Bad Day? No Way!

Now I’m not one of those nutters who professes to be able to cure depression in 24 easy steps, this is purely meant as a light hearted post when you’ve had a bad day whether that’s grumpy shouty people at work, nightmare at home with the kids trying to drown each other in the downstairs bog or your supermarket of choice delivering your shopping and substituting your kids size 4 nappies for a multipack of yellow dusters. Want some ideas for taking your mind off it? Strap yourself in and here we go.

• Four finger kit-kat? Dairy Milk the size of your oldest child? Double Decker eaten the naughty way with the chewy bit first? Whatever floats your boat… get it in your gob. In the airing cupboard obviously, we’ll have none of that sharing nonsense, thankyou very much.

• Gin? Prosecco? Mad Dog 20/20? What’s your tipple? Drink it til you get that ‘just stepped off a waltzer at Porthcawl fair’ feeling. Just try not to spew, or your bad day will turn into 2 bad days when you’re scraping Tuna ‘n’ Pasta chunks off the bedroom carpet the next morning and stumbling into work with a monster headache.

• Give the kids a cuddle. They might fart in your lap or throw up their Turkey Drumsticks if you squeeze too hard but those little buggers give good hugs don’t they? Continue reading

Shopping? You’re Off Your Trolley!

Shopping. Love it or hate it, it’s a job that has to be done at some point unless you fancy starving. Jon and I have very different views on shopping. To me it’s a chore, I’m a get in, get it done and get out kind of person. He’s a take your time, peruse at your leisure kind of person. This is a recipe for disaster as on the majority of occasions we end up at loggerheads with me whispering “will you bloody hurry up” through gritted teeth and him telling me to “sod right off”, usually with something added about being a moody cow for good measure. Added to the fact he ALWAYS wants to go after I finish work, I am indeed a tired, hungry, grumpy bastard.

Take the other day for example, I can drive, he can’t, so most of the time I have to go with him because I’m not spiteful enough to make him drag it home on the bus. He’s a fussy bugger and likes to squeeze the melons and whatnot so won’t entertain the idea of online shopping. We rock up, for once child free, I was looking forward to getting the shopping done and naffing off home to eat chocolate and watch programmes unsuitable for young children. No. Over an hour it took him while I stomped around behind him like a teenager that’s been dragged out with Mum and Dad who hold hands and kiss in public. Not my idea of fun, I can tell you. Continue reading

Fat Like I Was At Fifteen

Look how fat I was. Just look. Can you see it? Nah, me neither. It’s one of those photos that you show someone and they say “oh wow, look how tiny you were” leaving the “what happened?” unsaid, hanging in in the air.

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I spent that holiday in Gran Canaria plus several years before and after thinking I was huge. I loathed wearing those horrible netball knickers/skirts combos at school because my thighs wobbled when I ran and I thought that equalled fat. Being fat never equalled having a boyfriend. It sounds ridiculous to look back and think that was my thought process. Being accepted and liked is all that really matters at that age. I realise now that as a pear shape I carry my weight on the bottom half and I was perfectly fine just as I was.

Now that I really am overweight as an adult I see that back then there was absolutely nothing wrong with me, I would love to look like that again now. Not that there is anything wrong with me now so to speak, it’s unrealistic to think that you could come away from having 3 babies unscathed. Carrying a few extra pounds isn’t the end of the world but for me I find it really affects my self esteem. I don’t feel right, particularly since I’ve just hit the big 40. I feel podgy and nothing fits me properly like it did when I was slimmer. At only 5’2 every extra pound shows and I dislike my ‘hamster cheeks’ when I smile so I tend not to that much in photos or avoid being in photos at all. So yes, I intend to lose weight but for myself. Not because I feel I should, not because I’ve read the latest ‘beached whales in bikinis’ article in a scummy magazine and not because anybody has told me I should.

Over the years my weight has been up and down, I’ve ranged from a size 6 to a 14 and everything in between. I’ve tried Slimfast, cabbage soup, starvation and all manner of ridiculous diets. I’ve even tried so called safe diet pills before finding out they contained ephedrine when my heart started racing uncontrollably one day at work. Did any of it help? No, absolutely not because yes, I may have lost weight and felt I looked much better but I felt lousy. I’m slowly losing weight properly now and being more aware of getting up and moving, I have a desk job and since I’ve started working full time it’s surprising that although I feel like I’ve been on the go all day the very few steps I clock up over the course of the day is far, far lower than I would have done when I was doing the school runs with the kids.

It worries me that now I have a daughter that one day she may look like this, may think she is fat because media all around us tells us that slim is pretty, flesh on show should be toned and tight and if not it should be covered up. I intend to talk to her about body image because I wouldn’t want her to feel like I did. This has no reflection on my own Mum as I never spoke to her about how I was feeling, my Mum was never one of those Mums that was always on a diet or moaning she was fat. We were fed plenty of fruit and veg (and the odd Findus crispy pancake). Had I spoken to her about it though I know she would have told me there was nothing wrong with me (because there wasn’t).

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Oh how I loved my perm, my hair was so much better then. Why can’t it come back into fashion? Now that’s a 90’s throwback I could really get behind!

So to my 15 year self and to my children I say be who you are because who you are is perfect. All that time and energy spent worrying about whether you’re slim enough or attractive enough could be put into something far more worthwhile. People can either take you as you are or get stuffed. Don’t ever let anyone put you down or make you feel bad for just being you. That boyfriend that tells you that your fat arse sticks out when you walk? He can do one. (Yes this happened to me). The friends who take the mickey out of your appearance? They can either shut up or ship out too. You don’t need their negativity and certainly don’t have to put up with it.

Although you might want to work on not being photographed like this…

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The Old Man Is Snoring


 If, like me,you spend most nights trying not to bludgeon your hubby (or wife, dog or anyone else for that matter) to death with your favourite shoes (tip – use the daps they’re stingy and deliver a satisfying slap) then I totally feel your pain!

I’m talking the kind of snoring that could wake the dead, that you can imagine the Little Green Men hearing from Mars, wondering what on earth that bloody noise is and whether they’re being threatened or asked down for a pint. At some point you lose patience and think “sod this for a laugh” and bugger off downstairs to the settee. Only if you’re anything like me then a few too many episodes of Stranger Things means you don’t really fancy being stuck downstairs on your own in the dark. How is it possible for it to be so bloody loud?! I’ve often wondered if the neighbours can hear it but then I doubt it as they tend to watch Westerns on TV rather loudly in bed. Which in all honesty can be preferable to Snorting Sid to the left of me.

My kids are now of the age that aside from staying out too late (the teen) and keeping me up worrying and perhaps waking due to illness on occasion (littler ones) that I should actually be getting a decent nights kip. Fat chance of that.

I seem to end up in the kids room most nights, with my daughter the human optopus where it’s not unusual to wake up with a foot or arse to the face.  Little Man snores too, mind you it’s like a form of torture. Hubby gets to starfish in the bed by himself and then has the cheek to say “that was an awful night’s sleep” while scratching his arse and seeking out the cup of tea which I will undoubtedly have made him. I, on the other hand, am spooning, no – make that ladling – coffee into a cup and inhaling it.

We have tried everything going to stop it but none of the magic lotions and potions have helped one iota and those nose strips do look a bit stupid – let’s be fair. To be honest I’m quite surprised he has any ribs left with the amount of elbowing they’ve taken over the years and no, that doesn’t work either, well apart from the 3 seconds he stays awake to shout at me for digging him again. Getting him to turn over just makes him snort a bit and start again.

Sales of energy drinks and coffee must be through the roof because of me to be truthful! Maybe I should try and invent one of my own and call it Snoring Stamina, that’s one for Dragon’s Den right there! So, since we’re not rich enough to own a 10 bedroom mansion where I can have my own private haven and I don’t really fancy a long stretch in the nick I’ll just have to put up with it unless anyone can suggest a magic cure that doesn’t involve smothering with a pillow?!

How do you deal with snoring? Any suggestions welcome!

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Getting To Work In The Snow

❄️ Open the curtains, look outside and see a rectangular lump of snow where the car should be. Decide that even though other cars have attempted to get out of the cul-de-sac on a hill and I quite fancy a day off I don’t really want it to be because I’m dead.

❄️ Choose to risk a mega bollocking of doom by not wearing uniform. They want me in? I’m wearing a jumper. It’s happening. I’m a big girl, I can take it. I hope.

❄️ Get the wellies out from under the mountain of other shoes or at the back of the shed with the huge spiders. Those smelly, rubbery, heavy sods that are meant to keep you dry. With a handy strap to widen them to get your leg in. Lying bastards, I literally force my sausage legs into them and know it’ll be murder to get them off but I’ll have to worry about it later and walk along with half my calf muffin topping them. Sexy.

❄️ Take your life in your hands. Walk on the snow and risk slipping undaintily on your arse or walk on the road and risk getting squashed by a wayward bus or splattered by shit coloured gritty slush. Feel glad there’s not a soul around to hear your mutterings of “shit nearly slipped then” and “yeah, cheers then snow, sitting there looking pretty when really you’re hiding a huge pile of dog shit”

❄️ Realise that by driving to work you miss all the best scenery.

Like this:

And this:

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❄️ Realising you are one lazy, unfit bastard. Being unused to wearing wellies and trudging through snow I swear my thighs will be worthy of any Welsh rugby player by the end of the day. If I ever get there that is.

❄️Arrive at work and feel very deflated at the lack of fanfare or medal bearing Mayor to clap you through the door. My cheeks are bright red, my hair like Worzel’s and I’m a hot, sweaty mess (damn you HR enraging jumper) but I made it and I was on time.

❄️ Feel secretly glad that the boss hasn’t made it in as there’s a huge probability of a welly wanging their way past their gob. They won’t see the funny side. They won’t. That’s if you can get them off of course. It’s like they’ve moulded to you. They are at one with you. Polyvinyl pricks.

❄️ Feel smug that while everyone else is in for losing a days pay you’re still in the money. Yeah it’s all fun and games to turn over in bed send that “I’m not coming in bitches” email and go back to sleep. That is until you get your payslip and realise there’s no money for Quality Street induced comas for Christmas. More like multi pack Smart Price chocolate that tastes like old shoes.

❄️ Forget until home time that your car is not all snugged up in the carpark. You’ve got to get those bloody wellies back on and walk home again. This time it’s even more fun though ‘cos it’s dark. Or maybe catch a bus. Exciting.

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