When the novelty of the kittens had worn off daughter thought she would have a go at growing a new brother/sister. After all she must have inherited her Mums green fingers.
Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones has provoked the ire of Twitter with by declaring that mummy bloggers are blinkered dimwits whose lives are spiced by Napisan. I'm afraid I have to sympathise with her, for all of her prejudices echo my own: Writing about my life has pretty much ruined it. Supper last night was an elderly carrot glued to the fridge shelf by a pool of brown mucus and the floor was flooded when I left the bath taps running because Blogger has diverted me from domestic essentials. I've had to shut the children in front of the television when a new post has assailed me and some family members no longer speak to me because Twitter interactions leave me no time to reach the telephone. But there is a big part of me that thinks writing should be hard: you should cringe whenever you press that 'publish' button. Artists – and I'm sorry, I do consider myself an artist – have to wrench the dirtiest, most disgusting part of their inner soul and show it t
I have ordered a new pair of wellies from Amazon for the daily walk to school. My current hardly-at-all-old pair has developed a fissure along one toe. I only noticed this when I was wading along the stream that flows brownly past bobbing Argos bags en route to the afternoon pick up, and I was not pleased. They are a glamorous pair with pink spots and white swirls, bought to ease my daughter's pain in ackowledging a wellie-wearing, stream-paddling mother in public. I now distrust wellies with spots and swirls, so order a safe-looking green pair. Better to be waterproof than glamorous. Royal Mail gets them as far as my door, thrusts through a 'Sorry you were out' card, and promptly loses them. Amazon is sympathetic and dispatches a replacement pair. This also makes it to my door and again a card is left. This time I decide to pick them up in person from the Royal Mail depot. The man behind the glass screen makes off with my delivery card and probably has a cup of tea and
I wonder sometimes what I am. I have lived the last decade on an inner city council estate, amid Oxford academia, in a remote country town and in London suburbia. In the first we were, with our relentless consonants and sagging bookshelves, regarded as aristocrats. In the second, as the 'squeezed middle'. In the third, as city sophisticates and now, sometimes, isolated in my tweed amid the Ralph Lauren and the hoodies, I feel myself a bumpkin. Class should no longer matter. Nowadays, for most of us, it's more a question of perception than birth. But the perception matters. My daughter battles to adjust speech, habits and dress to blend in with each new environment; the political parties compete to woo the amorphous throng they deem Middle England and Melvyn Bragg has started a television series on class and culture. The British, he decides, no longer define themselves by class, but by the music they listen to, the books they read. I listen to Dolly Parton and Beethoven.
Someone made their sand sculpture for the competition a little bit too realistic.
ReplyDeleteRight that's it we're off!
ReplyDeleteNow quick, let's eat all the ice cream before he can get up.
ReplyDeleteDigging for treasure went to a whole new level!
ReplyDeleteAnd...the only thing left was his head...argh!
ReplyDeleteBones and Booth get the fright of their lives.
ReplyDeleteSevered head found on popular tourist beach
ReplyDeleteWait till she finds out I've got her handbag in here with me.
ReplyDeleteNow the little blighter can't annoy me anymore!
ReplyDeleteMothers attempts at experimenting with new way to save on central heating costs were proving a tad messy...
ReplyDeleteThe parents had discovered a way they could really enjoy the holiday, bury the child outside the beach bar
ReplyDeleteMummy enjoyed the peace and wondered if she could install a beach at home to bury dissenters in.
ReplyDeleteThat's what I call 'getting a head'.
ReplyDeleteIt's ok, I'll have the last laugh when they pull me out and see what I have done in here! Oops!
ReplyDeleteOn Saturday the very hungry caterpillar ate through a beach full of sand... but he was still hungry...
ReplyDeletelooking out for dragons! (random I know but comment supplied by my 4yo daughter when she saw the pic!)
ReplyDeleteTime Team were thrilled to discover a fairly fresh-looking ancient relic in someone's back garden. It did smell, though.
ReplyDeleteI wonder if this is what Mum meant by saying she feels like a 'headless chicken'?
ReplyDeleteWhen the novelty of the kittens had worn off daughter thought she would have a go at growing a new brother/sister. After all she must have inherited her Mums green fingers.
ReplyDeleteI have a parcel for you, Singing Angel. Could you let me know where to send it...
DeleteIf it's the burnt left overs from last night I'll decline thank you...
ReplyDeletethat bloomin sand gets everywhere !
ReplyDeleteMission completed!
ReplyDeleteWhen you said you had an alternative to suncream, I wasn't imagining this...
ReplyDeleteYes as you can tell... its the simple things that keep mum happy, I just go along with um (hope my mates don't ever see this)!
ReplyDeletesomeone told me that mud is good for the skin, but why pay for the fancy bottles of the stuff?
ReplyDeleteA mud pack's for your face not your body!
ReplyDeleteOk, now I know you will stay put!
ReplyDeleteand that is how you make a sand-wich hahaha...
ReplyDeleteI just peed!
ReplyDeleteHis psoriasis didn't half make the bath water lumpy.
ReplyDelete