Making it to the Top of My Own List

I listen to Radio 2, which I’m sure will come as no surprise!   On Thursday’s, there is a ‘higher or lower’ song feature, requiring the lovely sports presenter (never seen him, just sounds like a good egg) to guess whether the second song was out earlier or later than the first one played.   Anyway, last week it was ‘Good Enough’ by Dodgy, which took me right back to the day I got my finals.   My friend K had stayed over at my house, having travelled back to Liverpool to get the results.   We hit my local the night before and somehow K managed to rip her jeans on the way home and we never worked out why.   Seven pints does seem to dull the brain cells.   The morning of the results, the radio alarm went off and the song playing was ‘Good Enough’ (clearly not listening to Radio 2 when I was 21!).   As it turned out it was more than good enough as I nabbed a better classification that I had been expecting! It got me thinking about K, and how we’re ju...

I love telly.   There, I’ve said it.   I gorge on books, spend more time on Facebook than is appropriate for a woman of my age, don my trainers a couple of times a week and jump about, enjoy the therapeutic value of a bit of baking and what have you, but I do love a good old session of square-eyesism.   And demand TV has revolutionised my viewing.   I’m a busy woman, work full time, including at least one late night a week, house, family and a magically re-filling washing basket, so my real-time viewing opportunities are limited.   Plus our TV only seems to have two channels – Sky Sports and Pop! (not even Tiny Pop anymore, sniff sniff at my baby not being a baby!) and so   I do very much appreciate a bit of catch-up. Husband and I have a bit of a Venn diagram approach to joint viewing, with my side consisting of hospital dramas, anything starring Rob Lowe, 'women's stuff', and his consisting of sport and Masterchef, and our common ground being Midsome...

L reminded me I hadn’t blogged in a while, and I said I hadn’t had any inspiration.   Well of course that’s not true, because it’s all around, but I haven’t had time to connect all the dots of inspiration.   Then, last night, lying in bed watching Last Tango in Halifax on my iPad (rock ‘n’ roll baby, rock ‘n’ roll.   The night before would have found me watching Silent Witness in bed when it was actually on instead of on some kind of catch-up! Living on the edge…)   inspiration struck.   Very pleased with myself I was.   Then I went to brush my teeth and the bathroom light exploded and took with it all my ideas.   And perhaps I swept them up with the broken glass (how can such a small bulb make so much mess?!) because whatever I was thinking of eludes me. But I did find myself giggling a couple of times at the very near miss I had at Zumba last night.   I’ve changed class, largely to go with L again as I like a fitness buddy so that your sens...

So, forty finally arrived.   It looks alien on the screen to me. Me, 40!   It sounds so mature.   Grown up. Like I should be able to knit.   Or at least sew a button on. I know you want to know whether I was indeed Fab at Forty.   Well of course I couldn’t say…but I can say that after ten months of counting and pointing and shaking my thang at Zumba, I’ve managed to knock a couple of stone and a couple of dress sizes off.   Never got to my holy grail 12 though, so at least I’ve still got something I can put on my New Year list. After not knowing what to do, I decided to have a party, where enough people duly oohed and aahed about my reinvention to have made it worthwhile.   Three generations of family raised a glass, and friends old and new put on their gladrags and helped me have a lovely time.   But now what?   I’ve been planning for months, buying shimmery and glimmery doo-dahs to put some fab in the very functional function ro...

When I was discharged from hospital after having Daughter six years ago, I was sent home with painkillers, blood pressure and water tablets and a rather large dose of maternal guilt. The drugs were for a week or so, but the guilt was to be taken liberally several times a day. The guilt is largely about two things. The first is not being there.  Not for the school drop off. Or pick up. Or to be a 'helper' in her class. Or to take one of her friends home from school for tea, and 'everyone else has someone for tea all the time'. I should get a different job she said, so I can be there to do that. The second is about not giving her a sister (or a dog, because I'm allergic). We tried, we succeeded, but it wasn't to be. We have tried to explain that you can't guarantee a sister, but that falls on deaf ears. And really, she doesn't want a baby sister, she wants a ready made five year old sister to play with right now. So, in order to compensate for my epi...

Every morning, when I’m performing my morning ablutions, I hear a small child be dropped off at his grandmother’s house round the corner from us (they’re not really loud, we’re on the corner!) and every morning, he cries.   Now I’ve seen this child, who must be about two, with his grandmother, and he’s happy as Larry (lucky old Larry, always cheerful).   What he doesn’t want is for his mummy to leave him.   I hear his nanny placate him with their plans, and I’ve seen his mummy extricate herself and drive off.   And every time I hear or see it all, it takes me back to when Daughter was little little (considering her to be just little now that she is nearly 6). I went back to work when Daughter was six months old, and as I’ve mentioned before, it was all very traumatic for me.   And probably for Father, who was her primary daytime carer and used to present me with a record of nappies changed, ounces of milk taken and slop ingested.   Strangely there was ...

Fooled by a few cheery sunny and warm days over the last couple of weeks, I have unearthed the summer clothes.   There is quite a rigmarole to the change of seasons in our house, as limited wardrobe space has always required clothes to be boxed up and stored in the loft.   This is what happened in the parental home, with poor Father being required to get in the loft and unearth unlabelled bin bags for me, Sister and Mother, and always be sent up for a rogue sandal (or boot).   Sister and I always had a pile ‘em high attitude to clothes, so we’re talking a lot of bags.   I think that was probably the first thing they did when I left home (last to leave) – teary eyed wave and then up the stairs at record speed to use all the now vacant wardrobe and drawer space!   No more seasonal change loft jaunts for Father now. I sent Husband up for the summer boxes, also for the last time due to the wise purchase of some nice furniture for the spare room, and he was very...