How to Blog

  • Sit down. Think. Need an idea, need an idea.
  • Nothing.
  • Keep thinking, do some online window shopping / eat too many biscuits /  pick nose.
  • Nope. Nothing. Carry on with life.
  • Get idea. (at 4am when you seriously need to be asleep, I mean honestly, look, your kid’s gonna be awake in two hours)
  • Quickly ensure in your head that this “idea” isn’t your brain tricking you and recycling someone else’s blog post you’ve read previously and making you believe it is your own brilliance.
  • Once determined either dump stolen idea / write down original idea.
  • Find pen and paper / make note on phone.
  • Discover distinct lack of pens and paper, phone out of battery.
  • Swear.
  • Write on back of hand with eyeliner.
  • Question momentarily that taking child to nursery with “HAPPY PILLS, POEM ABOUT QUICHE, FUCKING SMUG PARENTS” scrawled up your arm may make you appear somewhat unhinged.
  • Find jumper. Deposit child.
  • Come home, quickly, very quickly tidy surface crap in house, yes, you can totally do this blogging and mum stuff.
  • Remember to never, ever open that cupboard that is now bursting with the washing up / laundry / bills / all of the above.
  • Make coffee, all writers need coffee right? Consider taking up smoking as a hobby, writers smoke too, yeah? Roll up old post it note and pretend to puff on it, really debonair.
  • Look at writing on arm for a moment. Entirely forget where the fuck you were going with “POEM ABOUT QUICHE.”
  • Realise you are hungry. Search for food. Find none. Sit down with bowl of dry, slightly stale Cheerios.
  • Think.
  • Check emails.
  • Reply to emails. Agreeing to do more blogging work, that you’ll ultimately forget about for the next two weeks.
  • Check Twitter.
  • Think of something hilarious and relatable to say.
  • Tweet about getting shit on your face this morning / the kid throwing up on the cat.
  • Watch tumbleweed roll by as your Tweet is ignored. Question whether you’re actually funny.
  • Drink more coffee.
  • Play around with different fonts on your blog.
  • Get a grip.
  • Open compose blog post thingy.
  • Stare at screen.
  • Think of 3 absolutely brilliant blog titles. Realise that you have nothing more than the titles.
  • Save each one to drafts.
  • Sigh dramatically. Have another puff on fake cigarette.
  • Look at clock. Find that you’ve somehow wasted an hour already.
  • Really stare at the screen now, you’re determined, you can do this.
  • Waste another 10 minutes trying to think of words that rhyme with quiche.
  • Scrap quiche idea.
  • Start writing about anything, you are funny, it’ll just come out naturally without you even thinking about it.
  • Realise you are not funny at all.
  • Look at photos of cats on Google to console yourself.
  • Have a little peek at blog statistics for the day, just out of interest, stats don’t matter, you don’t really care about them, you’re just curious. Find them plummeting.
  • Panic.
  • You totally have to write a post, like NOW.
  • Raid chocolate stash. Eat. Continue to eat until you feel enormously guilty and dirty.
  • Commence staring contest with empty white screen.
  • Realise you have 10 minutes before you need to leave to collect child.
  • Have a little cry.
  • Check emails.
  • Reply to emails.
  • Reluctantly put shoes on and collect bag.
  • Practice tortured artist face in mirror.
  • Wallow in self doubt.
  • Remember to disguise any evidence of chocolate binge.
  • Start walking to collect kid.
  • Find yourself attempting to be all deep and profound, making metaphors about dead flowers or road rage as you walk.
  • Swear under your breath.
  • Scare passing school children.
  • Get sucker punched with amazing idea as you’re pushing through the double doors at nursery.
  • Begin to panic that this is someone else’s blog post again.
  • Dump or keep accordingly as you’re signing the register.
  • Immediately forget idea as you’re handed accident report form and are told by the sheepish nursery lady that your kid headbutted a window, apparently attempting to squash a fly.
  • Repeat for eternity.

Scars

TRIGGER WARNING.

People say that our scars tell a story. Some scars are funny anecdotes – the time I fell into a barbed wire fence, it WAS funny, honest, or when my pet hamster sank it’s evil little fangs into the fleshy pad of my thumb. Others are accidents; when the knife slipped, the grater grazed your knuckles, a burn from the oven. And then there’s the scars that you’re left with, that you gave yourself.

I call them my zebra stripes. All along my left arm, and down my thighs. I barely notice them anymore, but I know they’re there.

Self harm is never something I set out to do, it wasn’t a decision I made or planned. Y’know, “Right, I feel like cutting and gauging myself. I’ll do a bit of that after I’ve made dinner.” Nah. None of that. A good ten years ago or so, I’d find myself in so much pain, such a degree of completely blinding pain, which all seemed to be resonating somewhere deep within my chest. Nothing seemed real at that point, everything felt like a sickening monochrome nightmare in slow motion. The hurt was too unbearable, the tears so violent that without realising what I was doing, I’d claw at my arms, sink my nails into the backs of my hands and scour them desperately, maybe subconsciously trying to release whatever it was inside that I genuinely thought was killing me. I’d awake the next day, to discover these horribly crude scratches carved all over my hand and forearm, almost as if for the first time, as I was completely unaware of doing it at the night before. And they bloody hurt. Like, really bloody hurt. I’d find myself cradling my arm with the other, to protect it, I’d wince when I’d use it, my skin taut and paper-thin.

But I felt better.

Sounds awful. I know. But focusing on that physical pain and concentrating on my tender flesh, averted my thoughts from the stuff inside that was really fucking hurting.

And that’s where it began. I self-harmed for about 5 years, to varying degrees. From several times a day, to only occasionally. It wasn’t ever planned, but I knew when I had to do it. Under the cover of my phone, I’d carry a razor-sharp blade, just so I knew it was there. When I was still living at home with my family, all offending items were hidden from me; razors, scissors, knives, nail trimmers, whatever you can think of, was confiscated. The unadulterated panic that this brought, was unlike anything I’ve ever known, the fear that the dark, numbing pain would soon grasp its unbreakable hold around me and I’d never be able to be free of it again was horrifying.

So I’d smash lightbulbs, and use the glass. And when they too were taken I’d break mirrors and picture frames, I no longer cared, I just needed to feel that relief once more.

The need to self-harm seemed to die out by itself. It wasn’t ever a status symbol, to be in with the cool kids. The angry red lines were always hidden, I’d wear long sleeves and jeans on the hottest days of the year to disguise them.

But there were times, when someone caught a glimpse. When a flippant “Oh, my cat did it,” just wasn’t enough. I didn’t even HAVE a cat then FFS. And the anger and total bewilderment I’d see written all over my loved ones faces simply made me want to lock myself in the bathroom and do it again.

When your agony is beyond the point of comprehension, you’ll turn to anything to ease it somewhat, even if it’s just for a moment of peace. Drinking, drugs, screwing around, gambling, eating, not eating and indeed cutting yourself are all harmful in one way or another. Self-harm seems to carry a taboo as it’s seen as barbaric and even inhuman to want to hurt yourself, but it shouldn’t. It’s not always a “cry for help” as it’s often described, or attention seeking. It’s a need. A simple desperate need just to switch off that pain that’s numbing you within, with something more tangible and easier to understand.

I haven’t self-harmed for over 5 years. But the desire to do it remains with me every single day. Really and truly I hope that self-harm is soon recognised for what it’s for, and is no longer met with anger and disgust, or cast aside as a childish want for attention. In the majority of cases, it really isn’t. And like drinking to excess, drug abuse and eating disorders, the only way to stop it is to treat the catalyst; the mental illnesses, the depression and stress disorders, not keeping the scissors hidden from sight and keeping your fingers crossed that it won’t happen again.

Alone

The alarm goes off in the morning, or in my case, my son jumps on my face, it’s time to get up. New day and all that. Let’s get going! But alas, no, it’s not that simple. The thought of being awake, the thought of being up and aware of the black thoughts in my head and the utter numbness of my body, the sheer lack of any trace of energy, makes my stomach drop and the day in my eyes is already ruined before my feet have even touched the carpet beside my bed.

It’s time to eat, to clothe and to clean. To engage, and teach and play. What shall it be today? Letters or numbers? Shall we go to the park? Can we bake a cake? Alas no, I won’t do any of these things, I’ll stay in my pyjamas, I won’t get dressed, I won’t get Noah dressed. We’re not going anywhere. We won’t see anyone, because I don’t want to see anyone. When the postman rings the doorbell, or the window cleaner knocks, I’ll tell him to be quiet, like a game.

Noah will ask for jam on his toast, and when I give him the plate of little triangles, he’ll say he now wants peanut butter. I won’t say anything, I’ll return to the kitchen and cry quietly while I stick the fresh slices of bread in the toaster, and the worst part is I don’t know why. I don’t why everything is so difficult. No one else finds it this hard, do they?

A little later, Noah will ask for me to play with him, or say he wants to paint. But there’s always an excuse up my sleeve, there’s something else more important I must do right now. A phone call, an email, putting out the rubbish. Anything. And I’ll feel horrendous that I can’t just sit and be with my son, that I’m denying him well, me. I’m used to blocking everyone else out, but my son?

I’ll promise myself that I’ll save the day by making a family dinner, so we can all sit down together, Noah likes it when we do that. But I won’t. The good intentions will fly out of the window, and he’ll eat what he always does, at the table with his toys.

I’ll give him his bath, and put him to bed, and he falls asleep while I read to him quietly, I’ll watch him sleeping. My beautiful boy, my beautiful beautiful boy. My boy that deserves so much more than I can give him. My boy that I love more than I can ever put into words, hasn’t got a proper mum. A mum to play with and teach him, to run around with and give him everything he wants. I’ll sit and watch him sleep, and the tears will prick my eyes and I’ll promise myself – promise him that tomorrow will be better.

But will it? Will it? I’m not in control here, something much more powerful is. Something I have no control over. My family, my friends will say what a good mum I am, but I’ll know different deep down, swimming amongst the darkness and all consuming nothingness, that I’m not. I’m really not. I’m everything I told myself I wouldn’t be. My baby is sleeping upstairs, alone, and when he wakes up, I’ll be with him and watch him and make sure he’s safe and fed. But I won’t be here, not really, I’ll be lost in my own selfish thoughts, pointlessly fighting against the blackness that engulfs me, and my baby will still be alone.

How to Have Writer’s Block

Firstly, you need the writer’s block uniform, you have to look the part.

  • Dressing gown.
  • Sans bra.
  • Optional – jogging bottoms or pyjamas, topped off with mystery stains.
  • Out of shape, greying T-shirt, I like to go with a freebie kind of ensemble, or better yet a touristy type thang. Ya know, something with meaning. My favourite is one with a TERRIFYING rabbit emblazoned on the front, complete with red eyes, the thinking behind it, I assume, is to SCARE THE LITERAL BEJESUS out of you, before you even THINK about using products that are tested on animals.
  • Unbrushed hair, get some food, cigarette butts or suchlike stuck in it for extra visual excitement. Backcomb the living fuck out of it into scary peaks. Imagine yourself as a wild animal that can’t be tamed. You are a creative-less husk of a beast. Roar. ROAR!
  • Make up: panda eyes are absolutely essential, leave your base (i.e, your erm, face) bare, perhaps to show you’ve made some effort but not so much you look like you’re really trying, draw on some comedy eyebrows to make you look interesting and elusive.
  • Scent: go for something that is a hybrid of late night jazz bar, musty old book shop and a sweaty unmade bed that you’ve been doing the old horizontal Twister in for three days. To achieve this, splash on a mix of lager, whisky, smoke a pack of ten and then go for a quick jog around the block. Done.
  • Accessories: Half empty bottle of red wine swinging in one hand, a distant look of discontent, bloodshot eyes, some scribbles up your arm in biro and a couple of tear streaks down your face and you are good.

Next, we’ll need the writer’s block mindset, the unhinged behaviour, walk the walk, blah blah blah.

  • No speaking is allowed whatsoever. You are concentrating too much of your energy on berating yourself for not being able to string a single sentence together.
  • Gaze distantly out of windows without actually seeing anything.
  • Grunt and mumble under your breath, occasionally bursting out laughing for no reason.
  • Cry uncontrollably while watching the news report that what’s his face, plays for somewhere or other football player has just got a book deal.
  • Play with fire.
  • Make a voodoo doll of yourself, and stick pins in it to kill the bad non-writing demons.
  • Learn how to clog dance / knit / make amazing Yorkshire puddings. Get those creative juices flowing.
  • Drink.
  • Drink some more.
  • Regret the tattoo on your arm that simply says “Think”.
  • Consider taking up poetry.
  • Stare at your empty computer screen for hours. on. end.
  • Sob.
  • Practise meditation.
  • Get bored.
  • Decide writing is dead to you. No one reads anymore anyways. Pah! It’s all about the pictures now innit.
  • Realise you can’t take photos either.
  • Discover your world has officially ended.
  • Cry some more.
  • Find therapy in chocolate ice cream.

Annnnnd repeat, forever and ever. Until you metaphorically slap yourself around the face and get an actual grip. Or better yet, totally steal another writer’s idea. That’s what they all do anyway innit?

Ode to Leggings

Oh Leggings, where would we be

without your elasticated stride?

The non believers do not agree that

you should be worn outside

 

For they, my dear, have never felt

your loving Lycra hug

For they, my friend, will not dare

to encase their legs so snug

 

Without you Leggings, I fear

I wouldn’t leave the house

The non believers doubt my intellect

that I haven’t any nouse

 

It pleases me no end dear Leggings,

that you enrage the delightful Liz Jones,

And you make me happier still

that I’m not a bag of bones

 

I’m your loyal follower, my friendship

will be forever tied

Why do you betray me, Leggings

And allow my bum to grow so wide?

 

Alas, my love for you will stay,

You and I dear Leggings, you are forever in my heart

As you give my thighs a hypnotic sway

We must never speak, of me bending over at playgroup and letting rip a massive fart.

The Birth Story

I’m gonna be cliché, I’m gonna be obvious, I’m gonna do the freaking BIRTH STORY.

Sorry if it’s boring, sorry if you’d rather not go there, but I’m sodding well going there anyway, baby.

June 2009. Wednesday afternoon, I’m five days overdue, I’m over the fact I’m ever going to give birth to this stubborn baby. I’ve eaten too many curries, I’ve walked fucking miles, I’ve eaten so much pissing pineapple my tongue feels as though I’ve been licking sandpaper for kicks. It’s OK, I’ll just stay like this forever, I’ll cope, I’ve gotten far too used to my maternity jeans to give them up anyway. It’s cool.

I’m walking to a midwife appointment about a mile away from my flat, my swollen stomach feels tight and achey, but I’m not being fooled into believing THIS. IS. IT , I’ve had false alarms already. I see the midwife, she pokes about for a bit and tells me I’m actually 2cm dilated. She gives me a “sweep”, and off I go, not entirely the wiser as to what is happening. I get Rob over, (we had split up at this point) he buys me dodgy chips which were AMAZING and writes down my contractions for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Everything stops at midnight, he goes back to his house, and I go to bed mightily fucked off.

Thursday morning, contractions, they’re back, they’re worse, much worse, so bad I can no longer coherently write them down. My phone is glued to my hand as I text updates to my close family and Rob. I don’t make a fuss and tell him to wait to come over again as I’m convinced it’ll all stop again. I somehow stick the evil TENS machine on my back, which I really don’t think does a bloody thing, and try to snooze. Obviously I can’t. I force myself out of my bed and shower, I even put some make up on, priorities right? It’s about 5pm, I still don’t let Rob come over because I think I’m being overdramatic. Pain. Tight crushing pain.

The early evening is a blur, I busy myself checking my bags and folding and re-folding tiny white vests and suits I can’t compute could be on my baby in a few hours. At 10.30pm everything is speeding up, Question Time is on TV, I remember thinking I liked David Dimbleby’s tie.  I have a huge urge to poo. In my infinite wisdom, I tell myself if I can have a poo THEN I will go to the hospital, ya know, to avoid any giving birth and pooing simultaneously scenarios, again: Priorities.

I’m sat on my toilet for about an hour and a half, I shit you not, I know people describe giving birth like having a huge, huge poo, of course this didn’t register to me at the time, in my agonised state, I had no idea my body was actually telling me to fucking PUUUUUSH YOU STUPID MARE, YOU DON’T NEED A FUCKING SHIT.

I’m in a complete state, why can’t I just poo?! Everytime I stand up from the loo, I have to sit straight back down again because I think I’ll shit myself, and I certainly don’t have the energy to clean THAT up. I’m still alone, I’ve told Rob to stay where he is until I’m on my way to the hospital and I’ll see him there. I call my mum and tell her what’s happening, I remember sobbing pathetically “I can’t do this!” and her helpful reply being “It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Thanks mum.

Friday 12am, I try again on the toilet and there’s blood, lots of blood. Oh, the penny drops, fucking FINALLY. I call the hospital and tell them I’m on my way, my brother rushes over to pick me up, he tells me to wait so he can bring the car closer, I glare at him and grab my bags and stomp to the car down the road anyway.

Maniac driver brother, speed bumps, traffic calming fucking measures, you BASTARDS. Hospital, lots of panic, I’m in the delivery room, I’m on the bed. MOTHERFUCKER I HAVEN’T CALLED ROB, hang on the midwife tells me, we just need to check you over quickly. “Jesus, you’re nine centimetres, you need to start pushing, now. Well done, girl.” Yes, yes that’s great, someone fucking CALL ROB.

He somehow appears, out of breath, he’s amazing, he holds my hand, he helps me drink my water, water, I need water. Pain, searing burning blinding pain. It’s too late for any proper drugs, the midwife gives me the gas and air to try, I have a couple of puffs, it does NOTHING, I throw the useless thing on the floor. Pushing, pain, so much pain, nearly there, almost there, I can’t think, I’m not there, my fingernails are dug deep into my thigh as I push. Time speeds up, just a few more, he’s halfway there the midwife says. “Is he OK? He’s OK, yeah?” I gasp, panicking. “He’s fine, one more, big push.”

The pain heightens to unspeakable levels, I feel like I’m being split into two. One more, I push, where the energy comes from I have no idea, I push and there’s release, there’s relief, there’s my baby.

02.26am Friday morning.

My tiny pink baby, being laid on my chest, covered in blood and strange white stuff I still don’t know the name of. It’s the single most surreal feeling I’ve ever known. I gasp, cry and laugh at once. Rob kisses my forehead, he’s crying too, and laughing. My baby, our baby, he’s here, he’s actually here.

And there’s something else there too, overwhelming, chest tightening, all-consuming love.

Everything is right. Everything is as it should be.

He’s here. Noah is here.

What Not to Say

….to someone with depression.

Smile!

What’s wrong with you?

What crawled up your arse and died?

Chin up.

You’ll be alright.

Take some Rescue Remedy.

What’s up, now?

You have nothing to be depressed about.

Get over yourself.

Why are you being such a bitch?

Stop being so selfish.

What have you got to be so unhappy about?

Oh, I read an interesting article in the Daily Mail about depression, it said….

Tell me what’s wrong.

Just tell me what’s wrong.

FUCKING TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG.

Cheer up!

Get a grip.

You never know, it might never happen!

Happy mums have happy babies.

Oh my daaays, I was so depressed last night when the fit one got kicked off X Factor!

Have a drink, you’ll feel better.

Have another drink, you’ll feel much better.

Have a line, that’ll help.

Have another line, that’ll really help.

Oh I bought you this self help book that –

Stop being so negative.

Do you want to be unhappy?

Listen to this Radiohead song!

You emo.

I found these supplements for you, they’re supposed to help with –

You miserable cow.

Let’s go SHOPPING! That’ll take your mind off of it!

You’re so fucked up.

Ugh, I can’t win can I?

A problem shared is a problem halved!

I had depression one time, I –

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?

Why don’t you just go and kill yourself?

 

What To Say To Someone With Depression:

It’s OK.

Same here.

I’m here if you want to talk.

I understand.

Write it down.

Do you need anything?

I know.

Do you need some help?

I’m not going anywhere.

I’m listening.

Granny Basher

I didn’t realise this before I pushed a small person out of my foof, but apparently there’s a secret law that basically states that once you have a kid, you’re a walking invitation for a shitstorm of grannies to accost you daily, give you their two cents worth of out of date granny advice and suffocate you in a cloud of their dodgy powdery, flowery granny scent.
Here’s a rundown of the good, the mad and the ugly that I have so far come across…

The Sweet Granny:
Noah and I are waiting to pay at the local newsagent’s, Noah is wittering away about some bollocks or other, in a cute way of course, but still. Also, he is wearing this hat, which for some reason unknown to me, is a fucking old folks magnet. Old men nod to him and smile with a strange hat appreciating respect. Old ladies flock and coo, “Ooh, ain’t he lovely?” I’m gonna burn the damn thing, soon I’ll have to start leaving the house earlier with a Polite Granny Banter time factor added in or just leave Noah at home locked in a cage with Cadburys Chocolate Buttons, apple juice and a puzzle to keep him going.

Door opens, in comes Sweet Granny. She has hair like candy floss and she’s carrying a carpet-bag like Mary Poppins, she pauses where she is and listens to Noah going on about poo or spiders or whatever it was and she has this serene look on her face. She starts moving with purpose after a moment, and begins perusing the chocolate and sweets below the counter, she selects a Milky Way, seems pleased with her choice and shows the dude on the till, “This is for the little boy.” gives him the money and presents Noah with the chocolate. He says thank you, all angelic and in awe, like she’s given him a bucket full of frogs, mud and a catapult, I say thank you, floored by her generosity. She smiles, nods and goes off to buy cat food and soap or whatever it is grannies buy. Lovely, we’ve seen her a few times since, say hello and that’s it, no advice on how she thinks I should manage Noah, no bollocks about how she brought her kids up, nor any diatribes on how badly kids behave today.  Just a kind old dear. All grannies should aspire to be like her.
But don’t let that fool you.

The Mad As A Box of Frogs Granny:
First time we met her was tolerable, second time I was somewhat bewildered, third time and thereafter: OMFG LEAVE US ALONE, WOMAN, PLEASE.
She looks nice enough, she has a granny trolley she accordingly crashes into anything, stuff that’s not even in her path, she seeks obstacles out, like the Terminator. Noah and I are walking along the pavement, she’s coming towards us, her granny senses alert her to the close proximity of a child, I see the radars and sensors flash in her spectacles, and the siren emanating from her hearing aid. I brace myself for what’s about to occur.

Mad Granny: “Aw, he’s lovely, ain’t he?”
Me: “Thank you.”
MG: “What’s his name?”
I tell her.
MG: “Aw. He’s lovely. How old is he?”
Me: “Three.”
MG: “Aw.” *Bend down to Noah.* “HELLO, YOU’RE LOVELY AIN’T YA?”
*he looks alarmed, he grips my hand a bit tighter and says nothing.*
MG: “Aw. So lovely.”
Me: *Starting to walk now* “Thanks!”
Doesn’t sound so bad, no? Only trouble is, we see her EVERY. SINGLE. DAY and have the exact same conversation EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I feel like I’m in the twilight zone, I reckon we need to move.

The Mean Granny:
There’s many of these. Too many to be able to distinguish one from the next. I know they’re old and creaky. I know they’re more than likely afflicted with some horrible illness or mental impairment that makes them grumpy, bad-tempered or just not themselves. I understand, I do. But don’t take it out on my kid, yeah? As much of a monster he is at home, when we’re out he’s is very well-behaved. He doesn’t scream, or run around like he’s jacked up on illegal substances and suchlike. We’re in a supermarket, we’re selecting our items and putting them in the basket like people in supermarkets do. Along stalks a granny (cos that’s what mean grannies do, they stalk), she glances at me, I smile politely, she ignores it, she glances at Noah who is just minding his own business (probably thinking about spiders and poo), and gives him THE LOOK. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated contempt, she holds the look on my son for a moment longer, looks up and stalks off in search of rat poison or methylated spirits to make potions with in her evil lair of hate.
Why do this? My little boy hasn’t done anything, he’s just a child in the supermarket choosing which yoghurt he’d like with his mum (always always the tubey ones with all the sneaky E numbers). He’s not in anyone’s way, he’s not being loud or bratty or rude. So why look at him like this? The whole thing lasts only a few seconds, but it really gets to me and makes me think that people really are just a bunch of arseholes, more than I already do. This has happened numerous times, more so when Noah was still in his buggy (apparently politely saying excuse me is enough to deserve the Death Glare and a overexaggerated “TSSK!”)  yet I still can’t fathom what I’ve done to deserve it.
Honourable mention goes to the batty old dear with the stupid, stupid little yappy dog that wouldn’t leave Noah alone the other day in the park, it wasn’t on the lead and kept chasing him and jumping up at his face, consequently scratching his little chubby arms to bits with it’s evil claws. He wasn’t doing anything to encourage the stupid animal, wasn’t urging the mutt to chase him, and in the end I had to carry him out of the park away from the cursed creature. “Oh sorry, Sheldon! SHELDON! SHELDON! He’s not scaring your little boy, is he? SHELDON!” she faffed around a bit, but failed to stick the thing on it’s lead, I mumbled “No, it’s fine,” scooped up him and walked off. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people who are able to just say “Yes, you dozy mare, he is scaring the shit out of my son, do you think you could put it’s lead on or learn how to control the fucking thing? If it jumps at his face again I’ll fucking go postal on it’s furry arse. ” But alas, I’m not.

Also to the hard to please granny that once made a stunning passive / aggressive comment in passing that little Noah was too old to be in a buggy, when he was about two and a half. I smiled, said nothing. Sod’s law I see her again a few months later when I’ve ditched the buggy and Noah walks everywhere. “Oh it’s a bit far for a little one to walk innit?” WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME WOMAN. SEND HIM TO HOGWARTS SO HE CAN LEARN HOW TO FLY?
So there’s the guide to recognising your grannies. I’m sure it’s helped you tremendously.
If you have any more to add, please do let me know (I’ll reward the best with a Wurthers Original), I love a good crazy granny anecdote, I do.

Knocked Up

I knew I was pregnant before I did the test. Bloody knew it. From having to get up in the middle of the night for wees (for once not caused by late drinking seshes) to MUST. EAT. EVERYTHING. NOW. WITH. ADDED. CHEESE. compulsion. Of course the unprotected sex thing a few weeks before didn’t occur to me once as the catalyst.

I did a test. It was one of those standard one line = negatory, two lines = your Mothercare Membership Code will posted out to you shortly jobbies. After getting the pee off my hand, and sitting on the toilet lid looking pensive, I definitely had one line, and another very, very faint second line, “OK,” I thought, “I’m not going on a journey up north to Duffland, then.” Until a friend pointed out that even though it was faint, it still counted as a line nonetheless*. “Oh… OH! This is gonna get interesting.”

Unplanned pregnancy, you say? Young mum? Not in proper relationship with the father? OMGZ HOW CAN YOU BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE?! I hear you hysterically shriek. My answer? Stuff happens. And that’s OK. Not everything works out to the grand Life Plan that girls my age seem to believe it will. Sorry to disappoint. Not for one nano second did I or do I think that my son was a mistake. He is a beautiful, life changing, life saving surprise.

Imagine the film Knocked Up, Katherine Heigel as a brunette, with a bigger bum, fewer neurotic siblings, with an additional side of commitment issues. Seth Rogan but less hairy and pathetic, and more tattoos. Pretty much sums it up, it all worked out in the end, and it’s OK that we did things a bit mixed up, I never liked conformity anyways.

Do you think plans are all they’re cracked up to be? Or do you like to see where life leads you? Answers on a postcard, pls. Or ya know, just that comments box down there will do, I guess.