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.