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Showing posts from December, 2013

Happy New Year

I' m not usually an embracer of New Year.  Don't get me wrong, I don't hide away with a multipack of cheese n onion, but I've never got excited about it. I've certainly had some fun times. The year of the garlic with K and Sister was good, but by god Blackpool is cold at New Year! There were a few good Blackpool New Years, although the one I was told I looked like Monica Lewinsky could have been better - a thought that C no doubt echoes seeing she was told she looked like Cilla Black! I'm sure she was the only red head that sprang to mind. And the millennium was good. Despite my disaster haircut, the one that someone said made me look like Viv Windsor from Emmerdale, the photos of C dancing on the bar are some of my favourites! And of course there were some rubbish nights, where the over inflated promise of New Year deflated like an old party balloon. But I always gave it a go, some years picking up some good memories, some years picking up sore feet and an empt

Christmas Past and Christmas Present

I bought sparkly shoe decorations for the tree. Daughter and I chose them. Husband said there was nothing Christmassy about shoes, and I said quite the opposite.   I said I always used to buy new shoes for Christmas. And a new bag. And a new dress. And...   Because Christmas used to be completely different. It used to be all about me! For me at least. It was about the nights out and the clothes, and new stuff and fun.   And now it's all about daughter.   And of course it should be, because she's small and full of wonder and delightful to buy dresses and shoes and hair things for, and of course give Santa a helping hand. I wouldn't trade all the fun we had in the old days for a single second of watching her beautiful face shine with delight when she sees her pile of presents.   None of it. Not the carefree single days, not the early days of romance, not a thing. We get more excited than her. At five and a half, she's still never woken before us on Christmas morning.

If life begins at 40, what happens at 39?

I’m 39 today.   39!   How can that be?   It’s so…mature sounding.   And altogether all too near to (whisper it) 40.   How can I be nearly 40?!   It’s so grown up, so responsible.   I don’t remember setting myself any ‘by I’m 40’ goals, and isn’t that a good job with only 364 days to achieve them if I did.   I’ve only just got my head round a fake date of birth to give if I was asked my (under 18) age in the pub, and now I’ve got a year left to be in my thirties. I was 13 when Mother turned 40, and it seemed like a terribly old age.   She didn’t seem terribly old, although I do remember giving some grief about all my friends having younger mums (I was the youngest and they were all the oldest), but it seemed like a ripe old age to me.   And here I am, one year away from it with a five year old, and not feeling any kind of ripe old age at all. I suppose I shouldn’t declare my age publicly.   What if I want to pretend I‘m actually only 35?   Or better still, 25?   I think I’