Last night's date was amusing - Nick sought Margaret's advice regarding the choice of restaurant and her, well being Margaret, suggested the venue for her 40th birthday - The Bienvida. I suppose it was both retro and amusing, Nick was slightly mortified, but we had an enjoyable evening. Being a Friday night there was entertainment laid on for the lucky diners, tonight's act was a Tina Turner tribute act. She was ok actually, I'm not sure if the septuagenarian male sitting near the makeshift stage really appreciated the power of Ms Turner's performance, but I suppose it gave us all a bit of a laugh.
Nick's just left for Wood Green; he has to attend a residents' evening riot fundraiser tonight, which I'm sure is as exciting as it sounds. I could spend the time dusting this room couldn't I? Yes, I suppose I could, but I don't think I will. Laziness abounds.
Right, I suppose that gives me a bit more time to write about my relationship with my late/estranged husband doesn't it? Well, he split from his long-term girlfriend and categorically stated that he wasn't interested in another relationship which I respected. Anyway after a couple of times of meeting up and various fumblings I accepted that but the office gossip told me that he was 'seeing one of his female friends' and indeed he was. I fell out with him for a long time after that, I thought he was pathetic. Sadly, I got re-involved with him a few years later, I can't say that I'm proud of that so I won't go into details.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
Friday, 19 August 2011
Childcare dot com
This is now the third day I've looked after my son Seb in a week, it may not seem like a great deal but for me it's a bit of a record these days. Days have become very routine - breakfast, walk to a local playground (two different ones in two days now - a veritable 'playground crawl'), lunch, baking, TV, reading, maybe even some colouring. I can't say that I hate it but couldn't imagine being a stay at home mum, perhaps that's because I'm a rubbish housewife or hausfrau as the Germans call it. I am looking at the airer which contains a huge pile of ironing, the only way I like to iron is in front of the TV, but there's currently only one set in this house and Seb's currently bagged it.
Mum's taking Seb overnight because Nick's taking me out for a romantic meal. The venue's a secret and he's told me to dress up. Reflecting on my relationship with Nick is quite nice really, it contains none of the fireworks, worry and passion of my late husband, which can only be a good thing.
I don't think I've ever said how I met Roger Cuffley, well it was back in late 1994 I'd completed my secretarial studies and it was difficult to find a job during that particular recession. Anyway, Roger, I and about 150 other recruits began work at the records department of a huge central Government Department; he was a recent graduate, ambitious and looking to progress, I just wanted a job. He worked in a section which mended broken microfiche records (we are talking about the late twentieth century here!) which I'd wittily dubbed 'Peter's Poking Section' (you clearly had to be there to understand that joke). On first acquaintance he was darn cute, brown hair and eyes, olive skin, medium build and a cheeky demeanour - I was hooked. Sadly, he had a long-term girlfriend and that was that really. I'll fill you in with the rest of the story during a later post - the ironing pile's calling me.
Mum's taking Seb overnight because Nick's taking me out for a romantic meal. The venue's a secret and he's told me to dress up. Reflecting on my relationship with Nick is quite nice really, it contains none of the fireworks, worry and passion of my late husband, which can only be a good thing.
I don't think I've ever said how I met Roger Cuffley, well it was back in late 1994 I'd completed my secretarial studies and it was difficult to find a job during that particular recession. Anyway, Roger, I and about 150 other recruits began work at the records department of a huge central Government Department; he was a recent graduate, ambitious and looking to progress, I just wanted a job. He worked in a section which mended broken microfiche records (we are talking about the late twentieth century here!) which I'd wittily dubbed 'Peter's Poking Section' (you clearly had to be there to understand that joke). On first acquaintance he was darn cute, brown hair and eyes, olive skin, medium build and a cheeky demeanour - I was hooked. Sadly, he had a long-term girlfriend and that was that really. I'll fill you in with the rest of the story during a later post - the ironing pile's calling me.
Monday, 15 August 2011
The history of Miss Polly
Oh, just to let you know that Polly was charged with theft and public disorder at the weekend as part of last week's London riots. Apparently she smashed the Wimpy Bar's windows in and stole 35 burger buns, 20 'bender' sausages and 12 catering packs of fries. I've thrown her out and retained her deposit in lieu of the clean up job I'll have to do on the spare room and to cover the cost of a taxi to transport her belongings back to her mother's house. No more lodgers!
The Playground Jungle
Today is the beginning of three days' worth of looking after Seb; don't get me wrong, it's not that I never do, but because of nursery, work and other things I don't tend to see him much in the week. Right, so I arranged to go out with my friend Charlotte and her daughter Samantha and after a couple of cups of tea for dutch courage we took ourselves over to their local playground. Now, don't get me wrong, every area is fairly mixed and Charlotte's road is suburban, busy but the houses are well-tended and it's nice, unfortunately a neighbouring postcode really isn't and I know I shouldn't say it but it has quite a preponderance of social/council housing - call it what you will.
Being school holidays it was crowded, but with a high number of older kids. There were eight or nine-year-olds riding big bicycles around and quite frankly endangering the safety of the youngsters. One kid ran into a toddler/pre-schooler but the mother, despite flashing the brat concerned some rather dirty looks, did absolutely nothing. Ok, so when the brat nearly compromised the safety of young Seb and Sam I marched up to him and gave him a piece of my mind. You'd expect a child to be somewhat humble wouldn't you? Oh no, not at all, the brat insisted on answering me back, telling me not to shout at him and generally to leave him alone. He even denied seeing the 'no bikes' sign on the gate. Ridiculous. One mother deigned to back me up but I saw one of my neighbours in the background with her husband, daughter and grandchildren, she, of course, did nothing, despite being a gossipy old hag most of the time and especially during street Christmas parties when she's got nothing better to do then run everyone down. Her husband wears a hangdog expression most of the time, I don't blame him.
Anyway, the upshot was that the brat left the playground and only returned once we'd departed, some fifteen minutes later. Does this mean that parents have to put up with such behaviour? Is this why this country is such a bloody mess? Answers on a postcard to 'Eleanor Writes, PO Box 123, Suburban Hell'
Rant over.
PS - no invitation for Charlotte to the latest NCT antenatal birthday party. What a surprise, so glad I'm out of the loop on that score.
Being school holidays it was crowded, but with a high number of older kids. There were eight or nine-year-olds riding big bicycles around and quite frankly endangering the safety of the youngsters. One kid ran into a toddler/pre-schooler but the mother, despite flashing the brat concerned some rather dirty looks, did absolutely nothing. Ok, so when the brat nearly compromised the safety of young Seb and Sam I marched up to him and gave him a piece of my mind. You'd expect a child to be somewhat humble wouldn't you? Oh no, not at all, the brat insisted on answering me back, telling me not to shout at him and generally to leave him alone. He even denied seeing the 'no bikes' sign on the gate. Ridiculous. One mother deigned to back me up but I saw one of my neighbours in the background with her husband, daughter and grandchildren, she, of course, did nothing, despite being a gossipy old hag most of the time and especially during street Christmas parties when she's got nothing better to do then run everyone down. Her husband wears a hangdog expression most of the time, I don't blame him.
Anyway, the upshot was that the brat left the playground and only returned once we'd departed, some fifteen minutes later. Does this mean that parents have to put up with such behaviour? Is this why this country is such a bloody mess? Answers on a postcard to 'Eleanor Writes, PO Box 123, Suburban Hell'
Rant over.
PS - no invitation for Charlotte to the latest NCT antenatal birthday party. What a surprise, so glad I'm out of the loop on that score.
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Shopping, Birthday presents et al
Yesterday evening with Margaret was more interesting than normal, she seems to be getting more relaxed as she gets older and we had a bit of an 80s fest, well watching Back to the Future whilst eating Super Noodles. The only thing which could possibly top that in retro terms would be Dave Lee Travis wearing deeley boppers and playing Space Invaders (strange Viz reference - look it up!)
I went shopping this morning for Seb's birthday presents. He now has some more Thomas the Tank Engine stuff than anyone else I know. I also went to the Early Learning Centre to search for stuff but I kept finding that he had most things so I bought him some educational stuff; I bet he hates it but it's tough really. I also went to Marks and Spencer and tried on some clothes, well a pair of grey skinny jeans, a western shirt and a geometric tunic to be specific. Firstly the jeans looked awful, my muffin top resembled a huge amorphous doughy lump of lard hanging over the waistband, the shirt gaped around the bust area and the tunic showed my bra. Either M&S sizing's up the creek or I have to lose some serious weight. Arse, I thought I'd cracked it.
I went shopping this morning for Seb's birthday presents. He now has some more Thomas the Tank Engine stuff than anyone else I know. I also went to the Early Learning Centre to search for stuff but I kept finding that he had most things so I bought him some educational stuff; I bet he hates it but it's tough really. I also went to Marks and Spencer and tried on some clothes, well a pair of grey skinny jeans, a western shirt and a geometric tunic to be specific. Firstly the jeans looked awful, my muffin top resembled a huge amorphous doughy lump of lard hanging over the waistband, the shirt gaped around the bust area and the tunic showed my bra. Either M&S sizing's up the creek or I have to lose some serious weight. Arse, I thought I'd cracked it.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Seb, broken eggs and the end of an era
Seb left nursery yesterday, it was a sad day indeed because I waved goodbye to some of my independence, but it'll be a nice break for him prior to starting school in September. I went out for the day though and popped into Ann Summers, strange store, a flagship one no less but not really that friendly. I thought I'd try and spice up the physical side of the relationship with Nick via the medium of new underwear, hence I tried on some of their 'dress up' outfits - oh dear! I just looked darn silly and that's no way to behave in the bedroom. As for the basques, well let's just say that the cup size was seriously inadequate and as for all of the hook and eye fastenings, they'd probably tire you out before you'd even got around to getting frisky with your man/partner/lover/butler etc.
Margaret's coming over later; it seems as if she and the revolting Roger have been able to save the shop being looted which in these troubled times is somewhat of a miracle. She'll hog the V+ box no doubt, sometimes I wish she'd pay out for a cable package of her own but she's far too mean.
PS - the strange title of this blog posts relates to Seb's behaviour this morning. He managed to smash seven eggs in the living room this morning and I wasn't best pleased. The place still smells, well, eggy. I hope Margaret doesn't think that I have a flatulence problem!
Margaret's coming over later; it seems as if she and the revolting Roger have been able to save the shop being looted which in these troubled times is somewhat of a miracle. She'll hog the V+ box no doubt, sometimes I wish she'd pay out for a cable package of her own but she's far too mean.
PS - the strange title of this blog posts relates to Seb's behaviour this morning. He managed to smash seven eggs in the living room this morning and I wasn't best pleased. The place still smells, well, eggy. I hope Margaret doesn't think that I have a flatulence problem!
Friday, 5 August 2011
Nursery Graduation
Seb 'graduated' from Nursery today; I use the term loosely because he's clearly not massively in debt, has a severely enlarged liver and an ironic love of daytime television. He seemed pleased to see myself and Nick in the audience though, sitting on tiny chairs. It was a hot day so the subsequent tea party was a little stuffy but I got talking to a nice couple who are also sending their child to the same primary school, most people have plumped for a nearer one but I dismissed it because they have insufficient breakfast and after school provision.
Many of the parents got emotional, obviously not to the point that their salty tears would damage their expensive iPhones, camcorders or any other technology they waved about, or even trouble their Ray-Bans. That's a nasty thing to say, of course it is and maybe I'm unemotional, glacial maybe? Perhaps that's why I'm keeping it all inside and one day it'll all burst forth?
Seb's been asking after Daddy recently, how much does a 'soon to be four year old' understand? My own Father dropped dead when I was five-and-a-half, I still remember him, but not much. Most of the detail of his life and hobbies has been gleaned from others. Pity really, I think if I'd known him we'd really be able to get along.
Many of the parents got emotional, obviously not to the point that their salty tears would damage their expensive iPhones, camcorders or any other technology they waved about, or even trouble their Ray-Bans. That's a nasty thing to say, of course it is and maybe I'm unemotional, glacial maybe? Perhaps that's why I'm keeping it all inside and one day it'll all burst forth?
Seb's been asking after Daddy recently, how much does a 'soon to be four year old' understand? My own Father dropped dead when I was five-and-a-half, I still remember him, but not much. Most of the detail of his life and hobbies has been gleaned from others. Pity really, I think if I'd known him we'd really be able to get along.
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