The Wonky Weekend

I really want to update you, honestly I do, I just have nothing to say. So here I sit listening to the Tudors Soundtrack staring at a blank screen.

Ah feck it, here goes.

A few weeks ago someone in work told me that for every bad day there would be good days. I laughed and said I can’t remember the last time there was a good day, but as things went, last week was not so bad. Perhaps my new regime of making myself go to bed at a relatively reasonable time was helping, or perhaps I am so far past the end of my tether that I actually just don’t care anymore.

I went in on Saturday and worked for 7 hours straight. When I left there were still things to do, but you know how it is, the Ships have to be fed. It made a wonky weekend being off Sunday and Monday as opposed to Saturday and Sunday, but it was beneficial.

When I arrived home on Saturday night I walked into a complete and utter nightmare. The Mothership seemed to think it was fun to pull everything out of the cupboards and place it in little piles all over any available surface in the living room, the Fathership was already under fire as he had asked her if she was going to tidy it up and I walked in and felt like crying. I cannot stress enough how much it irritates me that I spend at least 4 hours cleaning on a normal Saturday for it only to last half a day, if even. It’s such a waste of time. I don’t want someone to come and visit, look at the mess and think feck that big girl doesn’t do much to help out. Trust me, that’s going to get them a knee in the knackers followed by┬áme screaming ‘give me a break I do pretty much fucking everything!!’

The final straw came on Sunday, while I was running round cleaning, yet again! Now bear in mind that at this stage the living room still looks like a bomb has gone off, so the Mothership proceeds to move to the room next door and tip everything out in there too. I was on to my second load of washing at this stage and owing to the fact that it was raining a whole zoo never mind cats and dogs, I had brought the clothes in and left them on a chair to be placed onto the clothes horse. I left them for two seconds to go and turn on the dinner and came back to find the Mothership trailing the clean clothes across the floor. It was right about then that the top of my head blew off and steam exited at a rather quick pace from my ears, in fact I looked pretty much something like this:

Burning Sun

I get that she was trying to help, but in the name of good fuck could she not tidy the two days worth of mess up instead of sticking an oar in where it’s not needed. I basically said as much too, and then went into the kitchen and broke down. There are people who will judge me, but do you know what, walk a week in my shoes and then see how you feel. Only those who have ever actually had to care for someone could ever understand. I know it’s not her fault and trust me, guilt eats at me, but I am a women fast approaching the menopause with hormonal homicidal tendencies, working full time, looking after two adults, once of whom is getting on like a sullen teenager. No one said it was going to be easy, and given a choice, it’s certainly not something you would sign up for. Right now though I would settle for a tidy house.

That said, tomorrow is another day, just a shame I’m back at work!

Halfway through this post I switched from listening to the Tudors Sountrack to The Penguin Cafe Orchestra. Awesome. Highly recommended for giving the heart a helping hand.

Till next time eejits :)


As you get older: Messaging!

As You get Older

As you get older, technology seems to move faster and become more difficult. Couple that with the slight memory failure that seems to start once you hit forty and things are on a downward spiral.

Saving telephone numbers into your mobile phone should be a simple enough task, unless like me you are easily confused. I have this quirk about not having two people of the same name in my phone, it always leads to me sending the right message to the wrong person. To avoid this, one person will have their proper name and the other will have a nickname. Problem solved…….or not!

One of my friends has been off for a couple of weeks now after having a minor op. To abbreviate and to save anyone any embarrassment, lets just say a horticulturist was visiting the general area her lady garden.

It’s been a busy couple of weeks in the office what with the girls being off, and tonight I finally remembered to text my friend and ask her how she was doing. In an attempt to make her laugh I sent the following message, “Hey Tootise, how’s your toush, hope you are well.” I was rather pleased with my wit.

I saw her come online and read the message, but then go offline again without sending a reply. That’s weird I think, saying hmmmm repeatedly and scratching my head, that was bound to make her laugh. I checked again, no reply, and then it dawned on me, I had sent the message to the wrong person. Both friends have the same name, but one was in my phone as a nickname!


I hastily sent an explanation text and another to my other friend telling her about my faux pas, thankfully I have understanding friends!

I’ve been laughing at myself ever since!

(Nicola if you read this, you will know to whom I am referring!)

As You Get Older II

As You get Older

When you’re young a tenna is something usually given at birthdays, pocket money or to go to the shops and buy your groceries with. Otherwise known as a ten pound note, it was and in fact still is a considerable amount of money and I wish I had a few more of them now.

Here Ma, could you lend us a tenna?

As you get older, Tena are a pair of discreet lady garden undergarments you adorn before going out to dinner with your friends, who you just know are going to make you laugh until a wee bit of wee comes out!

Yay for getting old…the happiness…and erm other things just hangs clean outta ye!

No Ma it’s ok, you keep your Tena!

AYGO: The Mummy Run

As You get Older

When you’re young, don’t know any better and in fact couldn’t care less about the effects that both age and gravity are going to have on your body, you do the Baywatch run.

You imagine you look like Pamela Anderson. Everything goes in slow motion, as you gracefully sprint from A to B all tanned and goddess like, smiling at your adoring fans with your pearly white teeth.

As you get older, you do the Mummy run, regardless of whether you are actually a mother or not.

You imagine everyone is looking at you, but nit for the right reasons. You can’t get from A to B fast enough and you need to have the arms of an octopus to hold down all the bits of your body that used to be pert and gravity defying. All this and trying to hang on to your handbag as well, not an easy task!

My work colleague (mother) and I (not a mother) discussed this the other night on the way home and almost wet ourselves laughing, another side effect as we get older!