I Was Swallowed By A Hippo

Castle life, Aga strife, slummy mummy, average wife

Taking the Plunge

wild-swimming-bubble

2017 is going well, despite the shakey start. My year began with some impressive stealth puking as I tried to hide my hideous hogmanay hangover from the family. I nearly got away with it but was overheard on FaceTime to my sister gloating about the skill involved in silent vomiting.

Fortunately the day wasn’t wasted as I was forced to get my shit together for a New Year’s Day loony dook in the sea with some pals. Knowing it would be kill or cure, I hugged the dog extra tightly and scribbled a brief “I love you there’s bread in the freezer the freezer is down stairs tell the girls not to ever waste their time watching Lost, Love Actually or the second Sex and the City movie.” note, as a precautionary, posthumous measure.

Fortunately, diving head first into the sea when the air temperature is barely above freezing, did actually cure me and I immediately felt human again and ready for anything. But mostly steak pie and mash.

I should fess up that this wasn’t an isolated incident (as in the loony dooking, it should come as no surprise that I’m renowned for spewing after 3 or 4 proseccos) and I’ve actually been regularly swimming in the sea since early December. Lunacy being the only required qualification, I got involved in this bonkers activity after offering to join a pal who was wild swimming for charity.

I looked forward to the first time less than my Caesarean sections but was pleasantly surprised when I came out alive and positively high on life. (Not dissimilar to my c-sects although I suspect that was the tramadol).”I’VE BEEN IN THE SEA”, I manically shrieked at random pensioners in Tesco. “YOU MUST TRY THIS”, I yelled millimetres from the terrified faces of my poor friends. “I STILL CAN’T FEEL MY FEET”, I confessed to my husband later that day. But I was desperate to do it again and even managed to persuade a few others to take the plunge.

Like-minded loonies

Like-minded loonies

We are now a proper group who meet at least twice a week to strip off and splash about with the seals at sunrise. I have become one of those people who wax lyrical about the health benefits of cold-water swimming and wear Birkenstocks (not yet, but it’s a slippery slope). There is just something utterly fabulous about gliding along the bay, watching the sun come up and the seals coming closer. According to research, it’s a great stress-buster, boosts your immune system, improves longevity and burns lots of calories. There’s also a lot to be said for screaming “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK”, in harmony, whilst submerging oneself in the sea in Scotland in January. Best of all it’s free, gets me away from the squabbling kids for half and hour and puts me in such a good mood I am nice to everyone for at least an hour afterwards.

Leave a comment »

Damp

Fuck off January

I hate you January

January was rubbish. It rained so much I thought I might have to bring the animals in two-by-two, before I remembered  all the chickens died (natural causes, honest*) so there’s really just the dog. Oh, and the feral kids. At least there are two of those.

You know its a bad month when the most uplifting occasion is a funeral. My aunt passed away peacefully and surrounded by love, on New Year’s Day after a tragic battle with dementia. Her funeral was beautiful, life affirming and inspiring. My cousin’s husband summed her up wonderfully in a poem entitled, “Quietly Remarkable” and left me wondering if I might have time to learn new skills like Aunty Judy constantly did. I think silversmithing, stained glass, stone carving, needle point and building schools in impoverished African countries (seriously, this woman was amazing) are perhaps a bit beyond me but I might at least learn a new crochet stitch.

Three solid weeks of relentless downpours nearly broke me.  A significant low point was being woken in the small hours to a gentle pitter-patter sound, not of feet (which is common) but of bloody raindrops. Inside. Our bedroom.

 

My new pyjamas

We fixed the situation temporarily with towels and have now grown quite accustomed to the sound, much the same as one does with traffic sounds in a city. Its almost soothing.

 

Proud

There were some high points. Weirdly, I thoroughly enjoyed my six-year old’s birthday party especially as I learned from previous disasters and outsourced the cake. That afforded me more time to magically transform a bog-standard piñata into a fire-breathing dragon to fit the ‘Knights and Princesses’ theme that was demanded at the last minute.  I could barely watch as the kids took turns at bashing the bejeezus out of my work of art but it held fast and refused to break. Things were about to get ugly as frustrations grew but the day was saved by my mate’s husband who is also our friendly local policeman. He whipped out his retractable baton, wielded it like Zorro and severed the beast cleanly in two. I wept silent tears over my artistry while the wee shites scrambled around for the chocolate coins** that spilled from it’s cardboard belly.

PrincessCastleCake

Outsourcing. Where have you been all my life?

Luckily I had the foresight not to even entertain the idea of Dry January*** (I couldn’t deal with the irony) and was able to numb the pain of indoor puddles, wet dogs, David Bowie, damp logs and dear old Terry Wogan with plenty sauv blanc, cheap cider and malt whisky.

Sláinte.

 

*Their days had been numbered since the wee bastards had stopped laying but fortunately mother nature stepped and kindly dealt with Steve, Daphne, Velma and Scooby.  The fireworks on bonfire night finished off poor old Bunty.

**50p a bag, post-Christmas. Winning.

***a ridiculous fad in which participants avoid any kind of alcohol for 31 whole days.

3 Comments »

Festive Cheer

It’s taken a while for me to get into the festive spirit this year,  even though we are well into advent and for weeks Facebook has been awash with Christmas trees and pissed-off babies in elf suits. There is also another phenomenon that has crept into the nation’s consciousness which I believe has contributed to my festive malaise. ‘Elf on the Shelf’ is the latest costly Christmas extra I intend to ignore. (Last year it was Christmas Eve boxes which involves buying EVEN MORE PRESENTS. Wtf???).  I believe it was based on a book but you can now fork out £25 for an entire kit, complete with creepy elf doll that looks like the love child of the Child Catcher and Bride of Chucky. Already stressed-out parents must think of nightly tomfuckery for the sinister little chap to indulge in then photograph the result to splash all over social media. No thanks. I’m far to busy trying to finish off shoddily made homemade gifts.

Elf on the twatting shelf

Not in my name

In an attempt to get myself in the mood (and also out of the nightmarish bathtime/bedtime routine) I volunteered to help decorate the village hall with some of the committee members. Following a stern lecture from caretaker Philip, about the potential damage caused by sellotape and staple guns, we set to work with baubles, tinsel and fairy lights. An hour later, after some impressive precarious ladder maneuvers by an elderly member of the team,  it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and very nearly an episode of Casualty.

IMG_8243

Derek was heavily influenced by Edith’s exceptionally large baubles

The castle remained a tinsel free zone for a few more weeks but I ramped up the festive blackmail and wielded my power over the kids like a crazed despot, emphatically cancelling Santa for the smallest misdemeanor. I love this temporary influence and have succeeded in correcting all manner of irritating behavior.  They now wear socks willingly, without the daily tantrums, that have been known to culminate in me throwing their shoes at the portrait of great, great granny on the stairs. They also now go to the toilet unaccompanied once again, following a couple of bat incidents in the downstairs loo, which for some reason put them off going alone. Obviously it will all go to shit again in January when I have nothing left to bargain with but I am enjoying the extra minutes in my day now I’m not trudging to the toilet one hundred times. Great, great granny looks quite relieved too.

At last feeling a bit more festive (helped by the obligatory Christmas pud session) I cajoled the kids, and miraculously, my husband, into joining me for the Christingle service at our little church.  This was a big hit last year and I’m determined that it becomes a family tradition. The kids were surprisingly well behaved and sat patiently with their oranges, sweets and cocktail sticks, waiting for the prompt from Rev. Steve.  Our youngest treated everyone to a tuneful rendition of Jingle Bells during a prayer but no one seemed to mind. Even my husband lasted the 45 minutes without getting too restless. He’s still recovering from the 90 minute ecumenical marathon that was my sisters wedding so I was particularly proud of him, although he did scoff his dolly mixtures before the service even started.

Merry Christmas

I decided to go for an ironic strapline this year

At last, with less than a week to go, I am fully on board with the festivities and the tree is up, looking splendidly camp in the hall.  All our cards have all been delivered and raised a wee chuckle – apart from my mother who didn’t recognise her own grandchildren. It’s always an epic task and every year I vow never to attempt it again but we have quite a collection now and it would be a shame to stop exploiting the kids. Writing 175 of them was a marathon which I accompanied with a bottle of rioja and several episodes of Homeland. I shudder to think about the gibberish I must have written and am half expecting some concerned phone-calls regarding my mental health.

The end is in sight and I’m limbering up to violate my turkey with whatever comes to hand before praying to the God that is Mary Berry that it will emerge from the Aga in an edible format.

Merry Christmas one and all!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 Comment »

Flu and Teen Angst

The January Blues were chased away by the February flu which gave me something really ghastly to be pissed off about, instead of just moaning about the weather. It has been doing the rounds. The school roll plummeted to an all-time low after Christmas as pupils started dropping like flies, stricken with the lurgy. It was all we talked about at the school gates (the two of us left) – so-and-so had to be helicoptered out with a temperature of 105, her from up the glen has had it for 3 weeks, wee Jack was coughing so hard his ears were bleeding. You get the gist.

Me doing the school run

Me doing the school run

I tried to carry on as normal but with the Sword of Damocles hanging over our heads, it was hard not back slowly away from flemmy toddlers and visibly shield myself from hacking adults. It was almost a relief when the youngest started sneezing.

Mercifully the children got off fairly lightly and were able carry on behaving like hyperactive lunatics, addicted to Scooby Doo and Tesco Value Jaffa cakes (I challenge anyone to taste the difference). The little one even refused a morning off nursery. I’m having her DNA tested as I fear I may have picked up the wrong child three years ago in hospital. I am the queen of sickies. Or was – when I had a real job to skive from. I’ve learnt that it’s impossible to malinger in your sick bed when you are a stay-at-home parent with a minor, under-appreciated role in the family business. Bottoms still need wiped, bed linen still needs ironed, dinner still needs to be retrieved in the nick of time from the Aga.

I tried warding off the lurgy with whiskey and lemsip cocktails but it got me in the end and made itself quite at home for three whole weeks. I’m only just beginning to not sound like Kathleen Turner. It was fairly hideous but luckily coincided perfectly with a visit from my parents and the discovery of all six series of Dawson’s Creek* available for free on Amazon Prime. While my fabulous parents took over bottom-wiping and Aga duty (I let them off the ironing), I recuperated in peace with angst-ridden, overly-articulate American teenagers for company. I almost enjoyed myself.

It's not that I'm ungrateful but.....

It’s not that I’m ungrateful but…..

Things are returning to a version of normal now. We are nearing the end of the last of the THREE banana cakes my mum heroically baked and I’ve returned all the teaspoons and utensils to their rightful place. I’m feeling much better and sound more like my old self, rather than Bonnie Tyler on testosterone. Fortunately though, as it’s lashing down outside and barely two degrees, I can malinger a bit longer and cosy-in for series three of Dawson’s Creek, which from memory depicts exactly the same anxieties and insecurities of the first two series, but with more facial hair. I’ve never been happier to be in my forties.

*For the unfortunate uninitiated, this was an American series in the late nineties which followed the complex, overly analysed and frequently tortured love lives of a group of teenagers in a small East Coast town. I was a few years the wrong side of the demographic the first time round and now I’m the same age as their parents. Bite me.

Leave a comment »

Wolf Hall

There has been a big gap in our lives since just before Christmas when all the good telly finished and gripping dramas were neatly wrapped up into satisfying conclusions. With the exception of The Missing which I am still cross about (poor James Nesbit just wanted closure). Oh, and Homeland, which ended so badly I thought I’d dreamt it. (Yes my dreams are that dull. I need to get out more). At least The Fall was satisfactory, unless they pull a fast one and the baddie survives for a third series. Surely Gillian Anderson has run out of silk blouses and lower rank officers to shag? (Interjection: Stella “no fucks given” Gibson is my absolute TV heroine of 2014).

Anyway, when I heard rumblings on Twitter about Wolf Hall, starring Brodie from Homeland as Henry the Eighth, my interest was piqued, so much so that I offered to review it on a national radio show (The Fred Macaulay Show, Radio Scotland, next Wednesday!).

Sorry not sorry

Sorry not sorry

It nearly all went wrong for me during the opening credits when I read the line, “Based on a novel by Hilary Mantel”. My heart sank as I realised this wasn’t going to be all thrusting codpieces, bare-breasted maidens and gluttonous red-headed monarchs beheading wives like Hugh Fearnly Wittingstall preparing ginuea fowl. Instead it was shaping up to be high-brow, historically accurate and downright educational.

In the old days, Before Kids, I would have happily devoured a historical novel or two. I loved Rose Tremaine’s wonderfully lewd, Music and Silence and have read Anna Karenin twice. Now however, I’m lucky if I can finish a Sunday supplement and generally nod off in bed after a round or two of CandyCrush. I have dumbed down significantly.

I stuck at it with Wolf Hall, eagerly awaiting Damian Lewis’s grand entrance, and passing the time by playing, “what’s HE/SHE been in?”. Meanwhile, as I screeched out, “that’s the wee chap from Love, Actually!!” (it was) and “is that him from Queer As Folk??” (It wasn’t), my husband sat with one eye on Wikipedia, helpfully pointing out who was who in terms of the actual plot.

It was very dark, and I mean that literally. There were lots of candlelit scenes in which it was difficult to make out who was talking, all though generally they were all called Thomas. I thought it was just our ancient telly, which is deeper than it is wide but there have been complaints.

I worried for the safety of little Grace, (Thomas) Cromwell’s daughter – twatting about in angel wings is just asking for trouble in a period drama – but was utterly shocked when her poor sister and mother also died of the bizarre sounding ‘sweating sickness’. (I am never exercising again). Poor old Cromwell already looked like life had given him lemons before the invention of lemonade, but he rallied marvellously and did his best to save his chum (Thomas, obvs) Wosley from murderous Henry, who was still notably absent.

Nearing the end, with no executions and no Damian Lewis, suddenly there he was, tucked away at the side in a court scene, no pomp and no ceremony. I was a little disappointed but I have been ruined by inferior productions, deliberately camping things up for telly. (I’m thinking of The Tudors a few years ago. Utter filth. Loved it.)

Clever friends who have read the book say it’s an excellent adaptation and I certainly couldn’t fault the plot (as I know eff all about history). The acting is fabulous and I soon stopped shouting “smile for fucksake” whenever Cromwell appeared (played superbly by that chap who wasn’t in Queer as Folk) as it was clearly just his character and he’d been through a lot.

I will watch next week as we’ll get more of horrid Henry and I think Cromwell cheers up a bit as he plots to severe England’s ties with the Catholic Church just so our Henry can get laid. Seems a bit extreme but who am I to argue with Hilary Mantel or Wikipedia.

4 Comments »

January Blues

Half way through and I am a bit over January. It just seems to go on forever and with all the festivities packed away in boxes (or carelessly tossed into the indoor skip billiard room as the case was with a couple of fake Christmas trees and a plastic Holly wreath), it all looks a bit depressing and there is nothing to hide the dust behind. Having started the year a few minutes behind the rest of the country (I cocked up the countdown. My bad.), it has been a bit of a struggle to get back into the swing of things.

In your face, Jane Asher

In your face, Jane Asher

I did manage to muster excitement for our eldest’s 5th birthday and invited her entire class back for pizza and cake after school. The four of them had a wonderful time and my grown-up girl didn’t seem to mind that her Scooby Doo cake wasn’t the three tier effort, expertly iced with fondant figures of the whole cast that my sister-in-law had helpfully shown her on Pinterest a few days previously*. She appeared to be delighted with the £2.99 Scooby Doo cake topper hurriedly purchased from eBay which arrived in the nick of time and was rapidly stuck on top of some ready-rolled fondant. At least the sponge was homemade.

Me walking the dog

Me walking the dog

The weather isn’t helping my January blues as we are being treated to a Proper Winter this year. We’ve had lightening storms, no phone for a fortnight, gales, no TV for two rounds of over a week (I.e. no Peppa Pig. Every cloud…) and now we have snow. And ice. And more gales. I’m not really a softie when it comes to the elements, especially now we have a dog – I’ll happily don my fleecy onsie, duck-down jacket and novelty bear hat to take her out at 6.30am, rain or hail – but when weekend plans are disrupted and I have to tell two excited children that we won’t be going to the biggest soft play centre in the world Glasgow (once again, every cloud…), it’s a tad frustrating. I’m feeling our remoteness for the first time and the distance from old friends and my family seems bigger somehow. Still, it’s not all awful. Springtime is round the corner (and down the road a few miles) and all the snow makes everything look even more amazing. Also, with the lawn now carpeted in a delicate layer of crunchy white frost, it’s much easier to see the dog poo on my daily round of turd spotting. Silver linings all round.

*we had words.

2 Comments »