving” disorder, that impels me to have itchy feet, and forces me to want to go somewhere different.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Manchester, and I have no intentions whatsoever of moving from the confines of the city, but, I would move to the next little town along from where we currently are, tomorrow. I want the excitement of opening the box marked “bedroom” to see what’s in it, and leaf through my memory box and old photos, whilst pretending to be putting things away in new places.
I want the thrill of going out and discovering the area, whilst getting a little lost, and that sense of achievement when you can find your way home for the first time.
I want the neighbours to ask if we’ve just moved in, and to tell us where the best parks are within walking distance.
I even want to apologise for the excitable children who were up late last night because they thought the Easter Bunny was coming.

Despite all of this, and despite the fact that on my way home from work tonight, the town was crawling with police again (it’s a Friday thing here I think!), I do love it here. I love it, even though the building society has been robbed at knife-point twice in three weeks. I love it even though I feel nervous walking home at night. I love it even though there are rats at the tram stop (yes, I saw another one at my local tram stop recently, which I forgot to write about. I will get round to it though, promise!). I do simply love it. I just crave new things, new places, newness!

Maybe I just need a holiday?

Late night shopping may be retail therapy for you, but it certainly isn’t for kids!

Many of my posts tend to begin with the sentence; “Last night on my way home from work”, or at least they seem to, to me anyway. But, this time, it needs to begin with this, because I do not know where else to begin!

So, I was sat on the bus, waiting for it to set off, glancing at my watch, and rubbing the big lump that had appeared on my hand from bashing it (accidentally) on the corner of the till drawer, and patiently waiting for my digital watch to change from 29 to 30 so the driver would put his foot down and get the hell away from the hell that is the Trafford Centre.

Just before he closed the doors, on walked two girls, sporting two large earrings each, and pushing two prams. One had a tiny new-born baby who was sleeping soundly in his cosy little den, and the other was a girl, about 2 years old who was wide awake and smiley. Now, bear in mind, this was at 10:30 at night, and from a shopping centre, not from like a hospital or an emergency doctors or something, where it would kind of be acceptable at that time of night. Their buggies were laden down with shopping bags, mostly sports shop ones, so they had selfishly dragged these poor kids out late at night so that they could do a spot of shopping.

Now, I am all for taking babies out for night time walks during the early days, when no matter what you try, the child will not sleep, but this is before you’ve had a chance to establish a decent kind of routine. And, my children, to be honest, never really had a proper routine until very recently, when Alex knuckled down and instilled a strict 8pm bedtime into them, in preparation for when they start school in September. But, we would never have had them out at The Trafford Centre at night, just because of a bit of retail therapy! It’s so wrong!

As the bus set off, the little girl was wriggling and trying to get out of her pushchair, and her young mother got her out and sat her on her knee, talking to her friend using foul language in front of the child, and saying how “f*cking naughty” she was. Then the next minute, she was kissing the soft hair of the two year old and telling her she was a good girl! Talk about mixed messages! The poor child did not know whether she was coming or going!
So, the remainder of my journey was filled with the sounds of high pitched squeals, the sound of “NO! Shut up you little sh*t”, and in complete contradiction “Mummy’s little angel, good girl”!

As I got closer to home, the mum went to put the girl back in her pram, and as she fought against the child’s struggle, the child made a noise that sounded like this: “Kur”. The mother recoiled in shock, and exclaimed in horror; “she just called me a cow! I can’t believe she just called me a cow! Little sh*t! It’s because I call her a little cow sometimes, she’s got it from me! I am shocked, I can’t believe it! She called me a cow!”.

And as I got off the bus, all I could think to myself was, well really, what else did you expect? And, I felt like such a good parent.
I realised that it doesn’t matter how much money you have. It doesn’t matter how many Easter eggs you can afford to get them. It doesn’t matter that you’re not there every night, reading their stories at bed-time.
What does matter is that you are consistent, that you give them love, but discipline them when they are being naughty, but that you do not contradict yourself all the time. It also matters that children have a good night’s sleep, and you can’t afford to be selfish when you have kids. How this girl expected her child to be on her best behaviour when she’s getting her to bed at midnight each night, is beyond me. It matters that you do not call your children “cows”, because that is simply disgusting.

(Incidentally, the big lump on my hand went down, and is now replaced with a shiny bruise.)

It’s birthday time again!

The few friends I have are very important to me, I only wish I had the ability to show that more, either by saying the words, or making more time for them than I can. Things have been difficult over the last few months. During the day friends tend to be at work and I am at home with my children. During the evening, I am at work, and they are out at the cinema, or partying (possibly?), or even just chilling out at home, something I wish I could be doing at that time.

One friend who I feel particularly guilty about not being there for as much lately, is Louisa.
Louisa and I met when I was about 10 years old. We were at boarding school together, and we became really good friends. There were 4 of us who were close, and we became more like sisters for the 3 years I stayed at the school.
On a school trip to France where we had to stay with families in Strasbourg, I told the family that Louisa could really “shake her thang” to New Kids On The Block. So, she had to get up in front of the whole family, including their super-cool daughter who was some amazing kind of dancer, and bust her moves, whilst I sat peeing myself in the corner (and simultaneously worrying about the tongue sandwiches we were going to be given the next day for our packed lunch).

When I left boarding school and moved away, Louisa and I kept in touch. From the age of 13 onwards we wrote to each other regularly, and sent postcards whenever we went away anywhere. Out of everyone I had left behind at that school, Louisa was the only one I managed to stay in touch with during this time.

When I was 18, we met up with each other again. I got a train to Cambridgeshire where she lived, and we spent the weekend together. However, at the time, she was with a nasty boyfriend who got jealous of our shared history, which seemed a little weird.
Thankfully, she soon realised that this guy was no good for her, and got rid of him.

We saw each other a handful of times then, until last year, when through sheer coincidence, we ended up living a mere 15 minute drive away from each other. We started going to the cinema on an evening, we went down for a boarding school reunion, she came out with us for New Year, and it was brilliant to have my old friend back.

However, now I am working evenings, we hardly have a chance to go to the cinema anymore. Weekends are kind of precious as they’re the only time I get to put my little girls to bed and read them stories, and money is tight as usual.
But, Louisa is still there, and when we meet up, it’s like no time has elapsed. I just feel bad that I don’t have more time on my hands.

So, I just want to wish one of my oldest friends (and by oldest I mean in length of friendship, not age), a very happy 30th birthday.
May you thoroughly enjoy your 30th year, and may many good things fall upon you during it. Happy birthday Louisa x

Internet; a nosy person’s dream

The other day I did a search of my boyfriend’s full name online, simply because with him being some hot-shot, talented, graphic designer, his new website had been put online, and I was being lazy and using Google, instead of just typing in the URL. Annnyway, I discovered that someone else in the universe has the exact same name as him, something which I had previously discovered, but forgot about, so I guess I actually RE-discovered it. This guy is American though, so I knew immediately they weren’t the same person. Now you may be thinking “Wow-wee, so what? People aren’t so unique that you should be shocked to discover that someone else in the universe has the same name as him. Big deal.” etc. etc. But his name is pretty unusual, so yes, it was a bit of a big deal, to us at least.

The American guy has just moved to London, and I stumbled across his blog, which I suddenly became totally and utterly engrossed in. So much so, I have added it to my list of favourite blogs. However, I felt a bit creepy just sat there reading all about a complete stranger, and it made me realise that I am providing info as a complete stranger to anyone who is reading this.

SO, tomorrow, when I go to this person’s blog and get my fix, I am going to let him know I have been reading it, by leaving him a comment, or in other words, I am going to de-lurk myself. AND, I urge you guys to do the same thing. If, and this may be a big “if”, seeing as most people come across here by searching for Candy Anthony dresses (which I still maintain are AMAZING by the way, along with the US’s Dolly Couture dresses, which are also BEAUTIFUL, and which I also intend to buy if we EVER set a date for the wedding), but yes, if you have popped by and found yourself reading, let me know. Drop me a tiny little comment and announce your visit! It would be nice to put names (even if they are blog aliases or made up ones) to the stats I see on my little graph.

And thanks for stopping by x

Amy Winehouse

Last night, which just happened to be the last night of my 2 and a half weeks off work, I was sat drawing with the kids, and Amy Winehouse was playing on the shuffle setting of my ipod. Evie started to sing along and announced how much she loved Amy Winehouse, whilst dramatically waving her arms around in a love heart shape.
Marley decided she would have a go at drawing Amy Winehouse, and at 4 years old (and a bit), this is what she came up with. Isn’t it brilliant? (And check out her boobies and tattooed arms, now that is attention to detail!)

5 years

I love anniversaries, but I am usually absolutely rubbish at remembering them. I love remembering where I may have been on this day however many years ago, or remembering certain events that time-stamped my life, or made a difference. This time 5 years ago, I was feeling quite unwell. So unwell in fact, that I made a decision to go out to the little chemist in Hedon and purchase a pregnancy test. The test that changed my life and all around it! Yes, it was positive, and Evie and Marley existed in my womb, although as far as I was aware, it was just Evie on her own, or just Marley on her own, or even some boy who would’ve been called Jimi or something like that.

Stupidly, I sent a text message to annouce this to Alex. I didn’t have email at home at that point, I was off work due to feeling so sick, and he couldn’t take calls on his mobile. He had to be told straight away, and the only way he could be was via a wonderful, yet scary, SMS.

We told our families straight away, and the news went down far better than we expected, especially considering we’d not even been together a year, and it was all a bit sudden, plus Alex was younger, and it was all so scary for everyone.

However, 5 years on, to the day, we’ve proven that we weren’t too immature. We’ve proven to everyone who may have doubted our capabilities, that we are good parents, and we have 2 wonderful little girls to show for it.

The last 5 years have been challenging indeed, but when I see their beautiful little faces, I know that when I talked to my stomach on this very day 5 years ago, that they were in there, listening to me.

And away we go….

Off I trot to Hull for the weekend, where Alex is drumming with Tough Chicago Cop, and I’ll be watching and drinking (steadily mind, as I’m skint, so what’s new?), and cheering with Louisa, Krista, Kerry et al.

And I’m travelling over in Louisa’s Love Bug with the kids, so it’s all go!

Tomorrow I am going to visit my mum (who I haven’t seen since before Christmas), and then staying at my sister’s tomorrow night, although she can’t drink with us because she would be drinking for two, and that’s not good.

Then it’s back here on Sunday, after a quick stop at Alex’s parents for steak and chips, with John and Krista, and we’re going to see The Guillemots! FOR FREE! WITH ACCESS ALL AREAS PASSES! HURRAH!
Now, I just need to actually pull my finger out and go and pack some stuff.

Vulture Tales

Back in the days of living in Hull, my boyfriend Alex used to be in a band. He was the drummer.
On the day of their very first gig, we had our babies, and we lived in a poky little house in a little village called Preston. It was one of those places where everyone knew your business, nothing was sacred, and if you broke a little wind (IN YOUR OWN HOUSE!), the lady in the shop would know about it. My dad still lives there, and as much as he loves the place, it’s not my cup of tea. I prefer a certain amount of anonymity.
Anyway, I digress, their first gig was to be at The Adelphi, and they excitedly (like women) decided what they were going to wear, and the order of their setlist. This could be the making of them (we naively thought).

So, we went to The Adelphi, and as the boys nervously fiddled around sound-checking, tuning in, and “1-2, 2-1, 1-2″ing on the microphones, I sat there worried they would not be able to pull it off.
The songs they had done which I had heard, had been recorded on a little 4 track machine, onto cassette, and they were a bit out of time, a bit out of tune, and you could barely hear the drums. I was so scared.

They broke into their first number, and they were on fire! They were brilliant (although not as good as they were going to get, but I didn’t know that then).
I was impressed, and hooked, and wanted a piece of the action. I wanted to be up on the stage, I wanted the nerves, the stage-fright, the adrenaline. I wanted it all!

I got it.

A few months into their early gigging days, the lead singer Chris, asked if I fancied singing one of their songs. I almost snapped his hand off. Of course I did! I learned the song, without knowing the music, and one day, they all decided they would come round with the 4-track and teach me it properly.
I felt a bit nervous. They’d never actually heard me sing. What if they thought I was rubbish? What if Alex had just been kind saying I could sing, when really I couldn’t hit a single note? What if I was actually really bad? EEEK!
So, I got drunk. I cooked them all a huge roast dinner, whilst they were out and about practising, and drank 2 bottles of red wine whilst I was at it. Dutch courage.

They got back, and I belted out the song (once I’d heard the tune), but kept giggling nervously throughout my rendition.
Eventually, I managed to do it properly, in between getting the kids to bed, and feeling giddy, and they decided that yes, I could sing, and yes, I was to perform it on stage with them.

To be honest, I seriously cannot remember the first time I performed it live, in front of a proper audience, on a stage. No doubt I got drunk to give me the courage to actually get up there and do it, but I do remember that I thought I sounded horrendous….. each and every time I did the song.

The response I got from the audience, however, told me different, and once I’d been into the studio to record it, the song was played on a BBC Radio programme called Raw Talent (in Yorkshire and Humberside anyway!). I felt famous!

On the last ever Vultures gig before Alex and I moved to Manchester, one of Alex’s friends filmed us. It was ages after that we got a copy of the DVD and I was anxious to see how it turned out.

OH MY GOD! I looked huge, I sounded so out of tune, and my posture was just bendy and awkward!

I vowed then that I would never again grace the stage and embarrass myself.

So, this got me wondering about body image. Do you see what others see? When you look in the mirror and see yourself, is that exactly how you appear to the outside world?
And furthermore, do you hear what other people hear? When I sing, and I listen back to it, I guess it’s the same as hearing yourself on an answering machine, and not many people like that, that I know of.
I only hope that people don’t see what I see, or hear what I hear, because, however much I enjoyed it at the time, despite the nerves, upon reflection (via a DVD) it was not very pleasant!