Katyboo1’s Weblog

So, like, well, y’know those days in blogging where you stare at the screen and you can’t think of a single thing to blog about and it’s really, really hard, but if you’re anally retentive like me you carry on regardless (because if you don’t Melvyn will get you.  Fifty hail Mary’s and kneeling on pencils)? Well, I haven’t had one of those days recently.  For the past two or three days I’ve been thinking about stuff that I wanted to write down and then when I came to write it down, getting totally side tracked by other cool stuff which was happening, or which other people were writing about and which I wrote about too. 

This means there is a backlog building up and if I don’t write about it soon I will be up all night writing feverishly on tiny scraps of paper in indecipherable writing and code that seems totally rational when you’re up at four in the morning when you should actually be asleep and having dreams about a bassoon player riding a bicycle.  But which, when you come to look at it in the cold light of day looks a lot like this: ‘Tallulah fish mangle, head first, ha ha!’ and you don’t have the slightest clue what you were on about, thus all is lost, lost and doomed forever.

Now before you get excited about any pearls of wisdom that I might be about to lay before you I will warn you in advance not to bother.  You see, I write my blog mostly for me, with occasional guest appearances by my blogging acquaintances and members of the Celine Dion Beetroot Growing Appreciation Society.  I like to write down the things that are happening to me because I am getting old and I can’t remember things, and some things are worth remembering, and some things aren’t worth remembering, but when you read them back they remind you that life could be a lot worse, so it was worth writing about it.  I like to write about my kids because it makes me realise that even when they’re being hideous they are very, very funny and hugely entertaining and it reminds me why I had them.  It also means that when they are grown up and if they ever read this they might realise that I did actually listen to them after all.  I listened to them and then I broadcast it to the nation, much to their future humiliation no doubt, but nobody’s perfect.

I also like to write because I don’t get out much and I like to feel important, and because it stops me from having to do other things that I don’t like doing, like reading about Leonardo Da Vinci, upsetting book authors and cleaning funny stains off the furniture.  So, all in all, a jolly good thing.

This is my update of things I have kept scribbly notes about.  In no particular order:

I would like to amend my list of nice smells to include Creosote. I love the smell of creosote, particularly on a hot day.  I also like the smell of melting tar.  I do not like the smell of hot chocolate, because it is rubbish and it never tastes like it should, i.e. of a bar of Galaxy which is melted down for the purposes of drinking.  It smells like what it is, a poor, milk based substitute for chocolate made from nasty powder which tastes gunky.  Eating cocoa was one of the worst experiences of my young life.  I broke into the pantry and took a large spoon thinking that I was in for the treat of my so far young life.  I broke out again gagging and spitting large lumps of spitty brown powder hither and yon.  My mother didn’t have to punish me.  I had done it myself.  The only acceptable use for hot chocolate powder is to use some of that Cadbury’s stuff that has the milk powder and sugar added and sprinkle it onto slices of bread and butter to have a chocolate powder sandwich.  You do have to be careful not to sneeze, or eat in a high wind.

Tilly has decided that I am now an angler fish.  Jason bought me home one of those book light things. I like to read in bed, he doesn’t.  I like to read in bed for a long time (which explains why I am still knackered even though Oscar now sleeps through the night).  Me having my lovely John Rocha bedside lamp on drives him mad and he has to sleep with a t-shirt on his face.  He won’t send me downstairs to read because he worries that I will be lonely and he wants to keep an eye on me!  He bought me the book light as a hint.  It is very bendy and blue and has a little LED on the end which is very cute.  Tilly has been pestering me for three days to strap it to my forehead with an elastic band so she can do an artist’s impression of: ‘My Mother The Angler Fish.’  I have failed to give in to temptation despite her pleading.  She is very disappointed in me.  I told her that’s what mothers are for.  She was not impressed.

We have another update on the Doo bob war.  A small Doo bob came round to the house yesterday evening.  He had thrown his ball over our fence and his mother had sent him round to ask for it back.  He grinned cheekily at the girls as they peered, wide eyed and amazed at him through the glass.  We were all so stunned that we sent his ball back over but forgot to ask for our frisbee, which still languishes behind enemy lines.  I am amazed that small Doo bob’s mother allowed him to come round given the fact that she and twenty houses around must have been able to see and hear Tallulah’s nude shrieking display on the trampolene over the weekend.  Maybe she is hoping that small Doo bob will be sucked in, never to return, thus allowing her to move all her junk into his room and freeing up valuable space.  Maybe it was a punishment, ten times more fearful than the naughty step.  I wonder if they have a name for the girls? ‘Bleedin’ pests’ would be my best guess.

Tilly’s hair is doing very well and my fears of Gail Porter being my daughter are now receding, thankfully not along with Tilly’s hair line.  It seems that the massive shedding incident of Monday was, as I suspected the result of many days inattentive brushing on Tilly’s part.  I am most relieved, although now that has cleared up I expect there will be some other medical based emergency that I have to wrestle with and which is impervious to attack by Wikipedia and Google.

I have given in to the inevitable and bought myself some new sandals.  I cleaned the house yesterday for the first time in about a fortnight.  I was really, really diligent and looked in all the nooks and crannies, firstly to clean them, and secondly to see if I could find my lovely old sandals.  I can’t.  I went to TK Maxx yesterday and got some really cool lime green sandals with blue leather flowers on.  They sound terrible, but you had to be there.  They are lovely (not as lovely as my old sandals, sniff), but they are cool and even my friend Caron who has the most exquisite wardrobe and always dresses beautifully liked them.  So that shows you how nice they must be.  Plus the children got in from school yesterday and immediately demanded to try them on.  I was putting some laundry away later and found Tilly flapping around the lounge in them pretending to be me.  Poor deluded soul…

Even though I am sad to have lost my old sandals I am very pleased to have my new ones because I have been trying to hide my growing obsession with having a new pair of shoes for about three weeks.  I do wonder if I subconsciously on purpose lost my old ones so that Jason wouldn’t shout at me for buying new ones? I am also very impressed with myself for finally remembering to buy Tallulah a new pair of pumps.  We had her feet measured for new school shoes two weeks ago, and duly bought some.  Then I was a totally crap mother and forgot until this week that her plimsolls would also need replacing being as how they were now one size too small.  The poor child has been crippled for ages and I have been blithely marching along in my own shoe fetish way ignoring her crumpled toes.  Eeek!

I have finally cleaned my French windows of small child fingerprints, blue crayon and snot.  I have also managed to remove the peculiar marks from the glass on the front door. It was a sort of greasy blobbing pattern.  It looked like the postman had bryl creamed his hair and become overcome with emotion when he got to my front door, thus leaving him no option but to rest his shiny head on my door, and then run his fingers through his hair, perhaps pressing his fingertips gently against the glass in anguish.  Anyway, as those of you who read my previous meme related blog will know, those cleaning type things have been on my to do list for quite some time.  Now they are to done and I am very proud of myself.   Of course there are now fourteen hundred new and equally boring yet important things to do on my to do list which have meant that there is no real satisfaction in scoring through two measly lines, but such is life.

Tallulah’s neverending obsession with her Bratz cup has now abated because I have hidden it in the cupboard.  I won’t say it has ended, because when she realises it has gone and I have to hand it over again it will flare up as brightly as a supernova once more.  In the meantime she has been far too busy thinking and discussing her trip to the farm with her classmates tomorrow.  She mentioned it at least forty five times between coming home and going to bed last night, ten times on the way from school to the front door, and we only live three minutes walk away.  You would think the poor girl had never been to a farm before.  You would think she had never been allowed further than the front gate before.  Effervescent is a word I would use to describe her mood when discussing what wonders will be available to her at the farm.  I hope to god it lives up to her expectations or we’re in for a bleak weekend.

Nobody, nobody, nobody has come up with any questions for Paul Weller yet.  This is getting pretty serious.  My mum and dad thought he was the fat man on that talent show with Simon Cowell, who apparently has recently lost a lot of weight.  My dad suggested that I congratulate him and ask him if he’s doing Slimming World.  I pointed out that Paul Weller has never been seen near nor by Simon Cowell and has always been a clothes peg with funny hair due to his wearing jumpers in the spotlights.  My dad then confessed to not knowing who he was.  I then had exactly the same conversation with my mother, who is going to Google him because she admits that she is feeling somewhat behind the times.  I told her that he used to be in The Jam in the seventies if that helped.  She said it didn’t because the seventies passed her by in a blur due to the fact that she spent most of it having me and my brother and being hysterical with tiredness.  I suggested she try Wikipedia.

I asked Jason and he doesn’t know who he is either, which I found quite shocking.  I did four choruses of ‘That’s Entertainment’ which he accused me of making up, and then said he was sure it was the Theme Tune for The Banana Splits and was that what Paul Weller was famous for.  I said that he certainly wasn’t (although that would have been cool, and certainly given me something to talk to him about).  I then sang my version of ‘Going Underground’ in a very wavery, slightly off key voice as I was donning my pyjamas.  He looked even more flummoxed and denied all knowledge of anything.  He then got quite stern and said that I wasn’t to join his harem.  I pointed out that after nearly forty years in show business he was probably quite tired of the whole harem thing and was on to pastures new.  Jason cheered me up by suggesting that he might have moved into his scrabble, tea and biscuits phase, in which case I should be fine.  I hope so.  My friend Kim, who at least knows who he is said that I should offer to put a hit out on his hairdresser.  I don’t think she’s keen.  So, I am questionless and have proved that I am never taking my family to help me when I get on the panel of a pop quiz game show.  Rubbish.

I would like to say ‘Thank you’ to Ocado for being wonderful.  Lifers of my blog will know that I am a huge fan of Ocado and all things Waitrose, and that they save my life on numerous occasions when the Co-op will simply not do (i.e. every week).  Sometimes, because we are such good customers and spend ridiculous amounts of money with them, they give me free stuff.  Most of the time it has been free samples of baby food, which now that Oscar is eating pie and chips is not much use to us, but is very sweet of them nonetheless.  A few weeks ago I did get sent some Thai curry paste which we ate and approved off, thank you very much.  Yesterday night however, they surpassed themselves and sent us a large bar of the new dark chocolate Galaxy. 

I was over the moon.  Apparently it’s to do with a promotion for Sex and The City.  Now I hate that programme. It’s boring and pointless and I think Sarah Jessica Parker looks like a horse.  A well dressed, expensively groomed horse with fabulous hair, but a horse nevertheless.  It’s not her fault.  I’m sure she’s lovely, but I just don’t consider her a fashion icon of the 21st Century.  I’m sure she feels much the same way about me.  I definitely don’t look like a horse, but have had some unfortunate hair cuts which have made me look like a hamster from time to time.  Anyway, I don’t care about her horsiness or her new film, but I am jolly glad that I got a free chocolate bar, so thank you very much.  I am even more appreciative of it because Jason doesn’t like dark chocolate and I do.  So ha!  Unfortunately the kids don’t care what kind of chocolate it is, as long as it doesn’t taste like broccoli.  I caught Tilly ‘helping’ with the putting away of the groceries by lasciviously stroking the chocolate bar with one finger whilst crooning to it.  I took charge of it, and must eat it before they get back from their father’s house tomorrow.   Mine, all mine.

I have been thinking about the best places to read a book since Jason and I had the book light discussion.  He likes to read in his armchair downstairs, propped up by cushions, looking stern and dignified.  That’s his best thing.  Sometimes at lunch times, when work is threatening to creep into his sandwich eating time he sneaks off to Sainsburys and reads his book in the car.  He will only read in bed if he can sit up properly, with the obligatory cushions.  If he lies down it makes his neck go all ‘funny’ apparently.  I love reading everywhere, but some places are better than others and so I have compiled a list of good places and a list of bad places:

Good places:

• In bed (this is my all time top favourite.  I always read before I go to sleep.  I used to wake up and read before I had children.  Now I wake up and screech about like a demented dingbat.  I am hoping I may get back into morning bed reading when they leave home or get arrested, whichever comes first).
• In the bath ( I love this but it is an occupation fraught with danger and must be undertaken with due care and attention.  Avoid reading heavy books with inflexible spines in the bath.  Do not read under the influence of drugs or when tired.  You will drop your book in the bath).
• In the car (helps long journeys fly by.  The only way it can be done without vomit is by reading aloud. Hence we read lots of children’s books in the car)
• Anywhere where you are really supposed to be doing something else (it’s an illicit thrill).
• Under the bedclothes using a torch (a nightmare to get right, but still very exciting to do. I am The Famous Five and I claim my stupid dog).
• On holiday where you can read without the guilt of knowing you should be doing something else way more important and that you didn’t just need to finish that page, you just read it because you wanted to.

Bad Places to Read:

• Whilst walking along (really difficult.  I used to try on occasion but it’s very hard not to kill or at least maim yourself)
• Whilst watching television that you’re not really interested in (you find yourself being sucked into what’s on and asking questions about the show even though you just don’t care, and you do really want to find out what happens at the end of Chapter Five)
• Whilst holding a baby on your knee (they know you’re not paying them enough attention and invariably vomit on or attempt to eat your book)
• On the toilet (you end up with an imprint of the toilet seat embedded on your arse, which takes hours to come out and which makes everywhere else you sit afterwards feel strangely ridged and uncomfortable.  It can also be draughty)
• Whilst eating (how many dry clean only clothes have I ruined throwing Puttanesca sauce down my front whilst attempting to turn the page with one hand and a fork? It doesn’t bear thinking about.  It’s probably why Posh Spice doesn’t read books)

So, some more lists for your delectation and delight.  I am still very, very excited about lists. I thought it might have worn off by now, but there is something so secreterial and attractive about a good list, I just can’t resist.  I did think that my blog might be seen as a kind of Pillow Book, but I’m not really sure.  Pillow Books for those of you who aren’t au fait with the term, were books kept by Japanese nobility (all the ones I’ve seen/read were by women.  Don’t know if men had them too).  Pillows then were basically blocks of wood with holes in (another reason to thank my lucky stars I live in 21st Century Glenfield).  The owner of the book would write their stuff and keep it in the hole in the pillow, hence the term.  it wasn’t really a diary as such, although it did have some day to day stuff in it.  It would also have poems and observations about nature, and lists of things as well.  My blog kind of fits the bill except that I don’t keep my hard drive under my pillow and it’s not really poetic, or Japanese.  Apart from that though it’s identical.  You never see them in the same photograph, so it must be true.