Life of Riley

How the other half live. 

Several weeks ago a friend approached me and asked if I would help with a works do he was organising.   I just had to decorate the "pre-dinner" room along a Holywood Stars theme then serve champagne and canapes to the guests.  Aside from getting paid my remuneration was an invite to the entire evenings events - and all I can say is wow. 

Champagne filled limousines, beautiful stately home, professional photographer (hence the pictures) and delicious food.  All really rather wonderful and I'm guessing not even a smidgeon in comparison to the really top notch events attended by celebrity and the likes, but to my little mind and in my little world it was a massive treat! 

I came away feeling a sense of focus and direction......having spoken to each of the Directors (and not so subtly suggesting that were they to have a vacancy appear any time soon then I was the girl for them) I realised that there are plenty of mediocre people earning top salaries and that with a spot of hard work, common sense and determination I can do it too.  I've just got to get my foot in the door.  Or maybe I should get my chest in first as that seemed to do the trick on Fri night!!

What is it with men and boobs?  Flash a spot of cleavage and you can practically name your request.  I just don't understand what the major pull is, unless it's the result of  weaning too early?  Got me to thinking once again about the vast differences between women and men.  And not just in the chest area.

Men are so incredibly visual.  Women I feel are far more auditory.  Flash me a six pack and it won't do a great deal but sit me down in front of a crackling open fire and play sweet guitar and I'd swoon like a little girl....unless it was a day like this where it's already 30 degrees outside  in which case sitting me in front of a fire would make me pass out without the need for guitar.

On the subject of heat  - the only down side to Friday's event was the fact I spent the entire day in an office the temperature of the Sahara and sweated like a pig.  Getting ready there I went back about thirty years to the days of strip washes.  Stood in my underwear in the ladies loo giving myself a good scrub with a tea towel I'd pilfered from the kitchen felt ridiculous but not as ridiculous as when a complete stranger walked in to witness the event.  She looked more horrified than I however. 

Anyway it's red hot outside and we off to my brother's 30th birthday BBQ.  Which is just perfect as meat is one of the few things I am allowed to eat.  And incidentally weight down now to 16 lbs lost.  Got rid of the few I regained and have shed a couple more.

What a beautiful life. x

Down with the Brown.

and i don't mean just Gordon.  Although it would appear that most of the country seem genuinely relieved to see the back of him.  It's incredible to me how passionate the public get during a General Election when typically for three years and nine months prior mostly no-one gives a hoot.  However the minute the date for one is set, every man and his dog becomes an empassioned campaigner and finally if and when the existing government are decommissioned the reaction is as though we'd been liberated from some kind of Marcosian dictatorship.  I just don't get it.

No the brown I am actually more concerned with is the colour of my skin, post St Tropez bronzing lotion.  I had it applied on Wednesday by a dear friend who can now lay claim to seeing more of my crevices than Chris - how she manages to keep a straight face whilst doing her job I cannot fathom.   Personally I keep having flashbacks to the event and feel in need of some Post Traumatic Stress counselling.  Standing naked (bar a paper thong) with legs akimber whilst someone crawls beneath you on her hands and knees rubbing brown lotion on your wobbly bits (of which I have many) is a hard experience to forget.  But not quite on the scale of having your shredded post-delivery girly bits sewn back together by a doctor with his head between your legs and several students in the background observing.  After experiences like that nothing else should phase you I guess.  Except perhaps the fact that judging by his handiwork, said Doctor had clearly not received a sewing lesson in his life.

The things we women have been through.

This week my Ma has been looking after Maisey and Danny is off on the School Residential Trip.  I can't tell you how peaceful the house has been with just two children.  Getting ready for school in the morning has been a doddle, tea times have been polite and calm and the mood around the house is incredibly mellow.  So, either we've had two children too many or Danny and Maisey are the trouble makers.  I think it's just a case of four or more = bedlam.

Anyway can't really write much as I am off to Wolves and need to catch my train in less than an hour.  Between now and then I still have to peg out the washing, pack a case, get my breakfast and, quite randomly, find some fishing wire.   

If by any chance the headlines tonight are  "Fish wire garrotting in Wolverhampton" I assure you it wasn't me.

Reading between the lines.

Yesterday on accessing my Yahoo account I noticed the article "Ten Surprising Signs that Someone Fancies You".  Now, I know I am a married woman; well worn, definitely post prime and borderline out of date, but still (I thought) wouldn't it be nice to try and ascertain the potential plethora of would-be lovers all secretly swooning at the very sight of Moi.  Of course there was always the possibility that I would instead realise that absolutely no-one, other than perhaps Chris and the manky Bar Man I met a few weeks ago, fancied me at all, but it was worth the risk.

So read it I did:-

Sign Number 1 - Making fun of you in public

Sign Number 2 - Pushing, shoving or hitting you

hmmmm, just two points in and I am beginning to wonder whether I haven't in fact opened the 10 signs of domestic abuse article by mistake.  Hitting, pinching, smacking, biting, mocking, and pushing around may have indicated a crush back in primary school but at age 36  a whack in the face followed by the words "you fat heffer" would more likely end up in assault charges as opposed to a date.  Maybe I'm just being old fashioned.

Sign Number 3 - Not offering to pay for your share of the bill

apparently this would be far too eager and therefore give the game away.  So, rather than appearing keen, they prefer to allow you to think they are selfish, tight and thoughtless......proof that men have absolutely no understanding of what women want (but we already knew that didn't we).

Sign Number 4  - Barely acknowledging your presence

ahhhhhh, so Chris really does fancy me then.  I just thought it was mandatory for all husbands to behave in this way.

Sign Number 5 - Pretending to fancy your friends

So anyone who appears to fancy your friend actually fancies you, and anyone who appears to fancy you must fancy your friend......this formula only works if there are two of you.  Once the group is larger than that there's no telling who the hell he really fancies.  And what if he actually does fancy your friend?  This strikes me as a dangerous method of measuring a man's interest in you and likely to end in disappointment.

Sign Number 6  - He gets his friends to flirt with you.

a) this is serioulsy voyeuristic and twisted and b) will cause major confusion to your friend who by rights his friend should now fancy according to sign 5.  It is at this point that everything becomes so complicated you feel the need to gain a degree in the art of dating and decide to become a recluse member of Match.com.

Sign Number 7 - Hiding from you and avoiding your Company

And now I realise where all my Bambi worshippers are.....hiding of course. 

Personally I think that this seems more a sign of  someone who really DOESN'T fancy you, know you or even care that you exist;  alternatively someone who fancies you but hides sounds worryingly like a stalker.....who could at this moment be snuggled down in your wheely bin.

I can't actually remember what signs 8, 9 or 10 were, but probably some equally unconvincing suggestions like "emigrates to Australia without you", "marries his childhood sweetheart" or "embarks on a homesexual relationship with boss". 

In a nutshell if he hurls abuse at you in the office, never offers to buy you a drink down the pub, flirts with the girl on the next desk and avoids making conversation unless it's absolutely essential, then it's safe to say he's besotted with you.    Get yourself a strong rope and 5ml of rohipnol and he is all yours.  

Suddenly I'm relieved to be married and able to face the fact that my days of receiving wolf whistles and flirtatious toots of horns are well and truly gone.  Along with my waist.

How much is enough?

A question posed by Maisey this morning, when enquiring how long she would have to wait for her nail polish to dry!  Did make me stop for a moment and think (not just about nail polish).  An incredibly profound question wouldn't you agree?  In fact more than just a question; rather a concept in its own right.  How much really is enough?  How much of any one thing do we need to say, do or have to feel satisfied?

How much revision is enough?  How many hours spent at work is enough? How big a punishment (for naughty boys who won't stop using their mobile in school) is enough?  How much time dedicated to your children is enough? (And in fact how many children must you give birth to in order to feel you've assisted the population enough?)  How much of a salary is enough?   How many possessions are enough?  How many holidays, nights out and "me" time is enough, and how unhappy do we need to be with it all before we say enough is enough full stop!

I personally feel that within the environment in which we westerners live, no amount is ever sufficient.  We are delicately conditioned to believe there is always more we could, should or might have which would, in effect, make us complete.   Inevitably though no matter how much we do, say or have, it will never feel like enough.  I guess a new mind set is called for.

Talking of minds.  Danny.  The most obscure mind of them all.  I had feedback this week from his specialist (Mr T - though not I hasten to add the Mr T. of A Team Fame) who has been in to the school and observed Danny in action.  He informs me that Dan is definitely on the autistic spectrum although at the highly functioning end and therefore in the category of Aspergers.  When I told Danny this he was outraged because he said  Mr T. never even spoke to him (although he did ask Dan several questions but apparently this isn't speaking?!) and so Danny has concluded the man is lying to somehow get more money.  We did try to explain that SEN workers generally don't get paid on piece rates but Danny being Danny (and now as we know being Aspergers Danny) was having none of it. 

I am relieved to know there is a reason for his idiosyncrasies however - and hopefully my urge to beat him senseless on a regular basis will diminish with my new found understanding of his condition.  Incidentally I would say at this point that I have never yet beaten him....it is only an urge.  No need to contact Social Services.

Although Euan is probably on the verge of contacting them himself based on the injustice he feels he is currently experiencing at our hands.  Yesterday he was moping around the house like a person in the throws of bereavement.  I have come to conclude that he was actually in a very unhealthy relationship with his PS3, not so much love as bordering on stalker style obsession, and that this stint of withdrawal will do him the world of good.  I wonder, with all these new fangled consoles, gizmos and virtual networking sites that now exist, whether we aren't just creating a generation of freaks who will struggle with human interaction and only connect to gadgetry.   Anyway I'm hopeful that this two week ban will bring absout some resolution to the issue.

And not the pixelated kind.

Words of Wisdom.

This morning I am back at Kaplan, only invigilating this time, which means I have three hours to kill.  Thankfully there is a computer in the room and I am therefore able to blog/facebook away to my hearts content.  It's not often I get to have guilt-free internet sessions.....at home there is always something else more constructive I could be doing, so this is just great.

In addition, the heating problems with the examination room have now been corrected making it a most pleasant enironment.  I was beginning to feel mortified each time I arrived only to be greeted by the searing heat, knowing that I was minutes away from having a room full of disgruntled examinees, and deservedly so.  And as I've said before, Chartered Accountants are generally devoid of a sense of humour, making my bikini strip tease jokes go down like a lead balloon.  Although maybe the image of me in a bikini is not so funny as terrifying and not likely to generate much laughter.

So in reference to the title, I received a very poignant comment from my 'anonymous' mum, after yesterday's blog entry, which really did make me stop and think that YES something does have to change.  Wasting my entire life on the same old subjects (weight loss, marital dissatisfaction etc) is fairly futile and I am certain that, should I be priviledged to live to the ripe old age of 61, I do not want to think I spent the last 30 years of it whining on and on about issues I had the power to resolve.  And that's pretty much all I am going to say apart from if all else fails and I can't get past these stumbling blocks in my life, there's always the option of a lobotomy. 

I failed to mention yesterday that Euan has been in further trouble at school.....in fact did I ever even say that he was in any trouble before??  Thinking back I can recall being too ashamed to write about it the last time.  To cut a long and very involved story short Euan's school is ultra strict, which is a good thing, and so come down like a tonne of bricks on any student caught breaking the rules.  Two weeks ago he had his phone switched on during a lesson  and got caught, so had it confiscated.  This led to his temporary removal from school and me having to attend a somewhat humilating meeting with his Head of Year.  One of those meetings where you realise your child is no longer the child you think they are and rather has evolved in to an obnoxious little runt.  Quite frankly it made me want to knock Euan's head off.  Following that incident I put him on strict instructions that he turn his phone off immedaitely when entering the school gates, and switch it back on when leaving of an evening.  Not even two weeks later I get a call from his Head of Year saying that he has been caught with it on again.  But the cherry was rather than accepting his punishment as a fair cop, he decided to spout off in the changing rooms about the injustice of it all and the inadequacy of his teacher.  Brilliant, especially considering his teacher was stood listening at the time, unbeknown to Euan of course.

I can't tell you how frustrated I am with him.  I appreciate it isn't the worst crime, but the rules are there for a reason and he doesn't seem to be able to keep them - he's a born anarchist.  I suggested that if he persists in this vein he may aswell move to our local Comprehensive where, providing he can stay clear of murder or arson, I doubt he'll get in to much trouble atall.   But the opportnities will be drastically reduced and his football career will be over.  No more County Cup glory for him.  The trouble is he is hitting puberty with alarming speed and I just don't know whether he has the control necessary to keep his big fat mouth shut.  And who am I to judge when I couldn't either at the same age, and still can't.

For now though I am working at punishing him severly enough to ensure it is branded on to his brain as a reminder to change.  No mobile, no ipod, no PS3, no television, no football, no friends over, no going out (unless it's with me)......we're only on to day three so far and already he said he feels abused.  Yeah right.  Unfortunately tonight though he has a reprieve as it's his first trial at Wolves.  We have decided that he will attend these and try to negotiate a deal which doesn't include Sundays.  If they want him enough they will go with it, and if they don't then we've not lost anything.  In the meantime they provide free soup and rolls to players and their families during the sessions, so its a way of feeding us all for free. 

Desperate I know, but we're in a recession remember (at least I think we are, although they did say we weren't but then we were again apparently....just like I think maybe David Cameron is the new Prime Minister but you never can be sure). 

Really hope it's not tomato.

Result!!!!!??

That went well then (election thingy).  I am just absolutely gutted that I wasn't one of those left-out-in-the- cold last-minute voters who are apparently all entitled to a whopping £750.00 in compensation - effectively for being tardy procrastinators.  Personally I'm wondering if they had genuinely wanted to vote why get there so late? not exactly chomping at the bit  now were they?

I have just calculated the accuracy of my poll, and I am relieved to say, in terms of a reliable measure of the general populus, it was absolute crap.  According to you lot the Conservatives were getting 54% of the vote - actual was 36%, although the poll was correct in suggesting the Conservatives would get the majority of the votes overall.  Labour and Lib Dems you said 8% each, whereas they actually got 29% and 23% respectively; and for the 'Other' category you predicted 30% and in reality it was 12%.    On the basis of the above it seems obvious, to me at least, that there is a genuine need to introduce proportional representation.  And also no need for me to panic about the lack of 'how's your father' going on in our house - my little control group being far from the norm.

Enough of sex and politics though.  The Country is on its knees and I am sick to the high teeth of hearing about it.  Thank goodness for Britains Got Talent is all I can say, what better way to forget the doom and gloom than by watching such mindlessly entertaining trash......We love you Piers.

For something completely different, I was truly shocked yesterday afternoon to discover that my well worn, well loved and been-with-me-for-30 years teddy, Arthur, has undergone some transgender surgery.  Well I don't actually know whether he has taken it quite to that extreme but I was very disturbed to find him sat on the girls shelves dressed in a pink tutu with face covered in blusher and lipstick.  A genuine sign of the times I feel.  I can still remember the day I got him, July 16th 1980, and how he immediately won my heart.  From that day onwards he became my trusted companion, travelled wherever I went and was always there to listen to my worldly sorrows.  I wonder whether it was during these fundamental formational years that I somehow sewed within him the seed of his manly disatisfaction?.  If so, I probably ought to start saving for Danny's op right now.

Anyway I do appreciate that this blog is supposed to be an account of my physical progress, as well as my current affairs, and that mostly I try and avoid it if possible.  You remember however that I said  by March 31st I wanted to be 11stone 7lbs??  Well that didn't happen, unless perhaps we're talking about just my legs, arms and my left breast.  Even worse, this morning I weighed myself and I have put 4lbs back on!  4lbs.  Disgusting.  Although saying that I thoroughly deserve it.  My pot noodle consumption over the last week has been ridiculous.  So today I decided upon a new measure.  And I know, I know, I know that every other week I am coming up with some new fangled way of trying to motivate my weight loss.  But eventually surely one of them has to work!!

Today's brain child is dress therapy. 

Several weeks ago I bought a dress in the sales.   I think I already said actually......purple, silk, beautiful, £90 down to a tenner (making it ever so much more attractive) and waaayyyy too tight.  I put it on this morning, stood in the mirror and examined myself (in it that is), and I just need to shift fourteen pounds and a few cup sizes then it'll look fab (ish).   So my plan is to hang it on my wardrobe and gaze upon it every day in the hope that this will help me to stay focussed.  I'm sure in the days of Moses this could well be classed as an 'idol' and I should infact be hanging a picture of the Saviour on my wardrobe  if I wish to focus on something worthwhile.  Although in the days of Moses all I would be eating is 'manner  from heaven' and definitely no pot noodles, so it is highly unlikely I'd even have a weight problem -  therefore making the dress worship redundant.  

And yes I do understand that in reality beauty does come strictly from within - lately though I feel  my 'within' rather resembles a rotting old corpse.  I don't do a great deal to cultivate my inner beauty, not unless watching the superbly moral 'Glee' counts?  If only I spent as much time preening my inside as I do plucking and preening the outside, well who knows where I might be - on which note I might also report that last night I got tres carried away avec le tweezers and upon evaluation feel I may now have to find a vulcan colony somewhere in order to fit in.

RAC routeplanner time.

x x  

With bated breath (Mark II) ....

Oooh the anticipation of tonight's outcome is killing me.  Not that I have suddenly gained an avid interest in Politics.....no, the fact is I am simply intrigued to know how well my little mini polls gauge the opinions of the national population.   Can thirteen people truly reflect the general consensus?  And if so, then I guess I shall have to accept the accuracy of my previous polls and therefore that most couples have sex a lot more frequently than I.

Additionally I am excited because apparently, according to my Visiting Teachers (aka angels of death) once the election is out of the way, Britain is going to promptly self destruct and we'll all be living in a state of anarchy.  In which case what's not to get excited about?.  I quite fancy myself as a DIY vigilante and this could be my big opportunity.  So only a few more hours left to go and we will all be put out of our misery....or in it depending on which way you hoped it would swing.

Have you noticed incidentally that I have been desperately avoiding the issue of weight and exercise?  I would love to tell you it's all because of my new found contentment with self, coupled with the realisation that weight and looks are merely superficial aspects of humanity and not to be indulged.  Nothing so grand.  Instead it's more that I have put a couple of pounds back on and was too ashamed to admit it.  But I have said it now.  Don't fear though, it's nothing that a few dulco-lax can't fix.

I am of course joking in that respect.  There is no way I am about to make myself ill just to lose weight.  Not because I am a sensible, well-balanced creature who frowns upon such activity....simply that I tried it aleady when I was very young and it really was revolting.  Successful but revolting and not a place I wish to revisit in a hurry.  There are some things more important than looks, and crapping yourself in Tesco's is one of them.

I have however set myself a new goal (thanks to Suzanne) which is to take part in a half marathon in October.  I have worked out the time scales and I have precisely 23 weeks and 2 days to ditch the weight and up the fitness.  Sounds like ages but when you consider I have been writing this blog for almost as long, and achieved minimal success, you can see that this is no mean feat.  I'm thinking this calls for Commando Corrinth. 

Meanwhile I have just four weeks now until my final exams.......got the results back from the billion word project I submitted, this morning infact, and the tutor said quote "it was a joy to read".......that either means I am tres super cool or that she has realised my brother in law is her Manager and is therefore metaphorically kissing my ass.  

Anyway I had better be off as it's the little ones'  bedtime - a time for mothers to read to their children, tuck them in to bed and kiss them a sweet good night.  Right now all I  can hear is Chris shouting, Charlotte crying and Maisey waking back up. 

Enid Blyton this is not.