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.