Not a pretty picture.

I think I have decided, or at least I am partly sure, fairly certain, almost definitely convinced and every other contradictory statement possible that I need to draw my Blog to its conclusion.  Sadly due to my present state of mind it won't be the conclusion I had once hoped for.  Being able to inform you that I have finally achieved my goals, am the epitome of everything gorgeous and feel that not only my physical but my emotional, social and spiritual development are all complete, would be at the very least a gross exaggeration of the truth.  In reality I couldn't be further away.

Weight wise I am practically as heavy as the day I began, emotionally I feel depleted, socially I am defunct and spiritually, let's just say that were I to exit this life right now Peter and the pearly gates are not one of the sights I would be taking in for quite some time (during which I would presumably be a  guest at the worst kind of B-B-Q).  Nothing feels like it should.  Not a pretty picture as the title says -   think 'Star Wars' scene where the heroes are stuck in a sewage disposal room, the walls are closing in and there's a mighty great man-eating trash maggot lurking beneath the sludge trying to suck them under and drown them in a mire of filth.  Well that's analogical of my current mental health.  Only I'm no hero, and most definitely not a hottie like Princess Leia.

Chris and I are barely speaking.  This in itself is nothing unusual and so isn't directly responsible for my mood......but the fact that he came in last night after being out for the evening with his friends and decided to wake me up by shouting in my face because he'd put his hand in some mayonnaise (which was on a plate I left on the bed).... well that perhaps isn't helping.  At 37 years old I am tired of being spoken to like a child, especially by a man who needs me to sort out the simplest of tasks and never has any gratitude in return.  And yes this is all extremely one sided and no doubt from his perspective his attitude was justified but that doesn't help me feel any better.  And so I'm back to the old chestnut.  How much unhappiness are you supposed to endure before you decide that actually you think you're worth more than that?  And would life be any better with someone else, or alone?  Answers on a postcard please. 

I would love to say that I have reached a conclusion, on any of the issues I raised throughout the last nine months of writing, but that would also be a lie.  I guess the one conclusion to it all is that there is no one solution.  Every situation is different, just as we are.  What works for one won't necessarily have the same effect on the next person and happiness is not something you can ever fully achieve on a permanent basis.  There are glimpses of it, temporary flashes that burst before your eyes like fireworks in the night reminding you that life is beautiful, even if just for a second.   Inevitably though the darkness always returns leaving you with just your recollection of the colours and the sparks and the sounds and smells and the way it made you feel......and that's what you cling to until the next time.

Damn this is morose.  Maybe I should try to end with some comedy.  Albeit I have come to realise, again through the wonderful medium of bloggery, that what I find amusing is not necessarily amusing to all.  

In any case I thank you for having read with me and followed my various exploits.  Thank you too for all your comments and feedback which has helped me through some difficult times.   Suffice to say I will continue in my quest for slenderness and marital bliss, and should I attain one or other or both I shall most certainly update the Blog, simply to prove to you agnostics and atheists that God does exist and still performs the occasional miracle.

For now though, Aurevoir. x x

That sinking feeling.

If I thought the scales were groaning beneath my gargantuan density before our holiday you can imagine how distressed they were upon my return.  I wonder why it is that a sensible weight loss averages at approximately 1-2lbs per week yet my body is perfectly happy to gain that amount each hour whilst abroad?  Further confirmation that I am genetically flawed.  Not that I needed it.  Just one morning with either of my parents is evidence enough.

So my 'holiday'.  As appropriate a title perhaps as nicknaming Henry VIII 'Slim Faithful'.  I have to say (partially quoting a friend of mine) that the concept of a 'Family Holiday' is probably the definitive oxymoron.  There is nothing relaxing, leisurely or de-stressing about it.  I have come to understand that a holiday (for me) will only be just that if spent in absolute isolation.    All I need is a bed, a lamp, several books and silence.  Hence my intention to visit the all inclusive resort of Costa Del asylum just as soon as I can find a space in my manic schedule to have a nervous breakdown.   Thankfully I think I have a gap somewhere in February 2017.

This year's experience has taught me a great lesson though.  Well a few of them actually. 

Number One: never and I mean never cut costs by flying through the night with children.  Although it saves a few pennies,  having four extremely tired, whinging, crying, sulking, bickering brats all yapping at one another for twelve hours straight of travelling is a price you don't want to pay.  By the time we reached our destination I was practically delirious from lack of sleep combined with what had felt like psychological torture.  I am now considering offering their services to  Islamic Fundamentalists wishing to terrorise a few airlines.  Never mind tweezers and nail scissors......

Number Two: never share accommodation.  With anyone other than your immediate family that is (although in actual fact if you could avoid sharing with them too you would undoubtedly have a better experience).   There is a reason why, upon reaching adulthood, you moved out of home and got as far away from your parents as possible.  Don't forget it.   After all relationships are tough enough without having an audience to your idiosyncratic behaviours who then feel it helpful to proffer post-match like analysis.

Number Three: When you tell your three year old daughter it's okay to pee in the pool, make sure you tell her that it is not okay to tell Grandad you said that.

Number Four:  Don't swim with your mouth open.

Number Five: Baby wipes, baby wipes and more baby wipes.

I'm sure there were a few other things I learned but these seem to be the important ones.

On the subject of learning, I got my exam results whilst out there, and yes I am now a qualified Accounting Technician.  Frankly it's pretty worthless or feels that way after having  applied for numerous jobs and heard nothing  from any of them.  I am thinking that maybe a new approach is required.....something fresh and inventive which enables me to stand out from other candidates and get their absolute attention.  Like say attaching topless photos to my C.V. or death threats.

So for the next few weeks my focus will be on obtaining employment and sorting out this car crash of a body.  I did get straight back to the gym after we returned to the UK and have been a very good little girl in that respect (OK maybe not so little), I'm not however going to set any more unrealistic objectives because if and when they don't come in to fruition (as always) I will just make myself look even more of a **!"!.    Let's face it, the only realistic goal I could set is to get fatter. 

Now I know I could do that one. x

Broken promises...

Life is full of them and probably mostly the self-imposed-then-broken types.  I definitely made a pact with myself that I'd achieve a svelte size '10' by my Spain holiday,  which gives me precisely three hours and ten minutes to drop thirty pounds.  Of course this naturally has the knock on effect of creating within me a deepened sense of inadequacy, shame and guilt at not having met my objective, thus necessitating  drowning my sorrows in a shed load of sugary junk. 

In seriousness I have been on this journey for over eight months now and am barely a pound different to when I set out.  Something tells me I lack a certain level of commitment.  Maybe it's just that deep down I understand the world is not ready for a woman of my many talents to be toting a figure fit for a Beyonce support dancer.  Think of the havoc it would wreak.  It's clearly far safer for my wondrousness to remain hidden beneath this well cushioned exterior.

Thankfully for me as it happens (due to the wearing of a most inadequately supportive pair of wedges at the weekend) I am extremely cushioned and therefore bounce on impact.   My dignity however is not so buoyant and will remain permanently scarred at the recollection of the number of falls I had whilst out on Saturday night.  Heightened by the shame of having a perfectly handsome chappy walk up to me and say "what a delightful rack you have" only for me to fall flat on my face at his feet.   "Yes, but perhaps you can have a better view of it if I just go down here"......

And on the subject of views.....Chris has, this evening, returned from a trip to Amsterdam.  Need I add any other detail....probably not.  Suffice to say that it was not the tulips or scenic landscape that caught his attention. 

Anyway, I have exactly sixty minutes now before I depart this sad existence (though not heaven bound - or at least I hope not) venturing out to horizons new and a hell of a lot warmer, or in other words that was a rather elaborate way of saying we are (literally) about to leave for our holiday.  I can't quite comprehend the fact I shall be without the Internet whilst there, thus no blogging, no Facebook, no random searches on Google for miscellaneous solutions to problems (incidentally try that game sometime....it's a great boredom breaker.  Begin with tapping in the first few words of a question i.e. "Should I...?" then see what suggestions it makes.  "Stay with my transexual boyfriend", "buy shares in BP", or "end my life" being amongst three of my current favourites).  Who needs the Samaritans when you have Google?  In fact who needs the Samaritans full stop.  From the experience of my hypothetical friend, they genuinely aren't much help in an emergency.  "Hi, my name's Bambi's Hypothetical friend and I am seriously considering killing myself"  surely deserves a more prompt response than "Is there any chance you could come in the office a week on Monday and have a chat with someone then".   Well er no, because with a bit of courage and commitment I intend to be dead in the next few hours. 

Thankfully though my hypothetical friend is as uncommitted as me.

And so I say a fond farewell to you all, my international followers and global fans.  (OK so perhaps I'm getting a little carried away).  Once again thanks for tuning in and reading my blather......when I return I shall DEFINITELY get back on track with my whole weight loss campaign.

I promise.  x

I can't get NO

Yes, you guessed right, 'Satisfaction' is what I'm lacking.  Actually I'm lacking a lot of things it's just that Satisfaction is currently number one on my "things I am missing chart".  Closely followed, that is, at numbers 2 and 3 by My Sanity and A Libido (although I wonder whether those two are not so much missing in fact as long gone, disappeared, vanished, never to be found again).

I am dissatisfied with everything right now.  Including being dissatisfied that I'm dissatisfied.  I'm not going to go through the whole spiel of why however, suffice to say I am a selfish, self pitying, self indulgent self obsessed self-selfy-self-self type of person who will never be completely happy because I am always so busy admiring everyone else's lawns.  Not their actual lawns obviously  (which would make me both dissatisfied and an anorak of the saddest variety) I mean their metaphorical lawns, which are metaphorically far greener than mine, not difficult considering mine is a veritable wilderness - desert like, sand covered and with tumbleweed galore.  

Perhaps this whole gym thing is not such a good idea.  I have to confess that although I am loving the big  endorphin rush part (ie. the end bit), I am struggling with the concept of eight foot high wall to wall mirrors erected on every flat surface available.  This is designed, presumably, so that you can admire the wondrous changes the gym is bestowing upon your physique, or in my case, so that you can see every last ounce of chubby blubber wobbling as you bounce about, thus providing a huge reminder of why you need to be there.  Unfortunately for me it has the converse effect.  I feel gorgeous, toned and sylph like until I see my reflection and then my world comes crashing down, I realise the truth and it makes me want to dash to Asda and purchase as many Jaffa Cakes as I can ram in my gym bag. 

Tonight was a particularly bad session.  Usually I go during the school day, when the rest of the population are at work so the only others there are the staff, a few pudgy cake-stuffing housewives (myself included) and maybe a sprinkling of O.A.P's.  Nothing too intimidating.   This evening though I ended up arriving during the iron pumping equivalent of rush hour.  The place was heaving, and not with the usual lardy crinkle mix that I am part of......no these were the fitness elite, the Barbies and Kens, the steroid toting pea-heads with biceps the size of my thigh and girls with bosoms so enhanced they could take someones eye out.   

I began to exercise.....got on the running machine and started my usual programme, then caught a glimpse of myself in the evil reflection makers, cellulite and flab all wobbling around like a gloopy blamange dripping down my bottom half.  I glanced at the Pussy Cat Dolls to my left and the Cheryl Tweedy lookalike to my right and suddenly it dawned on me that I did not belong here, or at least not without a vacuum cleaner, dusters and cleaning fluid in my hand.   For a second I considered throwing myself off the running machine, head first at the abdominal cruncher in the hope I would at the very least cause myself a major concussion and have to be airlifted out of there......anything to release me instantly from my self imposed misery and humiliation......but then  I realised how short sighted my plan was.  Potentially impaling oneself on an exercise machine has got to be slightly more unbearable than a battered ego - and so I decided just to skulk off quietly and hope that no-one had noticed I was ever there.

I appreciate that there is something slightly ironic about feeling out of place in a gym because you're overweight.....and if I'm honest I didn't really feel as bad as I like to make out (for dramatic effect) but it was a little disconcerting being surrounded by such physically perfect specimens.  It wouldn't be so bad if I could wear a disclaimer, say a t-shirt emblazoned with "I've had four kids and chocolate is my only friend", thus excusing myself in part for letting it get this bad.    Not that having children is an excuse but it definitely makes hanging on to a figure a lot more challenging.    I do of course realise how unimportant looks actually are by the way, just in case you think me superficial, shallow and soulless as well as self absorbed.  I am reading a book at the moment entitled "Stan Cattermole, the intimate adventures of an ugly man".......a rather rude (but very funny) account of the love life of a hideous (by his own admission) looking chap.  Anyway the crux of the matter is that whilst reading it I've thought deeply about what it is that I find attractive.   I can absolutely, hand on heart say it isn't anything physical.  Although bad personal hygiene and/or a Morris Dancer costume would really put me off.   And as far as I'm concerned being told you are pretty or have a great rack is really no compliment considering looks aren't something you have much control over;  after all if it's a great rack he's after well there will always be someone somewhere with a better one.  But being told you're one of a kind, unique, original, irreplaceable and like no-one else, well that's probably what I yearn for.....

that and a pert backside.

And satisfaction of course. 

And a mirrorless gym.

Fun in the Sun....

Yeah right.  School Summer Holidays + this country invariably equals wet blustery weather, drenched parks and play equipment, lots of bickering kids and hence mothers with the onset of first stage alopecia.  I knew this would happen.....six weeks ago when the sun was beating down on an excited Britain and the anticipation of summer fun filled the air, the pessimist in me predicted that our joy would be short lived.  The chances of feeling temperatures akin to those we had when I were a lass, resulting in red hot pavements, soft squelchy tarmac and hose pipe bans (the Holy Grail of the sunbathing community) were minimal at best.  And so it is that the moment the whistle blew at 3.30pm on Friday last, and hundreds of thousands of school children poured on to the streets ready to run wild for the next two months of nil lessons (and even niller discipline) the heavens opened, and as yet, just like the flurry of 24 hour supermarkets which are rapidly taking over the world, haven't bothered to close.  Dark, muggy, close, wet, drizzly, grey and bleak....just about sums it up.

Still, it could be worse.  At least I have the sense to acknowledge the reality of our climate and its resulting limitations, unlike some who for reasons known only to themselves, and despite the weather, continue to plan camping holidays and trips to the 'seaside' -  activities which they must realise are wholly inappropriate, yet in a misdirected act of sensory martyrdom they decide to press on regardless.   Subjecting their children to a combination of  sleep deprivation, cold showers, filthy portaloos and gritty sand filled sarni's (not to mention the other places that stuff manages to get).   Personally, my idea of hell.

And the biggest problem I have with it all is this;  that contrary to the commonly held misconception  which suggests "all the best things in life are free",  they are in fact most definitely not.  (Incidentally I am  convinced that the person who penned that statement (a) lived in the Med (b) did not have to entertain a brood of four throughout the wet school holidays and (c) had never been to Disneyland Paris).    NOTHING is free, or barely anything, and the stuff which is free is so for a reason.  Yesterday I took a bunch of kids swimming to a family fun and floats session.  That was free, which seemed like an absolute bonus until I got in the pool and realised that basically I was in a hypothermic bath with a few hundred boogie nosed children 50% of whom had probably also peed in the pool........ free for a reason.  I spent the whole hour keeping my head above the surface and my mouth closed.  Which for a woman who lives to talk is no small feat. 

And on the subject of talking and living....last night Danny and I were in the car having a chat and he came out with yet another of his classic statements which got me to thinking I would write a few of them down for you to enjoy:-

(in the car yesterday)

Dan "how old do you need to be to join the Gym"

Me "16"

Dan "can I join in five years then?"

Me: "yes if you want"

Dan: "will you still be there?"

Me "yes hopefully Dan, unless I'm dead of course"

Dan "Mum, even the FATTEST man in the world hasn't died of it yet....so you'll be okay"

(last week when discussing Rory - Danny's arch enemy)

Dan "Mum, it's probably better that you don't come to School anymore cause if Rory sees you he'll make fun of you, and I can't handle it"

Me "Dan, Rory's already seen me before, just last week at Sports Day, he was looking at me across the playground"

Dan "mmmmm...but you look quite normal from a distance Mum, it's only up close that you look as fat as you are"

(whilst explaining to him about bullies and people you don't get along with)

Me "you know Danny, you'll meet a lot of 'Rorys' in your life"

Dan "Actually Mum, I don't think there are many people called Rory you know"

and my personal favourite

(whilst discussing an episode of Dr Who)

Dan "Mum, what was that monster called again?"

Me "which one Dan...you need to be a bit more specific"

Dan "you know, the one with testicles coming out of his forehead"

(Me "that would be tentacles Dan")

He is absolutely one of the best things in my life (along with the other three naturally), and costs me a small fortune....point proven I think.

x x

The chosen one.

I know I frequently refer to the contents of my inbox and the many ludicrous messages I receive but you'll have to indulge me once again.

Today's mail was, for a change, directed at me as opposed to Martin, who is presumably my alter ego but being in the throws of a dual personality crisis I am unaware of his existence. Who knows.  Anyhow this morning I heard from Holly proclaiming "YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN!!!", which is fantastic -  if only I knew what I had been chosen for.  Naturally to find out I had to complete a form providing my name, address, telephone number, credit card details, ring size and an accurate itinerary of my day to day whereabouts.   Let me think about that for a moment.

As it happens the next message was from 'Tara' the Medium, quite handily entitled "I know what is about to happen".....and so the thought occurred to me if Tara was actually sincere in her claim  I could probably save myself a smidgen of time, forego the completion of Holly's laborious form and simply get the low down from Tara instead.  I clicked on to her mail, which went a tad like this:-

" Greetings Abigail.  There is good news.  But there is also bad news.  The good news is very good and will outweigh the bad news, and could even become better news,  but you must act fast or the bad news may be far worse.  I see some significant dates approaching, but hurry....these dates will pass very soon and unless you hear what I have to say, something very unpleasant awaits, made even more unpleasant by the fact you could have known it was coming had you let me tell you what I know and therefore avoided the unpleasant thing by not ignoring this message.   If you let me I will help you maneuver through this difficult time, this time of good and bad, happy and sad, and possibly even improve your finances.  I sense you are about to come in to some money.  Or lose some.  It all depends on what you do next.  A relationship is about to change.  I can't tell you how it will change right now (presumably because I'm not yet charging you anything) but change is coming and I can help you make that change a good thing.................the key is acting soon and...............blah blah blah. 

Funnily enough Tara's response form was pretty similar to that of Holly's.  I must confess to becoming quite drawn in by the dialogue this time however, so much so that I felt my mouth go dry, my heart quicken and my hand reach for my purse.  Like when I get a ridiculous chain (e)mail assuring me that unless I forward on the attached message about the  Syrian Donkey who talks to God and is able to defecate dove shaped feces, I am most certainly going to have some really crappy luck that evening.   Although I know it is nonsense, still a tiny part of me wonders "what if?".   So I was tempted by Tara, for at least twenty seconds,  but then came to my senses.....after all, I figured, if she's so damn psychic why did I need to give her my bank details?

On a different tangent altogether - body wise, diet wise and exercise wise I am doing reasonably well.  I have been to the gym about 9 times over the last two weeks and worked my gargantuan ass to the bone so to speak, albeit a bone still well covered with lard.   Only today Corrinna commented that she has never seen me sweat like that.......never mind 'like that'.....never seen me sweat is probably more accurate.  Sweating is something which has only very recently started to occur, which Chris previously attributed to the difficulty any moisture had in getting past my outer layer of blubber ,although I'm personally not convinced this theory has any scientific substance.   You only need to sit next to your average chubby, balding, tattooed and butt crack displaying taxi driver to know that fat often means sweaty and stinky too.  No, I think that this new found salt water covering of mine is more connected with my conscious effort to eat sensibly, hydrate myself properly and thus my body's acceptance that maybe, just maybe we are heading in to some kind of normal. 

So the gym membership was a wonderful gift, or has been so far, as were all my gifts which I must confess made me feel overwhelmingly spoiled and incredibly grateful that I have so many good friends and family who care for me.   Not something I think about on a daily basis, but definitely something which I should consider more frequently. 

and I don't need a medium to tell me that!

x

To move this mountain.

A second trip to the gym today, only this time it included a free Personal Trainer.  Just for a session that is, not to take home and keep which is a bit of a shame, or would have been had the designated PT been  Zach, or Matt, or Daniel (all young and super buff)....mine however was Gary.....middle aged and showing it, although as it turned out, extremely motivational.  

The appointment had begun in much the same way as every other appointment in my life begins.  Me being introduced as  "Bambi", to which Gary (the trainer) did a spot of LOL-ing and stated quite categorically that there was no way he was calling me THAT.  I can't tell you how frustrating it is when people respond this way.   I could understand it perhaps if I was asking to be addressed as something ridiculous like "Santa Claus" or "Talula does the Hula from Hawaii" (both of which incidentally are actual names).  Surely though in this modern world where children are ludicrously labelled with titles such as Peach, Apple and Poppadom is BAMBI really even that out there?

Once the drama of the name was over (but not before I had to explain its origin.  Big yawn) he got down to the nitty gritty.  What did I want from our session, why had I joined the gym and what was I ultimately there for?   Well to be honest Gary I just thought it would be a laugh to meet lots of new people so I could go through the whole name thing several more times, because although I've probably repeated the story twice a week every week for the past twenty nine years  I just can't get enough of it.  Just like I will never tire of being serenaded with the Sex Pistols "Who killed Bambi?" and being asked where "Thumper" is.  Or the absolute classic....being told "Bambi......oh you're such a dear". 

Next was a question about body types.  Did I know what the three were?  Well apparently not 'midget', 'dwarf' and 'normal' as I had been mistakenly led to believe.  No the three are these: ectomorphs, mesomorphs and endomorphs.  Corrinna, he tells me (because he had done a session with her too) is somewhere betwixt ecto and meso.  I however am on the lower end of endomorph,  bordering on lumpoblob.   I have to admit to feeling hugely embarrassed at the stark contrast between the two of us.  Had she not been there during our introduction I would of straight away lied and told him I am genetically impaired, coming from an entire family of morbidly obese persons all of whom were dead of heart disease by the age of 23, thus relatively speaking I am in excellent shape. Instead I had to suffer the indignation of his "what the hell happened to you?" looks until she left, when I promptly informed him all of the above and that she is adopted.  Family secret.

From thereon in I was weighed, measured, officially pronounced obese due to my BMI which was in the "wow you're a porker" range and generally humiliated.     "Don't worry though Ba(ha ha)m(ha)bi" says Gary, "things can only improve from here".   Clearly Gary is not a great judge of character........things from here could get a hell of a lot worse let me tell you Gazzer me old mate. 

His overall conclusion was that I eat too little, too irregularly and what I do eat is nutritionally rubbish.  In addition, with all the yo-yo dieting I have done in my life, my metabolism is severely confused......and thinks I may be starving.   More than just confused then I'd say....how about blind and stupid too.  

Anyway he has worked out my ideal daily calorie intake, the percentage composition of carbs/protein/fats I should be including and tomorrow we are meeting up to plan a workout programme.  Meanwhile I have been sent away with three mini goals to achieve.  Number 1) drink adequate amounts of water,  Number 2) commit to attending the gym regularly and Number 3) only weigh in once a MONTH.

And this is the impossible part. 

It was at that point I broke in to my first sweat this year.  If he'd asked me to drink 97 litres of water a day I would have panicked less.  I wanted to sit him down and explain my complex relationship with the scales - my ritualistic process of stepping on, stepping off repeatedly six or seven times each morning, noon and night and the dread that sets in if I'm away from them for any more than twelve hours - but what would be the point.  It's clear to me that no-one understands this compulsion of mine, and  after the whole name fiasco I didn't want to further affirm his assumptions about my mental health, or lack of it.  Therefore I have decided to lie, which I appreciate is morally wrong, but in comparison to the demand he is placing upon me, I would question which is the greater offense.   Asking me to go scaleless is like forcing your average Sun reading housewife to deny herself a daily dose of Jeremy Kyle. 

Positively barbaric.

x x

Adios furry friends.

No this is not my farewell speech to you all......aside from anything else I'm assuming that whilst many of you may be considered my friends, none of you fall in to the category of furry, although stranger things have been known. 

This morning we buried our beloved Daisy.  So beloved that I have probably never mentioned her before, more out of guilt than anything else.  For the last two years she has sat in the corner of my dining room (caged of course) a constant source of recrimination and a reminder of my failure as a pet owner..... or rather the childrens' failure, and my failure to beat them hard enough.  Since about day seven of entering our home she has barely had any attention, love or indeed on some occasions food and water even.  Evil bunch....but probably no more so than the majority of hamster owning children, these rodents being the quintessential consolation pet for a child desiring a furry toy which breathes.   Little do they realise that the 'cons' of a living fluff ball  by far outweigh the 'pros' (of which there are none) and thus it has been a continual grind to make any of them take responsibility for her care.

Having said all that Charlotte was still distressed by her death, which incidentally occurred due to natural causes and not from neglect.  I think.   She found Daisy collapsed in her cage last night.  Rather than accepting the creature was dead though  she instead entered a denial phase, suggesting Daisy could simply be weak with hunger so propped her lifeless body up at the feeding bowl.  It was at this point my efforts to keep an empathetic and sorrowful expression failed and I began my nervous laughter.  Nervous because I have never had to deal with a dead pet before and laughing because a  stiff hamster propped up at it's bowl with Charlotte trying to encourage it to eat reminded me of the Monty Python Parrot sketch.  My laughter then sent Charlotte in to a whir of emotion and she fell in to my lap in floods of tears.  Poor love. 

We finally agreed to leave Daisy where she was for the night, just in case by some twist of fate it was merely a stroke or perhaps even the Lazarus Syndrome I mentioned a few weeks back.  My major anxiety at this point was hoping Charlotte didn't go to bed and pray for an actual Lazarus style miracle.  I may be a cynic but I'm fairly sure God wasn't going to raise our hamster from the dead.....at least I hoped He wouldn't because the relief I was feeling at not having to clean out the cage this week was profound.  Anyway morning came, as they always do (unless of course you're Daisy the hamster), and sure enough she was still there even stiffer and colder than the night before.  Finally Charlotte conceded that the animal was indeed dead - gone to the massive hamster ball in the sky - and for the first time in years we are a pet free zone.  

At this point I should probably mention the fact I had been considering having a dog, in fact beyond that - we'd even got to the planning stages so it was more than just mere consideration, but in light of recent events  I have decided well and truly against it.   Primarily the advice last Weds from Tracey, who quite candidly and astutely reminded me that with four children, tight finances and perhaps even a full time job on the horizon, there really is no room in my life for a dog...(.a true friend always gives you the advice you need regardless of whether you want to hear it) and knowing as I do how much she genuinely has my interest at heart, it did make me stop a moment and think.   This house is no place for an animal, or not one that wishes to be fed in any case.

Meanwhile on a completely different tangent I am back on my healthy eating and exercise regime (number 86345 this life time).  I realise that the two are inextricably linked and so to succeed I must attend to both hence Corrinna has arranged for my mum, my dad and my parents-in-law to join forces this birthday and pay for a year's gym membership for me......which is an amazing gift.  It's times like these when you realise there actually are some benefits to being married and having separated parents, and of course how wonderful having a sister is (she is also contributing though I love her for far more than just that......big love Mrs W).   Shame about my plastic surgery fund, but maybe, just maybe if I actually use the gym for a year I could get away with just a face, boob and thigh lift.  We'll see.  In any case if yesterdays 'session' were anything to go by I may not last the next year.  Corrinna took me in for my first taster and today when I woke my tummy muscles hurt (at least now I know they are still underneath there somewhere), my shins ache, my knees are creaking and my arms are so sore I can barely lift hand to mouth to eat.........perhaps that's the key.

So it's six more sleeps until my annual 'get morbidly depressed at the degeneration of one's body day', and already I have been given the gift of a years gym membership AND (get this) a weekend trip to Barcleona.  I am beginning to feel like the winner of "Play Your Cards Right", that and a complete sponger.  Another good friend had been asking me to go away with her for ages and finally she has booked it as a birthday treat, although not for a couple of months so plenty of time to get in tip top shape, enough to attract the attentions of a rich Spaniard who will whisk me off on his yacht to sail the seven seas in a torrent of passionate bliss (sorry to ditch you and all that Joanne).

As if.  A one-eyed, toothless continental gypsy offering me a croggy on the back of his knocked off  jet ski more like.

x 

Guilt ridden.

Slating people who've sought my advice really doesn't sit well with my conscience and I have to confess to feeling terribly guilty for the past few days (since my last post), and deservedly so.  I could of course go back and delete the offensive blurb but part of my commitment to writing is that nothing can be amended after 24 hours of publishing ....this being the only way to maintain a true reflection of the real me.  So, I am just going to have to accept that I'm not half as nice a person as I like to believe.  Although I was pre-menstrual at the time which surely has to bring me down a few notches on the bitchometer.  The fact that I am always pre, post or presently menstrual and blaming my moods on it, I feel, is irrelevant.

A further source of guilt and remorse is that my diet is dying.  In fact who am I trying to kid....it's dead, cremated and just waiting for an official ash spreading ceremony.    I have regained four pounds and feel like a whale of bloatedness and cellulite.  Admittedly I appreciate that four pounds in itself can't much alter the way I look, but in my minds eye I have digressed from sylph to slob;  Cheryl Cole to Chubby Brown and all on account of a few pot noodles.  Hardly seems fair.  But then life is not fair, and if the biggest injustice I'm feeling is the resulting weight gain from eating several (hundred) treats, my life is hardly troubled. 

However it isn't the biggest injustice I'm feeling......no indeed,  there is something bigger and even more worthy of a paragraph of whining.  Today, to add insult to injury, the Department for Work and Pensions called to ask if they could visit me at home next week to give me a Caution.  How big do they think my living room is?   Wow!  Not only do I have to repay the overpaid benefit (see previous posts for more info on that little chestnut)  but because I should have known the rules and realised that I earned £9.80 a week over the  limit (after allowable expenditure of  tax, national insurance and childcare at a rate of up to 50% of the remainder of the balance of your weekly wage, so complex that even the chappy I spoke to admitted  he himself didn't know the rules)  they have a right to prosecute me.

Fortunately (or so I was told) they understand that the error was genuine and therefore only wish to give me a formal warning.  Not as much as the something I'd like to give them.   I am now debating whether I shall refuse to sign their document in protest against this further recrimination, as I would quite happily tell my story in Court just for a chance to expose 'the system'.  My reticence is that it could all backfire and leave me with a whopping great fine to pay as well.  My nature is telling me to oppose it, but my bank balance is screaming something else; something along the lines of "this is hardly up there with the likes of the Kennedy Assasination and Roswell....in other words no-one actually gives a crap" . 

What would you do?  Comments on a postcard please.  Be aware though that should the majority of you recommend a contest which results in my incarceration, I will be relying upon my readers to start a "Free the Shropshire One" campaign.

Don't count on me to take part in a hunger strike though. 

Don't ask.

It's such a shame that you all know me, because there really are a few people I would love to slag off right now and can't.  Two facedness doesn't work like that.  Unfortunately.

I feel like I am being plagued recently by those who seek my advice yet actually don't wish to take it.  I can only imagine that this is because the advice I am giving is not what they expected to hear, and therefore not the affirmation they were after.   From my own experience (if I am completely unabashedly honest and willing to open myself up for criticism....which I obviously am or I wouldn't be blogging at all) I always seek advice from the friend I know will offer me what I wish to be told.  For example, if I am on yet another of my quests for a slender physique I seek guidance from my sister;  If I want to be assured that 'big is beautiful' and personality is key then I hang with the girls who share my weight issues and the ability to eat eight buns in one sitting; if I need to receive encouragement to stay in wedded misery I consult my parents, and if I am looking for reassurance that running off with the first man who expresses an interest in me is not immoral, I visit my friends of dubious fidelity.   Thus seeking advice is never actually that, more just a case of seeking approval for what  I've  already decided to do.

Obviously my friend though has misjudged me.  Her story can be told in the simile of a food addict: desperately overweight and constantly binging she visits her GP asking for help.  The GP understands, he empathises, he totally 'gets' her need to indulge and the obsession which compels her to do it.  He tell her the facts.  She can continue to gorge, that's fine, IF it makes her happy, but she will never be slim and it could in fact destroy her.  The addict tells her GP she wants to be slim.  She wants it more than anything, including food.  Her fat is a poor companion, it makes her miserable and weighs her down (literally).  It's obvious then that something needs to change.  She leaves the appointment declaring her commitment to making the necessary sacrifices.  However over the course of the next few months she makes no attempt to amend her habits, repeatedly visits the Doctor with cake in one hand, chocolate in the other and mouth overflowing with mushed up pringles,  and continues to maintain that she wants his help and ask for his advice.  (Note to self, do not take cakes in to Doctors next time). 

The point is I have every patience for a person who wishes to change their situation.  What frustrates me is the incessant complaints of those who make no attempt to alter anything yet keep asking  the same question "what should I do?".  Well I've told you what to *!@*ing do but you don't want to do it you daft cow.   And yes I am a back stabbing hypocrite, and possibly the last person you should come to for advice.  Unless that is it's advice on how to be a back stabbing hypocrite.

So today.  Got on the scales this morning and nearly fell to my knees in despair (this is where the hypocrite part comes in).  I have regained a couple of pounds (at an outside guess I'd say this is probably related to my eating, or failure to stop) and feel like a hopeless super blob.   So you could argue that I, like my hypothetical over-eating friend, am caught up in a cyclical moan, eat, moan, eat, moan, eat  situation but I like to think that I at least intersperse my moan/eats with a few 'tries to jog', 'loses weight' and 'puts it all back on again's.  And anyway her problem is not food, it was just a simile - and a bit of a crappy one at that.

The good news is that it's my birthday in two weeks; well I say good news but at 36 no birthdays are ever really that (although I'm not too keen on putting an end to them either) but it does mean I'll get some cash.  And cash equals more input to my Thai black-market plastic surgery fund.  Apparently it's the cheapest place in the world to go for it, with the main drawback being the work is only guaranteed for six months.  That's okay however because the Staphylococcus Aureus will usually have killed you by then.

Also this evening I visited Danny's future secondary school.  He has induction days tomorrow and Friday and I felt a responsibility to forewarn them of the impending chaos which was about to manifest itself.   Taz of Tasmania kind of mayhem.  Spoke with the SEN (Special Educational Needs) Coordinator who said to Danny, and I quote "Dan, you don't have a problem, just a diffability".  Yes, that's right, 'diffability', for once this is not merely a typo.   Naturally as she said it I assumed she had a lisp, and decided it was truly an unfortunate challenge for someone in her position who probably has to use the word 'disability' several times a day.   Seconds later, prompted I assume by the look of incomprehension on my face,  she clarified the matter  "that's right,  not a disability, a diff-ability - you're just a child with a difference".  Well it's kind of sweet I suppose, although two things concern me.    Firstly that changing the word 'disability' to something more palatable re-enforces to those with one that it is a bad thing (or why try to fluff around it) and secondly that my son will look like a complete moron if he goes about telling his mates he is 'Dan the Difffabled'.....

....Dan the soon to be having his head stuffed down a toilet more like.

Justified....or not.

Currently sitting watching the World Cup game between England and Germany.  For those of you also partaking, the controversial (though in reality totally indisputable) goal has been disallowed and we're just venturing in to half time.  Those poor England players, and fans of course, will be smarting from the refs decision for quite some time to come.  Depending that is on the overall outcome of the match.    

How can it be that justice is so subjective?  Surely right is right and wrong is wrong, truth is truth, whether initially misunderstood or not, and a bad decision, when realised, deserves to be corrected.  It has to be said that FIFA rules are reminiscent of the justice system in general.  It doesn't matter what actually happened, it only matters what is perceived....even if further evidence can demonstrate otherwise.  Considering the majority of our British young men are watching with me it's a shame that the object lesson could not have been more positive.  As it stands the message is you can do what you like so long as you don't get spotted.  Justice?  What's that?

I'm not actually that perturbed by the decision....I do have some perspective and can understand that whilst it seems abysmal, no-one has died (yet that is) and in the grand scheme of things it is fairly inconsequential.   Although saying that, my sister's father-in-law based his whole marriage proposal on the premise that England won the World Cup (1966) so perhaps the outcome of this game has far more lasting consequences than we think.  Somewhere in the universe a man is considering taking out a hit on his wife, a woman is debating running off with her lover and a downtrodden pensioner could be contemplating suicide, all hinging on the results of this game.  A cosmic indication of the planet's wish for their destiny. What I'm trying to say is that whilst it's not that significant to me and you, perhaps, to someone somewhere, it could be everything.

Scary to think that such small actions can have relatively massive consequences.  Who knows which teeny weeny acts of ours could hold resounding ramifications for others.  Thankfully we never usually get to find out. 

So England are now 4-1 down.  The men in the house are finally beginning to comprehend how it feels to be a woman, have acute PMS and desire pain and suffering for all those around them.   It's a shame; in the words of Wayne Rooney "nice to hear your own fans booing you....that's loyal support that is!"  How is it that although Germany scored two goals in two minutes, everyone has written off England scoring three in twenty????   We are such a negative nation.....giving up immediately and whine, whine, whining incessantly.  If that were my son on the pitch I would be willing him on to the  bitter end......which, in my opinion, is true love and support and more than these mere fair weather friends can offer.  Who needs them?  The 'fans' are now singing "England's going home".......has no-one ever heard of positive mental attitude? all that's left in the lounge are Commando Sis and I holding out in the ruins of the game, still willing them on and believing that anything is possible.  

I have to confess at this point to harbouring an ulterior motive for wishing England well; it's our summer fayre next Sat and an England Game on big screen would have attracted the crowds.  Looks like we'll have to lean on our fall back plan.... obese topless mud wrestlers.  To every cloud there is a silver lining so they say.  


They've lost....in the space of this blog England have received a most resounding annihilation and shamed the nation (apparently).  Our husbands have expressed their desire that  Rooney be placed in the stocks (my nephew wishes to throw Primark shoes at him????) and Fabio Capello's head on a plate.  Rather I feel it would be more productive relegating the whole of the England squad to jobs in Burger King and see if that doesn't give them a massive butt kick.


Anyway, it's BBQ time, time for the males to dissect the game, superimpose themselves in to it and demonstrate how they would have made the nation proud.  


Male egos never cease to amaze me.....

Truth or dare.

Ever play that game?  (Since you were nine years old that is).   Well I went out on Friday night with a few former work colleagues and after several pints/glasses of wine (though not for me I hasten to add) decided to capitalise on their intoxicated state and re-introduce it to them.  It's amazing the things people are willing to tell you after a bit of alcohol has passed their lips, or rather a lot of alcohol as it turned out. Fuelled in part, I feel, by the anticlimax of what was supposed to be a World Class game of Football but resulted in a huge goalless mockery of the sport.  That incidentally is not my personal take on the match, merely what others have said.  No I must admit that I watched the entire thing and was actually quite impressed.  We have some mighty fine looking players with some mighty fine looking thighs....and all attired in the most impressively white kit I couldn't help but gaze on with dazzled awe....what more do the British Public want?

So truth or dare.  Apparently I used to work with a veritable plethora of social deviants, the private hobbies, tastes and preferences of whom I couldn't possibly share on here....not without their prior permission, even if just hypothetically.   Made me realise  that hidden beneath most of our respectable exteriors, with the exception of a relative few, we all harbour some rather twisted goings on.  Kind of relieving to know I'm not alone then.  I, being sober, obviously didn't divulge very much at all but did answer one of the more innocent of questions "when and who was your first kiss with".  

My first peck I can't even remember.  There were too many.  I am fairly certain it was during one of the numerous games of kiss chase we played at primary school.  I can distinctly recall deliberately allowing myself to get caught and feeling an overwhelming sense of excitement at the prospect of getting that smacker on the cheek, or if  my luck were really in a proper lips one.  I can't believe now, to look at her, that Charlotte is around the same age I was when these games first began.   Hopefully I was ahead of my time.

My first real kiss however was hideous and as such indelibly marred my mind.   I had postponed it far beyond the age of acceptability....all of my friends having experienced their right of passage 'snogathon' by around twelve years old.  I however was orally frigid it seemed and although many opportunities had presented themselves I could never bring myself to get to that proverbial first base.   I believe in part this mental block was caused by my overhearing a conversation between two boys who were rating their snogging partners out of ten.  This horrified me.  What if I only ever got a 1.5??  As an already depressed teen  with a distinct lack of self esteem, this surely would be the final nail in my coffin.  And so I wouldn't chance it.

Until that is I met Stuart.  I'll always remember him, not so much for the kissing but for the ridiculous wet look perm he sported accompanied by neon polyester shell suit.  It was the same time as  the spitting image 'Chicken Song' was released.......a song which will forever bring back memories of Stuart, a bottle of Diamond White and what has to be the worst case of forcible tongue entry ever. 

It had taken me about a week of "going out" with him to get to the point where I felt I had enough courage to do it.  He'd walked me back to my best friend's house.....a walk the tension levels of which were probably akin to death row.  I knew what was coming.  I knew with every step it was getting closer and the anxiety was enough to make me vomit, almost.  Eventually we got to the corner of her road and he stopped.  So I stopped.  He turned towards me, lent in and cocked his head slightly.  I lent in and cocked my head in the opposite direction (a move my pillow and I had attempted repeatedly in practice sessions) but then he did what the pillow and the crook of my elbow had never done before, he pressed his lips to mine and rammed his tongue in so hard and fast it literally knocked me off my feet and backwards in to the hedge.  I reappeared crest fallen and covered in brambles, feeling utterly desolate.   Once again, although I wish I could say this is an exaggeration merely added for dramatic effect, it is in fact the earth-swallow-me-whole-now-please truth

Thereafter I didn't even make eye contact with the tongue's owner just ran full pelt to Simone's front door, half laughing (I have always been able to see the comedy value of my inelegance), half crying (at the sense of violation) but finally a woman....or at least it felt that way.  I had kissed open mouthed, albeit for a millisecond, and I was no longer a snogvirgin. A fact I would make sure everyone at school knew about on Monday.  But without the hedge part.

For all the embarrassment it caused, in reality I treasure my memory of that day.  It was such a landmark and I am glad I can still taste the apprehension of the moment.....hopefully it will help me in the future when trying to understand my own teenagers; what drives them, what scares them, and ultimately to remember that at age fourteen what concerns you most is just being the same as everyone else.  Acceptance.  We all need it.

I never did see Stuart again, though not for his lack of trying, so I genuinely hope he's not wandering around now still scarred from our encounter and the utter humiliation I must of caused.  To kiss a girl and have her run off laughing cannot be good for any sized ego. 

The kissing I did return to however (and not just with my pillow).

Tourants.

A bit like Tourettes only not lacking provocation and without the same level of abusive language (though not far from it).  I am so utterly peed off with the DWP today I cannot begin a rant sufficient to express the extent of my anguish, except perhaps to say that were I to accidentally bump in to any would be Derek Birds in the near future I would most definitely direct them to my nearest Job Centre Plus.  Evil I appreciate, but guilty feelings none.

For those of you who have not ever had the misfortune of requiring financial assistance from the incompetent body known as the Department of Work and Pensions, consider yourselves truly blessed.  Aside from the fact that most of the employees are cold, hard, pseudo-humans who treat you with utter contempt and harbour complete disdain at your improvident state, the application procedures for each and every benefit are so complex you need a masters in economics and human biology just to fill them in.  How they can possibly convict anyone of benefit fraud is beyond me......surely to commit fraud you need to understand the information being requested and deliberately falsify it.   I doubt if the average applicant can understand anything beyond the point where they ask for your name, age and date of birth.

So where has all this bitterness and resentment come from?  Well this morning's post contained a request for repayment of an overpayment of benefit to the sum of £1812.96.    Turns out  18 months ago, when I was receiving Carers Allowance for Chris, whilst working full time, I was earning £10.00 too much per week to be entitled to it.   So for the sake of £10.00 a week in wages they are clawing back £52.00 a week in benefit, for the entire nine months.  If I had realised the way the calculations are made I would have negotiated my wages down by 30p an hour to stay below the threshold.  As it stands when I go back and calculate the amount of money I actually benefited from during my nine months of working in hellsville, it equates now to less than £30.00 a week.  And the government wonder why people can't be arsed to get off their backsides and work.  

This is the same office incidentally who when I called them to say my husband was in a coma with severe brain damage and I needed to discuss his application for Disability Living Allowance, asked if they could speak with him to clarify that I was to be his representative. Hmmmm.

Anyway I am aware that there are far worse things in life and that getting wound up will do nothing to assist the situation.  Nor probably will a bottle of wine and five Mars bars but there's only one way to know for sure.

Speaking to an old school friend the other day who informs me he has been reading the blog, from his location somewhere in Italy (meaning I can now lay claim to having an international audience I think.....although I am geographically illiterate and never sure whether Europe constitutes international or not??  Saying that I do have a few Aussie followers).   On discovering that the blog was being accessed so far afield, by relative strangers,  I did have a mosey on through all of my ramblings, feeling suitably self conscious and wanting to understand the attraction......and although I admit to being reasonably amusing in parts, I cannot believe how self indulgent and depressive I appear.  That's most certainly not how I want to be remembered so I must make a conscious effort to lie more.   He also introduced me to another blog, written by a man named Stan Cattermole (who actually isn't named that at all, but rather assumes an alias).  Made me think this is what I should have done, written anonymously so I could include every deep, dark and miserable moment of my life and not be accountable to anyone for the upset it causes.  How liberating.  As it stands I feel increasingly concerned that I can't progress beyond a certain level because you know who I am.  There are certain constraints that I have to follow regardless of what I may wish to disclose.

Maybe I should start writing some hypothetical, 'I have a friend' type entries. 

I have a friend who feels rather frustrated at present, wishes she were thinner, fitter, happier and more able to control her wandering mind.

I, however, am absolutely fine.

xxx

In the bag.

It may well be presumptuous and a case of tempting fate but if I haven't passed these exams my name's not Bambi Ford........ oh wait a minute, it actually isn't.  Crap.

For those of you who don't know me well enough to have heard the story a thousand times before, you may well be wondering then where the name Bambi originates.  Would you like me to enlighten you?  Well I shall, even at the expense of my parents' reputations and their potential refusal to speak to me ever more (see disclaimer below).

It all began on a summer's night back in July 1973.  I was being born, at home it would seem.  Just present were my mother (this is fairly obvious) and the midwife Rhoda.  Apparently my mother and father had decided upon the name "Charlotte"  but at the last minute, and by last minute I mean literally at the moment my poor mother is pushing for dear life, it transpired that Charlotte was suggested by my father on account of his latest girlfriend.  For those of you not fluent in the language of love and relationships, this is an absolute no no.  Obviously at this revelation the name Charlotte is thrown out of the window, much as I'm certain my father would have been had my mum not been otherwise occupied.

The labour was apparently excruciating and lengthy (aren't they all?!) and by the time I managed to surface in to this world both Rhoda and my mother were convinced my appearance would be short lived.  I believe this was primarily on account of the fact I was incredibly ugly.   Experience tells me however that ugliness in itself rarely proves fatal.........you only have to cast your eyes over the average customers of a LIDL store to understand this fact.

Anyway her being a devout Catholic (though not devout enough to be married!!) and fearing an early departure would lead to my permanent residence in purgatory, my mum, together with the midwife, baptised me in the only available font...the sink....and gave me the name of Rhoda.  Which is short for Bambi. 

I joke of course. 

No rather, on realising that I was not in fact about to leave this miserable world, the name Rhoda appears to have been dropped, only to be replaced by 'the baby'.  Truly a term of the deepest endearment.  My maternal Grandfather, being Irish, took it upon himself to name me Bambino (Italian for baby boy.....) and within a few weeks the title 'Bambi' appears to have become mine. 

Naturally however, no self respecting mother would legally name her daughter after a Walt Disney character (although admittedly my older sister is named Corrinna COCAINE on hers) and therefore it was decided to name me Abigail.......Hebrew meaning "father rejoiced" because apparently he didn't....this, I believe, was supposed to be a touch of irony.

And therein lies the story of my name. 

So my exams.  They went well.  Typically the subject which should have been the easiest ended up the most difficult and vice versa, which could be attributed to the Sod and his law but in actual fact I'm thinking there is probably a more legitimate psychological explanation behind it.  Just as when Leicester City start a game in front they inevitably lose.  Maybe when you expect a thing it becomes harder to obtain???  And perhaps therein lies the key to happiness.  Expect very little in life and you should get a few pleasant surprises.

Relationship wise, this weekend has been a veritable roller coaster.  Last Thursday Chris and I concluded that fifteen years is longer than most people serve for murder with cannibalism, and therefore it's well and truly been long enough.  I moved in to the spare room, which isn't so much spare as inhabited by Euan, the borderline teenanderthol, who was not at all impressed.    By Sunday we decided to give it another try (hell after eight hundred previous attempts, one more can't do any harm) and so far it is going swimmingly, although I did go away on Monday morning and only came back three hours ago....then Chris has gone out for the evening.  Maybe this is the secret to longevity.  Absence. 

We need a war.

Diet wise all I can say is Oh My Gosh.  Some types of stress (like my husband nearly dying or having a mad crush) will make me lose my appetite.  Unfortunately pressurised stress does the exact opposite.  I have done nothing but eat all for the past four days.  Not helped by the fact that it was the Birmingham Food Fare.  The whole High Street is crowded with vendors supplying every food type imaginable.  Indian, Chinese, Mexican, French, German, Italian, Ostrich, Crocodile, Shark, Wild Boar.....you name it, they had it.  Well it would have been plain rude not to oblige.

So I am pounds heavier, but hopefully far wiser and more qualified than before.

Life is all about compromise after all.

(DISCLAIMER: contains poetic licence and possibly enough revelation to make my mum wish she'd held me under the water a little longer). 

Tense, nervous, butterflies.

Not the butterflies themselves of course.  I'm assuming butterflies never actually get tense or nervous considering the fact they apparently only live for a minimal amount of time (not quite as minimal as a day though - look it up if you don't believe me).  No I am talking about myself, the building stress which is practically tangible and the fact my stomache is churning like an army of ants have moved in.   And it really doesn't matter how many times I tell myself this is not worth getting worked up about....I am worked up and will remain that way until I walk out of those exams knowing I've passed.

Potentially only nine more days to wait.

Meanwhile I have been employing even more subversive techniques to avoid actual revision, the latest venture being to try and purchase a bra.  Sounds simple to most I'm sure but let me tell you it has been anything but.   Nothing ever is.

The history.   My bust size appears to change more often than the British weather.  This is not really all that surprising considering my wardrobe contains clothing sized from ten to sixteen and generally I fluctuate my shape on a  regular basis (though honestly I think it's time I chucked the size 10's away....most of that stuff hasn't been worn since the 70's).   Anyway in some amazing twist of good fortune, this time round as I've shed a few pounds my bust has gotten bigger.  Bizarre but true and you have my assurance that no unnatural method has been employed (unless dancing naked around a totum pole seeking blessings from the God of breast tissue is considered unnatural).

I recently purchased one bra which is really comfortable and flattering and fits perfectly so decided the simplest thing to do would be to order another exactly the same, but perhaps in an alternative colour.  Unfortunately you can't order these bra's online in my size, of course (and yes I have tried absolutely every stockist possible) so unless I want to drive back to Cheshire Oaks I needed to find another option.

I visited every high street store, every supermarket, every odd bod little shop I could find and none of them stock what I need.  So in a last bid attempt to sort my support problems out I decided to try the mother of all underwear shops.....Ann Summers.  You'll remember in February I purchased a bit of a 'kit' in an effort to spice up our seriously flagging marital relationship (and when I say that yes I do mean the bedroom part) only to find on Valentines Day that Chris was suffering from a deep onset of Man Flu and wasn't up to the task.  Well I took said 'kit' back (that boat had sailed without him I'm afraid)  and therefore had a credit voucher to use.  Worth a try, even though I feel like a naughty child whenever I go anywhere near the place.

So I surruptitiously walk past the shop front three times in an attempt to assess whether there are any familar faces in the vicinity.  When I am certain that there are not I dive bomb in, straight to the rear, tell the assistant what size bra I need and set about trying a few on (without nipple holes that is).  Once again they do not have my exact size so I play about with a few alternatives but eventually realise this is futile and that I just need to find somewhere carrying more stock.   I was toying with the idea of buying one a little on the small side but then recalled the time I bought a pair of high heeled stilletto shoes in a size three because there were no fours......and the raw blistered feet I got as a result.   Blistered feet is one thing but blistered....anyway.

So I go to the till, trying to avert my eyes from the million and one rampant rabbits on display and trying even harder to shut my ears to the simulated (I hope) orgasmic sounds being broadcast on the shop's in-house radio station.   Incidentally I'm not a prude, far from it I would think, but trying to talk to the till girl over the sounds of some woman's ecstacy at the thought of a remote controlled vibrator is just a step too far surely in most people's book.  I asked her if she could check stock in Birmingham and thankfully they have my size so I am off there this afternoon to pick it up.  Hoorah.  And so the story would end well, if it ended there.

It doesn't though.  I am three quarters, nay four fifths of my way through the visit and appear to have managed to avoid any shame or embarassment and can leave with my reputation unscathed.  It is at this point that a woman decides to exit the changing room, clad only in a pair of jeans and a bra and walk to the front of the shop.  She is trying underwear on and wishes to get a different size.  Unfortunately the bra she is wearing (don't ask me why she hasn't put a top back over it, but then we are in a sex shop surrounded by every fetish imaginible so maybe the usual rules don't apply) has a tag in so when she gets near to the door the sensors detect it and bang the alarm goes off.  A massive booming wailing siren right at the precise moment I am trying to exit the shop in a similarly insconspicuous manner as I entered.  Instead I am greeted by forty six faces all turned to look from whence the noise is eminating and see me coming out.

All I can say is that if and when I finally get my hand on this illusive bra which actually fits, the cleavage better damn well be worth it!

x

Gut instinct

I read a book a few years back by the title of BLINK.  Actually I'm lying, what I should say is I began to read it but then lost interest.  Not like me at all  I should add as my general rule is to ALWAYS finish every book I start (an ethos I adopted about fifteen years ago after reading one chapter of  Wuthering Heights and giving up because I disliked it, then picking it up two years later and realising it was one of the best books ever written.  Taught me that the saying "Never judge a book by its cover" should probably be extended to include "or it's opening chapter").  Anyway I digress.

As far as I can recall the essential message behind Blink was that we should always trust our initial instincts, or 'gut' feelings if you like, as evidence suggests this is very often the correct choice, or the one which will be correct for us.  The author of the book maintains that our brains are so advanced they assimilate vast amounts of information in just milliseconds rendering what we feel are our 'split' second decisions in to deeply thought out selections.   It was all very interesting  and I think I only began to get disillusioned when the author stated there was a professor in America who, on meeting a couple, could accurately state whether they would still be happy together in ten years or not.  Now you may call me a cynic but personally I am certain most of us could call that one accurately too, gut feeling or no gut feeling.  In fact I'd go so far as to say I wouldn't even have to meet each couple in order to accurately confirm that they would NOT be happy together in ten years time, and in fact should consider themselves lucky if they were even still talking by then.

So why mention the book....well it's just a protracted way of explaining why I am awake and laying here blogging at 2.25am - which is quite simply because I failed to trust my gut reaction when it came to Chris and his offer of drugs.  Yes we have finally reached a point in our marital disharmony where only some hard core A class will do.  Actually he was offering me Otrivine (a nasal decongestant)  because I have a stinking cold and can barely breathe.  Incidentally I should just add that this must be viewed as a most benevolent gesture considering  ninety percent of the time he is actually wishing I would stop (breathing that is).

My immediate thought,  that  any solution designed to burn through your mucus thus clearing your sinuses in a matter of seconds, albeit handy, simply cannot be healthy and should therefore be avoided, was definitely correct.   He persuaded me however and I, like Adam, fell under the weight of his suggestion and am now paying the price.  Yes my nose is clear and I can breathe, but the wracking pain in my head, the burning down the back of my throat and the exploding ear drums may well kill me yet.  Suddenly Chris's benevolence appears questionable.

So yes I am ill and should in fact at this hour be walking the streets of Telford on my Charity Midnight Hike.  I pulled out at the last minute on the basis that I was sick and needed to get a decent nights sleep.  Ahhhh the irony. I am fairly certain that the reason I am unwell is a combination of stress due to looming exams and stress due to lingering children....it is the end of the half term week and I am thoroughly kiddied out.  Not only did I have my four plus my friend's daughter, who stayed with us whilst her mum and dad went to Egypt (why didn't I think of that?) but Danny also dragged in a couple of strays for various sleepovers so it really was bedlam.   Still, I'm glad that they all feel comfortable here...comfortable enough to trash the house, eat all my food and leave in the morning without a hint of a thank you for having me.  Beggars.

Diet wise it has been a poor state of affairs.  Dieting during half term with picnics in the park, visits to the Cinema and trips to Alton Towers is never going to happen though.  However I'm not sure what my excuse is for today when there have been no outings and I have still managed to down a Cornetto, a Double Decker and two pieces of chocolate cake.  

Tragic isn't it that no matter how ill I feel it never seems to kill my appetite for junk.  

x

Seriously though...

After writing my last blog I felt strongly that I am becoming a would-be-philosophying bore and that it really needs to end.  I am certain that you don't tune in to my writings to seek further wisdom and enlightenment but rather some mild entertainment and therefore I am going to make a concerted effort to deliver.

I would just like to mention however that although I may seem like a self obsessed manic depressive who consistantly complains about what I do not have, this really is not the case.  I am simply giving voice to the cognitive dissonance which seems to have permanent lodgings within my brain.   I also believe that my feelings of continual self doubt and questioning are probably shared by the majority of human kind and therefore I need to give myself a break.  I am merely seeking positive affirmation that there is a point to me being here....... affirmation which is, not surprisingly, difficult to find considering I am amongst a population of 6 billion or so people.  It's fairly hard to feel special when in reality were you to drop off the planet then relatively speaking no-one would notice.  And this my friends is what  is wrong with the world.  There are too many of us.   And I have just added to the problem by making four more. 

Enough.

So Euan has officially hit the onset of man-hood.  And what brings me to this conclusion??..... well aside from a new found inability to put his dirty clothes in the wash,  the absence of several thousand previously present brain cells and the fact his hands seem to be continually scratching at something down in his trousers, I have now discovered he is the proud owner of a very light splattering of underarm hair.  I can't tell you how old and decrepid this makes me feel.  And I also can't tell you how dead I am if he ever learns that I have made a public declaration of his pubescent state.  Euan is already paranoid because he feels I take each and every possible opportunity to humiliate him.  Sadly I must confess this is true, but in my defence it is a force beyond my own control which drives me to do it.  Just as when in a silent library I get the urge to shout something completely obscene (apparently this is perfectly normal), whenever I am with Euan and in company I feel an overwhelming desire to tease him.  I can only compare this to the urge all men seem to feel to scream at the television during a football match when clearly no-one (except perhaps the neighbours) is listening.

Anyhow I figure it is all downhill from herein.  Farewell sweet Euan, hello nasty smelly beast.

What is also going downhill rapidly is my diet.  Over the past three weeks I have lost twelve pounds....unfortunately it is the same three pounds, four times over.   It's just up and down continually, a bit like my moods (perhaps there's a connection?) and I would love to say a bit like my feet pounding the pavement during my mega runs but that would be a big fat lie.  I have done nothing energetic for so long it's ridiculous, which is making me highly unpopular with my husband to say the least.

Still, I have a huge whopping excuse for my sheer idleness, which is that my exams are less than two weeks away and I am desperately trying to revise.  Why else do you think I am on here writing my blog?  and shopping, and watching films, and generally doing everything possible to avoid actually doing any study.....everything that is apart from calorie burning activities.

Although I am doing a 10k this Saturday night.....not a jog though, this time just a jolly midnight stroll.  Thought it sounded good when I registered but now it's so close all I can think about is my bed and how I won't be in it.  Walking six miles at midnight is rightfully only an activity for the young and love struck, or the drunk.

Only one real choice then. 

Under pressure.

I had a realisation today.  Not quite an epiphany just more a coming to terms with what I guess I already knew but deliberately fail to acknowledge; my constant need for a distraction.  I permanently need something hovering in the background, floating in front (usually just out of reach) or secreted off to the side of my imagination to help me get through the humdrum melancholy I feel when faced with my life.   At times it's been the anticipation of a holiday, other times a crush, a new car, a new house, a new job, a new baby, a new me - the idea of reinventing myself via weight loss or radical fitness regimes, and even this blog in a way has become my fantasy world, full of possibility and far removed from the stark reality of the here and now.

Lately I've been allowing myself to wander off in to these fantasies with increased regularity and consequently I believe I am losing my grasp on common sense.  The trouble is, now I have told myself that it has to stop and I need to get my head down and focus on what is real, I feel incredibly depressed.  And there is no excuse for that either.  I was examining my life on the way to school this afternoon, thinking of the children, our home, the many wonderful blessings I have and once again felt ashamed that it doesn't satisfy me.  And I'm guessing if I read back on all my blog entries this is nothing new either.

What must it be like to live a life free of guilt, remorse, regret and longing??  Is there anyone out there who knows?

Anyway I'm not in any mood for lary banter or comedy.  Perhaps it's just the pressure of the looming exams finally getting to me and breaking my spirits.....it is a huge worry and I am terrified that a) I will fail one of them, or b) I will pass and still not find the type of job I need. 

That simply cannot happen. 

And I apologise that this is so downbeat and not even remotely entertaining but I did say the purpose of  this blog is to present a candid reflection of my day to day emotion - this is just how I feel today.  No worries though, my emotions are, thankfully, incredibly fickle and no doubt by tomorrow I shall be hitting a high.

Time for a binge fest me thinks.