There's a big arts event going on locally at the moment and last night, down at the new university building, they had a writers cafe where people could go along, read their work and share it with like minded folk. It was free to do so.....
I went!
I figured if I really do have pretensions of being a writer I'd better start getting my stuff out there, making new contacts and, to use a phrase I detest, networking... pauses to rinse mouth out after filthy modern business speak!
I was very nervous and earlier in the day nearly chickened out,
"No one will want to hear my ramblings. Anyway it'll be full of geeks and spotty youths who write science fiction" I protested to hubby.
"No it won't" he said "Don't be so judgemental and negative. Go on, go!"
The idea was you wrote your name on a piece of paper, they popped them all in a tin and pulled them out at random. If your name was called you got to read a sample of your work for five minutes.
I arrived, with mild trepidation, but in good time to get a seat at a table by myself. I wasn't alone all evening, which I was glad of, but to start with I didn't want to be the one who had to say, "Is anyone sitting here", to a complete stranger. When I'm nervous I can trip on my words and I wouldn't put it past me to say, "Is anyone shitting here" instead.
I bought a bottle of water from the snack bar and found a table at the front. Less furniture to negotiate my hips round should I be called up. Up here for thinking, down there for falling arse over tit!
It was a humid night. My palms were clammy and my mouth was dry. I took a sip of water. Better. I went to put the change from my purchase in my purse. I dug around in my bag. I'll get a tissue to wipe my hands on. I pulled out a sanitary towel by mistake. No one noticed. I quickly stuffed back in.
This wasn't going well.
I looked around me. Everyone seemed so sensible and serious. They were all "proper" writers with poetry and short stories. Not random blog posts. I checked what I'd brought with me, " The One with the Painted Nails" and The One with the Last day and the Physio".
I text the NCT girls.
"I'm at a writers cafe event to hopefully read some of my blogs. There's a lot of very earnest looking people here. I'm not sure they're ready for my post on fanny physio!"
Several of my friends text back with words of encouragement. One of the girls said "You'll be fab. Everyone loves a good fanny story!" I laughed. I felt more relaxed. This is going to be ok. I'll just judge the tone of the evening after a few readers and see how they go down. I have another post with me if I think tales of my peeing myself on a regular basis will be too much for their delicate soles.
It started. "And the first name is... "
It was me!
I was first on!
Oh shit!
Shall I read one, two or all three? I don't know how long they last. What happens when the five minutes is up? Does a klaxon sound or does a hook appear from the side of the stage, curl round your neck and yank you away musical hall style?
Well baptism of fire, for me and them. I started with the painted nails post and then it was hello meet my minge!
They tittered, they laughed, they smiled and looked appreciative. Suddenly my short introduction about myself and how I came to write this blog, my two posts and my five minutes were up. Thankfully there was no hooter or hook. I just smiled and said thank you very much for listening.
There was applause. It was all over. I'd set the tone of the evening! Blimey! Anything goes after that.
And anything did!
That's not to say the work was crude, either in tone or style. It was a fantastic variety of pieces. Poetry, short stories, extracts from novels both published and unpublished, humorous, sad, thought provoking, rude and well.. frankly random.
Some of it I can't pretend I understood to be honest, some of it I loved and one piece, a poem on IBS, moved me, in more ways than one! The lady next to me had written a short story I really liked and in one of the breaks, I plucked up the courage to tell her so. It ended abruptly and left me wanting to know if the person in the car ploughed into the river or turned around and went back to work. People came over to me and asked about blogging. A professional author handed out promotional book marks. People used them to write my blog address on!
I had a long chat with a chap from Yorkshire who's novel intrigued me and I could see it being made into a detective drama on TV.
The range of work astounded me and all of it fascinated me. I realised how much I love language. All language. Whether it's used correctly or not it's an amazing tool to communicate, inspire and entertain.
So this morning I feel buoyant by the experience and I'm so glad I went. There was talk of other events later in the year and perhaps even reading our work on local community radio. Maybe this networking lark isn't as poncey as I first thought.
And did we get through the night without any science fiction?
The last reader of the evening was a jolly looking man with a long grey beard and a happy smile,
"My piece is like The Only Way is Essex meets Terry Pratchett." He declared.
I smiled to myself. I knew it!
It was actually very good and had a tag at the end using the word cock and you can never underestimate the comedy value of the word cock!
If science fiction made me laugh then language is indeed a very powerful thing.....
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Friday, 1 July 2011
The One with the Lunch Hour
Everyone assured me that one of the perks of going back to work would be that you get a proper lunch hour. Time all to yourself, which is not something you can always count on at home with a hungry toddler, in need of constant entertainment!
I've been back at work 5 months now but this midday oasis of calm has yet to materialise!
Twice a week I seem to spend this precious hour running around sorting out errands, buying birthdays presents or doing the weekly shop. Not once have I had to time for a quiet kip in my car or to read a book or magazine.
I guess it's an indication of how busy all our lives are. BTB I used to tear around in my lunch hour doing all kinds of jobs and making sure no birthday presents or cards were forgotten, so why, now I have the boy, should life be any different? Of course I usually find doing a Friday "big shop" or navigating the town a lot easier without the boy in tow so I can see why I do it.
Until today!
Today I had business in town. I needed stuff from Boots, M&S Dine in for £10 deal and most importantly a birthday present from the Early Learning Centre for the weekend. With travel too and from work I get 45 minutes to buy what I need too and get back on the bus, that work provide two days a week, to take us back to the outskirts of town where our office is. The bus is a perk. I love the bus. The bus keeps us all sane and in M&S sandwiches twice a week. But if you have a lot to do you have to plan your shopping and your route very carefully to optimise that three quarters of an hour.
The three shops I needed are reasonably spread out but nowhere is that far away in our town so it was do-able.
Or so I thought until I encountered the hoards of people clogging up our main high street!
Now I'm a fairly good humoured person, as you know, but I was like an angry bull, charging around the streets. It's a good job none of my stops involved a china shop! The main reason for the hold ups were dithering, doddery elderly people. Don't get me wrong, old people have just as much right to shop as I do, just not in my lunch hour! I'm not discriminating here, I feel the same way about caravans, they can travel where they like as long as it's between the hours of two and three. In the morning!
I'd visited the ELC first so for the rest of the time I had a rather large bag of bulky outdoor toys with me. To carry it across the main square I slung it over my shoulder, Dick Whittington style. In Boots this was ok (hardly surprising really if I looked like Dick Whittington) but in Marks and Spencer's I may as well had "bump into me and throw me dirty looks" written across my forehead.
Whilst trying to search for a birthday card I was ram raided with a trolley and in the food department I was shoved, shunted and generally shifted out of the way. I know £10 for a meal with wine is good value but this isn't the last supper, there's enough to go round people, have a bit of patience. I got looks that said "How very dare you be carrying a big bag of cumbersome toys you purchased earlier when all we have on us is our pension books, an old lady purse and a coupon for £2 off a home perm kit". Three times I was barged into with not so much of a word of apology, excuse me or kiss my artichoke!
It was then I realised that people are much more polite if I have the boy with me in the buggy. For a buggy they'll get out of the way or at least cut me a little slack negotiating corners. For a harassed mum in her lunch hour without her kid there was no such luck.
So tonight, when I got in from work, I bundled, boy, buggy and hubby into the car and we went to Sainsburys for our weekend groceries.
The boy, fuelled by blueberry biscuits, sang and laughed. People smiled and waved back. It was altogether a jollier atmosphere and a pleasant experience.
Never work with children they say but shopping with them, at least for now, may not be a bad idea....
Thursday, 30 June 2011
The One with the Tin Foil Codpiece, the Seagulls and the Strapless Top
Since the weekend life has been full of bizarre health and safety issues!
On Saturday we visited the boy's godfather and his family for their annual Summer BBQ. The Godfather (as he likes to be known) was wielding the tongs as all men do at BBQ time but, whilst chatting to his wife in the kitchen, I was surprised to see him come into the house, rip off a large (he'll thank me for the large reference - you'll see why in a moment) piece of tin foil and stuff it down his pants to fashion an aluminium codpiece.
"I always burn me nuts when I BBQ!" he declared casually and went back out into the garden.
Resourceful, inventive and very very funny. I knew there was a reason we picked him to help us bring up the boy!
The second incident happened yesterday at work. Well whilst leaving work. We have a long running issue with nesting seagulls in our car park. Brian and Sharon, as they have been named, are now the proud parents of a hatched egg and boy do all the staff know about it.
Brian, in particular, is a proud Dad and if anyone parks near his fledgling family or even walks past he swoops, screeches and shits on you in turn. Several staff members have been attacked with varying degrees of hilarity and distress and the situation is now so bad that we've taken to putting umbrellas up in the blazing sunshine to keep the birds at bay.
Last night I thought I'd got it sussed. I parked at the far end, well away from the birds home and recent nest and walked to my car along the adjacent road, only entering down at the bottom where the cars actually exit. No problems, I'm no threat to him down there, easy.
No!
Brian was watching me all the time I strolled back to my car. He spied me through the bushes and peeped at me through the trees. He was on to me. The moment I entered that car park he swivelled round and swooped towards me with deafening squawks.
I ducked. I ran. I shouted. I swear a little wee came out.
When I got to my car I was laughing so hard I text Ken and Barbie, who have also been attacked!
"Bloody Brian's just had a go at me!" I wrote.
They peed themselves too! Laughing at me!
As the birds are protected under the wildlife and countryside act there's nothing the company can do other than offer advice and issue a health and safety accident form for us to fill in about our "near miss",
"What do you think might have happened if the bird had attacked you?"
Ken wanted to write, "I may have been decapitated" but wasn't sure that would've been appreciated!
The last of the randomness was also last night at Zumba.
Once we got into the hall, Byron and I spotted a Rubenesque lady of ample proportions (and that's me saying this) in a strapless top!
A strapless top for gods sake! For a Zumba class! For any exercise class! I know it was a hot night but have a bit of common love! Firstly they don't do strapless sports bras and secondly she obviously had no idea how much jumping around you do!
Byron and I cast glances backwards at the girl. Should we tell her she's in for a bumpy ride? Or should we keep quiet and wait for the fall out (quite literally)? What do you think we did? We kept mum didn't we! This was comedy gold. And lets face it she was there now, she'd paid her four quid and she'd soon work it out. There was nothing we could do to save her now.
The music started. It's pulsating Latin beats rang around the sports hall. We launched into the warm up. That was all she needed to know. She survived the rest of the class in tact by virtue of the fact she hardly moved. She sort of swayed half heartily whilst looked red and confused and hitching her top up every five seconds. It was less of a work out more of an endurance test. The top won and she was rendered still. Even the stretches in the cool down evaded her. She won't be doing that again in a hurry.
So all in all it's been a strange and random few days, but what links all these things is birds.
A tin foil budgie smuggler, angry seagulls and a pair of tits on the loose!
On Saturday we visited the boy's godfather and his family for their annual Summer BBQ. The Godfather (as he likes to be known) was wielding the tongs as all men do at BBQ time but, whilst chatting to his wife in the kitchen, I was surprised to see him come into the house, rip off a large (he'll thank me for the large reference - you'll see why in a moment) piece of tin foil and stuff it down his pants to fashion an aluminium codpiece.
"I always burn me nuts when I BBQ!" he declared casually and went back out into the garden.
Resourceful, inventive and very very funny. I knew there was a reason we picked him to help us bring up the boy!
The second incident happened yesterday at work. Well whilst leaving work. We have a long running issue with nesting seagulls in our car park. Brian and Sharon, as they have been named, are now the proud parents of a hatched egg and boy do all the staff know about it.
Brian, in particular, is a proud Dad and if anyone parks near his fledgling family or even walks past he swoops, screeches and shits on you in turn. Several staff members have been attacked with varying degrees of hilarity and distress and the situation is now so bad that we've taken to putting umbrellas up in the blazing sunshine to keep the birds at bay.
Last night I thought I'd got it sussed. I parked at the far end, well away from the birds home and recent nest and walked to my car along the adjacent road, only entering down at the bottom where the cars actually exit. No problems, I'm no threat to him down there, easy.
No!
Brian was watching me all the time I strolled back to my car. He spied me through the bushes and peeped at me through the trees. He was on to me. The moment I entered that car park he swivelled round and swooped towards me with deafening squawks.
I ducked. I ran. I shouted. I swear a little wee came out.
When I got to my car I was laughing so hard I text Ken and Barbie, who have also been attacked!
"Bloody Brian's just had a go at me!" I wrote.
They peed themselves too! Laughing at me!
As the birds are protected under the wildlife and countryside act there's nothing the company can do other than offer advice and issue a health and safety accident form for us to fill in about our "near miss",
"What do you think might have happened if the bird had attacked you?"
Ken wanted to write, "I may have been decapitated" but wasn't sure that would've been appreciated!
The last of the randomness was also last night at Zumba.
Once we got into the hall, Byron and I spotted a Rubenesque lady of ample proportions (and that's me saying this) in a strapless top!
A strapless top for gods sake! For a Zumba class! For any exercise class! I know it was a hot night but have a bit of common love! Firstly they don't do strapless sports bras and secondly she obviously had no idea how much jumping around you do!
Byron and I cast glances backwards at the girl. Should we tell her she's in for a bumpy ride? Or should we keep quiet and wait for the fall out (quite literally)? What do you think we did? We kept mum didn't we! This was comedy gold. And lets face it she was there now, she'd paid her four quid and she'd soon work it out. There was nothing we could do to save her now.
The music started. It's pulsating Latin beats rang around the sports hall. We launched into the warm up. That was all she needed to know. She survived the rest of the class in tact by virtue of the fact she hardly moved. She sort of swayed half heartily whilst looked red and confused and hitching her top up every five seconds. It was less of a work out more of an endurance test. The top won and she was rendered still. Even the stretches in the cool down evaded her. She won't be doing that again in a hurry.
So all in all it's been a strange and random few days, but what links all these things is birds.
A tin foil budgie smuggler, angry seagulls and a pair of tits on the loose!
Thursday, 23 June 2011
The One with the Zumba!
You know how I've been bleating on about losing weight recently and getting shot of my baby belly. Well last night I took the first, Salsa like, steps to doing something about it.
I went to a Zumba class!
For those living in a box and yet to hear of this craze here's how the Zumba UK website describes it:
Zumba® is currently one of the World's fastest growing fitness programmes. It fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy to follow moves to create a dynamic fitness program that will blow you away. Our goal is simple: We want you to want to work out, to love working out, to get hooked.
So what are you waiting for?
So what was I waiting for? After last night's work out probably an oxygen tent!
I realised, as I drove out to the class, that this was the first time I had engaged my poor old flabby body in any sort of vigorous physical activity since before I was pregnant. There was a time, BTB, when I was reasonably fit. I played badminton twice a week, did a regular yoga class and lots of walking. Even when I was pregnant I kept up with the yoga and did aqua natal classes as well, but since the arrival of the boy I seem to have exchanged feeling the burn for feeding me biscuits!
The opportunity to try Zumba came when a colleague at work, for blog purposes to be known as Byron, said would I like to come along. So armed with a bottle of water and some old workout clothes I found in the bottom of a drawer that still mercifully fitted me, I arrived at the sports hall not quite knowing what to expect of the class or myself!
I have no co-ordination you see and in times of stress, confusion or speed I can't tell my left from my right! On the first of my three driving tests I went the wrong way twice because the instructor intimidated me so much!
I also have a tendency to just trip up for no good reason! I have never felt so old as I did the day I slipped over in Debenhans and they wouldn't let me leave the store until a first aider had seen me. What was doubly embarrassing was I used to work there and as I lay prostrate on the floor with my shopping strewn around me people kept coming past, recognising me and stopping for a chat. Once you start having falls in public places you may as well get the blue rinse and surgical stockings out because the end is in sight!
With all this in mind and to quote Simon Callow in "Four Weddings and a Funeral", once I got on the dance floor "I feared lives may be lost"!
All day at work Ken and Barbie said the thought of me doing Zumba was hilarious! I have to say I agreed with them. Byron described it as "going to Zumba with Miranda Hart" such was the firm belief that I would either fall over, trip someone else over, knock a speaker flying or at the very least, at some point, make a complete tit of myself.
Disappointingly, for comedy purposes, I didn't do any of these things.
What I did do however was have a great time!
I surprised myself that I could keep up with the steps and the music and yes I was red in the face, sweating and needing a drink after every song but so were most people. The hall was packed with ladies, and two very game guys, of all shapes, sizes and abilities. I was comforted to realise I wasn't the biggest girl there, nor the least co-ordinated! I did have a sense that the top half of my body wasn't talking to the lower half though because as soon as I got the leg work right my arms flailed about like a bad Kate Bush impression or if I got my arms co-ordinated my feet went on strike.
But arms and legs were nothing to what hips, tummy and bum were doing. They were having a party all on their own. At one point we had to shimmy and then rotate our hips in a figure of 8, belly dancing style, whilst turning around. That was too much for my brain to take in and I became an over enthusiastic puppy dog trying to chase it's own tail. I was wobbling in places I'd forgotten I had and I swear my arse was still jigging up and down for a full 10 minutes after the last track had finished.
I checked the BBC News website to make sure there wasn't a story of an earthquake in Suffolk!
At least the instructor didn't shout out complicated phrases to describe the moves, she just pointed in the direction we were supposed to go and my legs, arms and swivelling hips sort of vaguely followed her.
I must have been doing something right as today I'd lost all feeling in my legs, arms and hips and normality was only resumed after two hot baths and a large G&T!
Apparently Zumba is Spanish slang for "to move fast and have fun". I have some British slang terms for it too now but I'm too much of a lady to put them on here!
I'm going next week though and not just because it's an excuse to have a relaxing bath and a gin when I get home....
I went to a Zumba class!
For those living in a box and yet to hear of this craze here's how the Zumba UK website describes it:
Zumba® is currently one of the World's fastest growing fitness programmes. It fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy to follow moves to create a dynamic fitness program that will blow you away. Our goal is simple: We want you to want to work out, to love working out, to get hooked.
So what are you waiting for?
So what was I waiting for? After last night's work out probably an oxygen tent!
I realised, as I drove out to the class, that this was the first time I had engaged my poor old flabby body in any sort of vigorous physical activity since before I was pregnant. There was a time, BTB, when I was reasonably fit. I played badminton twice a week, did a regular yoga class and lots of walking. Even when I was pregnant I kept up with the yoga and did aqua natal classes as well, but since the arrival of the boy I seem to have exchanged feeling the burn for feeding me biscuits!
The opportunity to try Zumba came when a colleague at work, for blog purposes to be known as Byron, said would I like to come along. So armed with a bottle of water and some old workout clothes I found in the bottom of a drawer that still mercifully fitted me, I arrived at the sports hall not quite knowing what to expect of the class or myself!
I have no co-ordination you see and in times of stress, confusion or speed I can't tell my left from my right! On the first of my three driving tests I went the wrong way twice because the instructor intimidated me so much!
I also have a tendency to just trip up for no good reason! I have never felt so old as I did the day I slipped over in Debenhans and they wouldn't let me leave the store until a first aider had seen me. What was doubly embarrassing was I used to work there and as I lay prostrate on the floor with my shopping strewn around me people kept coming past, recognising me and stopping for a chat. Once you start having falls in public places you may as well get the blue rinse and surgical stockings out because the end is in sight!
With all this in mind and to quote Simon Callow in "Four Weddings and a Funeral", once I got on the dance floor "I feared lives may be lost"!
All day at work Ken and Barbie said the thought of me doing Zumba was hilarious! I have to say I agreed with them. Byron described it as "going to Zumba with Miranda Hart" such was the firm belief that I would either fall over, trip someone else over, knock a speaker flying or at the very least, at some point, make a complete tit of myself.
Disappointingly, for comedy purposes, I didn't do any of these things.
What I did do however was have a great time!
I surprised myself that I could keep up with the steps and the music and yes I was red in the face, sweating and needing a drink after every song but so were most people. The hall was packed with ladies, and two very game guys, of all shapes, sizes and abilities. I was comforted to realise I wasn't the biggest girl there, nor the least co-ordinated! I did have a sense that the top half of my body wasn't talking to the lower half though because as soon as I got the leg work right my arms flailed about like a bad Kate Bush impression or if I got my arms co-ordinated my feet went on strike.
But arms and legs were nothing to what hips, tummy and bum were doing. They were having a party all on their own. At one point we had to shimmy and then rotate our hips in a figure of 8, belly dancing style, whilst turning around. That was too much for my brain to take in and I became an over enthusiastic puppy dog trying to chase it's own tail. I was wobbling in places I'd forgotten I had and I swear my arse was still jigging up and down for a full 10 minutes after the last track had finished.
I checked the BBC News website to make sure there wasn't a story of an earthquake in Suffolk!
At least the instructor didn't shout out complicated phrases to describe the moves, she just pointed in the direction we were supposed to go and my legs, arms and swivelling hips sort of vaguely followed her.
I must have been doing something right as today I'd lost all feeling in my legs, arms and hips and normality was only resumed after two hot baths and a large G&T!
Apparently Zumba is Spanish slang for "to move fast and have fun". I have some British slang terms for it too now but I'm too much of a lady to put them on here!
I'm going next week though and not just because it's an excuse to have a relaxing bath and a gin when I get home....
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
The One with the Midsummer Casserole
Today is Midsummer's day, the longest day of the year!
I could argue that other days, when the boy has been playing me up and screaming the house down have felt like the longest day of my life let alone the year but technically and meteorologically it is today.
It just doesn't "feel" like Midsummer though. The sky is grey, there's a threat of rain, the breeze is less warm and barmy more chilly and crazy, and to compound the "Are you sure it isn't March?" feeling I've made a beef casserole and put it in the slow cooker.
Not very summer cuisine is it!
In my defence there was an admin mix up on my part yesterday, when I thought I'd got mince out of the freezer for Spaghetti Bolognese and realised too late that it was braising steak instead. Such is our love, in the Random Household, for Spaghetti Bolognese that I had to hold the steak off until today and go out and buy fresh mince! You see once I had it in my mind we were having Spag Bol I needed Spag Bol!
Apparently the worlds favourite food now is pasta: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-13760559,
and I can't say that surprises me. I adore the stuff! I'd eat it everyday. In fact on holiday with Lemon Cake Lady, Lemon Cake Hubby and Lemon Cake Son we played fantasy last meal and mine was Spaghetti Bolognese. It was questioned as too ordinary, too everyday for a last meal request but in my humble and random view, a fine Spag Bol, with plenty of pasta, parmesan on top and garlic bread on the side, can be a triumph of culinary delight if done right.
Having discovered in the last couple of years that I am 1/16th Italian (a fact of which I am very proud and explains a lot about me, dark hair, likes too cook in a vast pot for everyone, loves pasta, pizza oh and glass of red wine anyone) my love of really good pasta has grown and grown. What does surprise me about the BBC article is that after Italy the second biggest consumer of pasta is Venezuela! I thought it'd be the USA or even the UK but no. I've never been to South America, maybe I should take a trip?
Luckily the boy loves pasta too. He's pretty much eating what we have had the night before now (chilli con carne and spicy curries excluded) so for this I am most grateful. He is after all 1/32nd Italian and I'd be mightily stumped if I couldn't give him a bit of chopped up cannelloni for his lunch.
So today's casserole is filling the house with warm and tasty aromas and cheering me and my nostrils up as I look up at the gloomy sky above.
It might be Wimbledon, it might be the height of British strawberry season, the last of the asparagus may still be clinging on and I know on Midsummer's day we should be having a BBQ or poached salmon with salad but give me my slow cooker and a comforting casserole any day of the year.
I might even pop a bit of pasta in it. You know, just for a change.....
I could argue that other days, when the boy has been playing me up and screaming the house down have felt like the longest day of my life let alone the year but technically and meteorologically it is today.
It just doesn't "feel" like Midsummer though. The sky is grey, there's a threat of rain, the breeze is less warm and barmy more chilly and crazy, and to compound the "Are you sure it isn't March?" feeling I've made a beef casserole and put it in the slow cooker.
Not very summer cuisine is it!
In my defence there was an admin mix up on my part yesterday, when I thought I'd got mince out of the freezer for Spaghetti Bolognese and realised too late that it was braising steak instead. Such is our love, in the Random Household, for Spaghetti Bolognese that I had to hold the steak off until today and go out and buy fresh mince! You see once I had it in my mind we were having Spag Bol I needed Spag Bol!
Apparently the worlds favourite food now is pasta: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-13760559,
and I can't say that surprises me. I adore the stuff! I'd eat it everyday. In fact on holiday with Lemon Cake Lady, Lemon Cake Hubby and Lemon Cake Son we played fantasy last meal and mine was Spaghetti Bolognese. It was questioned as too ordinary, too everyday for a last meal request but in my humble and random view, a fine Spag Bol, with plenty of pasta, parmesan on top and garlic bread on the side, can be a triumph of culinary delight if done right.
Having discovered in the last couple of years that I am 1/16th Italian (a fact of which I am very proud and explains a lot about me, dark hair, likes too cook in a vast pot for everyone, loves pasta, pizza oh and glass of red wine anyone) my love of really good pasta has grown and grown. What does surprise me about the BBC article is that after Italy the second biggest consumer of pasta is Venezuela! I thought it'd be the USA or even the UK but no. I've never been to South America, maybe I should take a trip?
Luckily the boy loves pasta too. He's pretty much eating what we have had the night before now (chilli con carne and spicy curries excluded) so for this I am most grateful. He is after all 1/32nd Italian and I'd be mightily stumped if I couldn't give him a bit of chopped up cannelloni for his lunch.
So today's casserole is filling the house with warm and tasty aromas and cheering me and my nostrils up as I look up at the gloomy sky above.
It might be Wimbledon, it might be the height of British strawberry season, the last of the asparagus may still be clinging on and I know on Midsummer's day we should be having a BBQ or poached salmon with salad but give me my slow cooker and a comforting casserole any day of the year.
I might even pop a bit of pasta in it. You know, just for a change.....
Monday, 20 June 2011
The One with the Painted Nails
Many years ago, before I had the boy, a former work colleague, who had children herself, remarked on my painted nails. She said you could tell I didn't have kids as I'd had time to put polish on!
In reality I rarely painted my nails. It was always something I aspired to do but came well down my "to do" list (I have a "to do" list! - classic Homer Simpson line), so it seldom got done.
She saw painted nails as a symbol of spare time. Something frivolous and fun. Not something, with a young son, she had time for. I remember thinking that I was sure she wished she did have time for it. She was actually jealous and I thought what a strange and small thing to be jealous of when you have a child. She probably thought I didn't do any housework either! I didn't, but that's not the point!
I wondered if, when I became a Mum, I'd feel the same?
Recently two of the girls at work (for blog purposes to be known as Ken and Barbie ) have been experimenting with nails colours. When I go in they seem to have changed their shade to another trendy summer hue and it looks fantastic.
Neither Ken nor Barbie have children yet but I didn't feel envy at their time and effort spent in themselves. I just thought I fancy having a go!
So I did. I got a new nail colour, some base and top coat and dug out my nail files. Lets face it once the boy is in bed I only mong on the sofa in front of old episodes of Friends and Fraiser, so I might as well paint my nails and let them dry as I watch TV.
Friday night there I was, my shimmering new gold shade at the ready, a glass of wine and the new series of "Eight Out of Ten Cats" to chuckle at!
I love having painted nails. They make my fingers look longer and more elegant. It makes me feel good. More polished, if you pardon the pun.
And there was an unexpected bonus to this flight of frivolity on my part.
I have been trying for weeks now to cut the boys finger nails. He squirms, he wriggles, he screams and runs away. He wants the scissors, he wants his hand back, in short he wants nothing to do with the process at all.
His nails were sharper than a set of chefs knives and twice as deadly!
Today, ready for his morning nap and slowly winding down on the chair watching "Show Me Show Me" he became fascinated with Mummy's coloured nails!
"Ohhhhhh!" he said
"Pretty?" I said
"Hmmmmmm!" he said
Watching the gold catch the light and pretending to file Bear Bear's paws he let me cut the finger nails on both hands with little fuss! Result! Happy boy, happy Mummy.
My mind turned back to my former work mate. She used to do all her housework before she came into the office. She be proud as punch that she'd put two loads of washing on, hoovered everywhere and pressed her clothes for the week before 8 O'clock! Back then I was having a good day if I was out of bed by 8 O'clock! I'm thinking now she was misguided. She should've got the polish out yes but I'm not talking Mr Sheen!
My advice is iron less and paint your nails more.
I may have an ironing pile the size of a small country but I'm a better mother for it.....
In reality I rarely painted my nails. It was always something I aspired to do but came well down my "to do" list (I have a "to do" list! - classic Homer Simpson line), so it seldom got done.
She saw painted nails as a symbol of spare time. Something frivolous and fun. Not something, with a young son, she had time for. I remember thinking that I was sure she wished she did have time for it. She was actually jealous and I thought what a strange and small thing to be jealous of when you have a child. She probably thought I didn't do any housework either! I didn't, but that's not the point!
I wondered if, when I became a Mum, I'd feel the same?
Recently two of the girls at work (for blog purposes to be known as Ken and Barbie ) have been experimenting with nails colours. When I go in they seem to have changed their shade to another trendy summer hue and it looks fantastic.
Neither Ken nor Barbie have children yet but I didn't feel envy at their time and effort spent in themselves. I just thought I fancy having a go!
So I did. I got a new nail colour, some base and top coat and dug out my nail files. Lets face it once the boy is in bed I only mong on the sofa in front of old episodes of Friends and Fraiser, so I might as well paint my nails and let them dry as I watch TV.
Friday night there I was, my shimmering new gold shade at the ready, a glass of wine and the new series of "Eight Out of Ten Cats" to chuckle at!
I love having painted nails. They make my fingers look longer and more elegant. It makes me feel good. More polished, if you pardon the pun.
And there was an unexpected bonus to this flight of frivolity on my part.
I have been trying for weeks now to cut the boys finger nails. He squirms, he wriggles, he screams and runs away. He wants the scissors, he wants his hand back, in short he wants nothing to do with the process at all.
His nails were sharper than a set of chefs knives and twice as deadly!
Today, ready for his morning nap and slowly winding down on the chair watching "Show Me Show Me" he became fascinated with Mummy's coloured nails!
"Ohhhhhh!" he said
"Pretty?" I said
"Hmmmmmm!" he said
Watching the gold catch the light and pretending to file Bear Bear's paws he let me cut the finger nails on both hands with little fuss! Result! Happy boy, happy Mummy.
My mind turned back to my former work mate. She used to do all her housework before she came into the office. She be proud as punch that she'd put two loads of washing on, hoovered everywhere and pressed her clothes for the week before 8 O'clock! Back then I was having a good day if I was out of bed by 8 O'clock! I'm thinking now she was misguided. She should've got the polish out yes but I'm not talking Mr Sheen!
My advice is iron less and paint your nails more.
I may have an ironing pile the size of a small country but I'm a better mother for it.....
Sunday, 19 June 2011
The One with Fathers Day
Today is Hubbies second Father's Day as a Dad.
Much like myself with Mother's Day, this time last year we were still in sleepless night territory and yet to get our heads around actually being a Mum and a Dad! So his first Father's Day passed him by somewhat.
This year Hubby is feeling the love much more. Or he would have done if, not half an hour into his lie in, I hadn't had to call him to take over early morning milk and breakfast duties with the boy as a sinus headache had kicked in and my eyes had turned to piddle holes in the snow!
I went back to bed with tablets and a cold flannel on my forehead like some 1930's film drama queen and when I awoke the boy was having his morning nap and Hubby was cleaning the bathroom ready for the arrival of Granddad Ah Oh and Nanny P.
Bless my Hubby, he never complains (well rarely, depends on the footie scores to be honest) and always gets on with stuff around the home and with the boy with good humour (again depends on how dirty the bathroom is and if there's cricket on the radio but you get the idea).
So this is my Father's day tribute to the boy's Dad. Not only is he the best father in the world but the best husband in the world.
One of my strongest memories of the day the boy was born was when we were back on the ward and I lay there with the lower half of my body still in shock and the upper half of my body desperately trying to cope with the loss of the lower half!
Hubby picked our new baby up from the crib and held him in his arms, with tears in his eyes he looked at me and said
"Thank you. This is all I ever wanted. To be a Dad."
I cried too and I'll never forget that look between us. Love, joy and sheer panic!
So today I'm thinking about people who no longer have a Dad or never had a Dad. I'm thinking about all those single Mum's who do an amazing job being both Mother and Father to their kids, for whatever reason life has given them this challenge, and knowing that, it isn't just that I couldn't do it alone, I couldn't do it without Hubby!
Much like myself with Mother's Day, this time last year we were still in sleepless night territory and yet to get our heads around actually being a Mum and a Dad! So his first Father's Day passed him by somewhat.
This year Hubby is feeling the love much more. Or he would have done if, not half an hour into his lie in, I hadn't had to call him to take over early morning milk and breakfast duties with the boy as a sinus headache had kicked in and my eyes had turned to piddle holes in the snow!
I went back to bed with tablets and a cold flannel on my forehead like some 1930's film drama queen and when I awoke the boy was having his morning nap and Hubby was cleaning the bathroom ready for the arrival of Granddad Ah Oh and Nanny P.
Bless my Hubby, he never complains (well rarely, depends on the footie scores to be honest) and always gets on with stuff around the home and with the boy with good humour (again depends on how dirty the bathroom is and if there's cricket on the radio but you get the idea).
So this is my Father's day tribute to the boy's Dad. Not only is he the best father in the world but the best husband in the world.
One of my strongest memories of the day the boy was born was when we were back on the ward and I lay there with the lower half of my body still in shock and the upper half of my body desperately trying to cope with the loss of the lower half!
Hubby picked our new baby up from the crib and held him in his arms, with tears in his eyes he looked at me and said
"Thank you. This is all I ever wanted. To be a Dad."
I cried too and I'll never forget that look between us. Love, joy and sheer panic!
So today I'm thinking about people who no longer have a Dad or never had a Dad. I'm thinking about all those single Mum's who do an amazing job being both Mother and Father to their kids, for whatever reason life has given them this challenge, and knowing that, it isn't just that I couldn't do it alone, I couldn't do it without Hubby!
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