New Year's Eve. Having spent a goodly part of the past two weeks feasting, drinking, carousing and generally living high, I am feeling a bit worse for wear. I also have a stinker of a cold. I'm sorting through a vast pile of vile-smelling undergarments belonging to the Axis when the Kong appears, nonchalantly chomping on what I later discover is the last of a half-pound box of Roses. As I wrestle with his Batman costume, which has inexplicably become entangled with an old sports bra of mine that contains an alarming number of hooks and eyes, he saunters past and addresses me. 'Mum. I love you. You got a big fat bottom.' The two statements are apparently not connected. He proceeds back downstairs to demolish the next diabetes-inducing Christmas present he can lay his hands on, and I sigh, knowing that he is right. It's alright for the Axis - they have inherited their father's tall, slender build, and need never worry about their weight. Daddio is a man who can eat a whole box of cream cakes at a single sitting and apparently inhale a lasagne in seconds but, despite being six foot three, has never been described as anything plumper than 'gaunt'. Fat does not cling to that man. I suppose from that aspect, I chose well; my squat, round genes had to be cancelled out somehow, and he does also have a very symmetrical face. Accordingly, the Axis are gorgeous, and use this fact to their advantage wherever possible.
I don't enjoy this advantage, however, and my South Asian genes are not designed to process the huge amounts of dairy and wheat that they imbibe as a UK resident. Consequently, although I am frequently told what a pretty face I have (ha!), I am, well, plump, to be kind to myself (which, as I frequently tell the Axis, you must be, because if you aren't, why should anyone else?). Just before Christmas I embarked on a bit of a health kick, initially to impress a date, but then, I found I was really enjoying it. My heart rate was down, so was my dress size and, for the first time in my entire life, I discovered that I could not only run, but I liked it. I felt better than I had for ages, and in only a few weeks my confidence shot up - I went from being someone who'd never leave the house without at least one cardigan to easily conjuring up alternative uses for wrapping paper that would very definitely upset the vicar and probably several of the neighbours too...life was fun again. However, being something of a greedy idiot, over Christmas I have wrecked it all - hence the Kong's comment.
It all started with my birthday weekend. I packed the Axis off to Daddio's and somehow resisted the lurking temptation of a few quiet drinks with GBF and Slut Drop (our partner in crime, so called because of her extreme proficiency with that particular dance move), knowing full well it would never end there, as the three of us have extreme difficulty shutting up once we get together. Instead, on the Friday night I did a moderate amount of exercise, treated myself to a Chilli Chilli Bang Bang pizza and had an early night. On the Saturday, I was going to have a leisurely day around the house, pottering, perhaps going swimming, before going to karaoke with some friends later. Well, I thought, I'm knocking on a bit. Meeting up later and not staying out too late is good for us. Time to chill.
Like that was ever going to happen. By lunchtime I was in the pub eating steak and chips with GBF and telling jokes so filthy the teenage boys next to us were looking a bit revolted. Thus began a weekend of complete overconsumption that seemed to act as a warm-up for Christmas. Two turkeys, ten gazillion gallons of booze, several ex-boyfriends, a few bouts of oedema and a lot of cadlike behaviour later I had to concede defeat and am now sitting here writing instead of playing the bodhran and swilling Guinness with friends. The Axis slumber upstairs (the Kong got his just desserts when he was sick from eating too much chocolate) and I ponder the situation.
How to do it? Simple, really, use the calorie-counting app one of the Drunken Mums showed me. As our various children skipped, hopped and punched each other in the face around us, we fiddled about with our smartphones. 'It's so easy,' she said, as the Kong twatted her daughter over the head with Buzz Lightyear, to howls of disgust. 'You can measure everything really accurately. And actually, once you realise what you're doing, you can save loads of calories dead easily.' 'And use them for GIN,' noted another mum darkly, having noticed her son was about to plunge headlong down the stairs on a tea tray. 'Or wine,' added another. 'But the real benefit,' continued the first mum, seemingly oblivious to her daughter turning the oven on behind her and sticking her head in it, 'is that when you do exercise, you log it, it links it in, and then you can have more calories. Darling, don't put your baby brother in the oven. We're having chicken kiev for tea.'
I tried it, it worked. So now, here I am, my blissfully un-size-ist children calling me fat to my face, and I have decided that, like a Frenchman's breakfast, un oeuf is enough. The Chinese takeaway I had for tea was an unpleasant struggle and I am more than ready. I am going to be lithe and slender by this time next year. Hmmm. OK, this might be a bit of a reach. But I can run 4k already and will do a race in April. I can do it, I think, and open up the laptop to place an online order with Sainsburys for ten tons of fruit and veg.
It's nearly midnight, and the bells of the local church have been going for half an hour. I turn off the lights and open my curtains so I can see the fireworks that are flying up all around us. I feel very lucky and grateful that now, I'm able to think about such things as diet and fitness when 12 months ago, things were in a very different, deeply dire state. As my elbows get colder from leaning them on the windowsill, I notice a noise behind me. It's the Kong, woken by the fireworks, clutching his toy rat and looking a bit shell-shocked, big brown eyes blinking in bewilderment. He brushes up to me and points at the window. I lift him up onto the wide windowsill and he burrows into my neck, much as he did when he was a tiny baby, as we watch the fireworks.
'Mum,' he says, 'I love you.' This time, that's it. Happy New Year to my wonderful sons.
Monday 31 December 2012
Sunday 30 December 2012
Conspicuous Consumption
The excesses of the season have got to all the inhabitants of Axis Towers. While I have lost my voice completely following a couple too many dry sherries, the Axis have taken on a slight crazed glint in the eye and the ability to prick up their ears at the slightest rustling of what may be wrapping paper within a two-hundred-yard radius. They then charge over any old ladies and dogs smaller than a racehorse in order to lay their sticky little mitts on a PRESENT, no matter what it is - the virtue is in the getting.
I find watching this spectacle fairly dispiriting, so was happy to let the boys go to Daddio for Christmas Day so I didn't have to watch their inner Gordon Geckos manifest over huge piles of Playmobil. I managed to slow their present-opening here at Axis Towers so that there was not too much screaming, and I had hoped that this signalled an end to the consumerism, but no.
As I was recovering from a night of extremely bad behaviour on the Balchinator's sofa, the telephone rang. It was a somewhat exasperated Daddio, apparently calling from some kind of witches' coven judging by the background noise of incessant demonic laughter. When I'd calmed him down, he finally spilled what the problem was. 'Your eldest son is hatching EVIL and GREEDY naughty boy plans!' It transpired the Pie, proud recipient of his first wobbly tooth, was planning to lie in wait for the tooth fairy, kidnap her when she arrived by tying her up with his tape measure, and hold her to ransom for as many gold coins as he could get. He also stated an intention to marry someone who does not want children so he can accumulate as much treasure as possible for himself. Daddio was speechless at this mercenary streak in our previously loving and considerate boy.
I was too, and was about to demand the Pie come to the phone to be firmly admonished and booked in to Basic Human Decency 101 at Sunday school when I stopped, and thought. He's a bright lad. He's seen this before, and now he's decided to do it. He's seen what happens when you don't, when you stop and consider other people before seeing to your own needs, and he's obviously decided that the prevailing attitude - 'I want that, I'm having it, I don't care about you' - is the only way to get ahead.
He's wrong, right? Right? I'm going to tell him he's wrong, but how many times is the opposite view demonstrated to him over the course of the year, the month, the week, the day, even? How many times do I do it? Do we all eventually succumb to this?
One of my New Year's resolutions was going to be to stop letting people upset me so much. I'm a sensitive soul at heart and I'd decided I was going to be a little bit more selfish and tell everyone to kindly cock off if they were going to behave badly. But now, I find I have to reconsider. I don't want them to be selfish, arrogant little jerks. I want them to be nice to people and for people to be nice to them in return.
Niceness, however, can be a big front for utter bonkersness. Recently, someone asked me for my phone number, and if I would like to go out on a date. Shocked, but not unpleased, I conceded. At about 4am the phone rang and there was a voicemail. The next day, I listened to it with my friend. Instead of the pleasant and complimentary chap I had given my number to, there was a very, very drunk woman, with some giggling in the background. 'Hello. I have your number on my phone. I was just wondering if your last name was Hands and if you would like a good fisting. Give me a ring. Bye...'.
Well, I wasn't going to stand for that. Time for revenge...
I find watching this spectacle fairly dispiriting, so was happy to let the boys go to Daddio for Christmas Day so I didn't have to watch their inner Gordon Geckos manifest over huge piles of Playmobil. I managed to slow their present-opening here at Axis Towers so that there was not too much screaming, and I had hoped that this signalled an end to the consumerism, but no.
As I was recovering from a night of extremely bad behaviour on the Balchinator's sofa, the telephone rang. It was a somewhat exasperated Daddio, apparently calling from some kind of witches' coven judging by the background noise of incessant demonic laughter. When I'd calmed him down, he finally spilled what the problem was. 'Your eldest son is hatching EVIL and GREEDY naughty boy plans!' It transpired the Pie, proud recipient of his first wobbly tooth, was planning to lie in wait for the tooth fairy, kidnap her when she arrived by tying her up with his tape measure, and hold her to ransom for as many gold coins as he could get. He also stated an intention to marry someone who does not want children so he can accumulate as much treasure as possible for himself. Daddio was speechless at this mercenary streak in our previously loving and considerate boy.
I was too, and was about to demand the Pie come to the phone to be firmly admonished and booked in to Basic Human Decency 101 at Sunday school when I stopped, and thought. He's a bright lad. He's seen this before, and now he's decided to do it. He's seen what happens when you don't, when you stop and consider other people before seeing to your own needs, and he's obviously decided that the prevailing attitude - 'I want that, I'm having it, I don't care about you' - is the only way to get ahead.
He's wrong, right? Right? I'm going to tell him he's wrong, but how many times is the opposite view demonstrated to him over the course of the year, the month, the week, the day, even? How many times do I do it? Do we all eventually succumb to this?
One of my New Year's resolutions was going to be to stop letting people upset me so much. I'm a sensitive soul at heart and I'd decided I was going to be a little bit more selfish and tell everyone to kindly cock off if they were going to behave badly. But now, I find I have to reconsider. I don't want them to be selfish, arrogant little jerks. I want them to be nice to people and for people to be nice to them in return.
Niceness, however, can be a big front for utter bonkersness. Recently, someone asked me for my phone number, and if I would like to go out on a date. Shocked, but not unpleased, I conceded. At about 4am the phone rang and there was a voicemail. The next day, I listened to it with my friend. Instead of the pleasant and complimentary chap I had given my number to, there was a very, very drunk woman, with some giggling in the background. 'Hello. I have your number on my phone. I was just wondering if your last name was Hands and if you would like a good fisting. Give me a ring. Bye...'.
Well, I wasn't going to stand for that. Time for revenge...
Saturday 24 November 2012
Shamela!
(See here for an explanation of the title, if you should be so interested)
Eeek, the first date. More particularly, the first date after many, many years of no dates at all, during which time a once-joyful relationship became slowly more joyless with every passing day. Nerves. Horror. Excitement. More horror. The strong desire to leg it out of whatever venue you have picked, a desire which can only be combatted by the swift consumption of a double brandy at the bar as you pretend to sip half a lager while looking anxiously around for someone who might, given further consumption of said brandy, resemble at a big push the bronzed Adonis in the internet profile pictures. The sense of unreality, as you suck in your gut and raise your eyebrows, the sudden attention to all those parts of your personality that you really couldn't give a flying one about and neither could your friends (Grade 8 on the piano! A love of foreign films! Highly knowledgeable about bulbous plants! Keen correspondent with political figures on the plight of several nations of peoples around the globe!), the extra make-up, the best underwear, the desperate searching for a clean top with no holes in it...
All these things are pretty misleading, really. However, as it turns out, I was no more guilty of this than anyone else. Far more innocent of it, in fact.
I stood up to greet him. He winked at me as he came nearer and yes, he was cute. Long-ish hair tinged blonde by the sun, from the looks of it; one onyx earring in his left ear, just the right amount of stubble, big dark eyes, nice smile, and from the look of his body he certainly hadn't been lying about all that sport. All in all, very easy on the eye. I put out my hand; he took it in both of his and kissed me on the cheek. I was blushing slightly as I sat down - and then he began to speak. 'So! Did you find it ok? You seem to know some pretty good places in Cardiff, have you been here lots before? To tell you the truth I don't go out drinking an awful lot these days, no, not really, I find it all a bit much really, it makes me feel a bit strange and I don't really think I can cope with it all that well...still, here we are, great you could come, how have you found this whole thing?' All delivered in a strong south Wales accent, at top speed, and with slightly maniacal movements of the head. I peered in a bit closer at those big dark eyes and saw that the pupils were so dilated, the irises could really have been any colour at all...
Curses! How can this be? All my efforts to weed out stoners, and still - even on the bloody Internet - still they find me! My inner bubble deflated somewhat as I realised that I had been on this date, with this guy, many, many times before. It goes like this: we talk a bit, at first on perfectly reasonable subjects such as work, family, where we live, education and such like. Then we find an area of shared interest, usually something political or philosophical or, more commonly, music. In this case, it was the Smiths, Noam Chomsky, Freakonomics, socialism and football. More or less in that order. I was surprised, given the length of time that had passed since I had last been on a proper date (seven years ago, at least) that the format doesn't appear to have changed. Wait to see what they're drinking before you ask for that pint that you really want. It may be that you have to order something a bit swifter to drink. Such were my thoughts but my date didn't seem to have noticed...'well, people these days, they're all into such bollocks, aren't they? Well take my sister and her partner, they've not married, as all right thinking people should agree not to do, why would you want to, it's all just bollocks...' and so on. By this point I had resigned myself to listening to him and taking salient points to recount to my friends later.
Eventually, the conversation turned round to his yogic practice. I asked if this was why he didn't drink very much these days and he looked up at me furtively. 'Well, it's that and other things, I mean I've never been very good with alcohol, it makes me go a bit...funny, you know? And I mean, well, I smoke a bit of weed, you know...' It was all I could do to stop myself laughing out loud and say well, yes, I could tell from the second you walked in mate! Instead I feigned indifference and said something about decriminalisation. He nodded vigorously and I listened with the same barely feigned indifference to his thoughts and treatises on various drug laws and policy. He told me had been a prolific writer since his trip to India, writing political thoughts and research...And then I saw that I was on a date with Cuckoo (click here to see the character in question). Really and truly.
Still, I had great fun. I mean, he was easy on the eye even before I was three pints of Hobgoblin down. He offered to walk me to the station to catch my train, which was just as well as I had no idea where I was going. I thought I'd conduct an evaluation. 'So,' I ventured, 'How do you feel this date went?' He was grinning. 'Oh, yes, very well, very well indeed,' he said. I was about to gently disagree when I noticed he was walking very close to me. Very close indeed. He yawned, and then I felt an arm around my waist - the old stretch-and-yawn! Terrible. I was about to remonstrate with him about his cliched behaviour when he stopped walking and turned to face me. 'Yeah,' he said, 'this has definitely gone a lot better than I thought it might.' I was about to ask what he mean when he lent down and, without asking permission, kissed me. On the mouth. With tongues, straight in. The cheek! The nerve of it! How dare he...oooh. He's actually really quite good at this. Mmm. This is actually really quite nice. And the beard feels nice and soft and...I mean...what was I saying?
We broke off (partly because there were people walking past shouting things like 'Oh my God!' and 'Ugh!') and I then realised that despite my protestations, I had in fact been standing on tiptoes, and therefore I wobbled over, fell into him, and he fell smack into a pile of bins behind him. He stood up, brushing his hat and coat down. 'Oh dear,' I said. 'Slightly embarrasing,' he said. 'For you,' we both said. Uh oh.
We got to the station, where, despite some more snogging, lasting quite a while, I just made my train back to Bristol and got straight on the phone to GBF, who rather uncharacteristically squealed like a girl and demanded I met him in the pub for the full lowdown. We arranged to meet and I realised that, whatever came of this, I had finally made an important step forward; that this signified a turning point in my life, the final goodbye to any residual feelings towards Daddio I had been harbouring. No more hiding in B&Q or garden centres on my childless weekends. No more worrying about chores, the state of the front yard, or what the old bat up the road thinks about me and my kids and the number of empties in my black box on a Thursday morning. From now on, life is going to be as much fun as it can possibly be. I was feeling good, feeling positive, as if I were 21 again and the world was my oyster. Life had colour and meaning again. This, I knew, was going somewhere.
I sat in the quiet carriage and gazed out the window at the lights of the city. It all looked so beautiful. How amazing, I thought, that technology can do all the things it can do. Its function changes our lives, and its form, these lights for example, change our landscape and make everything it casts a glow upon seem fuller, brighter, more beautiful. You can look upon a filament and see nothing, or you can see the whole world. I drifted off into an existential reverie, the quiet of the carriage broken only by the steady rhythm of the train, a comforting, blanket-like peace...then my phone bleeped, very loudly. The other passengers gave a collective tut and frown. I apologised and checked the phone. It was my date from earlier. I read the message and began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh, and laugh, very loudly...
Very nice to meet you earlier. Hope you get back ok. Perhaps on another occasion, if you would like, I can come to Bristol and we can shag each other senseless?
Like I said. This was a definite turning point.
Eeek, the first date. More particularly, the first date after many, many years of no dates at all, during which time a once-joyful relationship became slowly more joyless with every passing day. Nerves. Horror. Excitement. More horror. The strong desire to leg it out of whatever venue you have picked, a desire which can only be combatted by the swift consumption of a double brandy at the bar as you pretend to sip half a lager while looking anxiously around for someone who might, given further consumption of said brandy, resemble at a big push the bronzed Adonis in the internet profile pictures. The sense of unreality, as you suck in your gut and raise your eyebrows, the sudden attention to all those parts of your personality that you really couldn't give a flying one about and neither could your friends (Grade 8 on the piano! A love of foreign films! Highly knowledgeable about bulbous plants! Keen correspondent with political figures on the plight of several nations of peoples around the globe!), the extra make-up, the best underwear, the desperate searching for a clean top with no holes in it...
All these things are pretty misleading, really. However, as it turns out, I was no more guilty of this than anyone else. Far more innocent of it, in fact.
I stood up to greet him. He winked at me as he came nearer and yes, he was cute. Long-ish hair tinged blonde by the sun, from the looks of it; one onyx earring in his left ear, just the right amount of stubble, big dark eyes, nice smile, and from the look of his body he certainly hadn't been lying about all that sport. All in all, very easy on the eye. I put out my hand; he took it in both of his and kissed me on the cheek. I was blushing slightly as I sat down - and then he began to speak. 'So! Did you find it ok? You seem to know some pretty good places in Cardiff, have you been here lots before? To tell you the truth I don't go out drinking an awful lot these days, no, not really, I find it all a bit much really, it makes me feel a bit strange and I don't really think I can cope with it all that well...still, here we are, great you could come, how have you found this whole thing?' All delivered in a strong south Wales accent, at top speed, and with slightly maniacal movements of the head. I peered in a bit closer at those big dark eyes and saw that the pupils were so dilated, the irises could really have been any colour at all...
Curses! How can this be? All my efforts to weed out stoners, and still - even on the bloody Internet - still they find me! My inner bubble deflated somewhat as I realised that I had been on this date, with this guy, many, many times before. It goes like this: we talk a bit, at first on perfectly reasonable subjects such as work, family, where we live, education and such like. Then we find an area of shared interest, usually something political or philosophical or, more commonly, music. In this case, it was the Smiths, Noam Chomsky, Freakonomics, socialism and football. More or less in that order. I was surprised, given the length of time that had passed since I had last been on a proper date (seven years ago, at least) that the format doesn't appear to have changed. Wait to see what they're drinking before you ask for that pint that you really want. It may be that you have to order something a bit swifter to drink. Such were my thoughts but my date didn't seem to have noticed...'well, people these days, they're all into such bollocks, aren't they? Well take my sister and her partner, they've not married, as all right thinking people should agree not to do, why would you want to, it's all just bollocks...' and so on. By this point I had resigned myself to listening to him and taking salient points to recount to my friends later.
Eventually, the conversation turned round to his yogic practice. I asked if this was why he didn't drink very much these days and he looked up at me furtively. 'Well, it's that and other things, I mean I've never been very good with alcohol, it makes me go a bit...funny, you know? And I mean, well, I smoke a bit of weed, you know...' It was all I could do to stop myself laughing out loud and say well, yes, I could tell from the second you walked in mate! Instead I feigned indifference and said something about decriminalisation. He nodded vigorously and I listened with the same barely feigned indifference to his thoughts and treatises on various drug laws and policy. He told me had been a prolific writer since his trip to India, writing political thoughts and research...And then I saw that I was on a date with Cuckoo (click here to see the character in question). Really and truly.
Still, I had great fun. I mean, he was easy on the eye even before I was three pints of Hobgoblin down. He offered to walk me to the station to catch my train, which was just as well as I had no idea where I was going. I thought I'd conduct an evaluation. 'So,' I ventured, 'How do you feel this date went?' He was grinning. 'Oh, yes, very well, very well indeed,' he said. I was about to gently disagree when I noticed he was walking very close to me. Very close indeed. He yawned, and then I felt an arm around my waist - the old stretch-and-yawn! Terrible. I was about to remonstrate with him about his cliched behaviour when he stopped walking and turned to face me. 'Yeah,' he said, 'this has definitely gone a lot better than I thought it might.' I was about to ask what he mean when he lent down and, without asking permission, kissed me. On the mouth. With tongues, straight in. The cheek! The nerve of it! How dare he...oooh. He's actually really quite good at this. Mmm. This is actually really quite nice. And the beard feels nice and soft and...I mean...what was I saying?
We broke off (partly because there were people walking past shouting things like 'Oh my God!' and 'Ugh!') and I then realised that despite my protestations, I had in fact been standing on tiptoes, and therefore I wobbled over, fell into him, and he fell smack into a pile of bins behind him. He stood up, brushing his hat and coat down. 'Oh dear,' I said. 'Slightly embarrasing,' he said. 'For you,' we both said. Uh oh.
We got to the station, where, despite some more snogging, lasting quite a while, I just made my train back to Bristol and got straight on the phone to GBF, who rather uncharacteristically squealed like a girl and demanded I met him in the pub for the full lowdown. We arranged to meet and I realised that, whatever came of this, I had finally made an important step forward; that this signified a turning point in my life, the final goodbye to any residual feelings towards Daddio I had been harbouring. No more hiding in B&Q or garden centres on my childless weekends. No more worrying about chores, the state of the front yard, or what the old bat up the road thinks about me and my kids and the number of empties in my black box on a Thursday morning. From now on, life is going to be as much fun as it can possibly be. I was feeling good, feeling positive, as if I were 21 again and the world was my oyster. Life had colour and meaning again. This, I knew, was going somewhere.
I sat in the quiet carriage and gazed out the window at the lights of the city. It all looked so beautiful. How amazing, I thought, that technology can do all the things it can do. Its function changes our lives, and its form, these lights for example, change our landscape and make everything it casts a glow upon seem fuller, brighter, more beautiful. You can look upon a filament and see nothing, or you can see the whole world. I drifted off into an existential reverie, the quiet of the carriage broken only by the steady rhythm of the train, a comforting, blanket-like peace...then my phone bleeped, very loudly. The other passengers gave a collective tut and frown. I apologised and checked the phone. It was my date from earlier. I read the message and began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh, and laugh, very loudly...
Very nice to meet you earlier. Hope you get back ok. Perhaps on another occasion, if you would like, I can come to Bristol and we can shag each other senseless?
Like I said. This was a definite turning point.
Wednesday 21 November 2012
Sex and the Single Mother
Or, more accurately, No-Sex and the Senile Mother, as this is very much the way things had been going for quite some time here at Axis Towers. It's almost three years since the Axis' dad took off, his heels scorching skid marks in the hallway, for pastures new (and chavvier, in my opinion, but what else would a newly dumped woman say?). Since I stopped working for the hellish Old Place, and started a far more reasonable job with a far more intelligent manager, I have been feeling, well, well. Unbelievable. As the previous post shows, I even started wearing make-up, and using the mirror. Obviously, what I saw was pretty appalling; after two children and years of neglectful self-care I look more like my grandmother than she probably does (God rest her soul). Dropping cheeks, one eye that looks permanently lop-sided, sparse and inconsistent eyebrows, an inexplicable clump of spots on the cheeks, and - worstest of all - the Mummy Tummy. Ugh. Hideous. Nothing can be done about the Mummy Tummy. I know that without even trying. (Of course, this might be part of the problem, but I'm too terrified by it to try and deal with it. Better to pretend it just isn't there.) The Mummy Tummy is truly horrid, flaccid handfuls of post-pregnancy stretched flesh, clinging on to your body despite your desperate wishes for it to just fall off. Of course, some people I know were leaving hospital, post-delivery, in their pre-pregnancy jeans. Good for them. I'm absolutely bloody delighted for them. I, however, was not. I have Never Been the Same Again.
Such a brutal knock to my confidence was caused by the MT that I also had decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life alone. There's hardly a lot of talent around here in sunny SB - and besides, once Daddio left me a stranded single mother, several of my married friends politely but rapidly chose to cease and desist with the offers of dinner and drinks chez leurs (I know that that's not proper French) in case I chatted up their husbands. Ha! I wanted to shout; more fool you - I'm free now - I'm not going near any of those feckers EVER AGAIN, so don't you worry, sister (if sisterhood is, in fact, a concept that is anything other than alien to you). I mean, I had the Axis. I had a job that I and everyone else who worked there loathed in sufficient measure to require post-horror drinks on a regular basis to dissect the latest idiotic move by the management, therefore bonding many of us as close friends. I had great friends and neighbours. I had a garden. I did not need, nor want, nor ever plan to be ever again with, a man.
However, the weird, irrational, biological twitch cannot be controlled by sheer willpower, and sure enough, I began wondering about that chromosome-deficient half of the human race once again. Admittedly, it was in a stop-start-y kind of way, but then the inevitable happened: someone pointed out to me the usefulness of having someone else around to help control the Axis. I can't remember who; it might have been PregBF, it may have been GBF, but whoever it was, I began thinking, WHAT a good idea, fairly quickly. And also - someone who could reach things - how I missed the sheer reach of Daddio's 6'3" for opening windows, cleaning tops of cupboards (ha!) and such like! So it was to the internet - in particular, a certain broadsheet's dating site, the equivalent of the singles bar for over-30s who know their arancini from their armpit. Thus, I could specify. 5'12" and above, please. Certain level of education (ok, snobby, but with reason). No vegetarians. Must like guitar music and have at least heard of, if not have a vast collection of, Sub Pop vinyl and/or back issues of the NME (no later than 2002 though, that would be very sad). Over 30. Can complete this sentence: 'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate...'. Laughs loudly and often, can wink without looking like they should've gone to Specsavers, DOES NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES think 'Thatcher had a point', can wash their own pants AND fold them AND put them away, makes loud appreciative noises when sampling my cooking (which is faultless) and bloody well washes up afterwards. Oh, and also a chance to break my peculiar habit - notably, that every man I've ever been involved with has had more than a passing fondness for the old weed. Why? I don't, especially! Why do I go for them? At least on the internet I could filter out the bong-lovers.
Obviously, I didn't say any of this. Instead I went for the usual blarney about wanting someone I can connect with, someone who is kind and generous and enjoys life and blah blah blah blah blah. I may even have mentioned James Joyce. Honestly. Who gives a crap about James Joyce?
Quite deservedly, the male population of this particular site responded with a collective 'Meh.'. Too idiotic to mend my mistakes (which included a profile pic taken the day after the Kong had accidentally broken my nose - about which, more later, if you can stand the suspense), I dealt with it by checking the site daily and sulking at the lack of interest. Until, of course, I got an email from a man who seemed Just My Type - oooh, yes he did. Bit alternative. Quite intellectual. Tall, pale, Welsh, glasses, longish hair, same interests, correct spelling and grammar. And the best thing was - he was fit as a butcher's dog. Sporty but 'without the connotations that that term usually implies', or so he claimed, running, cycling, surfing, footballing and presumably, if he'd wanted to, pirouetting his way into my affections via some parma-violet prose. I was pretty convinced you can't do a half marathon in 1 hour 40 if you've been smoking up a storm the night before.
After a few messages we decided to meet. I summonsed Counsel Inc, who is also of South Asian extraction, round to discuss. 'Oooh,' said Counsel Inc. 'He's been to India. And...oh, God! He says no country has affected him as profoundly...bloody hell. You're going to spend your life cooking chapati in his kitchen while his mum and dad try to plot how to set fire to your sari and make it look like an accident and he does yoga in the front room instead of getting a job.' She peered more closely at the pictures. 'And I'd put money that any date with this guy will end in you smoking weed behind Caerphilly Castle. You're going to be high as a kite when you get home.' I protested feebly, but in truth I didn't really care. It didn't really matter what this guy was like (to some extent, obviously, for safety's sake, if he appeared at all mentally unstable, predatory or admitted to liking Robbie Williams I would be right outta there), this was a big, big step for me to take, and take it I would, as soon as humanly possible.
In the two weeks leading up to the big day I did more exercise than I have ever done in my life. Was it possible to get sporty in such a short time? I would find out. Nothing really happened, except my resting heart rate was lower. The Axis thought it most amusing that I could run up the path with them after a couple of days so got their scooters out to improve my speed, the encouraging coaches that they are - although 'COME ON FAT MUM!!!' may not have been the boost I was looking for...I laid off the booze (a bit), took some vitamin supplements and made a hideous face mask out of mashed bananas, a couple of eggs and some oatmeal. It did nothing. I considered making it into muffins but decided against. In the end I plucked, trimmed, buffed, smoothed, moisturised and polished myself until I was as silky and soft as the Kong's backside. Straight after a bath that is. Definitely not at any other time.
I was ready. I got on the train. The train arrived on time. I was on time. No! I was early! This never happens, how has this happened? I ring GBF in a panic. 'Help! Whaddoo I do? I'm early!' Relax, he said, how early? 'Ten minutes!' GBF gave a snort of derision. 'Ten minutes?! Well, for you, that's like a month, I suppose...shut your face, go get a coffee and sit down with that copy of the New Statesmen you've bought purely to show him you're intellectual.' I protested, feebly once more. 'I didn't get it for that! I just...never get much of a chance to read it these days...I...ok, yeah, I did. But where's the harm? A picture says a thousand words and there are lots more words and pictures inside so I reckon...' GBF sighs contemptuously and tells me to shut up and sit down. I do so, having first appraised the bartender. Nice, friendly, handsome-ish. Wonder if...? No, I cannot start looking with interest at every man I meet. Every bloke that comes in, I wonder, is that him? Until finally, he comes in. It must be him. Cute, tall, confident, chatting happily to the bartender. He looks over - and walks in the other direction. Then the guy behind comes up to me. 'Hello,' he says nervously, 'I think you might be my date.'
Such a brutal knock to my confidence was caused by the MT that I also had decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life alone. There's hardly a lot of talent around here in sunny SB - and besides, once Daddio left me a stranded single mother, several of my married friends politely but rapidly chose to cease and desist with the offers of dinner and drinks chez leurs (I know that that's not proper French) in case I chatted up their husbands. Ha! I wanted to shout; more fool you - I'm free now - I'm not going near any of those feckers EVER AGAIN, so don't you worry, sister (if sisterhood is, in fact, a concept that is anything other than alien to you). I mean, I had the Axis. I had a job that I and everyone else who worked there loathed in sufficient measure to require post-horror drinks on a regular basis to dissect the latest idiotic move by the management, therefore bonding many of us as close friends. I had great friends and neighbours. I had a garden. I did not need, nor want, nor ever plan to be ever again with, a man.
However, the weird, irrational, biological twitch cannot be controlled by sheer willpower, and sure enough, I began wondering about that chromosome-deficient half of the human race once again. Admittedly, it was in a stop-start-y kind of way, but then the inevitable happened: someone pointed out to me the usefulness of having someone else around to help control the Axis. I can't remember who; it might have been PregBF, it may have been GBF, but whoever it was, I began thinking, WHAT a good idea, fairly quickly. And also - someone who could reach things - how I missed the sheer reach of Daddio's 6'3" for opening windows, cleaning tops of cupboards (ha!) and such like! So it was to the internet - in particular, a certain broadsheet's dating site, the equivalent of the singles bar for over-30s who know their arancini from their armpit. Thus, I could specify. 5'12" and above, please. Certain level of education (ok, snobby, but with reason). No vegetarians. Must like guitar music and have at least heard of, if not have a vast collection of, Sub Pop vinyl and/or back issues of the NME (no later than 2002 though, that would be very sad). Over 30. Can complete this sentence: 'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate...'. Laughs loudly and often, can wink without looking like they should've gone to Specsavers, DOES NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES think 'Thatcher had a point', can wash their own pants AND fold them AND put them away, makes loud appreciative noises when sampling my cooking (which is faultless) and bloody well washes up afterwards. Oh, and also a chance to break my peculiar habit - notably, that every man I've ever been involved with has had more than a passing fondness for the old weed. Why? I don't, especially! Why do I go for them? At least on the internet I could filter out the bong-lovers.
Obviously, I didn't say any of this. Instead I went for the usual blarney about wanting someone I can connect with, someone who is kind and generous and enjoys life and blah blah blah blah blah. I may even have mentioned James Joyce. Honestly. Who gives a crap about James Joyce?
Quite deservedly, the male population of this particular site responded with a collective 'Meh.'. Too idiotic to mend my mistakes (which included a profile pic taken the day after the Kong had accidentally broken my nose - about which, more later, if you can stand the suspense), I dealt with it by checking the site daily and sulking at the lack of interest. Until, of course, I got an email from a man who seemed Just My Type - oooh, yes he did. Bit alternative. Quite intellectual. Tall, pale, Welsh, glasses, longish hair, same interests, correct spelling and grammar. And the best thing was - he was fit as a butcher's dog. Sporty but 'without the connotations that that term usually implies', or so he claimed, running, cycling, surfing, footballing and presumably, if he'd wanted to, pirouetting his way into my affections via some parma-violet prose. I was pretty convinced you can't do a half marathon in 1 hour 40 if you've been smoking up a storm the night before.
After a few messages we decided to meet. I summonsed Counsel Inc, who is also of South Asian extraction, round to discuss. 'Oooh,' said Counsel Inc. 'He's been to India. And...oh, God! He says no country has affected him as profoundly...bloody hell. You're going to spend your life cooking chapati in his kitchen while his mum and dad try to plot how to set fire to your sari and make it look like an accident and he does yoga in the front room instead of getting a job.' She peered more closely at the pictures. 'And I'd put money that any date with this guy will end in you smoking weed behind Caerphilly Castle. You're going to be high as a kite when you get home.' I protested feebly, but in truth I didn't really care. It didn't really matter what this guy was like (to some extent, obviously, for safety's sake, if he appeared at all mentally unstable, predatory or admitted to liking Robbie Williams I would be right outta there), this was a big, big step for me to take, and take it I would, as soon as humanly possible.
In the two weeks leading up to the big day I did more exercise than I have ever done in my life. Was it possible to get sporty in such a short time? I would find out. Nothing really happened, except my resting heart rate was lower. The Axis thought it most amusing that I could run up the path with them after a couple of days so got their scooters out to improve my speed, the encouraging coaches that they are - although 'COME ON FAT MUM!!!' may not have been the boost I was looking for...I laid off the booze (a bit), took some vitamin supplements and made a hideous face mask out of mashed bananas, a couple of eggs and some oatmeal. It did nothing. I considered making it into muffins but decided against. In the end I plucked, trimmed, buffed, smoothed, moisturised and polished myself until I was as silky and soft as the Kong's backside. Straight after a bath that is. Definitely not at any other time.
I was ready. I got on the train. The train arrived on time. I was on time. No! I was early! This never happens, how has this happened? I ring GBF in a panic. 'Help! Whaddoo I do? I'm early!' Relax, he said, how early? 'Ten minutes!' GBF gave a snort of derision. 'Ten minutes?! Well, for you, that's like a month, I suppose...shut your face, go get a coffee and sit down with that copy of the New Statesmen you've bought purely to show him you're intellectual.' I protested, feebly once more. 'I didn't get it for that! I just...never get much of a chance to read it these days...I...ok, yeah, I did. But where's the harm? A picture says a thousand words and there are lots more words and pictures inside so I reckon...' GBF sighs contemptuously and tells me to shut up and sit down. I do so, having first appraised the bartender. Nice, friendly, handsome-ish. Wonder if...? No, I cannot start looking with interest at every man I meet. Every bloke that comes in, I wonder, is that him? Until finally, he comes in. It must be him. Cute, tall, confident, chatting happily to the bartender. He looks over - and walks in the other direction. Then the guy behind comes up to me. 'Hello,' he says nervously, 'I think you might be my date.'
Monday 19 November 2012
Paint It Black
Creative expression is very much in vogue and therefore encouraged here at Axis Towers. Having grown up in a somewhat repressive and restrictive environment, where mess and dirt were the enemy and any kind of stepping out of line was viewed with disproportionate disgust, I have renounced the creed of clean and decided not to punish for minor misdemeanours such as treading an entire box of crayons into the carpet or painting your little brother's face blue with a permanent marker. At times, though, I struggle to keep the long view in mind; that being, the Axis need to use all media to fully realise their potential, sometimes the short view (what-the-bloody-hell-have-you-done-to-my-furniture/walls/ceiling) wins out. And the look of sheer greedy glee when they spy an unopened box of chunky, fat crayons, powdery chalks or perfectly pointy pencils will raise a smile in most, so I guess it's worth it.
It's a common reaction, and one I've recently begun to display with regard to make-up. I made it through the best part of 30 years with the barest minimum of slap, but now that I'm being run ragged daily by the vicissitudes of life, a bit of warpaint seems a reasonable and sensible step. Quite why I think that some glorified poster paint can hide the sunken eyes, puffy cheeks and disturbingly shapeshifting jaw, I do not know, but I'm happy to attempt to fool myself, and everyone else. It started when I had a few hours to kill before a wedding; I wandered into a Mac stand in Glasgow and was immediately confronted with a tiny South African goth who looked almost exactly like a fairy, gossamer wings 'n' all. Staring at the different but unidentifiable pigments, utterly confused, I asked her for foundation. 'What sort?' '...' She sighed in exasperation. 'If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what you want.' I blinked at her, mildly, like a cow in a reverie whilst chewing its cud. She tutted and sighed again. 'OK. Do you want dewy? My skin is dewy. Do you want it to look like this?' I nodded, dumbly, and she pulled out a brush and began dabbing away with something wet and a bit over-brown that made me look like I'd just been swimming in a chocolate fountain. Somehow I plucked up the courage to inform her that I was a bit old for the wet-look. We settled on something that worked pretty well, I handed over a week's worth of lunch money, and that, I thought, would be that for another year.
However...for some reason, I've become completely infatuated with it. The little bottles, tubes and pots; the voluptuousness of a new kohl pencil; the velvet softness of a wet powder eyeshadow; the fact that my brown skin carries purple as a blusher much better than as an eye colour. I wander round the cosmetics stands of high-street chemists, stroking eye crayons, oohing and aahing at nail paint, sampling testers of different primers. All at once, the colours and textures calm and comfort, excite and embolden. I keep thinking of new ways to paint myself, to warp the bare foundation of what is there and make it into something prettier, more symmetrical, with the beholder's gaze drawn to the points I want it to be drawn to. Control.
'Ooooooooh,' said the Axis when, having broken through the complex set of biometric security controls with which I guard my bedroom, they espied the pretty little collection of £1.29 tiny pots, tubes and bottles. 'NO,' I said, as fiercely and with as much intent as I could. They reached upwards eagerly, feeling at the little glittery tubs much in the same way as I did. 'Mum, what is it?' I tried to explain. 'Well, it's like paint, but for Mummy.' The Pie looked confused. 'Are you going to turn blue?' 'No, son. It's...well. It's to make my eyes sparkle, and...and...to make me look pretty.' I pick up a brush. 'Look. This helps my eyes. I look rough today.' The Pie is shaking his head, blinking his ridiculously beautiful and lush long black eyelashes, coveted by several of my female friends. 'No, Mum. You don't.' How touching. 'You always look the same Mum. I know, 'cos I've been with you for a long time now, five years, and you always have looked the same.' Er... 'Thanks, Pieface! I think...'. Bless him.
Later comes the backlash. An advert for the shampoo I use comes on, featuring a bird with long, glossy hair flicking it around for no particular reason. The Axis are entranced. Pie turns to me quizzically. 'Mum. Why don't you buy stuff like that?' Oh, I do son. That's the one I buy. Instantly, I realise I should never have responded, as the vile child rejoins thus, predictably: 'Why doesn't your hair look like that then?' Grrrr...well. Because you have clean uniform every day and don't eat McDonalds for your tea, amongst other things, my Piefaced Child. And I wouldn't have it any other way, but at some point I'm going to have to sort it out, because...well.
Because I'm going on a date, that's why. Horrors.
It's a common reaction, and one I've recently begun to display with regard to make-up. I made it through the best part of 30 years with the barest minimum of slap, but now that I'm being run ragged daily by the vicissitudes of life, a bit of warpaint seems a reasonable and sensible step. Quite why I think that some glorified poster paint can hide the sunken eyes, puffy cheeks and disturbingly shapeshifting jaw, I do not know, but I'm happy to attempt to fool myself, and everyone else. It started when I had a few hours to kill before a wedding; I wandered into a Mac stand in Glasgow and was immediately confronted with a tiny South African goth who looked almost exactly like a fairy, gossamer wings 'n' all. Staring at the different but unidentifiable pigments, utterly confused, I asked her for foundation. 'What sort?' '...' She sighed in exasperation. 'If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what you want.' I blinked at her, mildly, like a cow in a reverie whilst chewing its cud. She tutted and sighed again. 'OK. Do you want dewy? My skin is dewy. Do you want it to look like this?' I nodded, dumbly, and she pulled out a brush and began dabbing away with something wet and a bit over-brown that made me look like I'd just been swimming in a chocolate fountain. Somehow I plucked up the courage to inform her that I was a bit old for the wet-look. We settled on something that worked pretty well, I handed over a week's worth of lunch money, and that, I thought, would be that for another year.
However...for some reason, I've become completely infatuated with it. The little bottles, tubes and pots; the voluptuousness of a new kohl pencil; the velvet softness of a wet powder eyeshadow; the fact that my brown skin carries purple as a blusher much better than as an eye colour. I wander round the cosmetics stands of high-street chemists, stroking eye crayons, oohing and aahing at nail paint, sampling testers of different primers. All at once, the colours and textures calm and comfort, excite and embolden. I keep thinking of new ways to paint myself, to warp the bare foundation of what is there and make it into something prettier, more symmetrical, with the beholder's gaze drawn to the points I want it to be drawn to. Control.
'Ooooooooh,' said the Axis when, having broken through the complex set of biometric security controls with which I guard my bedroom, they espied the pretty little collection of £1.29 tiny pots, tubes and bottles. 'NO,' I said, as fiercely and with as much intent as I could. They reached upwards eagerly, feeling at the little glittery tubs much in the same way as I did. 'Mum, what is it?' I tried to explain. 'Well, it's like paint, but for Mummy.' The Pie looked confused. 'Are you going to turn blue?' 'No, son. It's...well. It's to make my eyes sparkle, and...and...to make me look pretty.' I pick up a brush. 'Look. This helps my eyes. I look rough today.' The Pie is shaking his head, blinking his ridiculously beautiful and lush long black eyelashes, coveted by several of my female friends. 'No, Mum. You don't.' How touching. 'You always look the same Mum. I know, 'cos I've been with you for a long time now, five years, and you always have looked the same.' Er... 'Thanks, Pieface! I think...'. Bless him.
Later comes the backlash. An advert for the shampoo I use comes on, featuring a bird with long, glossy hair flicking it around for no particular reason. The Axis are entranced. Pie turns to me quizzically. 'Mum. Why don't you buy stuff like that?' Oh, I do son. That's the one I buy. Instantly, I realise I should never have responded, as the vile child rejoins thus, predictably: 'Why doesn't your hair look like that then?' Grrrr...well. Because you have clean uniform every day and don't eat McDonalds for your tea, amongst other things, my Piefaced Child. And I wouldn't have it any other way, but at some point I'm going to have to sort it out, because...well.
Because I'm going on a date, that's why. Horrors.
Thursday 30 August 2012
The Gender Agenda
Many people who know them profess the Axis to be the most boy-like boys they have ever met, with more than one friend describing them as 'slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails' little boys. Yet the gruesome pair are indeed in touch with with their feminine side. Kinda...Here are three ways in which gender identity has reared its head recently at Axis Towers:
1. Anything Pink: The Axis love pink. They look pretty damn good in it, too, the multicultural metrosexuals they indubitably are. Pie rocks a mean fuchsia t with a dinosaur motif, while the Kong is cool in pastels and peaches. A couple of years ago, Pie was so into pink that I saw a cup at Tate St Ives that was bright pink, had lots of different textures on it, a photo of a neon sign flashing 'PINK' and a pink china doll on. Naturally, I got it for him. It's still his favourite cup, and it is pretty darn awesome. As he is away with his dad, I was cradling it fondly when my GBF came round. GBF sniffed disdainfully at the gorgeous article, muttered 'isn't that a girl's cup?' then slouched off outside with an ever-so-manly roll-up while I huffed and puffed inside. Right then, GBF, that's another lump of coal in your Christmas stocking...
2. Modes of (Ad)Dress: Recently we were at a school fete, about which, more later, once the lawsuits have subsided. At this joyful event there were several stalls, all of which are designed to rob you of all the small change produced in the national mint this year with the speed and dexterity of a Victorian pickpocket. I gave the Axis a miniscule amount of shrapnel and some centimes left over from a 1996 French exchange trip and sent them off to do their worst. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the following exchange occurred.
Stallholder: (propelling Pie forward) Are you this boy's mother?
Me: Depends...
Stallholder: He says he has to call you 'Sir'.
Me: I...er...
Stallholder: I told him not to be so cheeky but he's quite adamant.
Noah: Sir! Sir! I did as I told you Sir! May I have a drink now Sir please Sir!
OK, so there is a reason for this. Recently there was a co-ordinated operation to clean the Axis' bedroom. It required military planning and precision, and the little toads would not do a thing I said. In order to get their attention, I told them that from now on, they were to address me as 'Sir' or I wouldn't do anything they wanted. They took great delight in this, and adapted happily to the new Peppermint Patty-style gender-confused moniker. Unfortunately as I was explaining this to the unconvinced member of the PTA (which fascist society, as any self-respecting parent of schoolies knows, has all the understanding and empathy of the Spanish Inquisition on an off day), the Kong had decided to spend some of his money, on a very fetching little hairbrush and slide set, which he purchased from an apparently seriously short-sighted pensioner (these are another abundant feature of the joys of school fetes). Said older lady beamed happily at him and said to me 'Isn't she going to look lovely? Look what good care she takes of her hair!'. Undeterred, the Kong, resplendent in the most boy-ful clothes he possesses, beamed back, unwrapped the hairbrush and proceeded to roundly attack his brother with it, sending him fleeing, howling, into the middle of the taekwondo demonstration going on in the Year 1 playground. Several cracked clay slabs later we were advised to leave the area before any further action was taken. Axis ejected, once more.
3. Messianic Complexes: The Kong was lying in the bath, hair flowing out behind him like a halo, when I discovered the water had gone dangerously cold and asked him to get out. 'No.' Why not, el Kongerone? 'Because I'm the little baby Jesus.' What? He fetched his flannels and stuck them all over his body. 'Look. Got cloths wrapped round all tightly. Heh heh heh heh heh heh.' Sunday school appears to have backfired. I then overheard Kong chatting with one of his little (female) friends at nursery: Kong: I'm the little baby Jesus. Friend: No I'M the little baby Jesus. Kong: No you can't, cos you're a girl. Friend: Jesus was a girl too. And a boy. Kong: Like my grandad?
Holy macaroni.
1. Anything Pink: The Axis love pink. They look pretty damn good in it, too, the multicultural metrosexuals they indubitably are. Pie rocks a mean fuchsia t with a dinosaur motif, while the Kong is cool in pastels and peaches. A couple of years ago, Pie was so into pink that I saw a cup at Tate St Ives that was bright pink, had lots of different textures on it, a photo of a neon sign flashing 'PINK' and a pink china doll on. Naturally, I got it for him. It's still his favourite cup, and it is pretty darn awesome. As he is away with his dad, I was cradling it fondly when my GBF came round. GBF sniffed disdainfully at the gorgeous article, muttered 'isn't that a girl's cup?' then slouched off outside with an ever-so-manly roll-up while I huffed and puffed inside. Right then, GBF, that's another lump of coal in your Christmas stocking...
2. Modes of (Ad)Dress: Recently we were at a school fete, about which, more later, once the lawsuits have subsided. At this joyful event there were several stalls, all of which are designed to rob you of all the small change produced in the national mint this year with the speed and dexterity of a Victorian pickpocket. I gave the Axis a miniscule amount of shrapnel and some centimes left over from a 1996 French exchange trip and sent them off to do their worst. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the following exchange occurred.
Stallholder: (propelling Pie forward) Are you this boy's mother?
Me: Depends...
Stallholder: He says he has to call you 'Sir'.
Me: I...er...
Stallholder: I told him not to be so cheeky but he's quite adamant.
Noah: Sir! Sir! I did as I told you Sir! May I have a drink now Sir please Sir!
OK, so there is a reason for this. Recently there was a co-ordinated operation to clean the Axis' bedroom. It required military planning and precision, and the little toads would not do a thing I said. In order to get their attention, I told them that from now on, they were to address me as 'Sir' or I wouldn't do anything they wanted. They took great delight in this, and adapted happily to the new Peppermint Patty-style gender-confused moniker. Unfortunately as I was explaining this to the unconvinced member of the PTA (which fascist society, as any self-respecting parent of schoolies knows, has all the understanding and empathy of the Spanish Inquisition on an off day), the Kong had decided to spend some of his money, on a very fetching little hairbrush and slide set, which he purchased from an apparently seriously short-sighted pensioner (these are another abundant feature of the joys of school fetes). Said older lady beamed happily at him and said to me 'Isn't she going to look lovely? Look what good care she takes of her hair!'. Undeterred, the Kong, resplendent in the most boy-ful clothes he possesses, beamed back, unwrapped the hairbrush and proceeded to roundly attack his brother with it, sending him fleeing, howling, into the middle of the taekwondo demonstration going on in the Year 1 playground. Several cracked clay slabs later we were advised to leave the area before any further action was taken. Axis ejected, once more.
3. Messianic Complexes: The Kong was lying in the bath, hair flowing out behind him like a halo, when I discovered the water had gone dangerously cold and asked him to get out. 'No.' Why not, el Kongerone? 'Because I'm the little baby Jesus.' What? He fetched his flannels and stuck them all over his body. 'Look. Got cloths wrapped round all tightly. Heh heh heh heh heh heh.' Sunday school appears to have backfired. I then overheard Kong chatting with one of his little (female) friends at nursery: Kong: I'm the little baby Jesus. Friend: No I'M the little baby Jesus. Kong: No you can't, cos you're a girl. Friend: Jesus was a girl too. And a boy. Kong: Like my grandad?
Holy macaroni.
Sunday 5 August 2012
I'd love to stay here and be normal. But it's just so overrated
It was bound to happen at some point, but I've finally taken the big leap into the unknown. No, I've not put the Axis up for adoption. I've put myself up for a new job, and, by golly, I got it. Lord only knows what I can expect, and as far as the boys are concerned. very little has changed. I guess I'm shouting at them less (30% as opposed to 60% of the time); only every third knock at the door might credibly be social services, and there's a lot more singing, dancing, playing of instruments and generally fuckwittery in the house. All of which, if you're a five or three year old boy, is to be welcomed.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
What's less welcome is the lack of cash. However, this primarily impacts on me, as the Axis are highly adept and unaware shoplifters (I'm kidding). No, really, this is all part of the adventure of single parenthood. Being ingenious about how you make money is all part of it. Most ingenious of all is how you hide your lack of readies from your less impoverished friends. No-one is as boring as a skint friend, and keeping up appearances becomes more important the less you're able to do it. True friends will love you anyway, will come round and drink BIERE instead of beer and will suffer the vileness that is your bathroom and carpets without complaint, but they are few and far between (mainly concentrated around the Glasgow area last time I looked).
However, it remains that I live in a particular part of Bristol, that I attend a particular church and that I am a particular kind of cantankerous old bitch. I must admit, I like it that way. I never had any authority before. I doubt I have much now, judging by the way the Axis grin at me when I try to tell them off. I pity the world before them; the charm they possess is out of all proportion to the havoc they may wreak. The Pie is essentially my family distilled in a beautiful, charming, intelligent and engaging individual; the boy is sheer delight from the moment he wakes to the moment he sleeps (if you can get him to shut up for the odd second here or there), incredibly talented, could master anything he turned his hand to. The Kong is all the best bits of his father; moody, stroppy, seductive, witty, lovable, verbose, cerebral, adoring and just so utterly scrumptious you can forgive him anything and follow him around the world if he wants you too (except to south Bristol. I mean, there are limits). But I have spent the past four years cultivating my image as a respectable and safe maiden of the church, and I think it's finally paying off - one of the other church parents of kids my age (who normally avoid me like the plague in case I try and get off with their husbands) asked me to the cinema next week! Does this mean I'm finally accepted or that I've succeeded in appearing to be utterly sexless? The one is acceptable and the other is a disaster, and I for one am not sure which would be which.
I go out to dinner with a friend. She is a wonderful, wonderful woman; intelligent, incredibly talented, one of the most hardworking people I've ever met. My family, all nurses or other immigrant workers, would be mightily impressed with her. Yet she apologises for everything; for having a hard job, and talking about it; for having too much pressure on her, and talking about it; for apologising. I can't understand it, then I realise that several years ago, I was her. Working constantly, completely dedicated, consumed by the desire to know; all admirable things, but ouch, you have to give a lot to pursue it. These days, I'm more selfish. I've succumbed to the fuck-it factor, as another ice-cream loving chum puts it. I listen to Blur playing Beetlebum at Maida Vale 15 years after it came out and still feel pained like I did then.
But I'm lucky. I can look at my Kongie boy's black, black eyes; I can listen to him shouting he wants his brother; I have them both swarming me and saying how much they love me, how I'm the best mummy in the whole world (fools!); we sit together and play drums, guitars and the piano and make it sound halfway decent; we have a life together, a family life, a life including sound and vision and toys blocking U-bends and ACDC and helicopters and zumba and cricket and the Tyne, Forth and Cromarty. I look at my beautiful boys and know what a lucky so and so I am; how I don't deserve anything as wonderful, as pure, as truly amazing as they are, and how much I hope they don't waste time trying to impress fools who aren't worthy of them, which I think we all do. I wish we didn't. I wish I didn't. I hope they don't.
Tuesday 5 June 2012
Bloodied but unbowed
The past few months have been frankly hellish here at Axis Towers; indeed, I feel relieved and lucky that we still remain here at Axis Towers, and the only silver lining has been that I've had a lot more time and attention to lavish on the gruesome twosome. As you might well imagine, this has been repaid not with affection and the rapid completion of chores, but with ever-louder bellows for 'JUUUUUICE! MUUUUM!!!' (Pie) and an increasingly lax attitude to using the toilet as opposed to the carpet (Kong). Following the Bank Holiday to celebrate 60 years of QEII, I decided to take stock of the Axis' more irksome activities over the past four days, and have come up with the following highlights:
1. Spreading of substances: In particular, anything brown and sticky, which includes bits of chewed-up stick and anything else more noxious that fits that description. The Kong's ingenuity and an unprecedented growth spurt meant that the vile pair were able to clamber upon the kitchen worktop and scoop Nutella out of the jar with their fingers. Kong then trailed his hands across the walls all the way from the kitchen to his bedroom (two floors up). This alone was bad enough, but the fact that he stopped off at the lavvy en route meant I had to sniff each metre of stained wall to determine whether bleach or mere Flash was the more appropriate detergent. Disgusting.
2. Gratuitous dropping of small and sharp objects: Now, I know that this is a torture common to most parents, but the Axis have taken it to a whole new level with the entropic nature of their object-dropping. Per square foot, it is not unusual to find bricks/puzzle pieces/game pieces etc belonging to more than 10 different toys, none of which can be easily located in the quick 5-minute bedtime tidy. Net result - shove the lot in cupboard for Axis to have ready access to missiles when they lure their friends round.
3. Honesty: 'Why doesn't Daddy live with us any more, Mummy? Is it cos you keep on being a bitch to him?' Obviously I went suitably ape at this particular incident, although I didn't consider the perpetrator to be the poor old Pie but the more obviously immature Daddio, whose chavtastic tastes in potential stepmothers for the Axis has caused enough of a knock to my self-esteem to ensure I spend every Saturday night from hereon in sat in front of World's Craziest Fools eating whatever Nutella remains directly from the jar with a spoon. Unexpectedly, the worst thing about their honesty is that it shows up my copied-from-Supernanny disciplinary methods for the ill-considered cod child development it obviously is...Me: 'Kong! You have been put on the naughty step for smacking your brother round the head with Buzz Lightyear/crapping in the flowerbed/streaking naked down Stoke Hill and causing a pile-up of pensioners. That is naughty behaviour. Are you going to stop it and be a good boy?' Kong: 'No.' 'Nuff said...
4. And finally...GOING ON. AND ON. AND *&*^ING ON. I don't need to elaborate on this. It's wearing me just describing it.
I mean, there are lots of good things they do too. Pie doing his streetdance classes and worshipping astronauts and rock guitarists. Kong telling everyone to come to his birthday and insisting on wearing a crown for the entire day for his actual birthday. And then there's the many times a day when I get a nice cuddle from them and they shout 'love you Mum' before running off to do something heinous, even when I'm a snivelling wreck from all the other crapulousness going on. But let's be honest, no-one wants to hear about that. Nothing impresses me as much as my boys' capacity for creative thinking/horrendous mischief. And I suspect it's the thing most of my mates like best about them, too.
1. Spreading of substances: In particular, anything brown and sticky, which includes bits of chewed-up stick and anything else more noxious that fits that description. The Kong's ingenuity and an unprecedented growth spurt meant that the vile pair were able to clamber upon the kitchen worktop and scoop Nutella out of the jar with their fingers. Kong then trailed his hands across the walls all the way from the kitchen to his bedroom (two floors up). This alone was bad enough, but the fact that he stopped off at the lavvy en route meant I had to sniff each metre of stained wall to determine whether bleach or mere Flash was the more appropriate detergent. Disgusting.
2. Gratuitous dropping of small and sharp objects: Now, I know that this is a torture common to most parents, but the Axis have taken it to a whole new level with the entropic nature of their object-dropping. Per square foot, it is not unusual to find bricks/puzzle pieces/game pieces etc belonging to more than 10 different toys, none of which can be easily located in the quick 5-minute bedtime tidy. Net result - shove the lot in cupboard for Axis to have ready access to missiles when they lure their friends round.
3. Honesty: 'Why doesn't Daddy live with us any more, Mummy? Is it cos you keep on being a bitch to him?' Obviously I went suitably ape at this particular incident, although I didn't consider the perpetrator to be the poor old Pie but the more obviously immature Daddio, whose chavtastic tastes in potential stepmothers for the Axis has caused enough of a knock to my self-esteem to ensure I spend every Saturday night from hereon in sat in front of World's Craziest Fools eating whatever Nutella remains directly from the jar with a spoon. Unexpectedly, the worst thing about their honesty is that it shows up my copied-from-Supernanny disciplinary methods for the ill-considered cod child development it obviously is...Me: 'Kong! You have been put on the naughty step for smacking your brother round the head with Buzz Lightyear/crapping in the flowerbed/streaking naked down Stoke Hill and causing a pile-up of pensioners. That is naughty behaviour. Are you going to stop it and be a good boy?' Kong: 'No.' 'Nuff said...
4. And finally...GOING ON. AND ON. AND *&*^ING ON. I don't need to elaborate on this. It's wearing me just describing it.
I mean, there are lots of good things they do too. Pie doing his streetdance classes and worshipping astronauts and rock guitarists. Kong telling everyone to come to his birthday and insisting on wearing a crown for the entire day for his actual birthday. And then there's the many times a day when I get a nice cuddle from them and they shout 'love you Mum' before running off to do something heinous, even when I'm a snivelling wreck from all the other crapulousness going on. But let's be honest, no-one wants to hear about that. Nothing impresses me as much as my boys' capacity for creative thinking/horrendous mischief. And I suspect it's the thing most of my mates like best about them, too.
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