Johnny Foreigner innit.

8 Jan

I was THAT kid,  you know that funny kid that was a bit “different”. I was that kid in the school photograph that had a jumper on underneath a summer dress( even though it was June). I’m not sure what it is about foreigners, but they seem to think that England is somewhere in Antarctica and dress their kids accordingly. This means wearing layers of clothing in the height of summer. It’ll stop you catching a cold you know…Draughts make you die, wet hair gives you pneumonia, watching Coronation Street means you’re a bit rough and don’t bother coming home if you’ve scored anything less than an A. This last statement was usually accompanied by a full on description of how when my mum was a kid she had to walk home from school barefoot etc etc. The other things that made me stick out like a sore thumb at school were the foreign name (maiden name and not the nice plain Ward I have today) and the fact that I was the owner of a rather exotic lunch box. No kit kats and ham sandwiches for me. Oh no, I was sent off with chicken sandwiches on brown and avocado pear salad. This was 1980, way before the organic revolution a la Jamie Oliver that is the norm today. Funny how things come full circle.

Anyway, the reason for my walk down memory lane is this weekend was Serbian Christmas. Serbian Christmas takes place on January 7th and means a lovely long drive up North. The lovely long drive up North means piling two kids and husband plus a myriad of belongings into the car for approximately four ish hours traffic depending. This is the first time we’ve done this drive with two kids and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a ball ache. Two things I discovered, playing the Rastamouse theme tune on a loop and McDonalds chips are like opium to a two year old. Winner.  

I’d promised my Mother the whole family would go to the Christmas Eve service at the Serbian church – Trust me, this escapade is less about God and more about showing off the Grandchildren. It’s basically an hour of everyone parading their kids and Grandkids around whilst bragging about their various achievements. An arena of one-upmanship if you like. The bad thing about a Serb church is that there are no seats. Yes, that’s right folks you have to stand through an hour of caterwauling and incense. The good thing about a Serb church though is.. it has a church hall with a bar – Yes, a bar no less A frikking bar attached to a church. You can get  your dose of God and then go and get pissed. Let’s be honest though, you’re not going to get a bunch of Serbs anywhere without the promise of a glass of slivovitz (plum brandy) afterwards.

So, after the service, we all troop off to the hall. I troop off to the bar and get a round of drinks in, snacks for the kids and start merrily gassing away to folks I see once a year. I also do a bloody good job of avoiding eye contact with whiskery faced old bags I don’t want to kiss…Anyway, just as  I’m mid flow I hear a cry of “choking, quick CHOKING” and turn around to find that my eldest has gone a funny shade of red … Yup, my kid was choking on the bag of Seabrook I had purchased for him five minutes earlier. This was quite simply due to the fact that being a total gannet like his Mother he had crunched them up into a huge mulch that had now wedged solid into his throat. Me, possessing a calm head in a crisis chucked him over my arm and administered a few hard whacks to his back. The whole lot eventually came up. Thank Christ for first aid training …My Mother on the other hand was a complete waste of space. Think chocolate teapot and you have the right idea. I swear she had already written a eulogy in her head. USELESS in a crisis that one. Anyway, panic over, child placated with a juice and me, safe in the knowledge that once again I have been proved right : Religion (like politics) is bad for your bloody health.

Facebook Dirty Laundry.

5 Jan

So, every year I make the same resolution and much to my husbands amusement I break it after about five minutes. The resolution : I WILL commit Facebook suicide. Facebook gets on my tits and yet I can’t bring myself to commit Facebook suicide. The rage is usually fuelled when I log on to find that someone is once again washing their dirty laundry in the Facebook arena. Do I really give a shit that your boyfriend/husband/ friend has done something to piss you off. Do you really need to put it out there in the public domain?

Then there are the “feel good” posters. “I love my dog, please post if you love your dog too” Yes, I love my fucking dog/child/husband/Mother but reposting a picture of a sandy beach with a sunset doesn’t mean shit. There are also the serial photograph of my child posters. “Here’s yet another photograph of my child on a swing/taking a shit/ * insert whatever activity you feel like here and I guarantee you that someone will have posted a photo of their child doing it. As much as you love your child I really don’t love it as much. Bear this in mind when you post another 500 photographs of your kid engaged in some banal activity.

We also have the Facebook boasters. These people never update their status unless it involves them posting about going on holiday.” About to board the plane to the gorgeous villa we have rented on gorgeous tropical island”. This is usually followed two days later by the obligatory cocktail in the sunset photo (taken on instagram for added ambience). Then we have the ” look at me I have mates” posters. Their status will usually start with “great night out with” – then various people they bored over a pint that night are tagged. The set that really grip my shit though are the idiots that seem to think dead people read Facebook. “R.I.P Grandma, thank you for smelling of piss and lavender. I will really miss you”. I hate to break it to you but they don’t have WIFI in heaven.

So, does all this mean I will commit Facebook suicide? Probably not, I’m too much of a nosy bitch.

The politics surrounding the cleaner

3 Jan

So…yes I fess up, I have a cleaner and yes my Nan wouldn’t have approved. In  her (now dead) eyes no one cleans your house as well as you do. In fairness, she’s right as I’m a bit of a finicky bitch when it comes to matters of the duster. I have real umbrage with kitchens and bathrooms in particular. Par example, I really don’t need to be checking out dried yellow piss stains on your toilet seat boys when I really need to sit down for a pee..This is usually after a few drinks when my legs aren’t stable enough to do the hover..

Anyway, with a cleaner comes cleaner politics and cleaner etiquette…(and a bit of a working class mental block in my case when it comes to folks cleaning up after me). I am THAT individual who tidies up before the cleaner comes over. I also strip the bed so that she doesn’t have to. My cleaner tells me that certain people that she cleans for leave their scutty undies around for her to pick up. Can you imagine?! Madness, I’d hate for someone to have to deal with my dirty undies. Not that there is anything wrong with my undies you understand, they’re very nice undies as it goes but I’d rather deal with them in my own time and space. I often wonder how long it takes famous people to let their undie management be taken over by a housekeeper or someone similar?

I do have one reoccurring issue with the cleaner though (and it’s a strange one).Every time she arrives I get the sudden urge to crap. Trust me, you get crap stage fright when the cleaner is hoovering right outside the bathroom door.Not good.

Tantrums, shite and bikes.

2 Jan

So far the New Year has brought with it… One tantrum from my two year old toddler and tag team shits (toddler and twenty week old baby). Tantrum involved full on meltdown in the street.This was complete with high level ear splitting screaming , foaming at the mouth and red face. Yawn. When does this shit end? I long for the days of lazy Sundays reading the papers in silence….Aforementioned tantrum was observed smugly by Boden wearing parents accompanied by their Joules wearing kids cycling past on their shiny bikes (rear kids seats attached). In my day you were deemed a pikey or a hippy if you didn’t have a car and rode a bike everywhere. Nowadays it seems it’s the middle class thing to do… I’d have been well posh back in the day….


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